#implied past mutilation

[bubblegumbeech]

Pieces of Time Ch 5

Happy Ectoberhaunt!! Day three: Chaos & Order

AO3

Ch 1: Here   on AO3

Danny had never actually been to a big city before; Amity Park was the first place they’d actually properly settled in, and before that it had been nothing but rural and backwater towns famous for their hauntings and ghost stories.

 So when Clockwork told him there were ghost cities, he was curious to say the least. Would they be like human cities? All glass skyscrapers and modern architecture? Or maybe they would be ancient like the city of Athens or something straight from the Roman Empire. Maybe it would be a mix mash like the rest of the Zone, uncompromising features crammed together and forced to fit despite all reason. 

 He was excited to see it.

 “Are you okay Daniel? You haven’t spoken much on our travel here,” Clockwork said, turning his gaze back towards him. 

Danny was quick to smile reassuringly. It was the first time Clockwork had taken him out to visit somewhere just to visit. He knew it was probably partly his attempt to make up for the things Danny had inadvertently lost in his life. Like school trips or vacations with his family. But he couldn't honestly bring himself to feel any sliver of resentment when Clockwork himself had been so desperately earnest in his new position as Danny’s main caretaker and the whole situation had come about because Clockwork was trying to protect him. 

The reason they were there was to do some minor shopping. Apparently Clockwork needed an escapement for one of the clocks on his wall. It was attached to a relatively young realm that had recently come into existence and was incredibly fragile.

So they were here looking for stuff to help its time get moving without overflowing it all at once. Hence the need for a new escapement. And maybe a new weight, Clockwork had mentioned using weights to slow time on some of the younger realms so they didn’t get too far ahead of themselves.

The city itself was… surprisingly organized. All of the ghosts were busy going about their own business, and Danny was surprised to find that none of them had any conflicts or issues with each other. 

Even during Truce, ghosts with different Obsessions had to be mediated between to keep proper peace. But this was a whole city and everyone in it was showing truly impressive restraint.

It kinda made him uncomfortable. 

“Hey, Clockwork-“ Danny almost asked what was going on here, but when he turned, Clockwork was already at what looked like an old antique stand on the corner of the street. 

The stand, like everything else in this city, was impeccably organized. There were at least four different framed certificates clarifying its quality and… legality? 

Danny frowned, floating closer to read the fine print on one of them. 

It said: Certificate of Verification.

This store is Certified by the Great Eye of the Observants to sell and auction wares on the corner of G and H street between the second and twelfth Caws of the Tower Beast. 

If this store is found to be operating outside of these parameters or the Rule Of Observant Law, please contact the Chamber of Commerce and Construction at the base of the Observants’ Tower on B Street. 

Danny frowned. Then he read the next certificate. That one clarified the quality of the products as “Unrecreationable with basic ectoplasm” and had just as much nonsense legal jargon. 

He really had some questions now but Clockwork was too busy haggling the price of the escapement with the merchant and Danny didn’t want to get in the way. 

Ghost stuff tended to have prices beyond just money or goods and Danny didn’t want to be the reason Clockwork had to give more than he received. 

So instead he watched as Clockwork expertly haggled a surprisingly low price (it was a single piece of time tape. Meant for repairing any accidental rifts that may occur in one’s own timeline.) 

Once he was done and putting the escapement back into his pouch, Danny tugged at the hem of his sleeve. 

“Hey Clockwork,” he bit his lip, and cast a wary glance around them. Everyone was acting perfectly normal and orderly so he continued. “What’s with this place? Why does it feel so-“

“In order?” Clockwork finished for him. 

Danny nodded, relieved. So he wasn’t the only one that noticed then. 

“It’s because this city is under the Eye of the Observants. Eons ago, when the Infinite Realms were more Chaos than anything else, the larger more powerful ghosts had complete free reign. The smaller ghosts eventually started grouping together, creating communities and such to help protect each other from single more powerful ghosts.” 

Danny took in everything Clockwork said slowly, watching his expression. Pandora had explained that Clockwork himself was very much one of these ‘more powerful ghosts’ that the weaker ghosts banded together against. 

“Eventually, from the Realms themselves came small, weak ghosts born from the desire for stability and order. The Observants. They grew significant in number and shared an almost hive-like mind dispersed amongst them all.”

Yeah that tracked with what Danny knew of them. Always watching, seeming to know everything. Very controlling. 

“So they made these cities?” Danny asked, gesturing around. 

Clockwork inclined his head. “Yes… something like that.” 

He didn’t explain any further. And as much as Danny wanted to push- the dark scar that dug into Clockwork’s left eye had him biting back any more questions. 

What else did the Observants do? That was pretty obvious, now wasn’t it? 

The real question was one he was never going to get an answer for. Why side with the Observants after all of that? Was it fear? Or because that’s what’s good for the Timeline? Or just what’s good for Danny himself?

He shook his head. There was no way to know. So instead of pushing he grabbed Clockwork’s sleeve and tugged him to another booth. At the very least he could have his own fun looking around and window shopping. There were so many things Danny didn’t recognize and countless more he almost did. 

One by one he grabbed something that caught his attention and brought it to Clockwork to explain until there was a loud echoing series of Caws coming from the center of the city. On its fourth Caw, there was a loud shuffling and about a dozen of the booths and temporary stores packed up and left in different directions only to be quickly replaced. 

Danny waited until they looked settled and then dragged Clockwork right back to look at the new booths. 

It was at one of these booths that Danny noticed the vendor seemed… off. He frowned, a slight tug at his core pulling him in that direction. It was minor enough that he could ignore it like he usually did, but since spending more time as a ghost than as a human, Danny had been fulfilling his obsession less than he’d like, without protecting Amity Park. 

So helping another ghost should be enough right? It could get his mind off other things he wasn’t able to help with. 

He flew over and acted like he was interested in the merchant’s wares. When he didn’t so much as greet him Danny realized it was probably a bit worse than he’d thought. 

“Are you okay?” he asked. 

The ghost startled and looked down. He had muted, magenta skin and there were thick, dark bags under his eyes the color of Odysseus’s wine dark sea. He looked bemused for a moment before mumbling something like, “A helpful little sprite huh?”

Clockwork cocked a vaguely threatening eyebrow at the guy and he flushed, quickly raising his hands as if to defend himself. “Sorry, I haven’t been sleeping well is all. Nightmares.”

Danny frowned. It was true ghosts needed sleep (thankfully much less than humans or Danny would have died twice over from sleep deprivation alone) but he’d never seen one so visibly affected by a lack of it. 

“What are the nightmares about?” Danny asked, getting an awkward glance from the ghost. 

“Isn’t it a bit rude to ask something personal like that?” He stage-whispered, avoiding Clockwork’s gaze. 

“You don’t have to be specific, but my sister says dreams are a representation of our own subconscious trying to tell us things that our consciousness is ignoring. It could be anxiety over work or relationships, a lack of proper nutrition, feelings of guilt or remorse–”

The ghost chuckled. “You a psychiatrist kiddo?” he asked. Danny blushed and shook his head. 

“My sister wants to be one…”

He ignored the tight feeling in his chest as he thought of Jazz, of leaving her behind with furious, desperate, crazed parents. Objectively, he knew she was okay. He talked to her through letters and occasionally when his own anxiety got bad enough Clockwork let him see her in one of his screens. 

But it just wasn’t the same, being unable to see her in person. 

Clockwork must have noticed Danny’s mind wandering because he leaned down and whispered something in his ear. “There’s something causing the dreams if you want to help him.”

Danny’s attention snapped like lightning back on the ghost. He had taken other customers as Danny and Clockwork stepped to the side, but even though he tried to hide it with a painfully fake customer service voice and enthusiastic gestures, it was clear the lack of sleep was affecting him. 

He wasn’t sure what to do… but he did want to help. 

First, he looked over every ware for sale, but each one’s energy and ectoplasm was specific to the exact purpose they were listed to possess. Then he started looking at stuff that was around, but that wasn’t useful anyway, since he was only in this spot for the specified times. 

The ghost wasn’t exactly thrilled when Danny started messing about with the stuff he was wearing, but he didn’t actually say anything so Danny just looked to his own contentment. 

“Are you done yet?” he asked once his last customer had flown away.

Danny crossed his legs and rested his chin on his palm, floating just above the table covered in wares. It wasn’t anything here… and there was no way he was going to be able to get into this guy’s lair he was just barely putting up with Danny as is. 

He sighed. Time for detective mode. “When did the nightmares start?”

“About a month ago.”

“Did you do anything then?” 

He nodded, leaning back against the brick of the wall behind him. “Well yeah, after the first night I went straight to the market to get a dream-catcher. Didn’t help though.”

A dream-catcher? “Can I see it?”

The ghost deflated, clearly giving up getting rid of Danny and his overly indulgent guardian. “Yeah, one sec. Wolfram!” he shouted suddenly, “Come watch my shop for a second.”

Another ghost appeared from around the corner, a long scroll they had clearly been scribbling away on clutched in their hands. “Why of course Kling, have you seen the new equation for–”

“You know I haven’t,” he grumbled, putting up a ‘be right back’ sign and flying off towards one of the many skyscrapers in the city.

Danny turned to Clockwork. “Is his Lair in the city?”

“Yes, residents of the city have their Lairs ‘renovated’ and moved within the boundaries of the city. It is much like apartment buildings in the mortal world,” Clockwork answered easily. 

“Is this your first time in the city?” The new ghost, Wolfram, asked. Danny nodded.

“How wonderful! Did you know this city was built using a series of complicated mathematical equations to make it completely symmetrical and orderly from every–” The ghost clearly had some kind of math obsession because not once did they stop explaining every intricate detail that went into any given equation used to design the city. Danny put on a friendly face, nodding or humming whenever was appropriate and immediately turned to whisper a question he’d been curious about to Clockwork. 

“Why go through all the trouble? It’s not like they won’t have a Lair if they don’t move into the city right?” 

Clockwork cringed. “Most of the ghosts here… the newer ones at least, moved here for protection. More powerful ghosts can enter another ghost’s Lair at will and there is little to be done but try to fight back.” 

Danny thought back to his first time in the Zone, how he’d accidentally opened other ghosts’ Lairs and nearly got eaten by at least one of them. If he could do it then maybe they weren’t actually all that secure, or maybe those ghosts were particularly weak?

It wasn’t until a moment later that Danny had caught the words ‘most’ from Clockwork’s explanation. He was just about to ask when the merchant ghost, Kling, came back. 

“Here,” he said, practically throwing a large traditional looking Dream-catcher at Danny.

Once Danny caught it he knew what had gone wrong. The catcher itself had indeed caught the nightmare Kling was suffering from, but it hadn’t done anything else–leaving the same nightmare to stew over and over again, picking up even more fears and frustrations and compounding until it was bad enough even Danny wouldn’t want to sleep if he had to deal with that every night. 

Clockwork looked on with a small, proud smile on his lips. Danny unthreaded some of the strings on the dream-catcher to pry out the thick, black tendrils of the nightmare. It was tedious, but he went through the entire thing, making sure not to leave a single strand of hair’s worth of the nightmare lest it grow back. 

The nightmare tangled back in on itself like a ball of yarn as Danny worked, eventually content that he got it all. Tying the Dream-catcher back into the same configuration it originally had, he handed it back to Kling. The nightmare sat safe in his other hand. 

Kling looked at the spool, a spooked expression on his face. “Thought you were a helper… you can touch dreams?”

Danny blinked. “Yes?” It was how he defeated Nocturne after all. Danny often had to come up with new abilities on the fly to help or protect others. “How else would I be able to help?”

Kling’s eyes only went wider, flicking frantically over Danny’s shoulder at Clockwork before meeting Danny’s own eyes again and then looking at the spool of Nightmare threads. “R-right. You get a discount anytime you want to come back…”

His voice was weak, something had clearly spooked him, but Danny figured it was probably due to being confronted with a visible reminder of all the horrors he’d seen at night the past month or so and tried not to think much more about it. Kling went back to his shop and started up a conversation with Wolfram as Clockwork led Danny away towards the edges of the city.

He messed with the strands of Nightmare before offering it towards Clockwork. “Can you use this for something?” he asked.

Clockwork took it from him, considering. “There is not much I personally can do, but we can keep it for now, either to trade or as a gift. Though,” his eyes sparkled, “We can always keep it for you to practice with.”

“Practice?” Danny asked. Clockwork hummed an affirmative. 

“Your powers in this regard are juvenile, but we can polish them a bit. I have a brother who might be willing to help…” He frowned. “But perhaps not for now. It is best to focus on your foundations first, before you begin to branch out.”

Danny nodded slowly, “Right. Foundations first…”

He talked to Clockwork about the different uses for a spool of Nightmares and what exactly his foundational powers were. 

Apparently they weren’t things like intangibility or flight like Danny had assumed. That was, according to Clockwork, the ghostly equivalent of learning how to walk. 

Danny’s foundational powers were related to the proper formation of his core and were ice and cold related. Any other powers he developed would be based from this foundation, meaning that even if he learned how to manipulate dreams it would be different from the way someone with, say, a void core would manipulate them. And if he ever learned to manipulate time it would be different as well from the way Clockwork did, since Clockwork’s own core was water and liquid based.

Before long they were back home, Clockwork tucking the spool away somewhere random and then going to the kitchen to make dinner. Danny naturally offered to help and got to learn how to use sand-flour in a recipe without it feeling too dry while keeping the aged flavor. He purposefully tried not to think about what exactly was mixed in with the sand-four that had it moving out of the corner of his eye, but at this point there were fewer foods in the Zone that were stationary compared to ones that were moderately mobile.

“You can add purified ectoplasm if you want,” Clockwork said, gently stirring the mixture once clockwise and three times counterclockwise. “But it won’t add anything to the flavor. I prefer using crushed honey-wasps for sweet things like ghost-cakes or cookies. You can also use molten peppers if you want something a bit spicy.”

Danny looked at the plate of molten peppers and rubbed uncomfortably at his chest. Maybe once his ‘foundation’ was more secure. “We can just use the purified ectoplasm for this though, right?”

They were making pot pies after all, and Danny didn’t think honey-wasps would really be the right ingredient. Clockwork chuckled and placed the molten peppers aside. “We can, here, add some Everthorn sap. It pairs well with older tasting recipes.”

Cooking in the Zone was fun, definitely more exciting than cooking in the real world ever was. And probably equally as frustrating. Except instead of bread refusing to rise, you had to beat it back down in case it gained its own sentience before you managed to cook it. 

He laughed when one of the honey-wasps slipped out of its container and tried to burrow into Clockwork’s hair. Helping him get it out was tedious, but Danny got to actually mess with the long white hair Clockwork usually kept covered and couldn’t quite resist the urge to braid it, even as Clockwork tried to remind him that cooking was a time-sensitive thing. 

When they were done cooking what they had was mostly edible, but not any worse than the food Danny had grown up on. The levels of ectoplasm being entirely on purpose this time, of course. And it certainly wasn’t under cooked so… there was that. 

Dinner was delicious as always, homework was easy and quickly finished and Danny was both content and pleasantly exhausted when he went up to his room to get ready for bed. 

It happened when he fell to sleep. He was standing in the center of a sea of stars, endlessly stretching in every direction and then some. A familiar feeling of unease kept him on edge as he walked silently, every step splashing around him. 

“I hear you’ve been asking questions that have no good answers,” a soft voice echoed around him. 

Danny stilled. “Nocturne…” he said, recognizing just whose domain he had been dragged into. Was this because of the dream-catcher from earlier? Was Nocturne feeding on Kling’s nightmares or something? Didn’t he prefer sweet dreams? “What do you want?”

The stars rippled in front of him, coalescing into thick, inky shapes that morphed and overlapped until Nocturne appeared before him in full. 

“Rejoice,” he said in his soothing monotone, “for I want what you want. There is in fact a goal we share.”

“I’m calling bull.” 

Nocturne chuckled and it echoed in ripples through the vast ocean around them. He leaned down, one clawed inky hand going to his face and–

Breaking it off? 

He removed what looked now like a plain wooden mask, revealing a more natural looking expression behind it. The scar though, that stayed behind, still bisecting his eye deeply. Danny could see into the wound this close and saw an emptiness that he struggled to perceive. 

“What happened?” he asked before his rational mind could catch back up and realize that even showing his scar as he was, Nocturne was still his enemy. He wasn’t someone Danny should help. Obsession or no. 

Nocturne placed his mask now on the side of his head and sank down, crossing his legs and getting comfortable. He looked like he was about to tell a story around a campfire, and at the very thought the stars shifted around them. They floated up in a reversal of a rain storm, revealing bare dirt and a pile of tinder between the two of them. Once the stars were settled properly into the sky, a fire bloomed into life and Nocturne began speaking. 

Telling his story. 

“I, like my brother, was born of Chaos. All of us were, before the rest came into being. But our mother, though powerful when there were few, could not sustain herself against many. Eventually the weak would find each other, and band together against the strong. Nations and realms formed, Order came from what was once entirely Chaos. New concepts and stories began to take shape outside of her will.”

“Chaos… was your mother?” Danny asked. When Pandora had told him before, that the Ancients were born of Chaos, he had assumed it was a bit more abstract. He did not think Clockwork had a mom– wait. “Wait did you say brother? Clockwork is your brother?”

Nocturne snorted. “Did you only just realize? How many Ancients have you met, and you did not realize we are siblings?”

Danny blinked. Wait, how many Ancients had he met? He didn’t realize he’d met any of them! Was Nocturne the brother Clockwork mentioned earlier? That could help him learn about manipulating dreams?! He was the reason Danny could do it in the first place!

He sulked for a moment, refusing to answer, and stared instead at the roaring flames of the campfire. But the silence tugged at him, and eventually he found himself asking, “If you knew Clockwork before, what was he like?”

“A bit of a troublemaker if I’m being honest,” he replied easily. “He was always trying to experiment, learn new things. He was the one most excited when Order was implemented.”

“He was?”

Nocturne nodded. “He was. Eons of existence and he finally had rules to break.”

That startled a laugh from Danny and he quickly tried to hush himself. It wouldn’t do to feel too much joy in one of Nocturne’s dreams. “I’m pretty sure he’s still doing that.”

“Indeed. But he is caught now, in a trap tailor made to clip his wings.”

“He had wings?” Danny asked, his eyes wide. Was that another missing piece–

“I was speaking in metaphor,” Nocturne said tonelessly. 

Danny crossed his arms and turned up his nose. Damn bastard made him start worrying again when he’d already decided to give up. “How was I supposed to know that! He’s missing like, half his body at this rate.”

“That,” Nocturne gently grabbed his chin and turned his head until they were eye to eye, “is why I am here little one.”

“...What?”

“You are the first to seek to repair my brother that might actually succeed.”

“I don’t– Clockwork doesn’t want–”

“To see you hurt,” Nocturne let him go and leaned back once more. “I am aware. That is why I am hiding here, in your dreams. In a place he cannot see.”

Danny frowned. “Yeah but he can still see the decisions I make when I wake up. And no offense, but he’s smarter than you.”

At that, Nocturne raised an eyebrow. “He certainly thinks he is. But there are ways to hide from his sight. Temporary as it may be, you will need it for your next few steps.”

“What?” Danny scoffed, forcing down the bubbling hope in his chest that was threatening to drown him. “Are you saying you can see the future too?”

“Of course not,” Nocturne’s features curled into a sinister smile, “I simply have a few… ideas.”

[pin-k-ink]

Fushiguro Megumi x Reader

CW: violence(?), sexual tension, friends to lovers, implied public sex, dry humping, Megumi has perverted thoughts about his partner aka reader

a/n: i’m totally out of ideas so send me thirsts

With the cursed object in his possession, Megumi walked out of the tunnel into the intersection where his partner lay sprawled on the grimy floor.

Her chest heaved as she tried to catch her breath, the withered and mutilated corpse of the curse she was keeping at bay while he grabbed the object lay a few feet away from her.

He praised her internally. Knowing her and her laziness when it came to their missions, that one must’ve taken a lot out of her.

In his mind, he vividly recalled her voice telling him to go through the tunnel to get the object while she dealt with the massive curse that blocked his way.

As he went through, he caught sight of her dropping her stance, abandoning her curse technique to grab the small dagger she kept on her person.

His heart jumped into his throat when he saw her charging at the huge monster, clawing it’s eye out with her dagger before he lost sight of her.

Even though he’d rather die than admit he admired her for her dedication to this mission, he silently wondered why it felt as if something was different between them.

Their usually bickering abandoned, instead, their was some sort of tension between the two of them.

His thoughts were cut off when he felt her eyes on him. Those big doe eyes that’d usually be looking at him from afar after she successfully completes yet another malicious prank on him.

“You have it?” Her voice, quiet and airy, as she finally managed to calm her breathing. He flashed her the object before circling her sweaty form to inspect her for any injuries.

“Your panties are showing.” Her skirt was hiked up, not that much, but far enough for him to catch a glimpse of the lacy garment. He felt the blood rush to his cheeks. Curse her for making him feel this way despite being the very bane of his existence.

“I picked it out just for you. Do you like it?” She muttered with a deadpan look. He knew she was just teasing him, which is why he was confused when his heart skipped a beat. He wondered if her bra matched.

“Shut up”. He knelt down and adjusted her skirt, sitting down beside her. He huffed, taking a deep breath to avert his mind from his friends’? no, his partners undergarments.

“Don’t act like you’re the one who’s tired when I did all the work?” He could practically see the eye roll that would’ve accompanied her jibe at him.

He hummed. “If I recall, I was the one who diverted its attention away from you when you got hit by it first.”

She clicked her teeth, turning away from him. A lock of her hair fell across her face as he did. Almost on instinct, he reached out and brushed her hair aside and tucked it behind her ear.

She turned around slowly, her mouth slightly opened in surprise. He couldn’t blame her, he surprised himself as well. Her finger brushed his and she licked her lips before she opened her mouth to say something.

“Yo! Both of you still alive?” The annoying voice of their teacher drawled, echoing and bouncing off the walls of the underground tunnel.

Megumi and his partner immediately groaned, turning away as Gojo busied himself by taking pictures of his beat up students.

“Come on, let’s go. I wanna enjoy all these pastries I bought.” The girl huffed before she pulled herself up, wobbling slightly before walking off.

Megumi stood back for a moment, watching as she walked up to her teacher and shamelessly dug her hands into the paper bag to dig out something to eat.

He shook his head as he stood up and walked past them, ignoring Gojo’s cries as he tried to rip the bag away from his greedy student.

•

Megumi walked into the public toilet, his partner’s belongings in hand. He watched as the girl washed her face, getting rid of all the grime and sweat.

The both of them wordlessly minding their own business. Megumi silently passed her everything one by one. He already knew where she kept everything, after all, this has become tradition for them.

Megumi noted that she looked after her appearance, keeping everything perfect to a fault.

The first time she had asked him to pass her the small compact powder, he was mildly confused - and annoyed - as he dug through her bag.

But as time passed, he’d memorized her routine, knowing what to pass to her next. It was like one of those scenes in movies where the doctor asks the assistant to pass them different surgical instruments.

This time however, Megumi noted that there was something else that was amiss, aside from her makeup. “Your socks are ruined.”

The girl peered down at her thigh highs, and indeed, they were covered in holes, barely held together. Megumi wondered how she planned to fix it before she went out.

“Check my bag, I think I’ve a spare.”

Ah, of course she’d be prepared. Megumi dug through the bag, searching for her thigh highs. He finally found them hidden away in one of the small side pockets. He fished them out of pass them to her.

As he lifted his gaze, he found the girl perched on top of the counter, her bare leg outstretched towards him.

His eye twitched. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

The girl merely smiled and leaned back on her palms. Her leg brushed against his calf, riding up his thigh. “I’ll give you a treat if you do this for me.”

Megumi sighed. It was dangerous the amount of control this girl had over him. He gripped her ankle, keeping her foot on his thigh as he kneeled down to hike it up her leg.

He noted how soft it looked despite all the dangerous missions she goes to. Her skin looked untouched, almost like it was made from porcelain.

Megumi begrudgingly thought about what it’d feel like to kiss them. To have them wrapped around his waist as he-

He shook his head as he felt his blood rush downwards. He finished putting them on her, snapping the elastic edge against her skin as he finished.

She slapped his shoulder lightly as she flinched.

He looked up at her. “Your lipstick is smudged too.” Her cheeks flushed and Megumi fought the urge to pull them.

She tried to turn around to face the mirror. What she didn’t expect was for Megumi to grip her jaw in his hand before she could, turning her face towards him.

He brushed his thumb against the corner of her lips, swiping away until it looked perfect. Even though he was finished, his hand continued to stay on her jaw, his thumb resting on her plump bottom lip.

He noted how her lips looked extra kissable with this color. He leaned down until their noses nudged against each other, until their breaths mingled. His heart rate picked up as he locked eyes with her.

“I did what you wanted, where’s my treat?” He was standing between her legs now. He shuddered in delight as her thick thighs wrapped around his waist and nudged him forward until her core pressed against his.

She gripped the front of his uniform, her other hand snaking up his back to grip his nape. “Come and get it.”

Her cupids bow brushed against his and he took that as his cue to smash his lips against hers. She moaned against him, her legs tightening as she pulled him impossibly closer.

His tongue plunged between her lips, moaning at the taste of her. Her fingers carded through his hair, pulling at the strands until he groaned into her mouth.

Her teeth captured his bottom lip, pulling it until they parted for air. Megumi’s hands found refuge on her waist, before they moved to her ass, squeezing her flesh until she arched against him.

Her skirt hiked up enough for him to see the damp spot on her dark panties. She ground her hips against him, her nails dragging themselves up and down his nape as she tried to lure him down for another kiss.

He chuckled, pecking her lips before picking her up and taking them both inside the cubicle.

“Be patient.” He mumbled against her neck as he peppered kisses against her flushed skin.

As the both of them finally indulged in themselves to resolve their unprecedented sexual tension, they both forgot that their poor, unsuspecting teacher was right outside waiting for his precious students to join him.

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Idol Worship.

Pairing: Yandere!Devil x Reader (Christianity).

Word Count: 1.0k.

TW: Consensual Sex, Size Difference, Implied (Past) Injury To Reader, Mentions of Blood, Mentions of Scarring, and Themes of Religious Trauma.

The path to His throne was paved with salt and brimstone.

Smoldering rock burnt into the soles of your feet like ember, taken fresh from the heart of the fire. Living corpses, their rotting flesh deteriorating further with ever fraught breath, laid motionless on either side of the crumbling archway, their milky eyes watching your every stumbling movement. The air was heavy with smoke and sulfur, but the buzzling of unseen insects, the stench of the decay – that was all kept in your peripheral. It was meant for someone else, someone whose crimes were far more violent and far more damning than your own. Your fate was elsewhere.

The ascent was made no easier by your anticipation, the steps carved from black onyx and made steep enough to warrant your immediate and self-inflicted dehumanization, to force you to your hands and knees in your effort to scramble upward – ever upward, as if you hadn’t yet had enough of the blinding sky. Rough granite tore into the skin of your palms, but the agony was minimal, a shadow something greater that would not numb you to more intentional agony. The heat, too, was distant, rolling over you in tender waves and seeping under your skin to coil around your ribs, to weave in and out of ragged tears in your mutilated veins. Something snapped inside your chest as you finished your climb, fresh blood washing over your aching throat, but any pain you might’ve felt faded away as a great hand descended from the clouds of smog and ash, His calloused fingertips digging into your waist, your stomach as He took you up and placed you, gingerly, on His silk-clad thigh. His touch lingered, a thumb running over your scalp as He spoke. “Oh, my glorious one,” His voice was deep and flat and beautiful. “What have they done to you?”

Anything they could. Everything they could. Your body was still plagued with the phantoms of it, the frigid cold of steel and iron against flesh and bone. You tried to speak, but your voice was gone, muted by means beyond your own. You frowned, more frustrated than you were surprised, but He did not share in your disappointment. “They are sons of the Most High, for he is kind to the ungrateful and the evil.” After a beat, He added, “I will not be so forgiving.”

His hand began to pull away, but you scrambled after of it, latching onto His wrist in a futile effort to hold Him that much closer. An airy chuckle fell from Him unmoving muzzle – His golden, slit-pupiled eyes remaining focused on some distant point as He took you into His hold once again, lifting you first to His own height. For the first time, he moved in earnest – tilting his head forward and resting his forehead against yours. “The reason the Son appeared was to destroy the Devil’s work, for the thief comes only to steal and destroy.” His breath was cool against your skin, even as anger seeped into His tone. “And now, instead, you are asked to forgive and comfort him, so that he will not be overwhelmed by excessive sorrow.”

It was more of a croak than a proper plea, hoarse and fractured at all the wrong angles. Still, you managed it, your own small hands pressed into the swell of His palm. “Please, my lamb.”

He seemed to catch himself, inhaling sharply as He shook His head. “My apologies, I forget my audience. You are altogether beautiful, my love; there is no flaw in you.” You nuzzled closer to Him, and He allowed you a moment of solace before pulling away, straightening Himself to His most dignified stature. “We have been separated for no short time. Tell me, will you not gratify the desires of the flesh?” A note of humor, a forked tongue allowed to skirt gingerly over your neck. “Will you not allow me to show the length of my devotion?”

You didn’t need to answer, it was a given that you would. His delicate tongue ran over the lacerations on your calves, your thighs - smearing dried blood and soothing open wounds. It flicked upward, lapping at the twin scars on either side of your chest, then the bruises painted across your collarbones, around the base of your throat. His hand shifted, wrapping around your waist, His hold firm and steady as He lowered you onto his length. There were other options – as many shapes and variations as a lustful heart could dream of – but His cock was among His most impressive features. The shaft alone matched your arm in length and your midriff in girth, and yet, it pierced you without resistance, filling you to the brim before He was so much as half-sheathed inside of you. Your knees pressed into his lap, your hand grasping for purchase against his broad chest, but you felt no fear, nor was your exertion necessary in the face of His willingness to serve. He let out a raspy breath, allowing His head to lull back as He thrust gently into you from below. “Earthly one, glorious one,” The pet name fell from His lips like milk and butter and honey. “We will lead each other astray. We will be the force by which the greatest love is defined.”

A growl of a moan as your walls clenched around Him, a sharp snap of His hips. “We will be bound together in perfect harmony,” His hand found the underside of your chin, tilting your head back with only the upmost delicacy. “And those who try to separate us will face only the most just of retribution.”

Your eyes met His, that wonderous gold melting into softened mortality. Where there should have been revulsion, there was only warmth, only light. Foolishly, for a moment, you allowed yourself to scorn the shine of the heavens, to loathe all things that were not Him.

You allowed yourself to believe that you would need nothing else, not so long as His gaze fell upon you.

[iceinwhb]

Whb iceberg.

We start from curiosities, data that we can realize at first sight and descend to the murky ones. I clarify that I will also attach non-canon theories.

• In hell, a hundred years have passed since Solomon disappeared, while, on earth, since 931 BC.

• Not only Solomon, but also God and Lilith.

• Satan has a barcode on his arm, and sleep with his eyes open.

• Death does not exist in Paradise Lost, because of Gamigin.

• Beel left Abyssos since Solomon's disappearance.

• Orias will never stop consuming souls. Youth is never eternal, and by obtaining Levi's soul, it would only stop it for a while.

• Satan has confirmed that he has lost his home.

• Angels can also be humanized.

(Theory)

• Ark Academy and whb are connected.

• Solomon also had to drink human semen to stay in hell.

• Demons are infertile. Except for kings, because they have enough power not to use Lilith.

• All six deadly sins are needed to defeat Lucifer.

• Demons and angels can change shape. It influence their emotions.

• Bael tries to be a copy of Beel. He must follow the shape-shifting, from hair dyeing to limb mutilation, because he made a deal.

• Minhyeok is no longer human. Due to Mc's deal with Satan, nothing can kill him while it is in effect.

(Theory)

• Gamigin and Serenade will never see each other again. Since they reside in different realities.

(Theory)

• Beel wants to eat Mc.

(Theory)

• Morax's skill. Absorbs wounds, even if they are fatal.

• Beel has eaten angels.

• Solomon can possess the bodies where his soul resides.

• In hell, crimes of all kinds can be committed, without being punished. This also applies in heaven.

• Bael's comic. He almost died for impersonating Beel. Still can't explain what happened.

• Solomon has all the filias. Even the most questionable ones.

• Angels have orgies.

• Christmas cards. It's sexual abuse.

• Leviathan is the first, and the one who has forced Mc the most to have sex.

• Beel has died thousands of times because of angels.

• Death lines. Canonically they die in battle.

• The Glassyalabolas filia.

• Solomon knows what happened to Lilith and God.

• Fruit of the tree of knowledge.

• God and Lilith are dead.

(Theory)

• The real Gamigin committed suicide.

• Ronove is going to take the fingers from Mc's corpse.

• Leviathan was going to end Solomon's lineage.

• Kamikaze angels.

• Jjok was abandoned in the forest to die.

• Buer, Morax and Marbas have died hundreds of times.

• Satan has anger problems that can kill Mc.

• Mammon and Valefor could kill Mc by accident if they apply the wrong force.

• Angelification is so painful that it breaks a demon's mind.

• Mc has a high probability of dying if ignores where may or not be in Paradise Lost. This implies that Lucifer can kill anyone with just a voice command.

• Demons were the first to experiment with angels.

• The massacres of the angels. This includes the demonic, angelic race and the near extinction of dragons.

• Andre's past. (He carried his twin's head for days.)

• The archangels will never get the punishment they deserve.

• Leviathan and Orias' constant abuse on the farm.

⛧✃✃✃⛧✁✁✁⛧✃✃✃⛧✁✁✁⛧

Does anyone else have any interesting or shady data?

It took me a day to gather information in my head, but that's it! I appreciate knowing that the shape-shifting is different, between angels, and Beel's camp.

Edit: Yeah, as soon as I realize my man is a walking red flag, it's confirmed that Levi baby never tries to have a forceful response from Mc, or tries to get her to ask him first.

[bucky-barnes-diaries]

would you ever write something filthy for winter soldier? no pressure btw!

Experiments

Pairing || Winter Soldier x Female!Reader

Summary || HYDRA conducts sexual experiments on specimen The Winter Soldier.

Word Count || 2901

Contents & Warnings || Smut, Angst, Dark Themes — NSFW, 18+ Only, Minors DNI, non-con, explicit content/language, sub!soldat, implied torture/murder/blood, restraints, unprotected vaginal sex, size kink, oral (male receiving), handjob, multiple orgasms, forced orgasm, overstimulation, exhibition, creampie, bodily fluids.

Authors Note || The answer is yes sweet nonnie :D And I really love how this turned out. This is my first time writing for WS so please be kind :) Remember, read the warnings! I’m not responsible for your content consumption. Don’t like it, don’t read. And definitely don’t slap a label on just to be petty. There are no [ ] in the text below btw. Also apologies for no readmore cut. It’s currently bugged out and fucks up the text below.

Disclaimer || English is not my first language so I apologise for any mistakes or misunderstandings!

Masterlist

You had no idea how long you had been in this stuffy and dim-lit room. Minutes? Hours? Days? It felt like an eternity but also like no time had passed at all. It was easy to lose track of it when you had no inclination whether it was day or night out. The room and its surroundings were bleak and dull, giving nothing away about your location.

How did you end up in this situation? Naked with strangers watching—discussing, researching, contemplating. And with a stranger's cock in your grasp? Making him come again, again, and again—an endless cycle of climax.

It all seemed like a blur now. A past from another time. A dream? A nightmare?

They promised good pay. Money that was beyond imaginable, but you had to take this with you to the grave. This experiment that you yourself had signed up for could never reach the light of day.

Tell anyone, and they will torture and mutilate you beyond recognition. Killing and dumping your body in a ditch.

Although the men were vicious beyond anything, they told you countless times that under any circumstances, you could leave. You were not here out of force. They would keep you safe. You had signed up for this, and whenever you wanted to terminate the deal you had sealed, you were allowed. But you could never, ever tell another living soul about what you had seen or experienced.

It felt like a week, but in reality, it had only been a day or so since these men had come and picked you up from your home—blindfolding and plugging your ears. Due to their safety and yours, you could not know where you were being taken.

After hours of traveling by car, train, and plane—taking all transportation possible—you had arrived. To where you did not know. A military bunker of some sort, possibly. Somewhere cold and emotionless. An unknown country.

Your blindfold and plugs were removed, and you sat in a dark room. A hanging bulb from the ceiling cascaded a weak source of light throughout the space. The chair and table were metal and cold.

Opposite you sat a man dressed in uniform. Narrowing your eyes and inspecting him further, you saw it was the same man you had come in contact with when you had signed up for this mysterious experiment.

“Papers for you to sign,” he uttered in a thick Russian accent. His face and tone were stoic.

He explained the contract in detail. And there was a particular phrase that stood out to you. That made no sense. The Asset. It was mentioned numerous times.

You knew what you had come here for. A sexual experiment of some sort. But nowhere in the contract did it say who you were conducting it with. There was no name. No details about any appearance or anything. Only that you would perform with someone or something named The Asset.

“He has no name.” The man spoke. “He is not a person. Do not try to humanize him. He is a tool. A weapon. Nothing more. But if you have to call him something, you may refer to him as Soldat. And do not worry. He cannot hurt you.”

“Why am I doing this? W-what’s the purpose?” You muttered while avoiding his emotionless gaze.

“We have to experiment and see if he is breakable. If someone can ever bend his will and programming with sexual torture.”

Your train of thoughts and flashbacks were cut short by the sound of fingers tapping on glass behind you and the roar of metal chains rattling in front of you.

“Please continue, miss,” the same thick Russian accent bellowed from behind.

“O-oh,” you exhaled as you came back to your senses. The coldness of the small room pierced your naked skin. The sounds of inaudible chatter in a foreign language and beeping of instruments flowed through your ears. And your eyes adjusted to what was in front of you.

Soldat.

He held all your attention now as you peered at him through your thick lashes. The surroundings were not relevant anymore. The people watching and observing were not relevant anymore—only him.

The beefy and nude man was held in chains. His arms restrained so that he couldn’t touch you. Couldn’t hurt you, for that matter.

His head hung low, peering down at you. His long hair cascaded down his face and stuck to his sweaty forehead, but you could still see some of his features. He held an intense expression. It was hard to decipher. His jaw clenched tightly, and his dark eyes were wild. Pain? Pleasure? Did he actually enjoy the sexual torture? It was hard to tell. He never spoke. Deep groans and grunts that rumbled in his throat were the only sounds to ever come out of him. The sounds gave you an impression that he may actually enjoy this vicious ordeal.

Although powerless, he looked powerful and rough from where you were positioned on your knees. Fuck, he was huge. All of him. God, he was hot. The sight in front of you was like a lewd porno.

You and he were covered in cum, sweat, and spit—a concoction of erotic slickness. Hot and disgusting at the same time. It made the acts you performed on him that much effortless.

You felt the heaviness of his cock in your grasp again as you returned to yourself. And once you tugged on it tighter, he roared loudly and clenched his body tight and hard. The muscles underneath his skin became deliciously defined. And the plates on his bionic arm whirled every time he flexed.

His red and angry cock twitched in pain and pleasure. Raw due to your repeated acts on him—handjob, blowjob, and having him nestled deep inside your pussy. Making him come again and again.

The thick and protruding veins along his shaft pulsed underneath your palms as you jerked him faster. Tighter. Sloppier.

“Fuck,” you mumbled as you took in the sight of his impressive cock, making your mouth water at the anticipation of having him on your tongue again.

With a needy moan, you took him in your mouth. Suckling his head as both your hands sloppily worked the rest of him. Swirling your tongue on his sensitive tip as your lips wrapped beautifully around him.

Soldat groaned as you sucked him to perfection—cum and spit dribbling out of your mouth and making a beautiful mess all over yourself and him.

His hands may be bound, but the rest of his body was boundless, and he bucked his hips into your mouth. The tip of his cock tickled the back of your throat. You coughed and struggled, and he rumbled deeply in response. Seeming satisfied with you choking.

When you couldn’t handle the abuse to your throat anymore, you release his cock with a pop. You spat the excess saliva onto his length and let the slickness coat the entirety of him.

As both your hands worked his entire cock again—base to tip, you took his heavy sack into your mouth—licking and sucking. Enjoying the weight of his balls on your tongue—moaning against him.

You peered up at him again with hooded eyes. He seemed to enjoy the dirty sight—your mouth and hands full of his cock and balls. A messy perfection kneeling before him.

A smirk tugged on his lips before he hissed sharply through his teeth as you pulled his sack harshly and then let it drop from your mouth.

He was close again. Nearing his fifth? Or was it maybe the sixth orgasm since you started? You had lost count.

The Russian officer was right. Soldat was no ordinary man. No one would have been able to withstand so many orgasms in such a short time. It was extraordinary to witness. Could he really keep climaxing till the end of times?

Soldat’s chest heaved as the torturous pleasure built. His thick thighs trembled, and his cock twitched, anticipating another earth-shattering and messy release.

He bellowed a cry through his gritted teeth as he came hard once again. The chains rattled as he tugged on them. He bucked his stuttering hips into your grasp as he spurted ropes and ropes of thick white cum from his red tip and made a mess all over himself and you. The sounds of pleasure and torture—grunts, groans, roars, and subtle whines, surfaced despite his clenched jaw.

You never stopped stroking him. Never stopped milking his poor and sensitive cock for all its seed. God, there was so much. You were in awe of him—eyes wide and mouth ajar. It was like a drug to you. Seeing the man above you come so intensely undone.

In the beginning, you had felt bad due to how wrong the situation actually was. But the more he came, the more you craved it. You needed it just as much as breathing.

“Good boy,” you mumbled as you gave a final tight tug on his cock. He hissed at the sensitivity and then exhaled as you released his twitching and aching cock from your hold.

For the first time, he looked finished. Exhausted as he dropped his head backward. His throat bobbed as he swallowed thickly and tried to catch his breath. Had he reached his breaking point?

You gave him a break. He deserved that much by enduring this pleasurable torture. But the men in charge were impatient.

“Please don’t stop, miss. He is not allowed to rest.” The same accent uttered behind the glass.

Soldat’s eyes were on you now. Watching intensely as you got to your feet. You hissed as you stood upright. The uncomfortable and solid concrete floor bruised your knees and made your thighs stiff.

His abused cock twitched once you stood before him in all your nude form. His chains rattled again as he tried to reach forward to touch you. The plates on his bionic arm whirled. Did he want to hurt you? Punish you for torturing him? Or was there something else he wanted?

He stared intensely at you with his jaw clenched and eyes wild like an animal—examining your body like a predator would a prey. He groaned and licked his lips, hungry for more of what you had to offer. How much till he could bear no more?

When he saw you become nervous under his gaze, he bit his tongue and relaxed back into his seat.

“Please continue, miss,” the Russian man pressed you on. Becoming impatient with the waiting.

You trembled as you sat on top of Soldat—sore yourself from all the previous activities you had performed on him—hours of torturous pleasure. He let out a satisfied groan as you found your place on his lap.

You were so unbelievably close now. Your sweaty bodies pressed together, front to front. It was so hot, so erotic feeling his warm skin against yours. Feeling his delicious and defined muscles underneath your palms as you ran them down his broad torso.

His cock nestled against your dripping pussy. Yours and his juices mixed as you grinded on him, making him rock hard again.

With a breathless moan, you took his cock in your grasp again, loving the feel of him in your hand. Soldat sucked in a breath through his teeth as you pumped his bruised and slick length before you lined up his bulbous head with your entrance.

For the first time since you sat on him, you found his dark gaze as you lowered yourself onto his thick girth, thighs trembling. You winched at the pleasurable sting as he stretched out your velvet walls, inch by inch. It was so much to take in.

A deep groan sounded from his throat at the friction on his sensitive cock. His head fell back, eyes closed, and his teeth drew blood as he bit his bottom lip. His body clenched again at the sensual torture.

“Fuck, you’re huge,” you whined as his cock nestled balls deep inside your pussy.

His dark eyes found yours again. And although they were scary and wild, you couldn’t break from his intense stare. An animalistic groan rumbled in his chest, and his hands clenched in tight fists. His menacing aura compelled you to start riding him.

With your hands clasped at the back of his neck, steadying yourself, you started bouncing on his thick length. Slow, to begin with. Letting the ridges and veins of his cock caress delicately against your walls. Your jaw slacked as you enjoyed the teasing penetration.

But Soldat was impatient. He tried to push his body further into yours despite the constriction of his chains as he bellowed a deep roar. His hips bucked upwards brutally, forcing the entirety of him in you. You cried as his swollen head hit deep inside.

As he continued to snap his hips up into your aching pussy in quick motions, you met his movements with your own forceful ones. The sound of wet skin clapping, deep moans, groans, and soft whimpers drowned out the chatter and beeping of instruments behind.

Your sweaty bodies moved and danced effortlessly together—a seductive second act to the lewd porno.

Without thinking, you pressed your lips to his hard. Soldat took advantage of having his touch on you for the first time. He groaned as he moved his lips hurriedly against yours. Parting them to explore your mouth further.

The kiss was messy and needy—tongue and spit mixed together. Breathless moans and whimpers shared between you as your lips moved passionately—savouring the intoxicating taste.

As you pulled away, desperately needing a breath due to the exertion of your movements, he captured your bottom lip between his teeth, tugging on it as you pulled apart. He managed to nip your lip at the last second, puncturing through the skin and creating a little bleeding cut. He groaned while you moaned at the violent action. His animalistic and cruel nature was beyond hot.

It was hard to tell how long you had been fucking for—riding his cock brutally. It was all so intoxicating—the sounds, the touches, the tastes, the delicious penetration. It clouded all your senses. It made you aware of nothing but him—his massive body and cock.

You were approaching your first orgasm since you started this erotic experiment with The Asset. And with the way your body trembled and the firm tightness in your stomach begged to snap, you knew your release would wreck you—dissolving you into a messy state of whimpers and possibly a blackout.

You braced yourself by wrapping your arms around his neck—clinging desperately to him. Puncturing your nails into the skin of his back—leaving marks.

Soldat’s body tensed, anticipating another rocking release as he ground his teeth and roared like a caged animal. The chains rattled as he pulled on his restraints. His huge arms flexed, and his delicious muscles contorted beautifully, making him look even bigger.

You could see a hint of pain and discomfort in his features at having his cock tormented and overstimulated to the extreme. But another part of him, the darkest flicker in his eyes, couldn’t get enough of the torturous pleasure.

You leaned your forehead against his, which had his tenseness ease up to a degree. Yours and his parted lips brushed as you became so engrossed with the anticipation of your shared release.

“Fuck,” you whimpered as you grounded yourself deeper onto his pulsing cock that was nearing its release. And with a last few sharp thrusts of his hips into your quivering pussy, hitting your sweet spot repeatedly, you and he came hard—an explosion of noises and numbing pleasure rocked your bodies.

His cock twitched violently as he spurted his thick and warm cum into your awaiting womb, covering your fluttering walls with his seed. Making you feel full and satisfied. Yours and his hips stuttered and lost their rhythm as you tried to move against each other despite the soul-crushing and body-crippling sensation.

Your sounds of passion were muffled against his sweaty skin as you nuzzled your face into the crock of his neck. His ones roared so loudly in your ear—moans, groans, growls, making your whole body vibrate and convulse.

The pleasure seemed to last for an eternity as you savoured each erotic and sensual sensation with Soldat.

A wave of darkness shadowed over you as it became too much after a while. The pleasure too intense for your weak body to handle. Your movements started easing into a delicate dance as you used the last bit of strength to cling onto Soldat’s colossal frame.

Yours and his chest heaved in perfect rhythm as you stilled completely on him. His cock buried deep inside you still.

His warm body against yours was a comfort from the raging ache your own pulsed. His hot breath brushing your skin a soothing sensation.

How could a man that was claimed to be inhuman, dangerous, a weapon, feel so comfortable? Feel so right?

You hummed softly as you nuzzled further into him. Tired and drained from the hours of exertion that accumulated into a fiery ending.

The demands of the men in charge for you to continue were nothing but a muffled sound.

You felt yourself slip. Slip into darkness, tired and satiated, as the last thing your consciousness remembered was the soft lulling of the menacing man you were clinging onto.

Thank you for reading 🖤 Feedback through a comment is highly appreciated! Or let me know through an anonymous ask if that feels more comfortable. As well as a reblog to share my work with other people!

Follow @bucky-barnes-diaries-library and turn on notifications to never miss out on my writing!

[homunculus-argument]

Why do the "never use or contribute to anything that has any past history of being used in, benefitted from, or associated with war, slavery or genocide" kind of people and the "literally everything in human history is somehow rooted in war, slavery or genocide" -people never fight eachother?

Like why haven't I ever seen someone who says shit like "I don't wear blue because I heard somewhere it was this genocide engineer's favourite colour uwu" beefing with someone who's like "how dare you imply that there are things that aren't immediately rooted in atrocities, by eating this specific cereal you are denying the harm and history of medical genital mutilation."

[randomlonelymusician]

Lacey's Petshop Theory/Analysis (So Far)

So Lacey's Petshop dropped a couple of hours ago, and here's my thoughts so far after watching the video twice and doing some rough transcriptions.

Illegible text transcriptions HERE.

Warnings for disturbing imagery, abuse, blood, and animal death. Also spoilers.

So here's my overall takeaway from this entry:

There are two stories going on. The story of Lacey, who represents Rocio Yani (Lacey Game's cofounder), and the story of how the games came to be. They're very heavily connected, but not everything we're shown in the Lacey games is exactly what happened to Rocio.

In Lacey's Petshop, Lacey's uncle kills her dog. After years of abuse from him and him killing this one bit of happiness she has in her life, she kills him. She hides his remains under the bed, and is afraid to leave the room after this.

Lacey seems to be a sort of stand-in for Rocio, who has clearly suffered similar abuse. There are two directions that Rocio's connection to the "bad versions" of the Lacey games could go: they were vent pieces to she could express her trauma, or she is literally connected to the games, living out a 2000s-esque life while her trauma seeps through in the bad endings.

Now, for further explanations.

I think it's pretty evident that Lacey's uncle killed her dog. With how she constantly mentions him "taking her angel away", and how the dog's face appears while a mutilated leg/bloody eye flash on screen.

The motifs connecting the image of the dog to animal death and distress go even further:

I believe that Lacey killed her uncle after this mostly due to how images of a mangled/rotting foot and a bloody eye when she is talking about how "he is still under the bed" and that she "can't leave"

The lines about her not being able to leave also could imply some sort of guilt. The mirror scene could also reinforce this, since she sees horribly distorted versions of herself.

I also don't think every game is a direct representation of her trauma, since the timeline get a little messy if they are. Especially Lacey's Wardrobe. That's the one that sticks out as different from Lacey's Diner and Lacey's Petshop, which both focus on the abuse from her uncle. Both Lacey's Diner and Petshop do both show that she killed him, with in Lacey's diner she is cooking him and her trauma into the food and serving it to others (a representation of what what is doing with the games, maybe?"

BONUS NOTE: After you click the... substance on the left, it shows this image, which features Rocio's name.

As for what's happening in the real world. I'm actually going to go with the theory that Rocio is literally connected to the game as Lacey, and that's why there's bad endings that didn't used to be there. Everyone in the story remembers how they used to play Lacey games, and never seem to remember anything disturbing. But now that Rocio is connected to the game, her trauma is infecting it.

I think that her being connected to the wires is more literal than some may take it.

Forming a bit of a timeline, Laceygames.com / Yaniasogames started in 2004, and from the interview with Grace Asop confirms that they parted ways in 2010. This means that the "infections" were more recent, which is why no one has been discovering them until now.

Lacey / Rosio just wanted to have a normal life, so she connected herself to 2000s-esque flash games to make that a reality. But her past traumas ended up seeping into those games, creating the grotesque imagery that we now know.

I think that's all I have so far. Here are my favorite screencaps from this episode that I didn't get to use:

If anyone has any comments, ideas, or additions, please add them! This series has brought me back into the analog horror community, and it's really fun to discuss!

[abbacchiosbelt]

New Year

Pairing: Yandere Mahito x GN!Reader

Notes: i wrote this while high and didn't edit it so sorry if it's funky

WC: 792

Notes: Yandere, implied kidnapping, implied death (not of reader), nonconsensual kissing, Mahito being a menace.

“Look what I got you!”

The words that left Mahito’s mouth instantly have you on guard. You warily turn towards your captor, narrowing your eyes at the generic bag that he excitedly shakes in your direction. Anything Mahito gave you was never what it seemed - there were no gifts without strings, nor was anything given to you without purpose. Whether it was to terrify or to sicken or to make you beg for him to stop, there was always a reason.

Mahito ignores your expressions and bounds over to you, dumping the bag out all over the couch cushion next to you. It takes you a moment to register what you’re seeing, your eyes darting between Mahito and the pile on the couch.

Next to you sits a pile of various items, the one thing they had in common being their reason for existence: the celebration of 2024. The new year…? It couldn’t be. It’d… there was no way it had been that long. Mahito kept the time and date from you, but you swore you’d been somewhat accurate in counting the days that had passed. You want to ask him if this is some kind of joke, but no words make it past your scratchy throat.

You look up at him, mouth parted - and the unnaturally large smile that seems to span his entire face answers the words that refuse to pass your lips. Mahito’s hand comes to your face and for one millisecond you think it’s all over before he simply squishes your cheeks together with his fingers.

“Are you so happy you can’t speak?” Mahito presses his fingers into your cheeks upward to push your lips into a crude smile, only stopping when he presses so hard that you whimper. “There you go. If you can’t speak, you can at least give me a smile after I went to the trouble of getting you this stuff.”

Mahito grabs one of the accessories from the pile - a party hat with a generic New Year quote - and places it on your head, adjusting it so that the band under your chin is just so. He grabs a noise maker for himself and startles you by leaning forward to blow it in your face, leaning back to cackle when you jolt away.

“You know, this is one of those human holidays I don’t really get.” Mahito waves the noise maker as he speaks, specks of glitter falling to the floor. “All the humans I took this stuff from seemed to be having fun. Especially the couples.” 

The humans…? Your blood turns ice-cold in an instant. While Mahito rambles, you force yourself to look back at the pile. You hadn’t noticed it before, but there was a faint, metallic smell in the air. It was different than the sickeningly sweet stink of rot that clung to Mahito.

It smelled fresh.

If you looked hard enough in the pile, there’s no doubt that you’d find several things spattered with blood.

Mahito startles you out of your shock when his hands are suddenly on your shoulder, the icy cold chill of his skin biting even through your clothing. “Hey. Are you listening?”

You nod, still unable to speak, but Mahito doesn’t retreat from your space. He presses in forward until his lips nearly rest against yours, and you struggle not to recoil at the scent of iron that clings to his mouth.

“We were supposed to kiss at midnight, but since you don’t know what time it is, now is as good as ever.”

Mahito places his lips against yours, surprisingly chaste, and pulls away. “I forgot to tell you. You’re the only person I’ve kept long enough to see a new year go by with.” He gives you no time to react before he leans in again to capture your lips in a domineering kiss, ignoring your groan of discomfort when he wrenches your mouth open with his inhuman tongue and licks the inside of it. He stops again, pulling back in full this time.

Mahito places his hand on your shoulder like you’d seen him do before to the many humans he’d mutilated and forced you to watch. Paralyzed by fear, feeling ridiculous with the hat on your head that had most definitely belonged to a now-dead person, you finally manage to squeak out a plea for mercy. “Mahito, please don’t hurt me!”

“Calm down, cutie. I just wanted to wish you a proper new year for our first time together.” 

Mahito lifts the noise maker he’d shoved in his pocket to his lips and blows it hard, giggling like a child when he pulls it away from his mouth.

“Happy New Year! And if you’re lucky, you’ll be here next year too~”

[plazmafields]

We're all aware that your favorite (living) 90 year old rocker is a wanted criminal in Night City. Kerry's charges even change each time you meet up with him in game, which is hilarious. But some of the charges are unlike the others.

TW for mentions of murder and human remains/dead bodies.

Here are some of the average charges Kerry accrues throughout the game. Most of them are drug or assault charges, specifically against police and corpo suits. Typical rockerboy shit, really keeping the punk spirit alive. (Also copyright infringement which always makes me laugh seeing it next to literal MURDER)

The charges so far are all pretty expectable for Kerry. We even see charges like "hostage taking" and "unauthorized use of military hardware" that line up with events that take place in his side missions. However, there are two charges that always stood out to me:

So what the hell are these about? When I first saw these charges I assumed they referred to situations where an officer/corpo was already dead and Kerry continued to fire on them. However, if that were the case, the wording would be something more akin to "mutilation of a corpse" or "tampering with a corpse." The specific word choice of "human remains" implies the body had already been processed for burial.

I discovered these charges many months apart and had never connected them to a possible singular event until, while replaying Holdin' On, I remembered these:

Kerry has two urns on his wardrobe. I assume these are for his parents' ashes. However, as is implied in Cyberpunk: Edgerunners, it is illegal to keep cremated remains. And although not expressly stated in Cyberpunk 2077, much media in the cyberpunk genre (or with themes of late stage capitalism) give ownership of human remains to the state, or the corporate entity that the deceased worked for. I could absolutely see this being the case in Cyberpunk 2077 as well, seeing as Jackie's body can be seized by Arasaka and claimed as "corporate property." In that case, the urns would just be in memorial and contain no actual remains. I think, though, that most people would prefer to use something from that family member's past to memorialize them, like an object that represented their interests.

So, with Kerry having two distinct charges for both obtaining and "defiling" human remains, and having two urns despite the requirement that cremated remains be stored in the columbarium, I theorize that Kerry stole his parent's ashes back from the city/the company they worked for. Who knows, maybe some of his other charges came about during the theft as well.

[thebottomfromhell]

In a scenario where the reader is a hashira, what do you think would happen to him if his relationship with a demon was discovered. I know you wrote something along those lines where the reader was someone ordinary. The Hashiras, in the original work, are mostly nice, but they are very strict-minded about demons, so I wonder what their reaction would be if one of their own basically "betrayed" them. If you think it's going to be very similar, you can just ignore it or just say what you think would happen, without it necessarily being a story. I would appreciate it just the same

The Hashira request I like, the one where we treat them as the corporation of hunters they are instead of the avengers! I usually don't like making reader a Hashira, since I like to make it relatable to most, and let's be honest, the power fantasy is nice but most wouldn't live past Kanoe XD. Besides, it's funnier to make powerless MC's who need constant saving. But once or twice can't hurt.

The Hashira will refer to reader as L/N, as Last Name. Like last time it won't specify gender nor who's Uppermoon reader is with. One difference would be that as a civilian, last time reader only knew about the corps due being warned by their couple, hence only saw them as a bounch of psychos, here they will be more aware of certain things.

Hashira find out Hashira!GN Reader has a relationship with an Upper Moon

Warnings: Manga spoilers, Torture (Mostly non-physical, and the ones ññ, Excesive violence, Mutilation, Mentioned non-consented drug use, Mention of character's death, Implied sexual content, Suicidal character with survival guilt (Giyuu) and Open ending.

You became a Hashira to save others, you were told sometimes you were someone that loves too much, even for this line of work, specially for this line of work. In your ranking, most of everyone is civil to each other (depending on your definition of civil), but there is at least a level of trust. But not the tradiotional trust of sharing your burdens or being able to do things together, every Hashira prefers to work without the others, but trust that everyone else will do their job and kill every demon they meet or die trying.

That is exactly the trust you broke, so everyone is angry, upset and thirsty for blood. Most Hashira think positive things about each other, you also had only good things to say when asked, but now? After all that conversations you had with your lover about the inferiority of humanity, that they are pests, barbaric, backstabbers, a necessary evil... you have to wonder. After they caged you without any warning or mercy, sending Kocho and Shinazugawa for you, ending up beated and drugged.... you wonder. You just wonder.

Is it actually right?

The fellow Hashira could have at least confronted you out of the sake of the this fellowship, you could recieve visits from someone that isn't Kocho, drugging you for the sake of being easier to handle for the kakushi. And not only she drugs you, she always makes sure to remind you of your situation. To shame you, to taunt you, to hurt you. "Ara ara, aren't you eager to move? This is the second time I have to drug you today. You should really give a slack to the kakushi, they are just trying to do their job. But again, considering what you did, I must really question if you care about the efforts of the people in the corps." She says smiling, even if your blurred vision doesn't let you see it clearly, you can tell by her tone. Shinobu spits poison so cafefully with every word. Because she hates you. "You know? A mere civilian or commoner would have a an excuse. The don't know the level of sacrifice we have made, the pain the demons have caused. You? You did. And you had one job, the same as us. To stop that pain or die trying, you should have done the later."

You know about Kanae. You were never told about the demon who killed her nor the details, but it's almost (Tokito...) impossible to be a Hashira and NOT know about her death on the hands of demons. You knew, know that most Hashira have lost something to demons, and yet you decided to get close to one. Close enough to become lovers. But... it was right, at the time. The gentle touches, the vulnerable moments, the softness. The beatings inside your chest, the warmness in your face, that lightness in that voice... you are in love. And that Uppermoon is too, or else you would be dead, like everyone seems to wish you were, already.

You have too much free time in your thoughts, since you are tied up in a way you can't move any of your limbs and struggling cut's your circulation, kept in a dark room, when light and noise only appear when the Kakushi are told to feed you, once a day at most. You have no idea if they were told to do it that way or they are only scared to face a "renegade Hashira" or whatever they call you when you can't hear them. Your body is sore, it has been for the longest time, and you feel constantly sick due Kocho's drugs. Dizzy, tired, too hot, wanting to throw out when anything touches your throat, and even after hours the needles stings remains in wherever she managed to shot you. You also never healed your leg when fighting Shinazugawa, at lealt not properly. You can still feel empty tissues and the bone in your thigh stabbing the flesh, with smaller piece stuck. Your nose is also broken, making you need to breath through the mouth. The only thing Kocho actually tended was a cut through your hand, so you don't die from the blood loss.

You still remember grabbing the tilt of your sword to protect yourself, only to have all of the digits cut out of the hand, keeping in each different fractions, but all of the without the tips. At first there was a fast and intense sting, similar to a burning senssation as your katana started to fall from your grip, then, for a second, a coldness that was at worst, annoying, some sort of emptyness. Finally, when the realization sink there was pain in your pulsating fingers, mixing a lasting feeling of both previous ones, fighting to be the dominant one. You still can feel, on a lesser extent, all the time, those sensations.

It takes a lot for you to not go mad with the lack of contact with everything, and that sensation of being ill. Part of you wonders if your beloved will save you, if any other Hashira will speak to at least let you defend yourself in vain. Every day it becomes less of a reality, which adds resentment. Part of you tells you that you were the one to betray them first, another that longs that sweet voice and touches angers, wanting nothing to get out, to go somewhere safe, with the demon you love. "My sister and my best friend were killed by demons..." One day you suddenly feel a voice besides you... Tomioka. He is giving you his back, speaking only high enough so you can make up what he is saying. "So I really hate them... how... how were you able to love such a monster, knowing well what others suffered because of them?"

You don't know the answer, you can't even speak coherently due the drugs on your system. That is a question you asked yourself so much, thinking that if you didn't fall like that, you wouldn't be in this situation... but... "Sp-cil.... hom.... looovd...." you wonder if the silence means resignation or understanding, but you are glad to have someone close. "You will not be forgiven... there is someone that might, but... he is not here right now, and seeing the situation is probably for the best. I'm sorry." You... honestly can't understand it. That is why you curse Tomioka after he leaves, even if he was the only one willing to listen to you. That feeling only gets worse when you realize he is not in your "trial", he didn't go. The others, as always were neither fast to condemn him or dismiss him because of it, but besides some of them changing the subject, nobody came to his defense. Like you have already realized nobody is comming for yours.

You don't listen when Oyakata-sama speaks, is your attention lacking or he is just talking too low due being sick? None the less you just watch the others. Tokito is there, you want to trash out, but are still drugged and tied up, at the fact the child is here. That is child is going to see you being excecuted... but does it make a difference, this child has killed even more powerful demons than you, and you has never seem to care. Is it really that different to see a human die than a demon? Because everyone else seems so eager to see you die as one. You wouldn't know, you never wished death upon any specific human nor killed any. Yes, sometimes you curse some more anstract subjects, like people who hurt others, some criminals, and so, but you have never talked to anyone and wished you could kill them.

Every Hashira seems obsessed with death in one way or another, even if it's only to avoid it like Mitsuri, who is crearly sobbing and trying to keep it down. "Where is Tomioka? We shouldn't start without him!" Asks Rengoku impossible to not hear him, even in your state, but you know that he isn't comming probably asked permission for it. Damn him, that coward. You can also basically hear the scoffs from Shinazugawa and Obanai. After some seconds you feel the Serpent Hashira stab your shoulder with that irregula blade, making the cut difficult ans uneven, not covering the bleeding at all. "Obanai! Stop! Do not let your anger cloud your judgement!" Himejima acrually screams, and Obanai is close enough for you to hear and see him decently.

There is also a significant, loud, growing hatred in his eyes. Being any other situation you would tease that it's because you made Kanroji cry, but you know better. It's because he trusted you to kill demons and die trying, and you didn't. Come to think about it, it's an unfair standard to hold against anyone. What about those who had someone to go hone to? What about those too young to die? What about those who have a bright future ahead? Is everyone expected to? "My judgement?! What about L/N's judgement! This level of treason is unforgivable! It deserves more than a quick death! I apologize, Oyakata-sama, but I can't accept your desition!" Kanroji only cries harder at the time she speaks. "NO! NO! Y/N-SAN IS STILL OUR FRIEND! WE SHOULD AT LEAST MAKE IT AS PAINLESS AS POSSIBLE!"

"OUR FRIEND? A FRIEND DOESN'T GO AND SLEEP WITH THE ENEMY! IF L/N SIDES WITH THE ENEMY THEN WE TREAT THEM AS SUCH!" Shinazugawa screams at her, moving her direction angrily, so both Kocho and Rengoku put themself in between. You can't hear what Kocho says, but you can definetely make up what Rengoku does. "Shinazugawa! I understand your anger! This betrayal woould never go unpunished! But if we torture and rip L/N as we pleasw we won't be better than demons! We must answer with humanity!"

There is arguing, a lot of noise, Himejima and Tokito-kun are the only ones that are not with to it, besides the big boss who will only let them cool down by themselves, but you don't know that because you can make any voice out of the sounds, but because you know them. You know them... You spoke with them, shared meals and stories with some, worked with them... you know them, and they know you. And still, they will be the ones to kill you as long as they sort their shit out before you bleed to death.

"SILENCE! THIS IS SO UNFLASHY, WE SHOULD NOT BE GOING AGAINST EACH OTHER AFTER SUCH AN EVENT. We are already too on edge for this treason, we we can handle it. We should not be losing trust on each other!" Suddenly screams Uzui as he takes out his weapons, unecesaryly moving them for show, having the blades surrounding his torso, arms and shoulders without a single scratch on him. "I should be the one who deals with this. I know how to make it fast." He gets close to you as your vision becomes even more blured, to the point everything is red. Not black yet, you can basically see your eyelids and your own blood on the ground. You feel cold, trembling violently, you are pain, wanting to throw up your empty, tight and twisted stomach, feeling as if your organs will leave your body through the mouth the second you give into that urge. You pant, having a hard time breathing, every muscles is sore and protests... You are scared.

You swore that was what forced you to stay awake, even after loosing so much blood, but then... "Well, isn't this sad?" You hear a voice loud and clear, masculine. One that you have never heard before but still edges you. Your heart beats faster and normally you would worry about what that would mean something for the bloodloss, but... you don't feel like you are loosing blood, on the contrary, you feel more. "To be honest, I didn't notice at first you had my blood in your system, but now that you are weak, loosing the liquids of your body, the few drops you had inside are taking over. I won't pretend I don't know about your... intimacy with one of my powerful demons, but let me tell you this. It can save you."

You.... can be saved? You want to be saved, you have no idea where Uzui is, if he is near and ready to make the last blow or the arguing is stopping him. "You see, right now I can speak with you, share myself, but I can't take any look in your mind. But if you were to say where you are, I will gladly save you. Just tell where where are the ones who hurt you, and I'll even reward you with more blood. Don't you think it's a winning deal for you?" You cal sell out everyone for your own survival. Do you actually want them to die? To be killed. You feel suddenly a bit better, as the demon cells fight off the drugs.

You take air into your lungs softly and-

Tomioka Giyuu is in his home. He didn't want to be part of this. For now he doesn't want to think about it, the fact that one day he might take your place for not killing that demon girl. Urokodaki sends him letters of Kamado Tanjiro's process, the boy sends him his own letters too. He reads them all. Right now he has a brush in his hands, wondering if he should answer. He is tempted to write back, congratulate him, tell him he is doing good, to take care of himself and his sister, or at least to warn him about some difficulties he might face.

He can't. He doesn't want to get attached, no matter how nice and lovely the boy is, of how much he reminds him of himself when younger, except Tanjiro has more talent and is more capable that he was at his age. He will make a great water Hashira, far better than him. But for that Tomioka can't risk the others undermining his judgement by defending you. He didn't know if he would or not, and he didn't want to find out. Right now, that important thing is to ensure that the boy will take his place, and that means taking his distance too. Because everyone that Giyuu has ever held so dear into his heart dies. His sister and Sabito.... and even if you too were not close, not really friend... but still.

"It shoukd have been me." Is the only thing he can think as he sets the brush aside, not having written anything, and saving the letters carefully in a box. Then, just silence.

It doesn't matter anymore.

[pin-k-ink]

hollow // chrollo lucilfer

tw ⇢ graphic descriptions of physical violence, torture and mutilation, psychological abuse/mind-break, implied sexual content, obsessive/delusional behavior, reader is catatonic, depictions of bodily deterioration/decay

wc ⇢ 4.9k

The rhythmic dripping of water echoed hollowly down the dimly lit hallway, each drop hitting the stained floor with a soft plop. Chrollo's footsteps were cautious, familiar with every creak of the warped wooden boards beneath his feet. His gaze traced the peeling jungle green wallpaper, faded and curling away from the walls in long strips. Small holes pitted the popcorn ceiling above, remnants of who knew what past damage.

It was an all too familiar sight - this decaying hallway that he had walked thousands of times before. The musty, dank odor of rot and mold hung thick in the air, assaulting his senses in a way he had long since grown accustomed to. Chrollo could have mapped every discolored water stain, every flake of crumbling plaster from memory alone. His eyes lingered on the dark, rust-colored splatters streaking the wallpaper - unmistakable bloodstains that raised no alarm.

His hand trailed along the flaking paint as he approached the last door on the left, the bedroom. The door stuck briefly when he tried the tarnished knob, requiring Chrollo to lean his weight into it before it gave way with a groan of protesting hinges. As it slowly swung inward, his lips curled into a small, practiced smile.

"Good evening, my darling."

Chrollo's smooth voice seemed to caress the stagnant air as he stepped over the threshold. In the shadows of the dimly lit room, your silhouette was motionless, a solitary figure framed by the broken panes of the drafty window. You didn't so much as twitch at the sound of his voice, your distant gaze fixed through the grime-streaked glass.

Closing the door behind him with a soft click, Chrollo followed your line of sight beyond the confines of the cracked, spider-webbed window panes. The same stark view opened up before him - a dead tree, its twisted, gnarled branches reached up in blackened claws towards the perpetually overcast sky. The rusting black metal fence lined the property, separating the derelict house from the decaying remains of its abandoned neighbor.

Your eyes seemed almost unseeing, pupils trained on some invisible point far beyond the gloomy view. As if you could pierce past the decrepit scenery to something only you could perceive. The distant, glazed look was one Chrollo recognized.

With a soft huff of amusement, he stepped up behind you, his hands sliding along your upper arms before gently grasping your biceps. His fingers caressed your cool skin as he pulled you back, away from the broken window and the dead world beyond its panes.

With a tender grip, Chrollo eased you backwards, guiding your motionless form away from the shattered window. You offered no resistance, your limbs pliant, feet dragging slightly as he maneuvered you across the stripped bare floor.

The weathered bedframe groaned when he nudged you down to sit on the sagging mattress. Dust motes swirled lazily in the pale slivers of light slicing through the gaps in the curtains. Chrollo knelt before you, his movements slow and practiced as his eyes raked over your features.

Your face was a porcelain mask, devoid of any emotion or flicker of awareness. Eyes dull and unfocused, the usual warm depth you once regarded him with had long since turned glassy and distant. It was as if you had retreated so deeply inwards, tucking that spark of life away where he could no longer reach you.

A melancholic fondness played across Chrollo's expression. With deft fingers, he reached up to tuck a stray lock of lank hair behind your ear. The strands felt coarse, dirty - a reflection of your deteriorating state that he chose to ignore. His palm cupped your cheek, calloused thumb brushing the hollow beneath your eye.

You didn't lean into his touch or blink at the contact. No minute reactions registered on your vacant features. But still, Chrollo leaned in close, lips brushing feather-light against the throb of your pulse point. He lingered there, feeling the faint flutter of your heartbeat against his mouth before peppering a trail of whisper-soft kisses along the elegant column of your throat.

Each press of his lips was unbearably tender, an intimacy he reserved only for you. But you remained unmoving, unseeing, disassociated from the present as a thousand-yard stare bored through him. With a resigned sigh, Chrollo rested his forehead against your bony shoulder, curling himself around your petrified form like a wilted plant seeking warmth from the sun.

Chrollo's lips brushed reverently over the pale skin of your knuckles, tracing the delicate bones of your motionless hand. Each gossamer kiss was featherlight, almost worshipful in its tenderness. He found himself sinking into the memories evoked by your touch, letting the present recede.

His mind drifted back years, to the first time he had laid eyes on you. That crisp autumn day when you had quite literally fallen into his world...

The towering shelves of ancient tomes seemed to stretch endlessly in every direction of the library's echoing halls. A reverent hush blanketed the cavernous space as Chrollo trailed his fingers along the gilded spines, searching...

There. His hand stilled on the tooled leather binding, the familiar title raising a faint smile. As he slid the thick volume free, a voice suddenly piped up from his elbow.

"Ah, one of the great paradoxes. Interesting choice."

Chrollo went still, sidelong gaze catching on the petite figure who had materialized beside him without a sound. You didn't so much as glance up from examining the book's cover with an appraising look.

"Though I always found his theories on the duality of truth to be rather paradoxical in themselves." You tsked softly, plucking the book from his grip to flip it open. "Take this passage for instance..."

Slender fingers skimmed down the aged pages to tap at a paragraph of dense text. Looking up at him through the fan of your lashes, your lips quirked in a half-smile. "He spends multiple chapters expounding on the inherent contradiction of subjective experience muddling objective reality. But then doesn't he fall into that same trap himself by attempting to define an absolute truth?"

Chrollo found himself caught in the spark of wry intelligence glinting in your stare. You presented the mild critique with such matter-of-fact certainty, unburdened by pretense. It was...refreshing. And more than a little intriguing.

"An insightful observation." His voice was neutral, but something about your easy confidence piqued his interest. "You're well-versed on the subject matter."

"Oh, I've practically lived in the philosophy section since I was a kid." You waved your free hand in a careless gesture, as if dismissing the notion of erudition as commonplace. "My coping mechanism for insufferable questions has always been to counter with even more insufferable questions."

There was a teasing lilt to your smile then, homr truths offered with a self-effacing humor. Chrollo couldn't resist the curve tugging at his own mouth in response. You hadn't cowered from his scrutiny or blustered with feigned modesty. Instead, you simply met his gaze with composure and clever irreverence.

Yes...you were shaping up to be a captivating anomaly in Chrollo's experience. One he found himself abruptly keen to unravel.

Extending his hand in an unhurried motion, he re-claimed the book from your grasp - though made no move to extricate himself from your proximity.

"I'm Chrollo Lucilfer."

The memory dissolved like smoke on the wind, and Chrollo found himself abruptly drawn back to the present. His mouth was still brushing over the bony ridge of your knuckles, lips whispering across your motionless hand.

He pulled back slightly, dark eyes roving over your vacant features. The life and clever spark that had so captivated him that very first day was utterly extinguished. Your gaze remained glassy and distant, as if staring inward at some unreachable abyss that had swallowed your brilliant essence.

For a long moment, Chrollo simply studied your hollowed visage, taking in the sallow tinge to your skin and the sharp jut of cheekbones. Your wrists protruded like delicate bird bones from where they lolled in his grasp - a cruel facsimile of the vibrancy you had once exuded. And yet...not a flicker of remorse or guilt flickered across his expression.

If anything, there was a strange tenderness limning his stare, suffusing the pad of his thumb as he stroked along the raised veins of your forearm. His other hand smoothed stray strands of lank hair away from your brow in an almost doting caress before he leaned in closer.

"Do you remember, my love?" His voice was low, hushed with the weight of recollection. "The day we first met in that musty library, surrounded by the books you adored with so much passion?"

Chrollo's lips brushed your temple, callused fingers curling around your nape as though to tether you to his words. To draw you out from the depths you had retreated within.

"You were a paradox unto yourself then - keen and irreverent, brilliant yet disarmingly self-effacing. A rare mind unbound by the pretenses I had grown accustomed to." His mouth trailed lower, warm exhale ghosting your cool cheek. "You captivated me from that very first quip."

His nose nuzzled along the sharp line of your jaw before he nestled into the crook of your neck. Tension coiled in the lean muscles of his shoulders and back, yet Chrollo did not loosen his embrace. Instead, he coiled himself more tightly around your unresponsive form, clinging to the impassive shell of what had once been his greatest obsession.

"I knew then that I had to unravel the enigma you presented. To unlock those complexities lacing your mind and make you wholly, utterly mine..." A tremor rippled through his voice, baring the faintest hint of strain beneath its veneer of devotion. "And so I did, didn't I? Through my own particular...persuasions."

Chrollo fell silent then, simply breathing you in - the lingering hint of your natural scent still clinging to your pallid skin despite the omnipresent reek of decay and mold shrouding this place. His haven, his sanctum where he could revel in the spoils of his conquest. No matter that the light had long since dimmed behind your eyes.

For though your corporeal form had withered, the essence of who you were remained eternally preserved - a prized butterfly trapped in amber, yours to study and revel in at his leisure. You may have drifted irrevocably out of reach, but at least here in this sanctum, your brilliant mind would never escape his grasp.

The silence stretched, weighted with half-remembered moments replaying in the recesses of Chrollo's mind. His cheek nestled into the curve of your neck and shoulder as snapshots of your earlier encounters together began flickering through his thoughts.

One particular scene coalesced, vibrant and stark…

The bustling cafe was alive with the rich aromas of espresso and freshly baked pastries mingling in the air. Chrollo's gaze cut briefly over the clusters of students and professionals huddled around the tiny tables before settling again on you.

Even seated across from him amidst the crowded atmosphere, you seemed completely at ease - blissfully unbothered by the cacophony of clinking dishes and murmured conversations surrounding you on all sides. With one leg crossed over the other, you lounged back in your chair, slender fingers wrapped around the ceramic mug cradled before you.

The soft furrow of concentration furrowing your brow was the only indication of your focus as you pored over the battered paperback novel propped open before you. Sunlight gilded the flyaway wisps of hair framing your face, casting deep crevices in the hollows beneath your high cheekbones. For a suspended moment, you looked almost ethereal - the embodiment of a tragic gothic heroine plucked from the very pages before you.

Chrollo found his stare snagging on the elegant drape of your throat, tracing the faint throb of your pulse fluttering beneath the surface before dropping to follow the enticing vee of cleavage peeking from your blouse...

You must have sensed his heated regard. Without even glancing up, your lips twitched in a knowing smirk as you reached for your mug. Bringing it to your lips, you took an unhurried sip - holding the scalding liquid on your tongue for a calculated beat before swallowing with a soft hum of contentment.

Only then did you finally lift your eyes to meet Chrollo's hooded gaze from beneath the fan of sooty lashes. "Something on your mind?" The deceptively innocent query was undercut by the simmering spark of challenge glinting in your stare. "Or are you just enjoying the view?"

The shameless quip and utter lack of self-consciousness should not have been so utterly enthralling. And yet...Chrollo could practically taste the thrill sparking down his spine at the bold implications lacing your tone. You somehow managed to come across as both deliciously inappropriate yet well-bred in the very same breath.

Unable to resist leaning into the tease, Chrollo allowed the barest of smiles to ghost over his lips as he mirrored your casual pose - elbows braced on the table's surface, chin resting atop steepled fingertips.

"Perhaps a bit of both," he mused in that low, dangerously warm timbre. "I do so enjoy seeing that wit of yours in action..."

His gaze was all too knowing as it dropped momentarily to your mouth. "Among other things."

The words hung in the air, rife with unspoken suggestion and subtle challenge. You regarded him evenly, holding his stare without a hint of the flustered demurring he typically encountered. For a protracted beat, the charged silence stretched taut between you as the clamor of the cafe faded to mere white noise.

Then, eyes glinting with newfound determination, you slowly reached for the bundle of pages resting abandoned on the tabletop beside Chrollo's arm. Never breaking that heated eye contact, you brushed your knuckles deliberately, intentionally, along the taut cords of his wrist before claiming the sheaf of looseleaf papers.

Lips still curved in that private, enigmatic smile, you reopened your novel - effectively ignoring or accepting his suggestive flirtation in one fell swoop as the embodiment of effortless poise.

It was subtle, masterful even in its nonchalance. And abruptly, Chrollo found himself well and truly enraptured by the delicious paradox of barbed wit and refined composure that you presented...

The memory ebbed away, siphoning back into the recesses of Chrollo's consciousness until all that remained was your pliant form coiled against him on the sagging mattress. He nuzzled deeper into the juncture of your throat and shoulder, chasing the lingering remnants of your essence still clinging to your pallid skin.

"Do you recall that afternoon, my love?" His words were a rumbling murmur against your nape. "How you matched me tease for tease without ever losing that practiced decorum society expected of you?"

A wistful sort of yearning bled into his tone, tempering the ravenous edge. "You were diabolical - all coy propriety deftly wielded to entice with just the faintest indecencies lurking beneath. Like some Wildean libertine in another skin..."

Chrollo's free hand curled into a fist where it rested on the mattress beside your hip, as if to anchor himself. There was a fevered sort of hunger simmering in his voice now, trembling with the weight of rapturous recollection.

"I knew then that I could never be content until I'd unraveled those contradicting layers shrouding your core - no matter how far into the abyss I had to descend in pursuit."

The arm bracketed around your waist cinched tighter, knotting you flush against his chest. It should have been suffocating, possessive...Yet Chrollo somehow imbued the crushing embrace with an unsettling sort of devotion. He was fastening you to him with that same ravenous ardor as one might clutch a cherished, half-coveted treasure.

His thumb traced the sharp ridge of your collarbone over...and over...and over again. "And you let me plunge into those depths so willingly - your brilliant mind falling open around me until I could see...everything."

A shudder rippled through his lean frame, momentary loss of control swiftly reined in. When his sable gaze finally lifted, there was a peculiar desperation simmering behind the usual impassivity.

"Don't you see, my love? This..." One calloused hand slid up to frame your face with infinite care, thumb caressing your lax cheek. "This hollowed essence is what you were truly meant for. An exquisite lapse of mortal confines into something sublime..."

Chrollo leaned in then, parted lips a scant breath from yours as he searched your vacant stare for any resurgence of vibrant awareness.

"You are perfection..."

The scenes continued unspooling through Chrollo's mind, each recollection seeming to unfurl within the dimness of the bedroom. Another fragment soon took shape...

Amber liquor sloshed over the rim of the heavy glass tumbler as you tipped it back, downing the harsh burn in one defiant swallow. A harsh grimace twisted your features before smoothing into a morose blankness once more.

It was well past midnight, but the dimly lit bar showed no signs of thinning out. If anything, the press of bodies seemed thicker - a sea of desperation and vice-fueled oblivion swelling with each passing hour. Chrollo slipped through the throngs like a wraith, his sable gaze cutting through the smoky haze as it snagged on your lone, hunched figure at the far end of the polished oak counter.

Even amidst the drunken revelry, you seemed utterly cocooned in your own world of misery. One dainty hand painted crimson nails over smeared trails of mascara streaking your cheeks like inky rivulets. Yet you were oblivious to the ruined cosmetics - focus zeroed inward as you gestured blindly for another refill with your other hand.

Something very much like concern flickered through Chrollo's expression as he watched the bartender dutifully splash more amber poison into your upturned glass. Before he could reconsider, his strides had already eaten up the distance between you.

Distractedly, you swiped the fresh drink towards you - only to freeze when his fingertips materialized around your wrist, stilling its trajectory. Your bewildered gaze snapped up, all blurred crimson rims and swollen lids as you blinked at him in open confusion.

"Chrollo...?" His name slipped out garbled, thick, like you couldn't quite recognize him through the alcohol-soaked haze fogging your brain. Still, there was a reluctant ember of lucidity flickering in those depths. "Wha...?"

"Easy there." His tone was infused with a carefully modulated gentleness as he extricated the tumbler from your tenuous grasp. "I think you've had more than enough for one night."

For a suspended beat, you could only gape at him in wordless bewilderment - as if you couldn't quite comprehend that he was even real. Then all at once, your fragile composure simply...crumbled. A strangled sound, somewhere between a hiccup and a sob, gurgled up from your chest to clog your throat.

You were crying in earnest, shoulders quaking with the force of your abject despair before Chrollo could even parse your reaction. Instinct overrode reason as he sank into the stool beside you, one hand settling over the sharp jut of your shoulderblade while the other curled soothingly around the nape of your neck.

"Shh...just breathe, darling." His words were hushed, lulling as he pulled you against the solid line of his side. "Whatever has you in this state, tell me. Let me help."

Babbled, hiccuping gasps tumbled from your parted lips as you curled into the hollow of his shoulder and throat. You reeked of sour booze and salt, yet Chrollo did not recoil from your distress. Instead, he stroked the sensitive hairs at your nape in an anchoring rhythm, waiting patiently for the torrent of misery to ebb enough for intelligible speech to win out.

"He...he was with her! With that vapid little t-tart from his office!" The confession emerged in a wretched outburst, fraught with venom and betrayal. "After everything, he still...he was sleeping with her behind my back!"

Ah. So that was the root of this maudlin display - infidelity. Chrollo's lips pressed into a grim line as the pieces slotted into place. Of course some base, undeserving wretch would be foolish enough to wrong you so egregiously. To discard a brilliant mind like a banal plaything when they could scarcely begin to comprehend the depths of your worth...

His palm trailed in soothing strokes down the tense ridge of your spine as you heaved another juddering sob against the lapel of his coat. "Shhh...we'll make him regret the day he took you for granted, darling. We'll make this all go away, for tonight at least."

The rumbling murmur was laced with a conviction bordering on zealotry. Chrollo was utterly undone by your naked anguish - mired in both protective tenderness and dark contemplation over just how he might erase this slight. For you were meant for so much more than these kind of vulgar pains, this reductive mortal torment...

You reeled back slightly, eyes glassy and rimmed with clumped mascara as your brow knitted in confusion. But then Chrollo brushed the pad of his thumb along the swell of your lower lip - just a whisper of contact yet somehow searing with intensity. The hitch of your breath and instinctive part of your mouth was all the answer he needed.

Neither of you could rightly say who instigated the first crush of lips in that moment. It was needy and desperate, a frantic meshing of mouths tinged with the bitter fuel of anguish and something darker still. Chrollo's hand cradled the back of your skull as he angled closer, tongue lancing past your parted lips to taste the remnants of liquor and salt on your own.

There would be no gentle coaxing on this night. Only a frenzied tearing away of hurt and betrayal before the wounds could fester into something more insidious. A shedding of mortal flesh to reveal the brilliant essence burning beneath as you yielded into his possessive embrace...

The fragment drew to a hazy close, the visceral urgency of that encounter still pounding in Chrollo's veins. His grip tightened almost imperceptibly where his hands cradled your face and waist. Remembering the pure desperation fueling your surrender that night - how you had clung to him as the only tether left in the maelstrom. How he had claimed you wholly unto himself in the throes of solace and unraveling...

"Mine," he rasped against the seam of your lips, savoring the phantom memory of how pliant and undone you had been for him in that moment. If only for a handful of searing hours before the mortal coils began reweaving around your brilliant spirit once more.

But he would eternally relish that glimpse behind the veil, where your unbound essence had shone through unto him alone. The start of his fervent devotion to keep that flame tended, no matter how deeply he had to delve to stoke its radiant spark.

The memories began to scatter like ashes on the wind as Chrollo pulled back just enough to drink in the devastation he had wrought. His thumbs traced the sharp blades of your cheekbones, reverent despite the mottled bruises and lacerations maring your once unblemished skin.

Chrollo's grip tightened possessively as he vividly recalled that fateful night when he had first tasted the intoxicating depths of your psyche. Even as you had fallen apart in anguish over your unfaithful lover, there was an incandescent fire that drew Chrollo to you like a moth to the flame.

He had meant to simply provide a brief respite - a single night of forgetting your mortal turmoils as he indulged in the radiant essence you unconsciously exuded. But from the first crush of your pliant lips against his own, Chrollo found himself utterly enraptured. Each desperate roll of your hips and keening cry spilling from your throat only stoked his covetous obsession.

You had been so gloriously undone in those feverish hours - defenses obliterated, self discarded like a shed skin as you surrendered your entire being to the oblivion he offered. And in doing so, you had revealed the scintillating truth burning at your core. An existential fire, brilliant and rapturous...yet simultaneously fragile within its corporeal confines.

Chrollo's body was rigid now as he curled around your vacant form, conscious mind awash in the recollected sensations. The salty musk of your spent passions...the litany of ethereal sounds he had drawn from your kiss-bruised lips...the exquisite rapture of joining his essences with yours in those scorching instants of coalescence.

It should have been enough. One soul-searing glimpse into the untrammeled truth of your existence before allowing you to resettle behind your mortal veneers as societal dictates demanded. But even as he held your utterly spent form in the aftermath, body humming with satiated contentment, Chrollo recognized the obsession had taken insidious root.

He could never be complete until he had experienced the full unbridled depths of that prismatic flame he had witnessed refracting through your fragmented psyche. No matter how far he was required to descend in stripping away the superfluous layers masking your truest self from view.

Which was why, in the end, such...radical measures had been required to liberate you.

Chrollo's stare bored into your vacant eyes as if seeking any residual spark still banked behind that thousand-yard emptiness. His mouth brushed your cooling temple with something akin to devotion as the memories of your systematic unraveling played out in his mind's eye.

The isolation...the escalating torments he had ceremonially unleashed to flay both psyche and flesh from your core essence...the rapturous fervour of witnessing your final fracture into this transcendent, pristine stillness.

"You are the ultimate absolution," he murmured, clutching your husk closer. "My luminous ossuary - shedding at last your ill-fitting bodily accessories to reveal the immaculate truth shining beneath."

His lips brushed your slack, parted mouth, savoring the liberation of having reduced you at last to this perfect, unbound state. Preserved forever as the concentrated epiphany he had coveted from that first, searing taste of you drowned in mortal anguish so long ago.

"Mine," Chrollo rasped with heated finality. "You are mine, now and for all eternity to come..."

Chrollo cradled your deteriorated form against him, that flickering obsession still burning bright in his breast even as he drank in the full extent of devastation he had wrought upon you. For a fleeting moment, something almost like guilt sparked behind his impassive mask.

The once vibrant, brilliant essence he had fallen rapture to now lay utterly unmade. Your eyes stared back at him, unblinking and devoid of the soulful spark that had first ensnared him so completely. Just...empty. A hollowed vessel in the wake of shattering your very spirit to reach that primal truth buried beneath.

Chrollo's thumb traced the sharp jut of your cheekbone, calloused pad catching on the ridges of mottled bruises and lacerations peppering your ashen flesh. He had been the architect of this ruination - methodically flaying away every layer of identity and reservation until only the naked essence remained. A scorched earth approach in pursuit of cradling that luminous fire unbridled at last from the confines of your corporeal self.

But surely even this devastation was a brutal form of preservation? Eliminating every potential tether that might restrain you from the transcendental state of pure, unfettered being he had laid bare...

His grasp convulsed minutely, fingertips pressing almost bruisingly into the fragile dips of your body. Perfection, he tried to reaffirm. This was the apotheosis of preserving your immaculate truth in stasis. The self-aware cosmos distilled to its most sublime....

And yet...

The briefest flicker of uncertainty lanced through Chrollo's stare as he studied the desolation reflecting back at him. For the span of a solitary indrawn breath, his convictions seemed to teeter on the precipice of horrified doubt. The full magnitude of what he had unmade you into crashing against the uncompromising fervor of his beliefs like a sanity-shattering wave.

Then your lips parted with the barest sigh, the slightest tongue movement giving audible shape to a single rasping exhalation. A phantom whisper seeming to give voice to the oblivion reflecting from the depths of your vacant stare.

"Chrollo..."

The tenuous moment fractured. Whatever fissure of trepidation that had pried open an instant before was abruptly extinguished by the guttering embers of Chrollo's dedication. His palm cupped the sharp hinge of your jaw as his brow creased in a minute frown of reproach.

"Shh...no more," he soothed in a hushed murmur. "Your essence has transcended such temporal limits at last."

With agonizing tenderness, Chrollo brushed the faintest whisper of a kiss across your placid lips. There was no response from your end - no flutter of lashes or instinctive reaction. Just the weighty stillness of a mind and spirit severed completely from any lingering mortal confines.

Chrollo pulled back a bare fraction, his sable stare glittering with something like reverence as he studied the husk before him. The fate he had meticulously crafted for you in pursuit of undoing every superficial strand barring his unfettered view of the unfurling truth laid bare at last.

And in that moment, a twisted sort of absolution seemed to settle over his expression. This bleak squalor was both sanctum and crematorium - the smoldering aftermath in which your indelible imprint had been forged into existence eternal. No matter the state of the vessel's decay, your essence would endure, preserved forever in the chilling serenity Chrollo's morbid dedication had produced.

As for the systematic dismantling and agonies required to unmake you to this degree...? All such atrocious steps were hallowed by the certainty still burning in Chrollo's conviction as he cradled your emptied husk with the covetous desperation of an obsessive widower. The indelible truth of your being had ultimately been preserved in a state of perfect, pristine deliverance.

And whether that ultimately amounted to an abhorrent defilement or the most sacred of consecrations....Only Chrollo could rightly bear witness to the full breadth of that existential paradox now.

[sirenalpha]

I'm not gonna get into it on the actual post because I don't want to start shit after how Aang posts have gone down and it's not like I saw it cuz it was tagged wrong or something

but it is wild to see someone say Azula's downfall was well written in atla and then also say what Zuko should have done and implying he was morally obligated to do so was not fight her and instead offer her love and support so he's in the wrong for accepting the agni kai challenge and fighting her

this blatantly ignores that Azula has manipulated and abused Zuko since childhood even though they also admit that Azula tried to kill him twice recently as a defense of Zuko's actions which is definitely some cognitive dissonance, but it's another instance I've seen of someone acting as if Zuko is incorrect or blinded by his father or otherwise mistaken when he says things like 'Azula always lies' despite the show demonstrating that actually Zuko is seeing her extremely clearly as she can even successfully manipulate him using the truth

Zuko does not owe Azula love and support just because they are blood relatives anymore than he owes Ozai especially not any time before the war has ended and she is still a threat to his personal safety and also to his goal of achieving peace seeing as she tried to kill Zuko twice leading up to the finale and she also came up with the plan to raze the Earth Kingdom

Giving her a hug isn't gonna fix that situation exactly the same as it wouldn't with Aang when it comes to Ozai

except this person thought Aang v Ozai was ultimately a triumph of pacifism over imperialism whereas the love and support vs fear and isolation of Zuko vs Azula is only pure tragedy not a victory of one ideology over another and I really have to wonder how this person came to that conclusion

Aang v Ozai is also a man to man battle same as Zuko v Azula and Katara v Azula which is not exactly pacifism

Aang doesn't kill Ozai in the end, and neither does Zuko or Katara kill Azula (instead she nearly kills Zuko) so again no different on the pacifism front

The major differences between these battles are that Zuko and Katara earned their abilities to defeat Azula whereas Aang relies on two deus ex machina and Zuko and Katara leave Azula upset but a pretty physically healthy state whereas Aang spiritually mutilates Ozai by removing his bending

in order for this interpretation to work that Aang v Ozai is a triumph of one ideology over another and Zuko v Azula is not, you have to ignore the massive narrative flaws in the Aang and Ozai fight that do not exist in the Zuko v Azula fight

There is a reason people still argue about whether or not Aang should have killed Ozai but even this person who argues Zuko did the wrong thing by Azula doesn't actually disagree with the text of the show, they still seem to want this agni kai to have happened exactly as it did where Zuko did show that love and support worked better than fear and isolation as he had Katara to tag in to finish the fight as well as other concepts like continuing to improve and learn after failure which eventually gave Zuko stability working better than genius perfectionism which caused Azula to spiral

another major facet this person relied on to argue for this position that Zuko was wrong to accept the agni kai was that Zuko could not see beyond the narrow worldview his father imposed on him through the golden child/scape goat dynamic he put upon Azula and Zuko

but the whole point of the show and having Zuko confront his father and leave to join the Avatar was to show exactly that, Zuko is the one character whose horizons broaden the most over the course of the show and only because Iroh's happens pre-series, it is insane to argue that Zuko cannot see past the abuse he suffered or outside the Fire Nation worldview after he has left the Fire Nation for the gaang

This person also claims that Zuko is so single minded about his goals that he even forgets empathy for others despite in season one somehow managing not to burn off Zhao's face in an agni kai and he even tries to rescue him from the ocean spirit despite fighting him literally the moment before so what character are you talking about because it's not Zuko

and then from this, they claim he cannot understand the tragedy of having to fight his own sister

this part is obviously up to more reader interpretation but you can take Zuko suggesting to Iroh in s2 that he forgive Azula is actually stemming from his genuine desire to not have to fight Azula given how quickly and vehemently Iroh shoots this down and that he does express genuine concern for Azula's fall in the southern raiders before she gets herself to the cliffside

I personally would say between the two of them, Zuko is more aware of the tragedy and genuinely sad about it, he is not portrayed as happy or gleeful when it's over whereas Azula has only been expecting this fight so she can secure her position on the thrown because she's second born and female and outright gloats after she's shot him with lightning

I see Zuko as resigned to this fight and trying to keep Katara safely out of it when he notices that Azula is slipping and takes the agni kai

what is not reader interpretation is to claim Zuko is being unfair and cruel to Azula to accept her agni kai challenge, Azula has always been the aggressor in their relationship and Zuko always the loser until the southern raiders where they have drawn even with each other, and as it has already been pointed out, Azula has recently tried to kill him twice!!

where is Azula's moral obligation to not try to mortally wound or manipulate her older brother? how is she not cruel and unfair for treating him this way and following in the footsteps of their father?

then there's an insane bit where they claim Zuko and Katara have a more simplistic view of morality than Aang who lost his shit on Katara in southern raiders who in the end didn't forgive Yon Rha and also didn't kill him and Zuko was there supporting her for the whole thing for her emotional benefit and closure regarding her mother like he had in his confrontation against Ozai whom he also didn't kill and Aang wasn't involved, Katara even tells him he was wrong

this part is just objectively untrue, Aang has the far more simplistic view on morality 

this person also goes on to a lot of reader interpretation for Azula's motives for bringing Zuko back to the Fire Nation, and I do agree I think that on some level Azula does care for Zuko, where I don't agree is that if the result is still harm for Zuko which is what returning to the Fire Nation was for him as it puts him back under the thumb of their abuser, it's still ultiamtely not good or kind to Zuko

Azula's actions are not made better by presuming she had good intentions born out of care for Zuko

The thing that really got me though was this quote:

"he allows himself to stoop to her level, and in fact only redeems himself through his sacrifice for katara"

again, Azula is the aggressor in their relationship and the one who issues the challenge in this instance

Zuko does not stoop to her level trying to stop her via agni kai because a hug is not gonna work, and it is arguably noble of him to try to protect Katara by accepting the challenge and trying to remove her as a target

But it doesn't work because Azula breaks the agni kai by attacking Katara who is a bystander and not a combatant which is never a level Zuko stoops to, it's a rat move Azula takes when she's put on her back foot and realizes she can't win a fair fight and can't goad Zuko into an emotional outburst

But the worst part is reframing Zuko's sacrifice as redemptive in terms of his relationship to Azula or as if he has done something wrong in accepting the agni kai or while fighting it

He hasn't, the poster argues that Zuko betrayed Azula in leaving the Fire Nation which I think you can argue for, but I do not believe that the show has Azula react as if she has been harmed by this action when she is shown as far more offended by Mai and Ty Lee's betrayal and again seems gleeful to be able to attack Zuko in the boiling rock, southern raiders, and finale and therefore could reasonably be interpreted to have expected this

His redemption isn't towards Azula or anything she represents like Fire Nation imperialism, Ozai's abuse, perfectionism 

It's a heroic sacrifice for Katara as a person he harmed personally in the s2 finale and as a victim of the Fire Nation's war by the Fire Nation's prince 

It's an utter and blatant misread of the show to demonize Zuko to uplift Azula and replace Katara as a victim of Fire Nation imperialism which Azula is straightforwardly not and removes those themes from the Zuko v Azula fight which this person praised in the more flawed Aang v Ozai fight

I am with and agree with anyone claiming Azula is a victim of abuse, she is, it is the direct cause of her breakdown

but it's straight up cognitive dissonance to act as if Zuko has done something grossly wrong in terms of ending the cycle of violence by participating in the agni kai with Azula but Aang v Ozai is a narrative master stroke for pacifism and ending violence when they both use the exact same amount of violence to achieve their ends: man to man combat, and Aang actually delivers the worse punishment to Ozai

and you strip away half of Azula's character if you ignore the real and blatant harm she caused Zuko and the rest of the gaang and try to pretend they are all equally victims of the same man because they are not

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Unsated Needs.

Pairing: Yandere!Miguel x Reader (Spider-verse).

Commissioned by the very lovely @kiakaiba.

Word Count: 3.1k.

TW: AFAB!Reader, Venom!Reader, Sub!Miguel, Rough Sex, Biting/Blood, Everything's Consensual But Reader's So Pissed About It, Tentacle Sex, Threesome (?), Semi-Public Sex, Implied Stalking, and Obsessive Behavior.

[Based On This Drabble]

Miguel found you in a narrow alleyway, gore dripping from your teeth and tar writhing against your skin.

From a distance, he thought you might’ve been injured. Braced against a rusting chain-link fence that could barely hold your weight, bulking arms crossed over your torso, swallowed entirely by your symbiote – he could already picture a bloody gash in your side, a lead pipe embedded in flesh and organ, a cluster of eye-searing colors and patterns slowly eating away at some vital part of you. He could feel his pulse beating against his ears, his throat tightening with a familiar anxiety no amount of anger and exhaustion could seem to drown out, but of course, his panic was wasted on you. With another step, a closer look, he could see that the blood dripping from your teeth wasn’t your own, that you were holding your stomach, not your chest.

He realized, as he stepped into your line of sight, as you shot to face him with a violent snarl, that you weren’t hurt. You weren’t injured.

You were hungry.

No, starving. He’d seen symbiotes waiting to be sent back to their original dimensions exhibit similar behavior: a slight shake in your shoulder, a certain rattle in your chest, a wildness in the pupilless eyes of the mask you rarely wore, outside of your sporadic fights. It was in your voice, too, in the hollowness your hostility couldn’t seem to fill. “What do you want?” you spat, and it occurred to him that he couldn’t remember the last time you raised your voice around him. It wasn’t your style. You were the silent, skulking type. This was pure defensiveness, the rabid thrashing of a cornered. This was desperation. “Take a step closer, and I swear I’ll—”

“Bite me.”

Your shoulders jutted upward, claws sprouting from your curled fingers. Your symbiote’s thrashing slowed, the black tar of its faux skin clinging that much closer to your own, and when you failed to respond, he repeated himself, fighting not to let his voice shake. “What are you waiting for? Take a bite out of me.”

A scarlet tongue slipped past your jagged teeth, lapping over the lips of your mask. It took everything he had not to picture that tongue wrapped around his cock, or better yet, your mouth closed around his lower body as it fucked him open. “Little heroes don’t usually ask to be eaten.”

“I said you can have a bite. Taking anything more, and I’ll be forced to treat you like a threat.” You didn’t move, but he could feel your eyes boring into him, the weight of your attention pressing into his chest, making it difficult to breathe. If only to distract himself, he went on. “Heroes help people, and you look like you’re about to—”

Whatever remaining patience you had thinned and snapped before he could finish. There was a low growl, a flash of pure darkness, and then, familiar tendrils were tangled around his wrists, his ankles, his neck and dragged him upward, until his feet no longer touched the ground. His own claws lashed out reflexively, but he stopped himself from attacking your symbiote, from so much as taking a breath before you surged forward and buried your teeth in his side, tearing through the nano-fabric in the blink of an eye and biting down.

He’d seen you eat, before – caught you hunched over corpses mutilated beyond the hope of identification, seen you strip flesh from bone in a matter of seconds. This was different. This wasn’t just gluttony, it was wrath, anger rolling off of you in waves as you tore away, rending flesh from muscle and swallowing it down. His suit reacted immediately – isolating the injured area with a plaster-like bandage and injecting a thousand microscopic numbing agents around the perimeter of the wound, but still, he could feel the burn spreading outward, filling his veins and distorting his vision. He could feel his mouth falling open, a deep groan catching his throat before he could vocalize his agony. He could feel his cock, throbbing underneath the taut fabric of his suit, already aching for your attention.

But, you were preoccupied. Your mouth fell to his thigh, tearing away another strip of flesh and tissue. The wound was smaller than the first, but deeper, the points of your curved teeth piercing his skin and sending pangs of pure electricity to the pit of his stomach. This time, there was little he could do to stop himself from reacting, from clenching his eyes shut and letting out a noise – cracked, guttural, as pained as it was wanting. It was humiliating, how easily you could make him abandon his dignity. It was pathetic, the things he was willing to do just to be close to you.

You lingered there, lapping at his blood until you’d drunken your fill before pulling away. With more than a little satisfaction, he noted that it was his blood staining your teeth, dripping down your lips and coating the slick skin of your symbiote as you snapped your fingers, as your mask recoiled and your symbiote sunk below your neck. You could never seem to hide your face, not from him, not for very long. He couldn’t say he was much better. If his society wasn’t at-risk, he would’ve given up his identity for the chance to hear his name roll off your tongue. “You’re so full of shit.” It was your voice, now – just your voice, the reverberation of your symbiote’s tenor no long playing beside your own. “You’ve been following me around for months, and you still think I’d believe you’re just trying to be a good little spider? How many hours have you spent begging us to fuck you when you could’ve been playing hero? How many people have you let me eat because you wanted to get your dick wet?”

Dozens. Hundreds. Thousands. He tried to justify it, sometimes, to do his research on the handful of bodies you left in more or less one piece and tell himself that all of your victims must’ve been abusive husbands or rich bastards or cops, but he would’ve served you a new corpse every night if it meant you’d keep holding him like this, your symbiote around his neck and your warm breath fanning over his open wounds, if it meant you’d keep touching him – your fingertips skirting over the edge of his injury before coming to rest just below his hip. “Drop the suit.”

He didn’t hesitate. Your scowl deepened as his suit glitched and dissolved, leaving only the upper half of his mask in-tact, but your symbiote didn’t seem to share your animosity. Its touch was teasing, its mannerisms playful – the tendrils around his ankles rising and forcing his knees to bend, another pair binding his thighs to his calves and spreading his legs as far apart as his advanced flexibility would allow. There was a pitchy chirping noise – the sound meaningless to him but, apparently, comprehensible enough to you.

Your frown quirked but, with another round of probing from your symbiote, you reached out and wrapped your fist around his aching cock, your grip too tight not to be taken as a sign of aggression. You didn’t move, didn’t shift, but he bucked into your hand reflexively, gritting his teeth to keep himself from moaning and fueling his own degradation. Even that effort was quickly proved futile – gone the moment you drove the heel of your palm into the base of his cock and a truly broken whimper was ripped out of something weak and vulnerable in his chest. He was already leaking onto your hand, pearls of white pre-cum following the curve of your knuckles and staining the cement at your feet. You watched it drip with disgust before your eyes flickered up to meet his.

You opened your mouth, but whatever insult you planned to throw his way was immediately drowned out by a trembling moan, the fragile sound drawn out of him by the feeling of another tendril against his body, snaking down the curve of his spine. This one was flatter than the rest – wide and tongue-like, slick against his skin. Not against his will but rather his better judgement, he arched into it, his eyes remaining fixed on yours as the newest tendril groped at his ass, taking its exploration slowly. Your grip tightened, your thumb swiping over the swollen tip too quickly not to sting. “Take a deep breath, Spider-Boy.”  

He tried to ask what you meant, but the tendril’s tapered point pushed into him as soon as his lips parted. He’d rolled this scenario over in his mind a thousand times, pumped his cock as he fucked himself to the point of tears on one of the silicone monstrosities Lyla liked to order behind his back when his wandering mind started to affect his multi-dimension work, but he never could’ve imagined how cold it would be inside of him, the involuntary shudder that’d run from his feet to his shoulders as your symbiote pushed farther into his ass, filling him in a single thrust. A distinct, spiraled ridge ran down the length of the tendril, adding an alien sensation that only did more to damage his tenuous composure. Its pace, too, threatened to tear him apart; back-breaking fast and unpredictably sporadic, thrusting into him with enough force to leave his hands curling around whatever part of your symbiote that he could reach. He wasn’t sure he would’ve been able to hold himself upright without the restraints around his wrists and ankles, didn’t know if he would’ve been able to survive without the oppressive weight of your repulsion – your narrow glare there to keep him grounded while your symbiote did its best to break him open.

“I—” He wasn’t sure why he bothered. He wasn’t sure why he tried when his voice caught on every other word, when he could hardly get enough air into his lung to stay conscious. “I— Fuck, is it supposed to—”

“Don’t think about it.” You cut him off before he could struggle though the rest, letting go of his cock and shoving two fingers past his lips. He gagged, but you didn’t pull back, forcing him to adjust to the digits lodged halfway down his throat. “This is already more than you deserve. Just be thankful Reaper thinks you’re cute when you’re pathetic.”

Cute.

Cute.

You called him cute.

He let out an airy moan, clenching his eyes shut and throwing his hips back, encouraging your symbiote to thrust that much deeper, to be that much rougher with him. His meager efforts were rewarded with another pair of tendrils – the writhing tissue massaging his pecs and toying with his nipples, hardened from exposure and sensitive from neglect. The tendril inside of him slowed, but whatever friction might’ve been lost was immediately replaced by a new trail of smooth ridges and defined veins, a bulbed knot at the base, a blunt head that seemed to grind against every spot that made him twitch, every spot that made him gasp and thrash and want more.

The newest wave of his desperation seemed to spark something in you – interest, maybe, or jealousy, it was hard to tell. Either way, when you pulled your fingers out of his mouth, he leaned forward to try and chase your touch, letting out a low whine when you retreated farther than he could reach, wiping your hand on your thigh. You didn’t keep your distance for long, though. Wordlessly, you allowed your symbiote to lift you off of the ground and up to Miguel’s height, keeping you suspended while you wrapped your legs around his waist. Your suit didn’t pull back, didn’t melt away, only pressing flush to your skin, only making it that much easier for you to slot yourself against him. Your symbiote held him taut as you straddled him, taking agonizing seconds to take his pulsing cock in your hand and, just as slowly, to align the leaking head with your cunt. You started to move your hips, but paused, looking toward him. “Do you know what the worst part is?” Without the strength to speak, he just shook his head. You didn’t press for more. “We would’ve gotten rid of you months ago, if I thought Reaper could stomach it.” You spared him the ghost of a smile. “She says you taste like something that’s already started to rot.”

Aided by your symbiote, you lowered yourself onto him, the tendril in his ass thrusting into him at the same time and forcing his cock that much deeper into you, giving him that much less time to brace himself before he was fully enveloped by your cunt.

He made it all of half a second before coming undone inside of you.

The hours he’d spent fucking his fist to grainy security camera footage and his own deranged fantasies couldn’t begin to compare. You were so hot around him, and wet, and the sound of your breathy laugh as he felt his own cum flood into the gaps between your convulsing walls and his cock had him seeing stars. “Fuck,” you muttered, your tone equal parts shock and amusement. “You’re so fucking needy. Just how long have you been waiting for this?”

If it’d been difficult to talk before, it was near-impossible now. You were working in-tandem with your symbiote; your hips slamming against his in time with its tendril’s thrashing, making sure he was always either being fucked full or milked dry. His climax clearly didn’t matter to either of you. If anything, his hyper-sensitivity only seemed to spur you on, make you more determined to draw choked whimpers and gasping moans out of some deep, long-buried part of him. “Months,” he managed, eventually, spitting the words out through his own ragged panting. “Years – as long as I’ve known about you.”

You hummed, and Miguel drank it in like praise. “Did you want me and Reaper, or just her? Be honest. I promise I’ll try my best not to be jealous.”

Just you. It’d always just been you. Your symbiote was like a parasite, latching onto his thoughts of you and your lips and the feeling of your skin against his and perverting them, tinting them with talons and teeth and a cock the size of his forearm. He wanted you, but he’d take anything you had to give him. “You, I just wanted— Christ, I’d give anything for you to—"

The tendrils on his chest flattened over his nipples and squeezed, forming a wet suction that had him seeing white in a matter of seconds. He threw his head forward, but you didn’t let him escape you for very long – taking him by the chin, burrowing what remained of your claws into his jaw. He could feel skin break underneath your touch, his blood start to trickle down his neck, but didn’t dare pull away, melting into your touch without hesitation. “That’s very rude. She’s doing so much for you, and yet, you  still have the nerve to be so ungrateful.” Your grin was blatant, now, dripping with smug condescension. He’d give anything to see that grin again, to be at its mercy every day. He’d give anything to kiss you. “This is why no one likes you, Spider-boy. You have a pretty face, but you ruin it for yourself every time you open your mouth.”

Pretty. Pretty. Pretty. He couldn’t think about anything else, couldn’t seem to stop himself from lurching forward, wrenching out of your hold. His mouth crashed into yours, the connection all bruised lips and gnashing teeth, only sustained by your shock and his own desperation. The taste of his blood was still heavy on your lips, but he didn’t care, letting out a throaty moan as he sunk against you. He wanted to be close to you. He wanted to be inseparable from you. He wanted to be a part of you. He wanted to—

You jerked back, your fist colliding with his cheek a moment later. It wasn’t a slap, playful and open-handed, or a love-tap, but a punch, meant to get him away for you and make him want to stay away. Pain ricocheted through his skull, his ears ringing and his senses suddenly fogged. It didn’t matter, though. The euphoria of knowing there’d be a mark the next day, of knowing he’d be able to carry a part of you for weeks, was enough to send him over the edge, to leave him humping your cunt and pumping his cum into you for the second time in a matter of minutes. He could’ve stayed like that forever, for as long as you’d have him. Your symbiote could’ve swallowed him whole, and he would’ve died happy.

You didn’t share the sentiment. You didn’t even wait for the aftershocks to fade before clicking your tongue. Your symbiote recoiled, peeling itself off of him, keeping you suspended while Miguel collapsed onto the cement, the rough pavement scraping at his exposed skin. You, on the other hand, were lowered slowly onto your feet, your suit regaining its usual mass as you came to stand above him. “Next time you want to get laid,” you started, wiping off your mouth with the back of your hand. “Stick to your hand. Or else Reaper might find a way to choke down more than a bite.”

He heard your footsteps, the rattling of some rusted fire-escape, and then you were gone, off to lurk in the shadows and stalk your next meal. With a deep breath, a groan of exertion, he rolled onto his back, basking in the cloud of bliss still hanging over him. Eventually, when he was ready, he spoke into the empty air. “Lyla.”

There was a flash of yellow, a near-blinding light. She appeared to his side, hands covering her eyes. “Is it over?” Her fingers split apart. “Can I please put your suit back on?”

“Yeah, sure, whatever.” He groaned as he sat up, every muscle in his body drenched in agony. Nano-fabric crept down from his neck, covering his bruised skin and leaking cock, engulfing him entirely. He mourned not being able to see the marks you’d left on him, but it was a necessary separation and, more importantly, a temporary separation. There wouldn’t be anything able to keep him away from you, soon enough. “Cancel everything on my schedule. Jessica’s in-charge until I get back.”

“What should I tell her you’re doing, boss man?”

He flicked his wrist, a holographic screen flickering into existence at his fingertips. A grid-coded map of Nueva York splayed itself out in front of him. A couple seconds later, a blinking dot appeared only a few blocks away from his current position, moving quickly. You were in a rush, tonight.

A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips. He’d have to take care of the other eleven tracking chips, the ones planted in the spots you hadn’t taken a bite out of, later on. It could wait. Everything could wait until he’d gotten his fill of you – that was, if he ever could.

“Tell her I’m getting fucked.”

[spopsalt]

Ik Rick and BoJack are random but I wanted to add on some well written characters :)

context for the character and list of some of their crimes under the cut!

Catra Applesauce Meow Meow

Definitely my most controversial pick for this list! Catra was an abused child soldier and abused her sister Adora, she was redeemed buttt her arc wasn't really...good. Her crimes: War crimes Abuse of power Corruption Reckless endangerment Psychological abuse Assault Terrorism Attempted regicide Attempted mass murder Attempted world domination Attempted cataclysm Conspiracy Mass destruction Abduction & kidnapping Unlawful imprisonment Brainwashing Theft Torture Treason Usurpation Coercion Stalking Mutilation Aiding and abetting Illegal use of weapons Espionage Crimes against peace Crimes against Etheria Altering reality (unintentional)

Next up my personal least favorite out of this list, Stolas!

Awww poor guy, forcing someone into having sex with you with holding what they need for their job over their head, his crimes took me a bit longer considering he's considered just a poor guy buttt here's a list I thought of from the top of my head: Child Neglect, Abuse of power (unsure if that's a crime) harrasment, r*pe

Next up Bojack the Horseman, Bojack the horse don't act like you don't know!

One of the more sympathetic ones, he's still an asshole but he does try to change and he is well written. He's egotistical and has a huge ego, we do get a positive implied outcome in the series finale, but it's still unclear. Here's a list of his crimes: Murder via inaction Assault Attempted murder Theft Drugging Breaking and entering Harassment Stalking Drug dealing and possession Driving under the influence Supplying alcohol to minors Corruption Sabotage Fraud Identity theft Trespassing Child endangerment Bullying Destruction of property Arson Sexual misconduct with a minor Psychological abuse

Next up my favorite, but still an awful person, Rick Sanchez!

Again, he's one of the more sympathetic ones given his past, and he is actively trying to change and does really love his grandson,the rest of his family and friends even sacrificing himself for his grandson but he is still a horrible person with a longgg list of crimes, also disclaimer ripped most of these from the villains wiki so if any info is missing or inaccurate that's why. List of crimes: Unethical experimentation Negligence Mass murder Mass genocide Mass enslavement Mass torture Mass mundicide Mass property damage Mass manslaughter Mass theoricideMass omnicide (heavily implied)Terrorism Treason Theft Trespassing Death threats Hijacking Assault and battery Psychological abuse Human trafficking Vandalism Regicide Arson Deicide Piracy Possession Hacking Kidnapping Blackmail Con artistry Drug dealing Mutilation Brainwashing Smuggling Corruption Defilement Heresy Vigilantism False imprisonment Jailbreak Sabotage Incrimination Reckless endangerment Indecent exposure Impersonation Cannibalism Aiding and abetting Disturbing the peace Child abuse Substance abuse Abuse of power Burglary War crimes Animal cruelty Forced transmutations Corpse desecrations Grand theft DUI Pollution Attempted infanticideIllicit dealings Weapons dealing Graverobbery Usurpation Public intoxication Child endangerment Evading arrest Perjury Illegal weapons development

[cvlutos]

“Divine nor Forsaken” Ch.Two

| 02.10.23 | 4.7K | Rated R |

Multi-Character X Fem!Reader [TWST: DEMON AU]

GENERAL LIST: | Characters 18+ | Dark Content | Yandere | War | Death | Violence | Blood | Gore | Body Mutilation | Abuse | Threats | Smut | Noncon/Dubcon | Consensual | Horror | Poly | Drinking Blood | Implied Eating Humans | Etc.| Proceed with Caution, Beloved |

T.Manor.Notes: Please heed warnings. Okay, but chapter two. Finally finished it.

| Masterlist | Male Version | Gender-Neutral Version |

| Overview | Ch.One | Ch.Two | Ch.Three |

“There are some things, my little dove, that we cannot change. Such is the way with people.”

Your mother’s voice is gentle—calming, as she tucks you in, making sure you’re all tight and warm. Most nights she’ll sing a little bedtime song, stuffing you in your thick blankets, to where you couldn’t move, and forcing you to wiggle like a little worm. Yet tonight, she settles on reading you a story. A story about a girl who befriended all that met her, but none could save her from fate. One who told in a daze-like state, faltering in some parts and stronger in others.

She holds a somber look upon her face, with still a smile placed across her lips as if even in her own sorrow, she can’t help but smile when she sees you. However, her gaze falters for a moment, brows crinkling as her posture changes. She shifts her eyes from you. As if almost regretful. The room is still cold, and you can’t help but shiver and slide deeper into your densely woven covers.

“My little Songbird,” she muses, her hands gripping the red dress fabric across her knees. She keeps her head bowed, “… Promise me… That you’ll find the good within everything and put trust in strangers.” She has a mournful smile, one that doesn’t reach her eyes, as if these were words that she never wanted to be spoken. Never uttered past her tight-lined lips. She lives with regret.

“MOVE!”

A large body hurries past you, frantic hands shoving you to the ground. Your mind takes a moment to register what happens, as a sharp pain shoots through your skull. Your head slams into the dirt floor, a pained cry slipping past your dried, cracked lips. The bubble in your ears seems to pop, another shot of pain, as your hands blindly press against your aching ears, trying to dull the pain.

Screams.

Yells.

Voices on top of voices.

The sounds of rushing feet, pained screams as people trampled over people. A huge crowd formed as all ran towards the woods or into random buildings to hide, pushing those they deemed too slow to the ground or into others. Some shout in rage, to move, to run, to survive. Yet your ears pick up the crying of children, separated from parents, and sobbing mothers clinging desperately to their little ones. And oh, so desperate fathers, swinging useless weapons, doing what a father should. Protecting his family. Even if he fails.

The air smells of fire. The smells of burning wood and burning flesh. Those unfortunate get trapped within a collapsed house, screaming for help, only for a demon to ravage through the destroyed building. Screams for help turn to gurgles and cries of pain.

And the wind does nothing but fan the flames. That forces the voices to travel further and makes the scared crowd worse. Like frightened sheep. The fires grow at fast speeds and ravage the town.

You were shoved; your hands slid from your ears and push against the ground. You lift your head up, then your upper body. Your lip bleeds, and your eyes water as dust gets in. You rub your eyes, gritting your teeth. Your legs scraped along the dirt, blood slowly seeping into the dirt road, your dress torn and filthy. Everything seems to move around you in a fast blur, as if taken picture by picture and put together, yet you still, as if you were the one behind the camera, taking multiple photos at once in hopes of a single good shot. You struggle to move as if your own body was carved out of the heaviest stone and the ground was paper, mere fabric, ready to give way at any moment.

You would fall.

You drop your dirtied hands from your eyes. Letting out a choked breath before trying to move again. Eyes darting around the burning town. To think that only a few hours you walked through, ready for work. Yet now.

It’s ruined. Demons ruined it.

Demons. Looming figures, hunched beasts. With snarling jaws and lanky arms and bodies, with no rhyme nor reason to how they moved. Some staggered as if half-dead, others crawled, and some walked. Or those that few above with torn wings and unhinged jaws, picking up people—prey larger than themselves.

They growl and yell, spitting black saliva as they speak--taunting, eating, and absorbing humans. Sucking them into their gooey flesh.

People you knew.

You struggle to keep yourself together, your breath comes out in short wheezes, and your heart rises to your throat which makes it impossible to breathe. You could die. You watch familiar faces become lifeless, and you can’t breathe. Your hands seize the fabric of your shirt, it’s too tight. The ground seems to give way beneath you. You can’t move—you can’t move. Your legs feel like heavy weights, filled to the brim with sand and became your legs, and as if the pain of feeling like your legs weren’t your own wasn’t enough. You tried to move, to pull yourself forward by your hands, yet it felt as if metal poles plunged into your flesh, forcing you in place. You feel sweat gathered on your skin.

It’s hot.

You feel surrounded. Covered in a layer of your own sweat and dirt, like a heavy blanket, whose threads were coming undone to wrap around your throat and chest. You struggle to stand. Nails clawing into the side of the building, using it to stabilize yourself. You cry out in pain, feeling your legs and head throb.

You should be running, screaming, sobbing. You should be. Yet you feel tired—you are tired. As if all your energy was sucked from your very being. You cough, squinting as smoke stings your eyes. Home. You need to go home. You feel dizzy as you stagger forward, staring through the smoke, through the ever-thinning crowd. Your eyes land on green. The quickest flash, as if almost lightning. A shiver runs down your spine, and your eyes widen.

The demon from before.

He holds a weighty axe, one that isn’t his. Far too small for his large hands, yet coated in red. You feel your stomach lurch, and the smell of blood oozes off of him. He holds the axe as if merely a stick as he swings it lazily, sending only a mere glance to those he struck, his eyes landing on you. Your hands shake, and he makes his way towards you, striking those in his way, whether demon or human. Most know well to remain out of his way. Your body screams at you to move. Move. Move. Move.

“Move.”

As if some foreign voice enters your head, warm and oddly bored, as if it rather be doing anything else. Nonetheless, you blindly listen. You shove off the wall with a panicked sound, stumbling and nearly tripping, ignoring the pins and needles as you force yourself to a gallop sorta like a run, hissing in pain. You push yourself to go as fast as you could, ignoring the burning in your throat as bile rose. The burning of your lungs. It all seems a blur as your falter and slip, yet you don’t stop running. If you do. You’ll die.

You run instinctively home, darting in-between bodies and demons far too focused on their meals. The sky slowly becomes darker, as the fire doesn’t spread towards the trees. You run still, even in the dark, with no moon to guide you and no torch to light your way. You know this path.

You know it well. Your father always made sure you knew the way home.

Your feet barely graze the stone steps in front of your home, nearly slipping, and your body rams into your door. Fumbling with the doorknob, before turning it and hurling yourself inside. You slam the door behind you, scrabbling with the locks, gasping for breath.

Your home is draft. Cold. Unchanged. You step away from the door, eyeing it carefully, letting your body slowly rest. Forcing your tense muscles to relax. You allow yourself to breathe, slightly proud of making it out of the town and fighting off whatever spell was forced upon you. Ridding you of your ability to move. It all seems calm.

BANG

Your body jolts, hands flying over your lips to muffle a scared shriek.

BANG

A series of bangs, thuds, and forcefully panicked hits and kicks, and your door flinches at each one. Yet it doesn’t break.

“[NAME]! PLEASE!”

“PLEASE—”

“I DONT WANNA DIE—”

“HELP! OPEN THE DOOR—”

Your name is screamed like a broken symphony. Equal to a band of shrill untuned instruments that are rusted and worn. As voices—voices that are oh so familiar to you—cry for you. Scream. Beg. Plead for you to only open the door. To let them in. To save them. Voices you know far too well.

Save them.

The old grandma down the street who shares her pies with you—while telling you stories of magic from when she lived in the city. The hardworking miner and his newly pregnant wife, who spent years unable to conceive until early this year, who prayed to the very gods for a healthy baby that they wished to have. The two daughters to the schoolteacher, who always gives you seeds for a garden every time you saw them. The door shakes against its hinges and you step forward, tears close to spilling as your lips quiver. Yet a cold shiver runs down your spine. You weren’t alone.

Your door was unlocked.

The tip of a blade grazes along the center of your back, a silent warning, as a hand ushers you forward. Grip tight and bruising on your shoulder as you pressed up against the door. Which shakes and jolts. You can hear the wood groan and creak, yet still, it remains standing. And the voices. They won’t stop begging.

But it grows. From desperate—frantic—animalistic. On par with the growls and screams of demons. You can feel their desperation change into resentment. Each plea changes into a curse. Each condemning you to hell, to rot with the very demons that will kill them and soon you. Your hands shake violently and you want to help them. To let them inside.

You need to—

“Don't.”

The voice is weighty and cold as if a blizzard took form and made itself comfortable within his throat. You feel a chilly breeze fan across your skin and you shiver, violently. He’s a demon and there’s a portion of you that tense—afraid—yet you feel no intent to harm you.

He’s calming.

It’s a mild threat that freezes your motions. He makes no motion to stop you, expecting you to simply obey. While reminding you of the situation you’re in. And you listen. You press your palms against the jolting door, feeling your heartbeat in your throat, feeling the door shake against your sticky forehead. The one behind you doesn’t make any effort to move nor speak. Letting you—forcing you to wallow in their suffering.

“To think you could run.”

The voice is distant. Beyond your home and outside your door, annoyed and angry. Your heart drops and you squeeze your eyes closed, feeling your throat constrict.

The demon from the tavern.

Your muscles lock and you feel weak. Shaking your head from the oncoming headache. It’s like you could hear him. Feel him. His every breath. Every threatening step he took. The raging hatred from humans. It burns. As if you were tossed into a fire pit and left to painfully thrash around. It burns.

Those that try to run. Try to flee deeper into the forest, are met with howls and distorted laughter as demons that hid within darkened woods take them. Rip them apart and leave them nothing.

You hear final prays.

Final whispers of ‘I love you’.

As the man embraces his wife, hugging her so tightly as if he alone could defy fate. Demons tear them apart. Laughing. Taunting. Faking pity. Yanking them from each other. You hear him shrieking for his wife. His love. Only for his voice to cut off with a roar and the sounds of bones snapping. While the demons laugh. The mother with an unborn child, who prayed for years to become a loving mother. She screams and curses you, curses you for the loss of her husband and her child. She too is met with the same fate.

There’s no pounding on the door, yet the soft whimpers of the daughters, holding each other, while the old grandma is dragged away. Hands clasped and praying still. “[Name]…” The softest calling of your name. A final plea. You don’t hear the two girls scream.

Your knees feel weak, gravity pulling you down as your body trembles. You choke on your breath. The demon lets you fall, removing the blade from your back and taking a large step back. Watching you hold yourself as you cry against the door, shoving your face in your hands.

“Even if you let them inside. They would have still died. It is better they died outside than inside.” It feels like his own twisted way of comforting, yet it doesn’t help. They died hating you.

“Though, I apologize. I wish that it did not have to happen this way.”

His voice is monotone, yet sincere. You try and calm your crying, resting your head against the door. The sound of his shoes echoes as he moves from you. He casually explores your house. You can’t speak to him.

“... Your home is nice and quaint... familiar.” You don’t move. Yet you can tell that it is out of his own nature to speak, but he does. He falls silent and continues searching, using his sword to glance at paintings, pick up pieces of clothing, and open and skim the pages of books, using the blade to flip the pages.

You hear his sword tap the glass of a photo, and his voice breaks the silence. “You remind me of her.” You glance at him, his sword grazing along the glass of a photo of you, your mother, and your father. Your force yourself to look back at the wood of the door. “A splitting image, almost. You look the same as she did when she was young—She acted the same when we had done away with her family—” The air grows cold as if a growing snow storm and dread fills your stomach and grows.

“I hope that you do not end up like your mother.”

That gets a reaction. Your head immediately snapped over to him, brows furrowed and lips down, turning. He isn’t looking at you, but out the window, surveying the land. He seems unbothered by it all. With shoulder-length, silver hair pulled into a ponytail, and eyes of light blue that held a sliver of pity.

“What—”

Your voice cracks, unbearably dry and scratchy. He turns his head to you after a moment, looking over you. He seems to almost frown when gazing. “Yet you look like your father as well.” he takes a step forward and his gaze seems to freeze you. You look down.

With your body still facing the door, the tip of his sword stings against your skin as he raises your head gently, forcing you to look up at him. He tilts his head to the side before crouching down quickly, yet oddly, gracefully.

“... You must head North...”

His words are simple and transparent and he steps away, glancing towards your dining room table. He strides slowly to the table, the heels of his shoes clicking. He picks up the letter and looks over it. You want to tell him to put it down. Yet his brows scrunch up and for a moment you think he’s going to take it.

Yet he doesn’t.

“The course has been set for you. You must merely find the signs.”

He drops the letter, and with a frosty breeze, you’re alone. At the disappearance of the demon, your body drops, a sudden wave of exhaustion makes it hard to move. You let out a shaky breath, and after a moment, you pull yourself to your feet and wobble away from the door.

It’s silent. Far too silent. You need to leave.

You stagger up the old stairs, feeling one almost give way, breaking beneath your feet. Yet you’re quick to dart over the broken step, stumbling to your room and shoving open the door. You pack blindly, throwing only the most travel-fit clothes and shoes. Anything you could need, throwing spare money, tools, anything, and everything as you take your bag and stumble down the steps, preparing loads of food to take with you. The ramshackle isn’t safe.

You stand in front of the wooden door. There would be no returning. No do-overs. Nothing. You would never come back home. You drop your bag and slowly look over your home. A home you’ve lived in for years. Your parents’ home. You ignore the anxiety that fills you, as your turn back to the door.

Slowly, you undo every lock and hold the knob, counting the seconds before pulling the door open. The foul stench of copper paints your tongue and feels your senses completely, as blood paints the ground, soaking into the dirt and staining the trees. Bodies upon bodies lay ripped, torn, destroyed. Each resting at the oddest angles, heads turned in ways they shouldn’t. You take a hesitant step back, only to bump into something solid. You freeze, your hands and body shaking as cruel arms wrap around you. “You caused this.” His voice is husky in your ears and he tightens his hold, your knees nearly buckling as he slowly rests his weight on you. The demon from before, with the green hair. He continues squeezing, and it hurts.

He’s hurting you.

“Bugs. Should be with bugs.” There’s a sentiment of hatred, and you groan in pain, unable to move an inch. You can feel your bones crack. “They lived together. It’s only right you die together.” He sneers viciously, tightening his hold, and you wheeze and wiggle like a fish forcibly removed from the water. Fighting a fight you can’t win, and from the corner of your eyes, lime green eyes seem to glow, with a vicious grin spread across his slips, revealing red-stained canines. “Humans truly are pathetic.” As you feel every bone was shattered, your ribcage collapses into each other.

Your life flashes before your eyes. Your mother. Your father. You scream in pain, thrashing around more on reflex than consciousness. The letter. Blood slips past your lips, as bones break through your skin.

You haven’t read the letter from your father.

══════ ♡ ══════

“It is rare to hear from you.”

Bored grey human eyes stare into the richly colored crimson liquid. The coppery smell filled his nose and swarmed around his brain in the most delightful way. The thick liquid rests idly in his porcelain teacup, which he holds delicately. He occasionally sips, taking his time to slowly drink the warm, fresh blood. Bringing the glass up to his lips and slowly partook in the thick fluid, a pleasant sigh vibrating in his throat. For a moment, he forgets that he isn’t alone and has an unexpected guest.

One from the Kingdom and the seventh army.

“Though it is not an unpleasant surprise, General.” The grey-eyed demon gives a small smile, and the demon general gives a pleasant greeting in turn, large eyes in taking the nicely decorated tent that smelled of blood and roses. The commander’s favorite smells, though the demon of pride would never speak of it. Magenta eyes move from the decor to the commander himself. It has been quite some time since he last saw the young demon. He hasn’t changed. Same small stature, with often cold grey eyes, and flushed peachy skin, with two black obsidian ram horns, with rose red tips, framed perfectly on the side of upper foreheads with straight red hair. A human form that the demon commander took great pride in. Spending days to fashion the perfect look, based on an old human monarch.

The commander shifts in his seat, offering a small smile, his white-gloved hand silently motioning to the empty chair across from him.

The General chuckles. The commander has always been so respectful and tries best to make the best out of surprised visits. Especially from demons of higher rank, and the General from the seventh is exactly that. Even as he takes the form of an innocent short man, yet speaks like an old wise bat.

“And a pleasure. As always to see you, Riddle.” The general bows as he floats above his chair, a small gust of wind blowing from the release of his magic as he plops into his seat, gently rocking the table.

“I hate to go so long without visiting. I have quite missed our tea times, Sanguinum.”

The commander of the first army, Sanguinum. Or Riddle Rosehearts.

Riddle lets out a low hum, once again picking up his cup and sipping from it, closing his eyes for a brief moment. His eyes flutter open, “As have I. 38 years since the last time, I believe.” The demon of Pride places his red and white porcelain teacup back on its saucer and stands. Waving his hand, letting magic pour the guest “tea”, before with another wave returning the pot black to its place.

“Has it been that long?” the general’s eyes widen in disbelief before laughing, “oh my! How time flies.” The General with pink and black hair sighs in delight the moment he takes a sip of the blood. He can taste the sweetest, probably from a woman of middle age. Riddle always did prefer sweeter-tasting humans.

“Indeed. It goes quite fast.”

The commander waits a moment, his mood going from relaxed to uptight, his posture slowly straightening. “Then you must be here for good reason.” The general tilts his head to the side in faux confusion, taking another long gulp.

“And can it not be here to merely see a friend?” He batters his lashes, and Riddle’s face falls, giving a knowing look. The general only laughs, placing his cup on the table, propping his elbows up, and interlacing his fingers to rest his chin upon.

“Tell me what troubles you.”

Riddle hesitates for a moment, before sighing. “If I’m not needed to fight, then I should be sent back.” The room drops a couple degrees, and Riddle’s face dips for a moment, and he forces his gaze to his cup, gently swirling the glass. The general wears an apprehensive expression. “Riddle...”

The general’s voice falters, eyes once again scanning around the pseudo-room. It’s filled with different trophies and winnings from the last 15 years since the war started. Such as prized tea sets, clothing, tools, jewelry, and anything and everything he and his army took from the villages and towns they raided.

15 years. But to be sent back. Back to beneath to the realm of Demons.

A part of the general agrees, the first army has been out on the front lines for a few years, 20. Five years merely searching for the pact bearer and another 15 for when the war began. Yet it is only the North conquered. With still the west, east, and south that have yet to be within the King’s control. And well…

“I am honored to have fought for the king.” Riddle’s voice breaks his through the process, hand subconsciously rubbing over the back of his hand, where his pact once was. A once calming action now... torturous. To lose the one who knew your mind and body, it must hurt—it does hurt. The general’s hand itches to move, yet he stops himself.

“I—I cannot guarantee anything, but I will talk to him.” The commander seems to brighten up, a relieved look crossing his features, before settling into a more relaxed posture. The two talk for an hour, telling stories and telling, catching up on the last 38 years. There’s a feeling of familiarity.

“Before you go, General.” The general stops mid-stretch, listening to the sound of the teacup gently clinking against the matching saucer. He glances over his shoulder, face changing from a grin to one of full perturbation. Riddle has a dark expression as if just remembering something gravely important.

“We must speak about Callidus.”

══════ ♡ ══════

You awake with a gasp, your body automatically jumping as if leaping from death’s hands. Pain shoots up from your right leg and you screech, unprepared and confused. You try and gather your thoughts, feeling sweat accumulate on your skin, your stomach churning, and head pulsing achingly. You feel nauseous.

You try to move, hands clutching the wood that held you, your head turning to look down. Half of your leg, up to your mid-thigh, was bleeding and disappeared beneath the broken wooden step. It had broken beneath you when you tried going upstairs, and you slammed your head and fell unconscious. You were alone and before… what happened before was a dream.

Only a dream.

Even if it was a dream, you still have to leave. But with your leg, you grimace, you’d have to wait. And you’re also exhausted and sure that sleep wouldn’t greet you. You groan in pain, hands clawing at the wood and slowly pulling yourself up. You wince, careful to not move your bleeding leg.

It doesn’t feel broken.

Your face scrunches as your use the wooden banister to pull yourself. It feels like hours until you’re free, using your bruised good leg, to carefully climb the rest of the stairs, using the wall and railing to support you. You hop to your room, groaning at every moment. Your body ached, painfully so. Pushing the half-lidded door to your dark bedroom, hobbling over to your vanity, and rummaging inside the top drawer. You keep your head down, using the very limited light to search for any cloth to wrap your leg and medicine would be in the bathroom.

“It has been—what—18 years since I last saw you. Barely two years old.”

You freeze, hands clutching random pieces of cloth, the voice came from behind you, from the furthest corner of your room. You can’t will yourself to look. Yet you do, looking through the mirror, across your room, a man shrouded in darkness, yet with striking green eyes. Boredom radiates off of him in waves, yet a sense of blatant honesty. Not because he values honesty, but moreso, lying to him would be pointless. It feels like he knows you, every move you’ll make, every thought you’ll ever have. He can read it off as if it was merely a book, a book that he wouldn’t be bothered to read.

“I’m not here to kill you.”

Yet his plain words don’t reassure you. He moves from his corner, and you blindly step away, momentarily forgetting about your leg and yelping out before landing on your side. As if he knew that would happen, he snorts under his breath, staying in the darkest parts of your room, deliberately closing the space between you. Like predator circling prey, but as well as if he wasn’t an intruder. But someone who lived here and had every right to be here.

“Then—Then, why are you here?” Your voice falters and he shrugs almost, tilting his head to look at a carved wooden box you were gifted, before placing it down after deeming it uninteresting. It does this with several different objects, looking at them, before finding them boring and placing them down where it was.

You watch at him, and you can tell he has long hair that goes down to his shoulders, and warm brown skin, with a tail and ears, but horns that were broken off, jagged edges gleaming. He was a demon. You can see him roll his eyes at your sudden conclusion as if it wasn’t completely and utterly obvious.

He drags out a long sigh, falling into an old rocking chair your father made, rolling his neck as to remove the aching. Very human action and your shoulders drop. You should be scared, yet he reminds you a little bit of your mother. The tiniest familiarity, like when you hang around someone long enough, you pick up their habits.

“… I’m here to,” he thinks for a moment, looking over you before letting out a low annoyed sigh, as if what he was about to say would kill him, “to make a pact.”

ⓒ 2023 love-thanatopsis — all rights reserved. Any sort of plagiarizing, copying, modifying, translating, editing of my works are strictly prohibited.

[lunatic-fandom-space]

You know what its past midnight Im gonna make a post critisising acotar despite never having the read the series, the only book of SJMs ive actually read was crescent city but I spend a lot of time in anti acotar circles bc its fun being a little hater sometimes and I think I know enough by now to atleast critise some of the themes. I definitely know more about this series than I should, like I know about that immortal horse whose horse wife tragically died in horse childbirth and then Im pretty sure he died of horse sadness. And yet, despite cari can read being pretty good at explaining magic shit, I still dont know what the hell syphons are or why illyrians have them or why they matter so you really never stop learning huh

Anyway, I wanted to talk about the misogyny within the universe of acotar because its really bad, both in the sense that its just annoying and insufferable to read about even second-hand and in the sense that its badly written. The thing that inspired this was this short piece of flashfiction by @feynessupremacy about an unnamed girl from the hewn city being married off and having a horrible time living in this endless cycle of misogynistic abuse that her mom is still in and that her dauggters will end up in, all powerless to do anything against this kind of systemic sexism. I thought it was good and made its intended point pretty well but it also made me once again realize how borderline comical this series portrayal of misogyny is

Like, okay, once again, I have not read these books myself but it very much seems like the sexism in this world just materialized in the second book, from the summaries Ive watched it straightup seems like it was just not there in the first book. I mean hell, the entire plot hinges on the fact that Tamlin was sending all these fae disguised as fucked up creatures out so that they would hopefully be killed by a woman so she could break the curse, which implies that women being hunters was pretty normal. (Also, dont come at me with any kind of "oh, it doesnt specify the gender of the person who needs to break the curse a guy couldve done it as well", sjm is too insufferably heteronormative to consider that)

So basically what Im saying is, from my perspective it very much seems like sjm put not only systemic misogyny but like, incredibly violent systemic misogyny to the point where women being brutalized is basically completely normal, in her fantasy series for the sake of making a man look good because hes a wittle sad :( about it sometimes which is honestly pretty funny to me

But it gets even funnier because it doesnt even seem like sexism is really a widespread thing ? Like, i have never seen anyone else directly address this but its all I can think about: in the Nightcourt, the misogyny and institutionalized violence against women is literally the worst it possibly can be with genital mutilation and everything and then in the rest of Prythian its just like, not there. There are plenty of women with political power, the queen of adriada comes to mind first, Im pretty sure I read something about a woman from the wintercourt who was in a similar position of power, its unclear to me what all these fuckin priestesses do because theres no focus on the religion at all much less the institution(s) behind that religion, but they have to have some kind of power if theyre anything like priests in our world (although tbh they seem more like nuns to me functionally just with a diffrent name), especially Ianthe who was like a high priestess and directly in charge of Feyre, who shouldve been the most powerful woman in the springcourt by virtue of being with the high lord, Amren and Mor seem to be well respected outside of the NightCourt, their only deity is the MOTHER. Sure, there arent any "official" High Ladies but if being a High Lord entails being chosen by the magic of the land or The Cauldron or The Mother or whatever other kind of magic bullshit and women just dont get to have it for some reason, is that really indicative of the broader culture being sexist, or is that just God, Who Canonically Exists being sexist? Idk about you, but Im leaning towards the latter option

Thats not even mentioning the mortal lands which seem to be ruled by queens exclusively at the time of the story taking place, or Hybern which had Amarantha and I think her sister as well be these high-ranking generals and it wasnt presented as anything unusual. Like, are you telling me that the kingdom whose only value is "we love slavery, we would like to have slavery back" is more progressive than the court of fuckin Feminist King Rhysand?? I Am Going To Turn Into The Joker

Anyway, I think thats all I have to say, please correct me if I got any of this information wrong I cannot stress enough that I have not read these books and dont plan on reading them anytime soon, atleast not in english because reading the term mate a 1000 times sounds like too much for me to bear, atleast in german theyll probably use a term like "Gefährte/in" which doesnt make me think of actual animals