#you are helpless because you are only a witness to the horrors

[sleepdepravity]

I’m so sad about devotion again it’s so good. I’m gonna cry. I can’t handle straight up horror because like, I guess many of them give the vibe of being mean-spirited? Maybe that’s not the right word for it, and also I admit that since I don’t really go for horror it’s not my place to say “this is definitively an aspect.” I think I’m mainly thinking about horror video games too. I think horror as a genre is like. Something built to be, in a sense, “hostile” to the audience. It’s trying to scare you, it wants to inspire dread, here’s a health bar, you are powerless, there’s the enemy better watch out. Devotion isn’t hostile to you, the player, it’s more hostile to the character, his troubles and family life, you’re more along as a witness. And even then, it’s not quite so hostile, despite everything, there is love, and oh my god I’m crying, I made myself cry Goddammit

[awearywritersworld]

there can be no covenants between men and lions

ryomen sukuna x reader summary: sukuna would rather contemplate your murder than come to terms with his feelings for you, but you call him out on his bullshit. w/c: 3k tags/warnings: enemies to lovers. angst to fluff. aged up!yuuji. heavy kissing. features yuuji x reader and he is, of course, best boy. cursing. sukuna decides he wants to kill you (so obviously there are mentions of murder and such) but cant even stand the sight of you upset, what a goof. i'd once again like to think sukuna's not too ooc in this but im still more than likely delusional. not canon compliant. fem!reader. no use of y/n. no manga spoilers. a/n: i was so touched by all of the love that part one received, i wanted to try my hand at part two. i hope i've done it justice! just as part one references homer's the odyssey, this references homer's the illiad because sukuna is very hot and well read. achilles, the protagonist of the novel, is discussed. i'm definitely open to writing a part three, because this one is much heavier on the angst and i miss soft sukuna from part one. series masterlist // masterlist

you and yuuji rarely argue, but when you do, it's often over his aversion toward seriousness, even when a situation calls for it. though you really should have kept your mouth shut, because in this moment, you'd give anything to see his typical carefree expression.

his eyes are regarding you intently, taking in your flustered appearance with knitted brows.

"yuuji..." you trail off, wracking your brain for an explanation of your current predicament.

despite the fact he regained control of his body only moments ago, one of his hands is curled around the back of your neck, while the other is resting on your hip.

"baby, what happened?" he presses, the tone of his voice entirely unreadable.

"s-sukuna," is all you can manage to choke out.

his eyes darken immediately, his jaw tensing in a way that intimidates you. "he hurt you."

you really can't tell if it's a question or a statement, and your response comes a little too quickly. "no! that's not... no."

the next few seconds tick by in a slow sort of agony, heat creeping up your cheeks.

he notices for the first time that his head is eerily quiet. no snide remarks, no scathing commentary. just his own thoughts as he pieces together the situation.

his gaze drops to the angry, red marks littering your neck and you watch in helpless horror as understanding passes his features.

"oh."

the word hangs in the air as you await his reaction, fully anticipating disgust and betrayal. you're positive it's only a matter of time before he throws you out of the apartment and tells you to never come back.

what you don't expect, however, is the way his shoulders relax as the tension leaves his face.

he straightens himself, arms falling to his sides, but he doesn't put any distance between your bodies.

"how long have you...?" he's not quite sure how to phrase the question.

"a few months. this was the first time anything... um... happened. we usually just talk."

he tilts his head to the side, so you clarify. "after you've fallen asleep."

mulling over the information, he hums in response, looking thoughtful for a few more seconds. then, his usual demeanor is back and he grabs your hand. "wanna get dinner? i'm starving!"

he tugs you a few feet toward the door before you come to your senses. "woah, woah. wait a second, yu."

when he looks back at you expectantly, you find that his face holds not one hint of bitterness or judgement. "aren't you angry?"

you're amazed to find that he's the one looking sheepish.

"how could i be? it's not exactly easy to be with me when i have a thousand year old curse rattling around in my body, but you stay anyway," he expresses, making your heart soften. "i just want you to be safe, so i'll take whatever relationship the two of have now over him being a threat to you."

as your hands reach up to cradle his face and your eyes sparkle with adoration, you briefly wonder how you ever found such a sweet man. he places a quick kiss to your lips, the smile on his face easy going as ever. "sooooo, i'm thinking takoyaki or maybe udon—"

"we can get whatever you want," you glance at the spatters of blood across his chest left there from the mission, no doubt from sukuna's careless slaughter. "as long as you go wash up first."

"right!" he agrees quickly, bounding off to the bathroom.

you stand alone in the middle of your living room, left with the ghost of both yuuji and sukuna's lips against yours and a sense of bewildered excitement.

back in his prison, however, sukuna is furious with himself. he should have let you die that day he kept you from being run over. better yet, he should have killed you with his own hands before the brat won back control of his body.

he is a terrible being that delights in carnage, a fact that's well known even centuries later. so why, when he could have done anything in the world, did he go to you? you even asked that same question before you—

he rejects the memory of you pressing your lips to his disdainfully.

your foolishness and your naivete are revolting. your softness and your pliancy are nauseating.

he shouldn't have been anywhere near you, if not to rip your obnoxious heart from your chest like he'd always planned. it was a situation he'd dreamt about and now it's slipped through his fingers, even though those same fingers had graced your fragile little neck.

you were nothing more than a clueless mouse in the jaws of a snake, and though the pains of hunger have been tearing at its stomach for years now, the serpent let itself starve.

sukuna retreats to his domain, fingers prodding at his temples irritably. he allows himself to wallow for a few hours, shutting out both you and the brat.

then, steeling his resolve, he begins to watch and wait like the predator he knows himself to be.

lulled into a false sense of security regarding your safety, it's clear that yuuji has let his guard down. just barely so, but enough that sukuna can see a few weaknesses in his chains. ironic seeing that, now more than ever, the king of curses wants you dead.

it goes without saying that he promptly ceases his nightly interactions with you. it's beneath him, wasting his time with a human. he knows that now.

but while he may not speak to you, he cannot refrain from stealing glances as the days stretch on. you're usually reading, completely oblivious to his watchful eye. he convinces himself it's simply to keep tabs on you, as he's deemed you his foremost enemy.

he's not sure how much time has passed when you begin calling out for him in hushed whispers after yuuji falls asleep, the hurt and confusion in your voice plain to him. it's irksome, and evidently, you're incapable of taking a hint.

his silence becomes more painful with each turn of the moon. you're a bit mortified to find that you genuinely miss him, so you just want answers. did he finally realize that you're nothing special, not worth bothering with?

eventually, growing restless, you all but beg him. "sukuna, please. talk to me. what happened? what'd i do wrong?" his chest tightens with what he believes is vexation. "you can't just make me like you and then disappear. you can't kiss me like that and then—"

"you insolent, maddening little creature!" his eye flies open just in time to see you gasp, your body jerking away from him. "shut up already! can't you see i want nothing to do with you? don't you tire of being pathetic?"

you don't dignify him with a response, swallowing thickly and turning away from him.

finally, he thinks, some fucking quiet. though if he's gotten what he wanted, why does his chest still ache?

he stares at the back of your form until the sun rises.

sukuna is no simpleton. he can be patient when he is sure of a reward, but he's thrilled that the perfect opportunity arises just two days after your encounter.

yuuji is exhausted. gojo kept him out all last night, despite the grueling mission he had today, and when he all but stumbles through your apartment door, the moon is already high in the sky.

you never mention the change in your relationship with sukuna to yuuji. even though he was so understanding, you still feel a touch awkward discussing it further. and maybe in the back of your mind, you're holding out hope that it might go back to the way it was.

sukuna watches through yuuji's eyes when you greet him, your expression half concern and half 'i told you so'. nights out with gojo usually lead to this very situation.

he showers while you finish cooking dinner and once you both eat, he helps you clean up despite his exhaustion. after whispering his thanks and pressing a kiss to your temple, he retires to bed.

you promise you'll join him soon, but sukuna knows it probably isn't true. following his outburst, you've taken to staying in the living room until you're ready to sleep.

yuuji's out before his head hits the pillow and nearly two hours later, you're still not in bed. sukuna's eager, but waits until he's sure the brat's deep in his slumber before he tries to take over. it's relatively easy, and he pushes down yuuji's unconscious mind as far as he can before rising to his feet.

this is finally it. he stretches his limbs lazily, a dangerous smirk settling on his lips. the floor creaks with each step he takes, but he pays no mind to stealth. you're no match for him.

tonight, you'll be his first victim of many and the thought of making up for his past misjudgement has him giddy with excitement.

but the sight that greets him upon exiting the bedroom— you curled into yourself on the couch, your shoulders shaking with quiet sobs— it stops him in his tracks.

he wants to move, more than anything, so what the fuck is wrong with him? is the brat taking over already?

and why is that uncomfortable sensation making it's home in the center of his chest once more?

when you notice his presence, your face shifts to him and reveals your wide, teary eyes. it's clear you're surprised by his appearance, but you quickly bury your face in your knees.

you just want him to leave you alone. you hate him for what he said, for what he did. he forced his way into your life, made you care about him, and then he just vanished. he's cruel and you feel like an idiot because you should have known that from the beginning. or maybe you did and he just made you forget.

"go away. i.. i don't want to see you."

he's disbelieving, for a brief moment, that here you are giving him orders while he stands in the doorway with the intention of taking your life.

he moves toward you, invading your space in a way that is meant to be intimidating, but when you look up at him, every emotion ranging from sadness to rejection to indignation is etched into your features. though the terror he hoped to inspire is noticeably absent.

"i said go away!" you swiftly stand up, your hands meeting squarely with his chest as you push him with every ounce of power you have.

you may as well have shoved a brick wall, as he doesn't move even a fraction of an inch. he seizes one of your wrists anyway.

"what is it you think you're doing, exactly?" he spits.

"let go of me!" you beat against his chest with the hand he left free until his fingers wrap around that wrist too.

"enough."

he's certain there isn't a being that has attacked him (if he can even call that an attack) and lived to speak of it, not once in an entire millennia.

so just end the insolent brat and be done with it, he urges himself.

but he can't and he doesn't understand why, so he just stares down at you.

"what the fuck do you want?" you mean for it to come out forcefully and full of spite, but your voice cracks before you can finish.

an excellent question, indeed. what does he want?

he doesn't answer you and it's so goddamn frustrating that you begin to cry again, rambling to fill the discomforting silence. "you've already told me i'm pitiful and annoying. it's clear you think my company is insufferable, that i'm undesirable—"

that ache in his chest is unbearable now. it claws at his ribcage and shreds the flesh of his heart. it makes his stomach twist uncomfortably and rings shrilly in his ears. he can't even hear you anymore, but he can still see the tears sliding down your cheeks and the way you gasp between words.

the truth of the matter crashes down on him and the devastating weight of it is so crushing it squeezes the air from his lungs.

that feeling in his chest isn't annoyance or repugnance. its anguish— the kind that rattles his bones and leaves him sick with regret.

it's because you're in pain, and worse yet, he is the cause of it.

sukuna pushes you back against the wall before you can comprehend what's happening. his hands find either side of your face and you're alarmed to find that he looks... frightened.

"what are you doing to me?" he pleads for an explanation, because he sure as hell doesn't have one.

how can one little human hold such power over him? it's unnatural. it defies all logic and reason.

you stare at him, open mouthed. his face is so close that his breath fans across your skin and it makes you feel dizzy.

"what are you talking about?" you finally ask.

"you should be dead right now," he frets, despair seeping into every word. "it should be easy."

it dawns on you that you should probably feel afraid, but you just don't. his touch is firm, but careful. and there's no malice to be found behind his eyes. "you're not making any sense."

he thinks back on the time you've spent together, trying to figure out how the hell he ended up here— him at your mercy, rather than you at his. he remembers the first time he made you laugh and considers that it may have been the beginning of his unraveling. for the following two weeks, you both discussed homer at length as you made your way through his poetry.

"there can be no covenants between men and lions. wolves and lambs can never be of one mind, but hate each other through and through." you blink at him, recognizing at once that he's quoting the illiad. his voice is low and unsteady in a way that suggests desperation. it makes you shiver. "therefore there can be no understanding between you and me, nor may there be any covenants between us, till one or other shall fall."

your eyes narrow as you begin to understand his his internal struggle, though you're unsure if he's attempting to reason with you or with himself.

"you quote achilles, and rightfully so i suppose, given your common qualities— exasperating pride and a penchant for meaningless violence." he looks relieved, like your seeming agreement eases his mind. it's short lived. "but you forget his passion."

his gaze shifts away from you, his hands withdrawing from your face.

"his passion?" he repeats as if it's the most incredulous thing he's ever heard.

"by the end of the story, is he not acquainted with regret, sympathy, and respect? he doesn't remain blind to the error of his ways forever."

"only a foolish human could make such fanciful deductions," he chides through gritted teeth, still refusing to meet your eye.

you actually laugh at him. "perhaps you shouldn't call upon achilles to make your point after all. at least he grows out of his utterly childish view of the world."

"how dare you?" he demands, his features growing wild as one hand finds your throat (his touch not nearly harsh enough to cause you any discomfort), the other colliding with the wall beside your head. his display doesn't fool you though. "you witless, wretched brat! you're nothing more than a blip in a universe you cannot even begin to understand. you sicken me."

you throw achilles' words in his face just as easily as he did to you. "hateful to me as the gates of hades is that man who hides one thing in his heart and speaks another."

his gaze hardens, and for a split second, you think you may have been mistaken in your fearlessness, but then his fingers thread themselves through your hair and he pulls your lips to his.

it's rough and commanding, and he tells himself it's only to get you to shut up. to wipe that expression of smug pity from your face.

it's not because, despite the fact you know how awful he is, you're convinced there's something salvageable in him too. nor is it because you tyrannize his every passing thought. and it's certainly not because the feeling of you pressed against him brings him more satisfaction than ripping the hearts from the chests of a hundred men.

ultimately, his denial is overshadowed by his desire. your touch is nothing short of needy as you tug at his shirt, an attempt to bring him even closer, and god does he hope that means you feel just as desperate as he does. he deserves at least a little consolation.

as his hands roam every valley and curve of your body, he deems it unfair that a being whose very existence spells hell on earth should be so taken with such a devastatingly divine creature.

"i've wanted you so terribly," he mumbles against your mouth before he can stop himself.

"then fuck you for making us both wait," you breath out.

his fingers dig into the flesh of your hips in response and his lips shift to your neck. "watch that pretty little mouth of yours, brat."

he nips at the spot just below your ear hard enough that it makes you gasp, doubtless a punishment for your impudence. you recover quickly though, wasting no time with your flippant reply. "or what? you'll go back to plotting my murder?"

he pulls away from you abruptly, sighing deeply and pinching the bridge of his nose. "you truly have zero sense of self preservation, don't you?"

"guess so," you shrug, smiling at him bashfully. "can we watch a movie? i'll even let you pick."

you ask as if it's the most normal request in the world. as if he isn't a thousand year old curse that would be off turning the city to ash were he not here with you instead.

he rolls his eyes, scoffing at the ridiculousness of it all. "fine."

[ellitx]

Entrapment | Alastor x Reader

Okay, hear me out. Alastor being a darling husband he is with his darling wifey is cute and all, but what about a darling wanting to escape from Alastor himself?

word count: 2.3k

warnings: alastor is enough to be a warning already, depictions of blood and gore, toxic and unhealthy dynamic

When you were still alive, he always had his eyes on you and controlled you like his little puppet. You hated it, you hated being commanded and controlled for every little thing you did and if you even dared run away from him, he’d always manage to find you. You hate every atomic part of his existence so much that you’d be willing to kill yourself just so you could escape and get that taste of freedom.

But you can’t and he won’t let you.

Alastor would never allow the tip of the knife nor even a simple piece of office equipment reach your hands. And if someone has the audacity to touch his play toy, it’s time to say goodbye.

You know he’s a malicious murderer, and he knows that you know about it. If you’re feeling brave enough to tell it to the police then go ahead, because by the time you report this to them and leave the station, the next day you find yourself throwing up yesterday’s dinner upon hearing the cops were all dead.

No one will ever believe you that the infamous radio host of your city is a murderer. For a puny citizen like you, what power do you hold to convince everyone? They’ll laugh it off and say you’re crazy.

But it’s crazier how they are all deceived by the facade he puts on. His knife plunged into the chest of your coworker, their blood spluttering on his cheek.

Alastor’s wide smile was strained and wicked, the image of the blood dripping from your head and lips when he entered the broadcasting booth was as clear as his collection of polished knives.

The audacity to lay a hand on you and push you down the stairs. Do they have the right to push you off? Of course not! He’s the only one who could torment you until you break!

He’s the only one who could tarnish your being and leave a wounded mark on your soul and heart, a reminder for you there’s no one but himself who could make you so powerless and helpless.

Do they have the right to make you so confused? To put all the blame on you, as if you were the worst person in the world? To try their best to tear you apart piece by piece? Because, after all, it’s always the fault of someone else, right? The audacity to hurt you more than any human has ever hurt another human being before… The nerve to be sure you will never find true happiness again because you're now scarred for life.

He thrust the blade again, the rains of scarlet droplets continued to pour until his face and glasses were doused.

But he didn’t let it hinder him from making sure they were as good as dead. He lifted his head and took a glimpse at the sky above. It was gloomy, gray, and dark. Not much sunshine.

Alastor smiled, stabbing the knife at the corpse's chest before wiping off his glasses with his clean napkin. Then an idea clicked onto him.

It's the perfect time to give you a little visit.

He laughed under his breath and stood up straight.

He knew his outfit was not in good condition, but oh well... Perhaps, he’d instead leave a gift for you on your porch. Oh, how he wished he could make an unexpected appearance, just to witness the shock and horror on your face as Alastor comes to the hospital drenched in a coat of glistening crimson.

The anticipation of your reaction fueled his excitement, the more he thought about it, the bigger his grin became. If this would truly happen, it will surely be a sight to behold.

Still fragile from your time in the hospital, you stepped through the threshold of your home.

You missed the sight of its familiar structure, the only space you feel safe and protected, away from Alastor and your colleagues.

A sense of relief washed over you. The familiar sights and comforting aura of your own space enveloped you like a warm embrace. But something was different, something unexpected awaited you.

There on the polished surface of your entryway sat an elegantly wrapped box, its rich paper adorned with intricate patterns and tied with a luxurious ribbon. Your fingers traced the smooth edges of the packaging and you checked for any signs who sent it. Alas, no name was found.

Who could have left this for you? And why now, upon your return from the hospital?

You had a bad feeling about it.

As you carefully untied the ribbon and peeled back the layers of paper, you stared wide-eyed at the contents hidden within.

Severed limbs, skin deathly pale and stiff.

Your stomach turned violently and you threw the box away from you, the gift spilling across the floor.

"Oh god, oh my god, what the fuck?!"

You were shaking. What was this? Was this a threat? A sick joke? Your heart thudded heavily in your chest, each beat pounding like thunder. You took a step back and stumbled, falling hard to the floor.

It didn't stop there.

Wounds inflicted on every part of your body, the scars on you began to open, rendering the healing done by doctors and nurses useless.

Wounds made by knives, claws, scissors, guns. Every imaginable instrument of torture. You cried out loud. Your voice pierced the quiet of the night, disturbing the tranquility of the neighborhood.

It was a perpetual and horrid nightmare. Just closing your eyes for even a millisecond, the image of his wide creepy smile flashed before you. You could hear his dark cackles, enjoying the sight of your vulnerable form as he tormented you in and out of your work.

“Run as far as you want, dear. In the end, I’ll always be ahead of you.”

The worst part was not knowing when he would strike next. He could appear anywhere at any time.

And it was all because of his sick game.

You didn't know what to do anymore. How long did you have to keep running from him? How many more days did you have to hide from the world? You were so tired of this, tired of having to live in fear of the monster that hunted you.

But God had finally heard your pleas and granted the wish you’ve been wanting for so long. So when the news came to you that the notorious radio host was dead, relief and happiness flooded every vein in your body.

You rejoiced, celebrating the death of the one who had terrorized you for a long time.

The nightmare was finally over.

The radio station was sullen by the news of their popular host, but you didn’t care. Your work became more efficient. You didn’t feel the need to be so wary and anxious by every move you made in the station. You have finally gained your freedom and the chain that was tied to him has shattered.

This was the best thing you could ever ask for.

Even on your deathbed, it was the best dream. Years without Alastor torturing and tormenting you was bliss. A man’s greatest wealth of freedom.

But then, the dream quickly turned into a nightmare, for it was never over. The demon who you thought was dead rose once again. It was only then you realized that he was never human in the first place. He was a monster.

And now, it was you who were caught in his web.

"My, what a wonderful reunion. Did you miss me, darling?”

The demon before you was mysterious.

Unfamiliar.

But his aura and voice screamed for you, the alarms in your body ringing, to run away from him as far as you possibly can.

The wide smile plastered on his face was all too familiar. Too familiar to be hated in the living and the dead. You’d be a fool if you didn’t recognize it.

You knew who he was. You just kept on denying what was the truth, brushing all the facts laid before you beneath the rag, and keeping your pretty little head away from the politics of Hell.

A demon who is powerful, dangerous, and cruel.

A demon who was feared by the other demons in Hell. A demon who is not to be messed with.

Alastor. The Radio Demon.

It was a miracle, or rather a curse, that you were brought back to life. But now you are a prisoner to this Hell. Trapped inside an inescapable cage with a dangerous beast, you could only hope that your second death would come quickly and peacefully.

But it seemed that fate was not on your side, and Alastor was the ever cruel demon. He did not scar you easily and instead prolonged your suffering, making your life a living torture.

Beads of sweat rolled from your temple. Your hands began to tremble and you felt yourself slowly succumbing to your fear. You had nowhere to go, nowhere to hide.

You were cornered, trapped.

Alastor had you where he wanted.

You watched him closely, eyes locked on him and every single movement. If he did something, you would see it.

"Are you frightened, dear?" he asked. His eyes met yours and he smiled. "There is no need to be afraid."

"Stay back! Don't touch me!" you shouted at him. The corners of his lips curled up, his smile turning sinister.

"Now, now, let's not act too hastily."

His gloved hand reached out and caressed your cheek, sending shivers down your spine. His red eyes bore into your soul, burning with hunger.

You couldn't bear to look at him. You didn't want him touching you.

"Don't," you whimpered.

"Don't be afraid. You have no reason to be afraid."

Rivers of tears streamed down your cheeks as the fear overwhelmed you. You didn't want him touching you. This man... He was the same one who hurt you, who ruined you.

"Why? Why are you doing this? Why are you here?"

The smile on his face grew wider.

"Do I need a reason? It’s obvious why we’re here," he replied, cocking his head to the side, eyes piercing through your eyes and consuming every little bit of your reactions in his head.

You gulped and stepped back, trying to create some distance between you and him.

"What are you going to do with me?"

He chuckled. "What a silly question! Would a little reacquaintance hurt?"

Reacquaintance? He was talking like this was a casual meeting. Like you were old friends reuniting. But this was the man who hurt you.

"What's the meaning of this?” You sobbed, shaking your head.

Alastor laughed loudly, his grin never faltering, and it makes you sick he finds everything amusing. An entertainment for his delight.

"You never fail to amuse me, dear. Aren’t you the one who killed me?” His antlers grew, his pupils changed to radio dials and his shadow stretched out of him, becoming more demonic in appearance.

You trembled. Your heart beat faster, your legs felt weak, and your mouth was dry.

"I... I…."

He stepped closer, and you stepped back.

Nothing came out of your lips. The words you wanted to say were stuck in your throat. You didn't want to look him in the eyes but his gaze held your chin up high, forcing you to face him. He smiled, and his eyes turned back to normal.

The knees that kept you upright gave in, unable to stabilize you any longer as your body slumped onto the rough pavement.

"Oh, darling," he sighed, the radio static in his voice disappeared as he crouched down. 

Your gaze remained fixed on the ground, avoiding any chance encounter with Alastor's piercing stare. Instead, your eyes trailed to his cane, a silent witness to the tense atmosphere between you.

You dared not meet those fiery red optics that seemed to delve into the depths of your very being, dissecting every nuance of your expression. Fingers clenched tightly, you seek some form of solace in the texture of the barren earth beneath you, as though it could take you amidst the storm brewing within.

Alastor took your chin between his fingers and delighted your vulnerable form. Your eyes were bloodshot and puffy and cheeks stained with tears.

"Fate has intertwined us together, dear. Run from me, I’ll always find you."

You didn't know what was more cruel—being brought to hell when you only wished for peace or being toyed around with him after death.

The nightmare you once thought had finally ceased returned to resume its cycle in the afterlife.

"I'll never get away from you..." You said, voice low and wavering. All hope was lost and so was your faith to continue living in this fiery pit of Hell.

"That's right. Good girl," He patted your head, taking a few strands of your hair and twirling it between his fingers. You fought the impulse to recoil, suppressing the urge to swat his hand away. 

The consequence of such defiance weighed heavily on your mind; after all, provoking one of hell's overlords was a gamble you weren't willing to take. So you held your ground, masking your inner turmoil beneath a facade of obedience, unsure of what consequences awaited should you dare to challenge the infernal authority before you.

In the dim light, his hand tenderly brushed away the tear tracing its path down your cheek. But as your eyes met his, a glint of something primal flickered in the darkness, casting an eerie glow upon his sharp, yellowed teeth.

Upon the moonlight, his crimson irises blazed like embers, drawing you into their hypnotic depths with an intensity that sent shivers down your spine.

"But fear not, darling. I can promise you a good time. And now that I found you again, we can pick up from where we left off. It will be just like old times."

[undreaming-fanfiction]

Eddie's hard work has finally paid off. Corroded Coffin is the new sensation and soon enough, Eddie gets an invitation for an interview, one that could promote the band on a much larger scale. He's excited but also terrified and Steve, being the supportive boyfriend he is (and also CC's unofficial mascot, "the yellow sweater boy" or simply "Stevie" to the fans) offers to go with Eddie. Eddie introduces Steve as his "emotional support ex-jock" and it goes well.

Until it doesn't.

Eddie gets more lively as he talks about the band's beginnings, the inspiration behind their songs and their influences, his own musical idols and influences. He's at ease, gesturing animatedly as he explains the evolution of the band's style, so he's caught off guard when the interviewer brings up that fateful spring of 1986. Eddie freezes, opens his mouth but nothing comes out. The memory of snapping bones, feeling of helplessness...it all comes flooding back.

But where Eddie feels like curling up into a ball and hoping the world will finally leave him alone, Steve is ready and prepared. He grasps Eddie's shoulder - Eddie blurted out a confession in one of his concerts so it's no secret for his fans that they're together, but why tempt fate - and gives the reporter a wide smile, sincere to someone who doesn't know him. He slips into his charming persona and speaks for the first time during the interview. "Thank you for asking this question," he says and the drop of poison easily dissolves in the sweetness of his voice. "I hope my recollection will be enough because I sure don't want to have Eddie go through all that horror again. But I assure you...I was there for nearly all of it. So ask away. I'm glad to finally set the record straight."

And so Steve talks about that March, about how Eddie found Chrissy dead in his trailer, mutilated in such an inhumane way his body took control and got him out, no call to the police, not a single thought. He mentions there was a witness who saw him enter the trailer and immediately stumble out, not enough time to harm anyone (Max has stuck to this story and never changed it, no matter how much anyone pushed). He talks about how he met Eddie later, how shaken he was and how the town started a manhunt for Eddie for no good reason, except that he was different. "He started a club for kids who were outcasts, who just wanted to remain children for a bit longer - and the whole town went to hunt them down. They attacked a thirteen year old girl. They beat up a fifteen year old boy just for belonging to the club."

Now it's Eddie's turn to grasp Steve's shoulder, his arm, worried about his sharp tone, his hardly contained anger. But Steve carries on, staring the reporter down as he stutters that he will have to verify this information. "This is rather different from the official story," he says, his forehead glistening with sweat.

And Steve just flashes the disarming smirk that established him as King Steve once upon a time and tells him to verify it all, please. Because Eddie Munson has nothing to hide and neither does the Corroded Coffin. "It's not different if you paid any attention to the police report," he mentions calmly, leaning back in the chair. "People don't like to speak ill of the dead, but a dead person is exactly who's at fault here. Jason Carver riled up the mob. He bought a revolver after he did that, publicly for self-protection, but..." he shrugs, buries the edge in his voice under his charm yet again. "We have a witness that heard him admit who it was for." Dead men tell no tales, but Nancy Wheeler sure does.

And as the reporter scrambles to put together a coherent thought, Steve lands the finishing blow. "It's a shame you only invited Eddie to discuss this," he says and the sympathy in his voice is almost believable. "After all, his band mates were also targeted and attacked."

The reporter stares at him, speechless.

"Oh, you didn't know?" The disbelief is genuine for once and he leans in, looks the man straight in the eye. "Jason Carver and his friends went to interrogate the band, you know. Only to talk, they said. Except they almost broke Gareth's hand during that talk. Once again...there is a witness. A different one, if you were about to ask. Perhaps you should talk to them too, I can give your their contact details. You know," he adds, smiling at the reporter, "I am incredibly thankful you brought this up. There aren't many who are willing to dig up old wrongs to set things right. I wasn't sure what to expect of this interview, there was always a possibility of someone malicious taking advantage of this traumatizing event, just to get a shocking scoop on a bunch of guys who have worked incredibly hard to get where they are. I was wary because there are always people willing to destroy lives just to get a bit further in theirs. I'm so grateful you aren't one of them. Because I see you as someone who wants to do more than shock their audience...I think you're someone who wants the truth, no matter how ugly it is."

And no matter what the reporter intended before, he is that man now. He nods frantically, assuring Steve that he will bring justice to Eddie and the Corroded Coffin. Steve Harrington has that effect on people - if he believes in someone, that belief is often enough to give that final push. Anything to keep Steve Harrington's faith, not to disappoint that earnest look in his eyes. Eddie almost feels sorry for the reporter - after all, he knows the best what his boyfriend is like when he doesn't hold back. It's a sight to behold.

After a few reassurances from the reporter, the man finally turns to Eddie. "I apologize for bringing up bad memories, Eddie," he says and perhaps this time he means it. Eddie would like to believe that. "Is there...would you like to add anything?"

Eddie thinks screw it and firmly grasps Steve's hand, homophobia be damned. He needs to get through this. "Yes, actually..." he says and his voice is low, almost broken, but at least it's coming out now, carrying the words he's wanted to shout at the world for years now. "That night...was probably the worst night of my life. Worse than when I almost died. Well. When I actually died before someone brought me back," he smiles at Steve, briefly, before turning back to the man scribbling down every word. "It took me a long time to realize I couldn't have done anything to save Chrissy. Hell, some days I still don't believe myself, I'm thinking if I've done something differently, been faster, but...in the end, it didn't matter. Doesn't stop me from feeling like I failed her."

Steve knows these things, of course. That's why he doesn't interrupt, just strokes his thumb over Eddie's whitening knuckles.

"Chrissy Cunningham was a wonderful, bright girl. She was friendly to everyone, even outcasts like me. There is no way in hell I'd ever want to harm someone that...that warm. Kind. The truth of the matter is - for years I didn't defend myself against these accusations that still appear from time to time, no matter what the official investigation said. I didn't sue anyone even though I was advised several times to do so, for the slander, the attempts at my life. Because you...because I felt guilty just for being there. For surviving when she didn't." He looks at the reporter with full force now, straightens his spine. "But I knew Chrissy Cunningham and I know she wouldn't want anyone feeling guilty for something they didn't do. She brought joy to others, not misery. And I want to honor her memory. So once and for all, for the record - I didn't kill Chrissy. I never hurt her, couldn't have. But I still keep her with me as an inspiration, as a soothing voice behind every bitter thought - I don't talk about her, don't use her story for publicity because she didn't, doesn't deserve that. But she's what I think of when I see bright smiles of our fans, when I see young people having fun at our concerts - I wish, more than anything, that she could have been one of them. So I try to bring as much joy into this world as I can to make up for the empty space she left behind, even if that might never be enough. That's all."

The interview spreads like a wildfire. Headlines like "Corroded Coffin's Eddie Munson breaks silence for the first time!" or "CC's frontman reveals details of persecution and mass hysteria in 1986". The news pick up the story, question the people in Hawkins who deflect or begrudgingly admit to their actions, justifying their deeds...but some of them talk. Karen Wheeler becomes the star of the show, recalling in horror the hunt for her daughter and her son's friends. "I vouch for Steve Harrington's recollection," she says firmly, shushing her husband's feeble attempts at deflection. "I'm glad someone finally had the courage to call the spring of 1986 what it really was - a witch hunt."

Eddie finally has the courage to do what he's wanted for years - he names the next album This One's For You, Chrissy. The world knows now, it knows that he mourned for her in his own way and that she meant so much to him, as a first extended hand, as a symbol, as a human being. He donates as many profits as he can to a foundation in Chrissy's name, providing the much needed mental health support to Hawkins children and teenagers. And piece by piece, Eddie Munson heals.

Before the interview becomes the sensation it is, Eddie crushes Steve in a hug and thanks him for everything, for making this burden easier. He's still worried his words will get twisted, that there will be a new wave of hatred, but Steve just chuckles and kisses his head. He reaches into the leather satchel he had at the interview and presents Eddie with a dictaphone - everything they've just talked about recorded. "Please, Eddie," he rolls his eyes in that bitchy way that has Eddie swooning, "I may be pretty, but I'm not stupid or naive."

Apart from the much needed closure and at least partial justice, there is an unusual side effect to this whole ordeal - Steve gets a new nickname in the Corroded Coffin fan base. After the way he handled the interview, after shielding Eddie and his band mates from unwanted attention, he becomes "The Guard Dog Steve", also lovingly referred to as "Golden Retriever Steve". Eddie loves it. Steve finds it ridiculous, but it makes Eddie smile so maybe it's worth it.

[pestilentbrood]

VERY long Ramble incoming

honestly now that I'm looking at the auraboa lore situation, I'm just disappointed. There was such POTENTIAL in the idea of the Loop and the horror of a new generation inexplicably being disconnected from it, forcing the newly hatched children into a world totally separate from that perceived by their parents (I mean, hell, they perceive TIME differently!).... but then the writer(s?) just fell ass backwards into Icky Tropes.

I feel like I can see what the idea was, especially with the recent alterations to the Encyclopedia entry... It seems like staff fundamentally understands the true Horror potential here, but... Instead, through the short story, they proposed it through the lens of a condescending outsider character, turning the fears of the older generation into something trivial. And also weirdly demeaning the Auroboa's situation by portraying them as overreacting.

Why... why would you do that? Like, from a storytelling perspective? What's gained from that? Why not embrace the true horror and even Emotional significance of that disruption? Why instead go for "ohh we NEED outsider help we NEED to be saved because we are so helpless and it is so Silly that we, creatures who have never experienced such things, do not know what sleep is"????

And if they WANTED to have a condescending outsider, I feel like they COULD have done that, but it would have to have that character realize the horror at some point. And make it obvious that their attitude towards distressed parents and children facing Eldritch Shit and the Sudden Deconstruction of it was not cool!

(or at the very least be a bit more...idk. Consistent with said outsider character? Juniper just goes from "omg I am so honored that the fascinating creatures of the behemoth have chosen me to speak to" to "oh their wasting my time because they don't know what sleep is. I'd rather be sleeping!! 🙄" like girl... c'mon now. Why are we trivializing it like this. Do you want me as the reader to be invested in their plight or not.)

I mean come on. They're beings connected through one networked hivemind-like system, yet each still maintains a silver of individuality that allows them to move freely throughout the Behemoth that they care for. And they've got an eldritch understanding of time that no other dragon could understand. They're seeing the future, past, and present unfold simultaneously. They're witnessing the birth and death of the world at the same time, and have no way to communicate it to other dragons. The best they can do is maintain their home, and even then, they see its roots spread and decay all at once.

And then the newest generation is suddenly disconnected. An inherent link between parent and child and all dragons in-between, that has existed since the creation of their species, is just suddenly GONE for the newest births. With NO explanation for it. The children have no easy way of communicating with their parents. The children are experiencing time in a way that was not meant for their species. They've forcefully been shoved into a circadian rhythm that they are Not! Built for!

The only way a parent could communicate properly with their child would be when the latter is sleeping, something that is also completely foreign to this species. It would be terrifying for all involved!!!

They are literally experiencing eldritch horror from the perspective of the eldritch being forced into the mortal.

Like why WOULDN'T there be panic!!! And why would that panic be trivialized! Why are we only shown the perspective of an outsider who looks at this situation and goes "Oh the silly tree beasts are being so silly over nothing, it's no big deal!"

That and the way the auraboas talk to outsiders. Like. There was such potential there. Real opportunity to explore how ancient, time-bending beings would communicate to someone who couldn't even BEGIN to understand the intricacies of it.

Instead we got what feels more like baby talk (even described as though they were hatchlings enunciating their first words, which... I dunno man, maybe we don't want to compare them to children like That) and less like... Beings that experience all of time at once. I mean, the hatchlings and the adults speak the exact same way, and that doesn't make any sense given the literal time barrier going on.

I totally get why people thought there was just a language barrier and that auraboas had their own language, thus causing the disjointed speak, and not that it was because They Do Not Experience Time Like We Do. And I feel it would've been far easier to get it across by just... I dunno. Do anything else?? I saw someone on here suggest they speak in the "wrong" tenses, or using multiple tenses in the same sentence, which I think would've been far more clear.

Like, as opposed to "saplings wilt! saplings silent!" just "the saplings will wilt in silence, they've wilted in silence, they are wilting silently." Said all at once like all things are true simultaneously. And if we're going for hivemind, have each auraboa speak in a different tense, all at the same time, and have them switch it up every time. Have our outsider get confused and be like "which is it? are they wilting now, or have they already wilted?" and the cluster of auraboas respond in a cacophony of yes's, no's, and maybe's all at once.

Would've probably gotten across the "alien" vibe they were supposedly going for far better than wide-eyed desperation for an outsider's guidance conveyed through disjointed, in-world described as baby speech.

And also maybe would've had less accidental connotations. Because as it stands, I completely see why people have made the connections to the real world where they have. This doesn't read like eldritch timey-wimey intrigue, or even a respectful look at how younger generations can become detached from their families' cultures over time and the struggles that come with it. It reads like a culture being perceived by an ignorant outsider who (despite supposedly respecting these dragons) scoffs and rolls their eyes because the tree beasts with their funny words are being silly again, and that Hey, isn't it actually a great thing that the children are fundamentally different in all manners now? Because now they can join the rest of us in the "real world."

Yknow. Ick.

(I Personally think it would've been better to have the perspective be one of the Auraboas themselves, especially one of the children, to really understand what was going on here. Give us the full brunt of the mind of a creature experiencing all of time interwoven as one shape. The waters fall and the oceans crash with waves. They've now fallen to drought. The ocean has yet to be born. Caves have been carved out through the waters' currents. And when I break from this timeline, I open my eyes to see a child, the child not yet born, the child born now, the child born yesterday. Why can't I hear it? Why couldn't I hear it? Why won't I ever hear it?)

I dunno. People more qualified than me to speak on this matter have already torn the lore apart, I'm just... dropping my own two cents. Potential got weirdly squandered and we ended up instead with unfortunate implications and tropes that could be connected a liiiittle too awkwardly to irl situations.

*Also, before anyone points out: Yes, I know the hatchlings aren't COMPLETELY detached from the Loop and can join it when they sleep. But the fact is, these thangs never had to sleep before. That wasn't in their species' nature. So that's still weird and foreign for them on both sides. And since the hatchlings now have a circadian rhythm, they can't stay connected to the loop permanently. And also Also, seeing as the previous generations aren't experiencing time linearly, who's to say they even recognize when their child joins the loop? They'll speak with an echo of their child when that child was last asleep ages ago, not knowing that it's not them presently, because there is no 'present' for the older generations.

[elliespuns]

Quiet the Winter Harbor

Summary: After Ellie experienced horrors beyond her comprehension and was forced to do what was necessary, it completely broke her. Not knowing whether he was still alive or not, she slowly started to lose all hope of seeing Joel ever again. Terrified, helpless, and lost—that's how he found her when he appeared and took some of her pain away.

Pairing: Ellie & Joel, father-daughter

Wordcount: 1.5k

Tags/Warnings: canonverse, angst, comfort, fluff, found family, platonic relationship, father-daughter, soft Joel, baby girl Ellie, Joel POV, Ellie POV

Note: This one-shot of a 'story' is based on the actual TLOU game events; on a scene where Ellie kills David and Joel comes to take her away. Ellie & Joel mean so much to me. Writing them into fluffy scenarios will always make me happy. Hope this silly little 'scene' can make you happy too.

Rushing away from the burning building that's slowly tumbling down as the flames lick the air, Joel's arm is wrapped around the little girl's petite back as he's leading her away from the danger. She's trembling. She would never thought that she'd ever go through something like this. Ellie has killed people before, but this? This was different. He was trying to—was he? He definitely was. She keeps replaying the last few moments before her eyes, sobbing softly. She had to do it. She had no choice. She didn't want any of this to happen. Yet it still did, and it absolutely broke her.

The young girl who needs him right now is falling apart right next to him, and he has no idea what to do or what to say. The man Joel wishes to torture to death was trying to hurt her in ways no girl should ever experience. She's so young, innocent and fragile. There are no right words to empathise with something like this.

Instead of opening his mouth to say something that would only make her feel worse, he just gives her shoulder a gentle, loving squeeze with his hand and pulls her closer to him as the tears keep running down her freckles and leaving salty taste on her lips.

She's quiet. He is too. He feels miserable. If only if got there sooner. The anger, the frustration, the helplessness that suffocates him knowing he can't turn back the time to do something, and her little, quiet sniffs are not making this any easier on him. All Joel wants to do is to bring that motherfucker back to life, only to torture him and make him suffer in an agonizing way. Make him experience evil—evils that he had the nerve to put Ellie through.

And even after all this, he still can't believe what a brave and courageous kid she is. Hell of a fighter. He had never seen so much strength in a person before, let alone in a little girl.

When he arrived at the scene and he witnessed what she has done to the man, he knew that he would've done exactly the same thing. Except she's a kid. She shouldn't know what this feels like. Having her clinging to him tighly as she cried, embracing her, he finally realized that she must have gone out of her way to save his life. In that moment, he regretted everything he said to her back at the farm house and from this moment on, he decided to make his life's mission to dedicate his all this kid.

He should do something. Say something. He owes her so much. If it weren't for her, he wouldn't have been here right now. Feeling helpless, with nothing but love inside his heart for her right now, he can't take this deafening silence any longer. He stops and crouches down in front of her, putting them at eye-lever with one another. The freezing, snowy path sends an icy cold feeling through his entire body as soon as his knee hits the ground and his hands reach for hers, having her lift her red, puffy eyes on him. "Listen, Ellie. I er… I have no idea what to say because, honestly, there is nothing I can say or do to take away what you've just gone through." He says softly, his voice deep but full of endearment and understanding as he caresses the knuckles on her fists with his thumbs, warming her extremely cold hands.

"Joel, I don't wanna—" She sobs, her words stuck in her throat, her teeth chattering from the cold.

"You don't have to say anything. Just know that I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry for everything. For every damn mean thing I said to you. I didn't mean any of it." He says, regretting the harsh words that left his mouth at the farmhouse before everything went down so fast and he has come to realize that he hurt her. "You deserve so much more." He assures her, his huge palms covering her fists.

"Joel, can we just—"

"No, listen. Listen, Ellie…" He stops her by cupping her wet, icy cheeks that are somehow burning up, wiping her tears away with his calloused thumbs as her sad, pained eyes peer into his and her lower lip quivers. "You are the bravest fucking kid, do you understand?" He says, his voice trembling as if he's on the verge of crying himself. "And you saved my life. No one else would care enough to take so many risks to do that for someone like me." He adds and smiles, his cold hands sticking to her cheeks as he's refusing to let go. "And you still did. You matter, okay? You matter to me. I should've never left your side and—"

It's when his words are cut short as the frail girl in front of him throws herself his way and wraps her arms around him, burying her face in his jacket and weepeing softly. "I was so scared, Joel. I was so fucking scared that I lost you." She mumbles into his neck, searching for comfort in the smell of his shirt and coat.

It was as if his heart stopped beating for a second the moment she clung to him. His arms are suddenly taking on a life of their own when they instinctively wrap around her and pull her closer before one of his hands comes up to caress the back of her head as she keeps sobbing, leaving wet traces of her tears in the crook of his neck.

They never embraced each other like this before. Freezing on the cold ground, Joel's knee that's buried deep in the snow to keep his balance steady for her starts getting numb. But he doesn't mind. He doesn't care. It's the warmth of her heart that's softly beating through her chest right against his as they keep hugging tightly, quietly, and affectionately. If it weren't for the howling of the wind, he could have sworn he heard it too.

This girl means everything to him. How did this happen? He has no idea. But he curses himself for all the time he made her life a living hell by constantly rejecting her charming, beamy, and at times, ridiculously goofy personality. She might be the best thing that has ever happened to him after Sarah, and all he has ever done till now was be an asshole. Now he's going to do better with her.

Carefully breaking the embrace, he cups her cheek again. "You don't ever need to feel like you have to talk to me about what happened there, okay? Just remember… if there's ever going to be a day when you feel like laying all this burden out on me, don't hesitate." He pays her a smile. A smile so warm and full of love it made her heart flutter.

She's devastated after all that happened, but this? This smile on his face? Smile that he never gave her before? Smile that says, 'You'll never be alone ever again.' She can't help but nod and crack a tiny smile too, wiping her tears with the sleeve of her jacket. "Okay." She sniffs, her voice trembling as she's doing her best not to cry anymore. She doesn't know how, but Joel is making her feel better. He wouldn't take away the horrors she's still replying in her mind over and over again, but it means a lot. She's never thought that one day this stranger of a man would be someone that she deeply cares about. Someone whose love would mean the world to her.

"Okay, kiddo. I don't want to spoil the emotional moment we have here, but… you're going to need to help your old man." He chuckles, trying to loosen up the tension by using humor—the one thing he knows always wins with Ellie. "I think my knee got stuck to the ground, and I also can't feel it anymore."

Ellie smiles and wipes her nose with the back of her hand before she reaches for his. "You're such a dumbass." She shakes her head and lets a few little giggles out, helping him on his feet.

Slapping the snow and filth off his jeans, he reaches behind him to grab something that appears to look like Ellie's backpack. "Here. I believe you have a few valuable things in this thing." He hands it to her, watching her eyes beam at the sight of her pack that she thought she'd never see again.

"You might be old and helpless sometimes, but you're not totally worthless." She jokes, grinning at him before she flings the pack over her shoulder.

"There she is." Joel chuckles and is head over heels for his baby girl's smile, which he thought he had lost too.

The end.

Author's note: This is not an actual attempt at a fic or a story that has a continuation. This is just a silly little one-shot I wrote for myself, and the nice people here helped me overcome my fear of oversharing my privacy, so I finally posted some of it. If anyone else already wrote fics based on this scene, just know that I got inspired by the scene itself, not by any of the stories related to it. Anyway, I hope it's not that terrible, and keep in mind that English is not my mother language. Typos are possible.

[paganminiskirt]

Like Frieza and Vegeta’s relationship was absolutely abusive and exploitative from start to finish but I think people write it wrong. Well not wrong, just in a way that I personally believe removes the deeper horror in favor of an easy depiction of what a relationship like that looks like. He’s not getting strung up and whipped or locked in a cell to cry, he’s getting his chin scratched by a person who uprooted him from everything he had ever known on a whim and destroyed the culture upon which he founded his most nascent sense of identity. And that person is only keeping him alive because despite it all, he’s useful, and kind of cute, especially now that all the other Saiyans are dead. Vegeta’s a small child being made to commit atrocities for profit an amusing little novelty, still using the honorifics & regurgitating the legends of a planet that’s been obliterated. DBS is not a perfect sequel by any means but it did this part so, so well. “All hail Vegeta, prince of no one.” “I always thought you shined the brightest when you were serving as my pet.”

Sickening, yes? And the intimacy is the worst part, the realization that Frieza seems to favor him; seems to like him. Who knows, maybe Vegeta reminded him of himself at some ancient, half-forgotten stage of life. King Cold did drop him like a hot potato as soon as he was proven weaker than Trunks. Maybe that’s the whole reason he made King Vegeta give up his kid in the first place. Frieza’s relationship with his father is shallow and dependent entirely on his value as a soldier, the underlying cruelty of which they’ve both silently agreed to use superfluous affection to cover up? Fine. He’s gonna make the Saiyan king give up his own militarized child prince. He’s gonna strip away the cultural justifications for what he’s doing to his son by making him treat it like the cold, spineless profiteering that it always was. He’s gonna rub it in.

But hey, he’s not mad at the kid. It was his dad who got too big for the barrel. Vegeta is still serving his purpose, Vegeta is still being good. Why wouldn’t Frieza treat him in accordance with his “station,” even after it’s been rendered an empty title because of him. All he has to do is keep spinning the wheel on the Cold Empire, vomiting out violence into the endless vacuum of space & never getting too uppity about his dead father or dead planet or about the fact that, even when reduced to the most baseline level of childish narcissism, the state which this arrangement has emotionally stunted him into maintaining well into adulthood, he never actually wanted any of this. He didn’t want to leave Planet Vegeta! He didn’t want to grow up surrounded by strangers! He didn’t want to have no claim over anything he ever achieved! He wanted to work for himself! It wasn’t his choice!!! For all of Vegeta’s dickswinging and hierarchy and “pride,” he is so, so helpless, “like a tiny insect glowing in a jar,” as Frieza so helpfully summarized for us. Overcorrection layered on overcorrection layered on overcorrection layered on desperate, screeching fear and sadness and shame. Blow up a planet. Nuke a city. Wipe out a village. Fix It Again, Tony.

And that viciously indulgent cruelty that Vegeta used to comfort himself as he grew into a man is only emphasized by how blasé Frieza appears to be about the whole thing. He’s calm. He’s secure. He spends half the arc sitting down, just watching. He’s what Vegeta was in the first part of the Saiyan saga, and he slowly turns into what Vegeta slowly turned into in the second part of the Saiyan saga. An addled, wounded, unthinking mess, trying to put their self image back together as someone else’s superior ability causes it to crumble. Frieza was scared of the super saiyan. Under all that collected ambivalence, that whole time, he was scared.

Vegeta is Frieza’s heir. As gross as that incongruent, unwanted warmth is to witness, Frieza succeeded in establishing influence over & connection between himself and the child he orphaned. And the process of healing from that relationship involves Vegeta going back to square one and having to acquiesce to another foreign, combat oriented culture populated by vaguely hostile strangers. He gets new clothes. He gets a new place to train. He gets new tasks to perform. He gets called cute.

Like. It’s not physical torture, at least not as we usually imagine it. It’s this slow poisoning of a person’s ability to trust and connect with others, a process which is gussied up by regular assertions of fondness, so casual & consistent that you have to actively remind yourself that the guy who’s doing it sees Vegeta as a literal subhuman, and is only being good to him the way you’d be good to a valued piece of property. He tortured him to death, but he still thinks he was a good pet. Vegeta’s life was Frieza’s to end, but his feats of wanton destruction were also his to be proud of.

That’s the whole reason why Vegeta’s character development was slow, ugly and recidivist. Because it was his knowledge of how to grow, of how to exist any other way, that Frieza intentionally eroded for his own selfish, petty gain. And for a relationship between a man with a monkey tail and his pink-skinned alien overlord, the most uncomfortable part about the dynamic is that it’s realistic. Common, even.

[hyperfixatedfandomer]

That handsome boy from the sky pt 3 (caugth with Neteyam AU)

Part three of the series in which Spider and and Teyam escape RDA, only to come to Awa’atlu and find out that, surprisingly, Spider is considered uniquely attractive by reef Na’vi standards. (Part two and three in the pinned post)

.

.

Neteyam stared in horror at the sleeping form in front of him, hair all around him and two broken brushes lying next to the pallet. He gulped.

Spider combed out his dreads, and there were dark circles around his eyes which suggested that he’d been at it all night instead of asking for help.

Yawning, he slowly rose. “Oh…hey bro. ‘Sup…”

“Dude, have you been combing out your nest til’ sunrise??”

“Yeah…figured I’d re-twist the locs. Haven’t done that in a while.” He yawned again, stretching.

“Okay, I’ll help you—”

“Not now!” The boy stopped him, standing. “I can’t handle sitting still for another 12 hours, we can do it tomorrow. Can you pass me your hairband? The big one?

Neteyam stared at him, and then at the village through the exit of their marui. If Spider was about to go and work all day with that hairstyle…

“No way. We have to re-twist now.” The Na’vi repeated urgently, but sadly, Spider caught onto the reason, rolling his eyes.

“ ‘Tey, everyone in this village have curly hair, I’m not special.” He smirked, opting to find Teyam’s band himself.

“Yeah but it’s you we’re talking about big bro. You really gonna beat the kids off with a stick all day?”

Socorro tied the band around his hair, forcing the curls out of his face and checking his exo-pack battery. He’s been in Awa’atlu for almost a month, and was confident he could handle the attention. “You’re exaggerating.”

.

Fwasim loved going on crystal hunts at sunrise. The pink lighting of the sky reflected so beautifully off of them when she dug them out of the sand, but this faithful morning she had found a different kind of gem.

There was Spider Socorro, or Sully, as his family called him, a cute new boy in her village, following some young adults into the fishing grounds with a net…

A gorgeous mane swaying in the wind behind him. Deep golden at the roots, and pale blonde at the ends.

He looked more alien than ever, but not negatively. She had never witnessed anything like it before and gawked at him in pure aw, dropping her basket.

The teen noticed her and waved, smiling and brushing a spiralling strand behind his ear, and Fwasim was sure her heart had just exploded. She barely mustered enough strength to wave back, before leaping back to the village as soon as he was out of earshot, squealing and giggling.

She had to tell EVERYONE.

.

“Why did I let him go why did I let him go..” Jake heard, already returning from his morning hunt with the other adults of the clan. “Hey there, what’s going on?”

Nrteyam stopped pacing, but bounced his foot against the floor, and pointed at the clumps of hair lying near Spider’s pallet. Jake’s eyes widened.

“…Damnit I told him to wait!”

Teyam scoffed, crossing his arms. “We might as well move out at this point. I can hear Fwasim talking about this all the way from here, she’s the biggest gossiper on the block and is friends with like, everyone!”

Toruk Makto felt helpless, as he often did these days and slumped against the wall, his catch dropping to the floor. The suitor situation was about to get so much worse and he was not prepared for it.

.

The long hair was all over the place, reminding Spider once more why he wore dreads. This hairdo was way too high maintenance for a guy who was all about exploring, swinging through the forest and squatting in the mud while looking for cool plants. He wasn’t the proper big brother like Neteyam, more so like the lazy one that lived in a shack outside their parent’s tent and smoked mushrooms, except he couldn’t do the latter two because of the air problems and more recently, Jake’s paranoid suspicion that one of the kids just might grab him and run while he sleeps. The blonde couldn’t help but wheeze at the ridiculousness of that statement, as if he was somehow that insanely irresistible.

But he wasn’t. He was Spider Socorro the outcast, and as much as he liked the attention, he was sure that it would soon disappear. He was just a novelty after all, wasn’t he? Surely the Metkayina teens were not even interested anymore. Surely today would be normal.

And yet, for whatever Eywa damned reason, when he rose out of the water, pulling his curls back, he was met with gasps and awes from the kids who were chilling at the beach or preparing to go into the sea themselves.

They wasted no time circling him with wagging tails. “Spider! You’re so beautiful!” One girl fawned, helping the boy untangle a lock from his arm.

“Like a sun lily in the twilight~”

“Why’d you even have dreads? This is so much cooler!“ A young man complemented. “You’re a spitting image of a Metkayina!”

“Bet even Aonung doesn’t have hair as shiny as his!”

Spider blushed deep red. “Guys stop. I look basically the same as you, I’m not like, special” he smiled awkwardly, backing away.

“Do you want to braid them? We could help!” Two girls smiled, batting their eyelashes at him.

“Aw that’d be awesome! You’ll look great with a bun! And we could add some jewellery too! Like fangs or something! ” Some guys perked up, their ears slightly pinned in abashment.

“We could braid you a kuru too…” Another boy proposed, shyly averting his eyes. Spider recognised him as the same kid who gifted him a new bow a couple weeks back.

Socorro was close to short-circuiting, trying to keep a grin off his face. The Metkayina teens had never been this forward before, but maybe he should have expected that. Hair is crucial in all Na’vi cultures, but he never had anyone braid them for him. The closest he ever got to it was the Sullys siblings helping him re-twist his dreads, but maybe keeping his hair free wasn’t that bad of an idea—

In the corner of his vision, the blonde noticed Aonung. He was standing with his crew of suck-ups and stared at him in I’ll-concealed surprise. His tail then began wagging in the same playful-curious manner as the other Na’vi.

Suddenly, the kid felt vomit crawl up his throat. “Sorry guys! This was just for one day, I’ll go re-twist them now!” He said as cheerfully as he could, going away to the disappointed awes of the teens, shuddering. He was more than okay with the other kids finding him cute, but AONUNG? The asshole son of the chief?? Spider would rather throw his mask into the deep blue ocean, or Aonung himself for that matter, than find him at his home’s doorstep.

He marched into the marui, facing a confused Neytiri and Kiri. “Um…are you guys busy right now…?..”

.

.

.

Yes, I did it, I wrote the prompt 😭 just to be clear tho, this is NOT a ship-series. I don’t really ship anyone in the movie so there won’t be an Aonung x Spider story-line.

[mystycalypso]

I'm gonna go on a mini rant here.

TW: p3d0ph1lia, and child s/@

God, I shouldn't have to put a TW like that on a blog where I post Hello Neighbor content with my bff, but I need to just- let off steam about this because it's something that seems to happen every time there's a franchise centering around kids facing a big bad adult where- people assume that said big bad s3xually @ buses one or more of the minor characters.

A main big example of this is obviously FNAF, with the P3d0philia William Afton being popularized by PinkiePills with her comics to the point where a large chunk of the fandom believes that it's canonical. Despite that not being the case.

The example that has pushed me over the edge to talk about this today is Theodore Peterson. I have been worried since Episode 6s release that people were going to claim that Peterson S/@ ed Nicky. And today, low and behold I see a post (not gonna name drop them for obvious reasons) saying

"At this point it's obvious what Mr. Peterson did to Nicky" with the teaser image tinybuild recently posted

Now, at first my autistic ass said, "...What?" And I couldn't figure out for the life of me what they were referring to because I mean, we don't even know when this shot is from

Then I open the comments and see people talking about whether or not it was infact s/@ . I know I said I was expecting and dreading this, but it still shocked and bewildered me because- there's genuinely nothing in the show that actually makes it seem like this.

Thankfully, a lot of the comments were openly disagreeing with this idea and sentiment. But- I need to discuss why it's a problem to me, ESPECIALLY with this franchise, which I've already explained is very near and dear to me.

But good FUCKING GOD, especially with WTRB

THIS IS A KIDS SHOW

Is WTRB able to go much darker than most kids' shows because it isn't run on tv or owned by a network? Absolutely. But would TB go that far? FUCK NO.

I've seen this person using moments from the show like this

To call Mr. Peterson, a p3d0phil3, and I need to clearly explain the purpose of this image. It is to show the power he has built in his lies. Trinity witnessed Mr. Peterson kidnap Nicky before her own eyes, but he has built up such a persona as this pathetic old man in the town that even when she can see behind his lies and see his actively horrific behavior, no one else can.

We see this same back and forth in all their interactions in episode 5. From the moment he offers cookies based on Nicky's goggles to the framing of him looming while her parents work the printer. He believes he has won and can flaunt it because there is no one in Ravenbrooks who believes these kids. No one even notices or is suspicious of Nicky going missing in the first place.

And if Trinity was also an adult or even if Mr. Peterson was say- a woman this wouldn't be coming up or a theory/hc. It is only because Theodore is an older male antagonist.

Now, why is this a problem? Why do these hcs and theories urk me so much every time I see them?

It adds nothing. All they do is make the story "edgier" and "darker" in a way that's so- flat and dimensionless. There's nothing gained by saying "oh Nicky was s/@ ed" if anything you have taken so much from the actual story of Hello Neighbor and the themes of feeling helpless to the horrors you see going on around you. You're not taken seriously as a kid, especially after doing something others see as a slip up like Trinity or by not being the model student type like Nicky. You're young and can see through the lies of others easier but no one believes you.

Not only that, but the supernatural theming of Hello Neighbor is lost because of this. The Guest, The Thing, the Cult, everything is lost or disregarded all to make the series dark on a very surface level.

I'm tired of actual themeing and good writing getting thrown to the wayside for hcs that do nothing for victim representation and do nothing to add to the story and I say this with utter genuineness

If you believe in these p3d0 hcs and theories, do not interact with our work.

Kaydin and I are both VIOLENTLY disgusted by the things we saw written by that poster and by the comments agreeing with their sentiment and we don't want to be associated with the parts of the fandom that twist the series that way.

Thanks for reading.

[vitentia]

KILL YOUR DARLINGS .lıllıl.

pairings ━━ abby anderson x seraphite!fem!reader (no race mentioned or described), platonic!lev + reader, platonic!yara + reader

warnings ━━ violence, cursing, religious trauma, Owen (TRIGGER WARNING⚠️)

synopsis ━━ being the descendent of a religious cults “prophet” wasn’t as fun as it sounded, if it sounded fun at all. constant worship alongside constant punishment meant you were far beyond saving, far beyond any hope for a real, normal life. or, at least, that’s what you thought. before Abby, there was nothing left for you. now? everything has changed.

playlist ━━ ptolemaea by ethel cain, family tree by ethel cain

“Please don’t do this.” You begged desperately, your plead falling on purposefully deaf ears as the larger woman dragging you in front of the burning car and forced you on your hands and knees.

“I granted you leeway for this one,” she pointed above you to the hanging dead man on the tree, “but not this one. It is your duty to fulfill the prophets legacy, you will not fail her because you are weak minded.” She hissed in your ear.

Just then, two men dragged in the body of an unconscious girl, carelessly dropping her on the overgrown cement. She groaned and lifted her head, making eye contact with you before looking up to see the bodies of those she once knew.

“I’m not weak and I do follow her teachings. Just not the ones you made up.” Those words earned you a slap to the face, unwillingly causing your head to turn sideways.

The woman bent down to your fallen position and ruthlessly gripped your cheeks in her hands, likely trying to form a bruise. “You will do this, whether you want to or not.”

She grabbed your forearm and pulled you up to your feet, she stood behind you and forced you to grip the knife tightly in your fist as she pushed you forward. The hung woman with the blonde braid attempted to move away from the blade, her breaths coming out shallow for fear of her life and your own.

The struggle between you and Emily only came to a halt when the tip of the blade was rested against the hanging girls abs, you feared you’d only make her suffer more if you continued struggling.

You lifted your eyes to meet her pleading one’s. “I’m sorry.” You whispered.

Emily whispered the final prayer message from behind you, pushing your hand closer until a series of whistles paused her movements. She gestured towards the men beside you to go deal with the problem and took the knife out of your hands, pushing you against a nearby tree.

“Don’t run, you know what’ll happen.” She threatened you and turned her attention onto the men carrying in another body.

Except this body wasn’t one of the WLF, it was Yara. The Yara you turned yourself in to buy more time for Lev.

You could only watch in paralyzing horror as they held Yara down and attempted to question her about her brother. When they didn’t get the answer they wanted, Emily demanded they “clip her wings.” Your ears buzzed at the trigger word and sent you straight to your feet, nearing Emily’s back when she abruptly lifted her hand and struck you down with one blow.

She looked down at you triumphantly, “You may be good at killings demons, but don’t think you could ever strike me down, child.”

Cornered and alone with weapons available, you could only try to hold on to what little breaths you had left as you were forced to listen to Yara’s screams that echoed along the trees. A witness to the atrocities committed by your ancestors followers.

Helpless, your eyes lifted up to the hanging girl, wondering what her fate would be after the seraphites were done with you and Yara. Yet another life you couldn’t save. Despite the darkness, she looked back at you, a conflict within them.

Right as one of the men lifted his hand to break the girls other arm, a smooth arrow cut through the air and straight through his cheek, the other going into his chest and sending him down. Everyone looked towards the direction of the shot and missing the subtle way Yara’s free hand slipped into the hammer and shoved it into the other man’s neck with a cry.

Once your initial shock had worn off, you threw your entire body into Emily’s frame after she raised her gun in Yara’s direction. A shot rang off and Emily threw you off of her, both of you pulling into a guarded standing position as her gun lay only a few feet away.

She scoffed, “You will never be her.”

Instead of your eyes flickering towards the distant weapon, they looked up at the hanging girl. Together, you both knew what to do.

You took one deep breath before directly running into Emily’s body, shoving your elbow into the softest part of her body and knocking her backwards only a few feet. The hanging girl wrapped her thighs around Emily’s neck and held her there as you took the hammer from Yara’s hand and stood in front of the woman that had tormented and pushed you for years now.

You raised the hammer above your head, “I never wanted to be.” And pierced the sharp end through her skull.

The hanging girl pushed Emily’s body out from under her and accidentally dropped the bucket from under herself. Just as you raised your hand to help, Yara’s bloody hand wrapped around your shoulder in a desperate attempt to stand up.

You wrapped your arm around her waist right when Lev came out of the shadows and confirming who you thought it was.

“Lev, cut her down!” You ordered, carrying Yara over to an area where she could sit comfortably.

“But she’s one of them-“

“Now, Lev!”

The boy used the knife in his pocket and cut the rope, dropping the hanging girl. You and Lev switched places, your attention being driven away from Yara and onto the blonde girl who was still trying to catch her breath.

You pulled the rope up over her neck and quickly checked for any major injuries. “Are you okay? Can you breathe?”

“I’m breathing so yeah, I’m great.” She coughed, her eyes angrily looking over at Emily’s dead body and ripping the axe from her head.

You tried not looking at her arms and instead focused your ears on nearby infected, or demons, as you called them. Together, you all stood facing the woods and preparing for the bloodshed of demons coming at you.

“Watch your backs.”

☾

While silence consumed the four of you in the old trailer, your eyes slowly lingered around Abby. First, they landed on her muscles, bit of personal indulgence on your part but still, it added to her beauty. Then, they followed the one strand of blonde hair out of place, wisping past her forehead and occasionally being tucked behind her ear when she got sick of it. Lastly, your eyes trained on her face, her eyes specifically.

Her eyes were special, they were not like yours. Color nor size didn’t matter because Abby held an internal conflict you knew low of. Here she was, a wolf, helping her supposed “enemy” who somehow also helped her. She faced the struggle of going back to her people, ratting on you three and possibly getting a pat on the back ir promotion, or staying here and making sure you were all safe.

She chose neither.

“Are you sure you’re gonna be okay?” You questioned her, walking her towards the trailer door.

She chuckled, amused. “Shouldn’t I be saying that to you?”

“I mean, are you going to be okay alone? I won’t be there to protect you from any more demons, you know?” You joked, bringing a smile to her tense face.

“How did you get so good at killing those things anyway? Thought Scars were too busy killing us to focus on them.”

“Seraphites. My ancestor, the prophet, she was skilled in killing demons. I guess it kinda passed on-“

“Wait, you- you’re the…daughter of the prophet the Scars worship?” Abby interrupted, flabbergasted.

“Seraphites and yes- no, not her daughter, i-it’s complicated.” You stumbled your words, and crossed your hands front of you. “But if you stay I can tell you all about it…?” You tried.

She smiled sadly, taking a deep breath of consideration before ultimately shaking her head. “I’m sorry, I really should be going.”

You let out a sad sigh but nodded understandingly and opened the door for her. “You won’t be reporting us to your leaders, right?”

She looked back at you in surprise, almost offended. “No, of course not. But hey-“ she leaned in closer to you, “this area gets a lot of traffic so whatever condition she’s in, you have to leave by tomorrow.”

Looking back at Yara, you nodded. “I understand. Thank you, Abby.”

With one last longing look behind her, Abby kept moving.

However, even when Owen occupied her makeshift bed, her mind was occupied by you. You both hanging from the tree with your insides on the outside and your gentle hands helping her fix a superficial wound in her arm. It was all very confusing, this new feeling. Because it wasn’t new at all. In fact, this is the exact feeling she had been trying to replicate when she pushed her lips against Owens the night before, a feeling she once had for him, a feeling now stolen by another.

So, she went back.

Back to you. A goddamn Seraphite.

Upon overhearing another Scar talk about the “descendent” and the “apostle”, she made sure to swiftly handle them and rush herself in the direction of the trailer she left you in. A sense of pride came over her as she noticed the dead body hanging out of the front door, proof you all fought back, but it was quickly replaced with fear when Lev rung out a shot in her direction.

“Wait, Lev! It’s Abby.” You pushed his arms down from their outstretched position on the bow and rushed toward Abby, stopping directly in front of her when her hands held your forearms. “You’re back!”

“I wanted to hear the rest of that story, doll.” She joked lightly, before moving into Yara’s curled position and speaking to her gently.

You held Lev’s shoulders into your side before he could pounce on Abby for moving his sister and were moved into a nearby aquarium. Although a rocky beginning, your heart ached for Yara and all you could do was send out a quick prayer before tuning back into the conversation at hand.

The pregnant woman, Mel, made no complaints when Abby offered to go pick up supplies, much to the protest of the man, Owen.

“We can take you in two hours.” You spoke up, ripping your teary eyes away from Yara.

“What? How?”

“The seraphites built bridges up in the sky, between building, away from floods, and from you…your people.” You and Lev shared a look, determination.

“Woah, hang on. These bridges are used by scars.” Owen argued Abby.

“They only send in small groups at a time.” Lev chimed in.

“See? Small groups at a time.” Her eyes connected with yours. “And our second coming of Jesus will shine our path.”

You pinched your eyebrows together, looking at Lev for a second before looking back at Abby. “Who’s Jesus?”

The wolves looked at each other in shock for a quick second before getting back on track. Mel handing Abby the list and Owen, once again, wording his complaints.

You paid no mind to their bickering and placed a gentle kiss on Yara’s head. “I have already sent out a prayer. She will protect you as long as she can, so will I.” The girl gave you a grateful smile, her eyes warning you to be careful.

Moving aside for Lev, you stood closer to Abby who put her hand on your shoulder and brought you in closer.

“I’ll do anything I can to help, okay?” She whispered.

Your eyes flickered between her eyes and her lips from the close proximity but a positive smile still graced your face. “You already have, Abby. I don’t know how else to thank you.”

She shook her head, “Thank me by telling me all about you later, ‘kay?” 

“Kay?” You mumbled the word to yourself before nodding and saying it with more enthusiasm. “Kay!”

Abby gave you a dimpled smile and lead you and Lev out to the back doors, keys in hand and ears shut off from the man’s calls.

Once you made it to the door, it was clear him and Abby had some…unresolved business that left you and Lev as awkward bystanders.

“Look, she just showed up. I don’t think she knows about last night-“

“I don’t care about last night!” Abby huffed out, looking over at you from over her shoulder before stepping up to Owen, face full of anger.

“Well, I do.” The man said with a face full of hurt at her words.

You bit your lip and looked down at your hands, noticing Lev side eyeing them from beside you.

Reluctantly, the man opened the door. You let Lev go in front of you as Abby placed her hand on your lower back when she walked out behind you, trying to ignore Owen’s remarks. You looked back at him in the building, he made eye contact with you, a question lingering in his eyes before he stated.

“I hope you know what you’re doing.” And shut the door.

[snuggleboots]

♡ in which i'm still having big feelings about kisame. naturally, i'm cramming the reader into said big feelings. have some genin and newly-graduated chunin kisame and reader, his one and only friend (´。＿。｀) it's dark, lots of death, so huge dni to minors. ♡

♡ might make this a dumb little series of drabbles, maybe? i'm sure as hell not dropping a whole thing in one post when it turned entirely into a chunin selection thing. it's choppy, probs has mistakes, but that's because i wrote it here and i am dogshit tired and slightly scared to post smth i just roughed out here :' ) ♡

Tags: kid kisame (6-10), kid reader (6-10), reader-insert, canon/reader friendship, dark themes, such as kiri's chunin selection, mentioned child deaths (the chunin selection), angst, shock/trauma.

It's a death of spirit, slow to manifest, to make your home in another person. The innocence of youth was never something fostered in the Land of Water, reclusive and cutthroat was the village that stands bastion in the heart of the island nation. Those of the Mist learn young that survival is a series of little deaths, each one an intangible shepherd to the next that awaits them.

Kirigakure, where connection is granted to budding shinobi for the sake of becoming one of life's many harsh lessons. It's when you're small, and your childish sense of hope is somehow still naïve and alive, that something so treasured as a comrade is allowed to be anything more than a means to an end. Sharing meals, and clinging to life by the skin of your teeth through missions too gruesome for children so young, one's genin team is often one's first true taste of friendship.

He was so young when you met, six years old at best; a competitive thing- oblivious of his own strength and rough at times, but fierce in his loyalty. It started then, a boy with a gruff heart too big for his body, and a sawtooth grin that looked more frightening than he ever bothered to actually be. He was your friend, with cute ears that stuck out and gills that sometimes flared in a way that made you helpless but to laugh, and an unyielding sense of self-assurance that made missions less frightening, so long as it was him that fought at your side.

Hoshigaki Kisame was not a monster. Not as you knew him.

Companions in a shared misery back then, you were each other's determined and desperate support through the trials of your paths; assurances shared with conviction carried you through the horrors that no heart so soft as yours should ever have been forced to witness. You wanted to heal, he strove to conquer the art of blades.

Children are, unfortunately, as precious as they are blind, and their pride is earned hard through enduring that which would cull their lessers. Together though, there was nothing that could stop the unbeatable two that made him and you. It was a connection found only by the miracle of chance, a friendship forged through the four years shared as junior shinobi. Your sensei, your third man - they existed beyond the bubble of two.

You were children together, once.

But in the Bloody Mist, you fight or you die. It was a death of heart to swallow the fear in your throat when it came time for selection. Ten years old by then; it was cold that day, and the pit in your stomach was nearly all-consuming when Kisame bid you the first of many goodbyes. 'Just in case', he'd said - his voice quiet, and heavier than you'd ever heard it then - just in case one of you failed to survive. It was better to say goodbye now than risk losing his chance if it had come down to facing you.

Through the chūnin selection your three-man squad became a bitterly victorious two-man cell. It was only a small mercy given to you by chance that you weren't forced to face Kisame, and not yet was he forced to turn his strength on his team. He survived by the ferocity of his blade whereas you weathered the terrified betrayal of your third man, a soft-spoken boy no older than you. A tracker - or, at least he would have been.

Surviving that was the first time you saw Kisame's eyes feral and searching, his developing muscles drawn taut and teeth bared like a wild animal as he tore through the small ceremony of fellow children-turned-soldiers that had proved their mettle in the slaughter, each newly minted journeymen shinobi drenched in the blood of their friends.

Some were too stunned from the shock of their own actions, most too numb to react to the Hoshigaki boy who sought you out like one drowning sought the ocean's surface. There was no pretence of honour or achievement to be found in the way his hands, still slick and stinking of iron, had gripped your shoulders when he finally found you, as if you were the only tether he had left to anything good.

Neither of you smiled that day. There was no crooked grin that greeted you there, and no stifled tittering that followed the frenzied flaring of his gills to welcome him in turn, not that time. Finding each other through the bloodshed as official chūnin, you both learned that no amount of conditioning could have prepared either of you for the reality of taking the lives of your compatriots. It felt different, somehow more visceral, compared to cutting down someone marked an enemy.

Kill or be killed, neither of you had any other choice. That day would not be the one that marked his end, nor your own. Not yet - he was manic and peaked, you were despondent and spiralling - not yet. You weren't ready. He wasn't ready. Not yet. It was a shame that you weren't built for killing, and an even greater one that Kisame's concept of a comrade, that day, began chipping down to you. You became the exception.

Fear is something any child is bound to experience in life; a crawling dread felt in their bones when something goes bump in the night. It wasn't fear he had felt, and he was a child no longer when he emerged as one of the several victorious. No, the young swordsman-to-be was a selfish boy, he knew, because what he felt when he'd shoved his face into your hair and squished his nose into the crown of your head was the shameful sensation of relief. So many had died horrible, gruesome deaths - but not you. You lived, you breathed, you were shaking like a leaf and staring through him, but at least you were alive.

He was surely broken, and at that point so were you, but at least you had survived.

Your body moved through the motions of a person after the fact, while each champion was recognised, your stare one thousand yards detached from the moment when the weight of your certificate soaked up the death from your killing hands. You hadn't had it a moment, hadn't had the chance to exchange it for your hitai-ate, and already it was marked with blood. You were meant to feel proud, strong for having outwitted and overpowered the others, too weak to serve the village - yet, you'd felt sick. Bile burned the back of your throat, swallowed down hard while your brain marked you a hypocrite that day, despite the ceremony of congratulations thrown in the faces of you and your peers.

It was a blur, what little remained of that day. You have no memory now, nor did you then, of dragging yourself to the baths, but you know that every time you closed your eyes you saw the faces of those you'd defeated. Their faces stricken with panic or wet with desperate tears, voices squeaky or hoarse in their last moments - your kunai buried deep in the throat of your squadmate, his tantō skewered through the fleshy part of your waist. Pain, in every manner of which it existed.

No matter how desperately you'd scrubbed, your skin left raw and burning, your breathing haggard and unbearably tight, the blood never seemed to wash clean from your hands. Kisame was a persistent one, perceptive for his age and unwilling to part while his brain somehow struggled to rationalise that you lived, even if you'd left his sight. He'd scrubbed your back and bid the little comfort of his company - a silent sentinel that never once mentioned the strangled sobs that wracked your body when finally, you'd worn through what little energy you had left.

You couldn't understand why you cried.

And he had no answer as to why you didn't feel clean - he didn't either, though it bothered him somewhat less than it did you. Then, he'd never had as optimistic an ambition as yourself. His path was always of the sword.

You'd managed to patch your own wounds, and then Kisame's - because that was meant to be your path. The medic, the healer, a preserver of life. The death of hope was dealt through the cold realisation that you would never truly be that. At least, not in this lifetime. Not like this.

You were naïve to have ever thought that the path of a medic was above the demand of bloodshed.

It was he who helped you fix your clothes when your fingers refused to, no words exchanged when he pulled you under his arm and guided you from the baths - it was good, at least, that you'd washed up before heading for home. The silence shared between you, then, remained unbroken out of respect for those unfortunate dead. Loyal to a fault, and in search of an excuse to be near, he'd helped you back to the tiny apartment you called your own.

You felt many things that he didn't, then - but it didn't make you weak. You survived selection, you'd survive this too, he knew.

Your home was empty, polluted with noise from the market district beyond your windows, inhabited at that point only by yourself - still a child, yet so alone. Long had the Land of Water suffered civil wars - and your parents' lives were claimed somewhere along the line, but at the very least he was there. This world had no shortage of children orphaned, and like you, there was no one left alive to have awaited his return.

His home was with you. At least, it was then.

You were children together, once.

That day, through a series of deaths both tangible and in spirit, began the first of many goodbyes. To childhood, to juvenile altruism, and to the hope of most things good.

But not Kisame.

Kisame was not a monster, not then, at least. Not ever when you knew him.

[oonlykooii]

ㄑ🎙️◟੭ 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐖𝐄 𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐆！Ft: PORTGAS D. ACE

PAIRING; Portgas D. Ace x GN!Reader

CW; Angst

A/N: Sorry if it's not the best translation or English, English is not my first language

How were you supposed to act? How were you supposed to feel after witnessing death? A raw and direct atmosphere, the pearls of his necklace escaping the thread and falling on the battle floor, a sight that made you feel blank, one you had never imagined, after all they had saved him, they had managed to get him out of the scene where he was supposed to be executed, but you knew him, you knew perfectly well his impulsive and passionate attitude towards those he loves, and you hated that, you hated him so much that you loved him, but still, you didn't expect that end.

The helplessness you felt, feeling that guilt for not having been able to do more. The bandages covering your body still wounded by the battle of Marineford, your feelings in an unknown trance and a photo of him in your hands, caressing it with a delicacy so horrible to feel, and now he is not there, but you were still there

So similar to a movie, a horror movie that was a harsh reality that you faced, where his voice was a song, you could hear it but no longer feel that vibration against you. Vague memories of youth, two teenagers so foolish that they loved each other, a love so pure filled with afternoons of kisses and talks, adventures that went hand in hand with adrenaline and emotion, nights based on caresses and tears.

A fresh and warm breeze as was usual at the sea, drinks, talks and laughter, a narcoleptic company that made you sketch out a delicate smile of confusion with happiness when you saw him fall due to falling asleep. A Den Den mushi of photos in your hands and your free hand constantly shaking to get a picture of the photo you had taken with dubious consent before he fell asleep. When you let it sit for a few minutes you were able to appreciate the image, blurry... But his smile was so warm that it made you smile just by seeing it.

And now it was the only one you had of him

It was so difficult but you had to stick to your reality, the nights were not easy at all and even less so when you closed your eyes and returned to that same scenario where death and war were the protagonists but it hurt more to see him smile again because you knew that a part of you had gone with him. And although time will pass, you would always worry about him.

Dressrosa, Corrida Coliseum, the Mera mera fruit on display and prize for the winner of the tournament, finals of block C. A feeling of doubt invades you

And then you saw it

Or so you could have sworn, different emotions swirled against your chest at the sight of him, but it wasn't him, it was someone else's, watching him do those movements like he did, different emotions consuming you, nostalgia for seeing that? anger to see how someone else had his legacy? Was the fear that invaded you so much to relive it all? How are they supposed to prepare you for these things?

He looked like Ace, but you knew he wasn't and would never be, it was all a trip down memory lane to when you were young.

— My god, this reminds me... Of when we where young.

[aspiringwarriorlibrarian]

While going through all the social media posts everywhere about Palestine, and the calls to watch the videos, etc, I realized that a lot of the people who this past year were screaming "Why were those of us born post 9/11 forced to watch videos of it every year? We were forced to watch people die! That's fucked up!" are now, in large, also people screaming things like, "if you don't watch and share every video out of Palestine without taking breaks to process, you're a terrible horrible person who supports genocide!" And something about that is really frustrating. Palestine, is obviously, a bloodier situation, but there's something about the above mindset that feels off and I can't quite put my finger on it. But it does make me lose hope for everything. Too many people are looking for a group of people to dehumanize and celebrate the death of, while soapboxing the importance of human life. Children are dying, becoming traumatized. But all of our moral high grounds are built on the skeletons of those we deemed unworthy of empathy and mercy.

I believe I recently posted something about it, it's called vicarious trauma and while it used to happen primarily to reporters and other people who have to see violence every day but with the advent of doomscrolling now everyone is caught in it and anyone who isn't glued to their screens watching every horror they can is treated as "ignoring" it. People feel helpless and see witnessing it as the primary thing they can do, so they not only overload on it, but they get angry if anyone else isn't overloading on it. This is the thing we can do so its our job to overdo it at our own expense, even if it does nothing.

I'm trying to limit my posts to new information and things that people can actually do while blogging normally to try and contain it to a useful level, but there's no easy way to watch thousands of people die and millions of people being powerless to stop it because we are so far away, hatred runs deep, and the wheels of government are so quick to crush and so slow to restrain. That's why we have to keep doing this balancing act. It's the only thing that'll prepare us and help us do what we can to stop this.

We can't look away, and we can't drown ourselves. Complex problems require complex solutions. We can't let our anger become the most important thing here, because anger wants simplicity whether it's there or not. We can't save all the Palestinians, but if we give into anger and despair, we'll save none of them. Hold the line, take your breaks, and keep the faith. It's not over yet.

[furious-haste-of-malice]

Screw Yule

⃤ Prompt: Dark Gifts | Melkor x Maglor ⃤ Synopsis: After ages of wandering alone, Maglor is caught by the Enemy. ⃤ Warnings: Non-con, rough sex, Melkor's creepy obsession with Fëanor and his family ⃤ Oneshot (~1.3k) ⃤ AO3

AN: First one for Screw Yule, and I'm starting off with dead dove. Oh well. Hope you enjoy!

Melkor will be referred to as Morgoth because this is Maglor's POV.

Never had Maglor thought he would see him again, at least not until the very end. 

For ages now had he wandered the shores of Middle-earth, singing of a world that was no more and of guilt that would never fade, not a single familiar soul in sight – they had long since left as well, he had heard it whispered in the waters. 

Only he remained. And that dreadful truth had struck him with renewed vigour when the shadows had come upon him, reminiscent of those who had attacked Tilion many years ago: He was alone. There was no one he could call for help. 

Maedhros' name died on his lips. Maglor's hand clutched a small harp, not a silver bow. His voice, mighty as it was, availed him not against this foe, greatest enemy of his kin. 

He was thrown down into the sand, and something dark and heavy settled atop him, shadows coalescing into a humanoid shape now that he had been caught. This helplessness, this primal terror despite all bravery – this had to be what the Elves of Cuiviénen had felt. 

Two eyes found his, shards of ice amidst creeping darkness, like eerie lights misleading travellers at night. A face became visible, one he believed to recognize from ages past, though it looked different from the mask of benevolence the Enemy had worn in Valinor. To Maglor it appeared handsome and repulsive at the same time, like the visage of one who had once possessed great beauty which had now become faded and foul. 

"Hail Kanafinwë," the Vala greeted him in a mocking tone. 

"Morgoth," Maglor spat, attempting – in vain – to push him off. "One would think you have better things to do than to pursue a lonely minstrel." 

"Perhaps your voice is simply too sweet." Clawed hands grasped his jaw. "Though I shall not lie to you... your blood sings even more sweetly to me." 

"Kill me then." Maglor thought of Maedhros again. Was this how it had felt, this sickening mixture of fear and certainty that this being, fallen yet still far mightier than even their father, was going to hurt him, to subject him to whatever cruel design his twisted mind had conjured. 

"Kill you?" Morgoth appeared to contemplate the suggestion, then smiled. "Do you not think it would be a little rash to spill the last of Fëanáro's blood that remains in this world so soon after we meet again? Do you not think you should properly greet the mightiest of the Valar, perhaps sing a bit for me?" 

"You have no need for minstrels." 

"Maybe. But if you please me I shall bestow a gift upon you."

Laughing to himself, Morgoth tore Maglor's clothes from his body with a single swipe of his hand. 

"You are not your father, but you do resemble him," he noted, running his fingers up and down his flanks as if he was examining some sort of strange specimen. "I shall content myself with you for now." 

Maglor shivered. After witnessing the horrors of war and what had happened to Maedhros, he was not so naive as to be ignorant to Morgoth's twisted desires; yet he also knew the outcome was inevitable. He wasn't strong enough to fight a Vala and knew all would be in vain in the end, like Námo had warned them many years ago. 

"Poor thing. It must have been ages since someone last touched you," Morgoth purred. 

"Likewise," Maglor spat and was swiftly punished for his insolence with a slap across his face. Even as his head hit the sand below and darkness blanketed his vision for several seconds, he knew that this was far from the Vala's full strength – almost playful even.

Shadows engulfed his body, holding his arms in place, and his legs were pushed up against his chest. When his sight returned to him, Maglor was greeted with the frightening sight of a long, forked tongue licking his flaccid cock before making its way further down.

"N-no... don't-!" He had to force himself not to beg, remembering how brave Maedhros had been. No, he couldn't bring shame unto his brother's memory, even if –

Like a snake, the inhuman tongue violating his dignity slithered inside of him, and Maglor trembled in disgust, both at the act and the way his treacherous body took pleasure in it. Unfortunately, there was a certain truth to Morgoth's words: He indeed hadn't enjoyed the warmth and touch of a lover in many years. But he couldn't accept such contact from the being that had driven his entire family to madness and despair, was responsible for the deaths of so many of his people, had done terrible things to whoever he could get his hands on. 

He also knew that the Vala wanted to hurt him; he hadn't even attempted to lie about it or deceive him. 

And Morgoth was more than ready to do just that. 

His tongue vanishing was the only warning Maglor received before something large and hard was unceremoniously forced inside him, splitting him open as if a massive spear penetrated his flesh. He heard a piercing scream, barely realising that it was his own voice, and weakly struggled against the hold of a creature much stronger and mightier than he. 

"What a beautiful voice you have... for an Incarnate at least," Morgoth purred, and every syllable seemed to drip with mockery and pleasure alike. "Do continue with your lovely performance, mighty singer... I shall listen and enjoy myself." 

His hips snapped forward, thrusting as deeply as he could, and he set a brutal, merciless rhythm that was devoid of either love or true passion, driven only by greed, malice and a desire to despoil and destroy. 

Maglor could do nothing except accept his fate and let himself be violated by his kin's greatest enemy. Had he been an Elf like any other his fëa would have long since fled to Mandos, but the oath still lingered within his mind, keeping him bound to the world. And even as his stomach roiled with nausea and he gasped for breath, through some foul spell or trickery his body still felt pleasure, creeping and unwelcome, but undeniably there. 

He sobbed, cursed, cried and screamed until his voice failed him, anything to keep himself from begging for mercy or saying anything that would later be twisted and used against him. Pain surged up his spine with every movement, and his passage had been stretched beyond its limit, muscles going limp as exhaustion settled within his bones. 

The sensation of hot, sticky fluid flooding him like the waves Maglor had watched crashing on the shore for ages felt relieving, even though disgust gripped his very being, making him want to throw himself into the sea like he had done to the Silmaril. His own arousal was left unattended, and he didn't know whether it was punishment or perverse kindness – his pride and honour had thoroughly been destroyed, though he would cling to this one small thing like a drowning sailor holding on to a plank of his sunken ship. 

Satisfied, Morgoth let go of him. For a moment, Maglor hoped – in vain though it was – that he would be left like this or that his body would perish after all, but one as doomed as he was had no such luck. His very fëa shuddered within its corporeal confines when the Vala's song rang out, and soon he felt his flesh repairing itself, like a needle stitching fabric back together. 

"There," Morgoth said finally, pleased with himself. "Let it not be said that I don't have mercy."

But Maglor knew it was a lie. There was no remorse nor pity that could compel the Enemy to perform such an action – only the need to own him, to keep using him and toying with him, to satisfy his depraved desires for the Elf who had escaped him. 

And neither his brothers nor his father could help him anymore. 

Thanks for reading!

[imu-chan]

Therapy hashira rengoku au GO

So Rengoku is the therapy dog of the hashira, send post. Ubuyashiki totally asks him to visit any of the hashira who are sick or injured.

inadvertently, this is how rengiyuu happens :p

alternately: Kyo gets sick or something (or after Mugen train???) and uhhhhh who do you send to be the therapy dog for the therapy dog???? And while the hashira are trying to decide, Giyuu just. Goes over. With a basket of sweet potatoes.

(He’s polite!!!! Remember when he helped Mitsuri up??? He thinks he’s doing the bare minimum but the jokes on him because Kyojuro is touch starved and likes having friends adopting introverts)

Senjuro is probably away at school and Shinjuro isn’t doing shit, so Giyuu hesitantly sets up camp in the guest room. One night Kyo’s fever gets really high and he’s so delirious that he’s crying (not even like as an action, just frozen with illness and tears streaming down his face) and Giyuu gets SO scared and actually distressed, genuinely sad because he really doesn’t like seeing the happy hashira so sick he can’t walk and is sweating through his clothes and is crying waterfalls just from the pain and delirium. he probably ends up calling Shinobu to help, and just does everything he can to keep him comfy until it breaks.

Maybe…..bath???? Baths are good when you’re sick. Rengoku insists he’s fine, but Giyuu doesn’t even make it out of the room before he hears a splash and has to become a registered lifeguard. After that he keeps rengoku company by either sitting next to the tub and just helping him in and out, or he washes his hair for him on days he’s particularly weak

Goodness, I’m such a fan of Tomioka defending the brothers from Shinjuro tho. Can you imagine the horror of Giyuu visiting the rengoku’s because he heard Kyojuro was injured and finding out it’s from his dad, not a demon??? Like if Shinjuro had ever hit Kyojuro, Kyo probably just blocks him from landing hits after the first throw, he doesn’t attack back unless absolutely necessary. But, I’m Imagining this: scenario 1) Kyojuro occasionally gets into physical altercations with his father (most he can defend himself long enough to get away, others his father gets the advantage) but doesn’t tell anyone because he’s trying to protect Senjuro; only to be there in that one episode when Tanjiro shows up to check on him and Kyo actually witnesses his father strike Senjuro and. White screens. Because it’s devastating!!! He thought he’d been protecting his brother and he wasn’t!!!! And his brother didn’t tell him, for whatever reason!!!!! Maybe they both didn���t know that the other was getting hurt as well??

Scenario 2) both brothers get hurt, and both know about the other, and whenever Kyo has a long mission he begs Kocho or Mitsuri or Obanai to check in on his brother (they don’t need convincing). So then when Kyo is sick he’s not getting directly hurt by his dad (just left sick and neglected I fucking guess) but he can’t defend Senjuro so when Giyuu starts staying with them (and I’m imagining in this particular scenario he and Kyojuro are properly infatuated with each other, and know how the other feels, but maybe they haven’t labeled anything or told anyone) he becomes the one dealing with Shinjuro

Now!!!! This can go two main ways:

1) Giyuu holds his own against Shinjuro and either guard-dogs the hell out of the brothers while he’s there or whisks them away to the water estate

2) Giyuu holds his own, but still gets pretty beat up and is willing to deal with that to help the brothers but Kyojuro can’t stand being helpless while his lover tries to defend them from his own father and gets hurt

3) Giyuu barely holds his own, gets beat up so bad, but ignores it/doesn’t mention it to Kyojuro because he doesn’t want him to worry (like Giyuu is strong, he’s not going to die but a punch is still a punch you know) (or, also bad, what if Shinjuro became like a creep towards Giyuu because he’s a new target and isn’t family and Giyuu just ‘lets him’ be horrible to him rather than resisting him (super angst). Imagine after weeks of it, Kyo waking up and seeing Giyuu bandaging his arm from broken glass cuts, or noticed how Giyuu’s body language around Shinjuro goes from dislike to despise to defeated. Imagine Kyojuro seeing scratches on Giyuu and asking what happened but to no answer. Even worse, imagine if Kyo walked in on Shinjuro either beating Giyuu or saying some really fucked up shit or both, and THAT ANGST.

Let’s say Kyo goes to visit Shinobu to get the all clear. He returns home, finding chaos, Tanjiro and Senjuro running up to him freaking out. Tanjiro is beat up (he was trying to defend Senjuro and Giyuu) and Senjuro is crying hysterically about how he wasn’t supposed to tell but he’s scared their dad is going to kill Tomioka. Kyo kicks down the door to see his lover and his father, his father with one hand around Tomioka’s neck, the other pouring sake on him just to be a dick, Tomioka with his yukata loose, revealing injuries and marks, with a small blade in his hand just managing to hold the former hashira back.

Imagjne Kyo snapping, moving faster than light to sweep Giyuu into his arms and rush them all away to the butterfly mansion. Kocho treats the kids first, and so Kyojuro just starts cleaning Giyuu up and begs him to tel him why he let this happen to himself.

Giyuu asks him, irritated, ‘why did you?’

Like Kyojuro was used to letting his dad hurt him so he would hurt Senjuro less, but he can’t stand Giyuu dealing with THIS for the same reason

Giyuu is like ‘look man. I’m strong. I can take it. I want you to be safe’ and Kyojuro is having a conniption like ‘Giyuu this is never what I would want or expect you to put up with and you know that’

Giyuu ‘it’s been a week. How long have you and Senjuro been dealing with your father for the sake of the other? Do you think Senjuro and Tanjiro and I like seeing you deal with your father for Senjuro’s sake? Just because you want to protect the weak doesn’t mean you have to be the one getting hurt instead’

*Lightbulb*

Kyojuro reluctantly understands but tells Giyuu he won’t allow him to stay with them if he’s going to risk himself like this, to which Giyuu relies, ‘you do realize you can move in with me’

Kyo is affronted, like he would feel so guilty, but Giyuu convinced him and they smooch and stuff and yeah fuck Shinjuro

[avionvadion]

Man, I knew Black Butler was weird and a little messed up from when I watched it in like middle to early high school (kinda glad I didn’t understand the nun scene back then because I understand what Bassy was doing now and yikes. Thankfully it’s non a canon scene) but I just finished rewatching Book of Circus (which is canon) last night and while I remembered certain things (like the big prosthetic reveal and the true reason why Ciel hired the trio) I did not remember just how fucked up it really was.

Like… that entire bit with the kids and the manor just kinda had me staring at the screen in horror, and then there was everyone being (unsurprisingly) killed. Joker had the saddest death of the entire circus troupe, me thinks. That or the most pathetic. Honestly all of their deaths were sad. I actually really liked Beast.

And then the reveal that everything they were fighting to protect in the first place had stopped existing long ago, so their deaths were essentially pointless???

They were traumatized and abused and blackmailed, and they all wanted out of the situation they were in but were afraid that their “siblings” would be punished and/or would lose the support of what’s-his-face, their “father”, so they kidnapped more children and killed any witnesses and Joker had to watch as many of those children they kidnapped died because their “father” wanted entertainment and he felt too powerless to stop it and could only stand there and flinch and look away as children dragged the dead children’s bodies away, and continue on with the “show”.

And everyone just. Died. Not ever learning they were lied to, that their “siblings” were already dead, with Joker being the only one to learn that their prosthetics were made of human bone from the deceased children, and he literally died crying, horrified and disgusted and helpless, realizing what a fucked up situation this all was and that he had walked right into it, and that his found family had been sent to their deaths.

Like what the fuuuuuckkkkkkkkkk.

And then they had a little girl with braids at the end that was selling fruit look like the girl you saw get kidnapped at the beginning (a little girl with braids selling flowers) who you then watched get stabbed to death, which is maybe why Ciel tells Sebastian to buy a fruit from her.

What the fuck. What is this show.

I’m still gonna watch it but like what the fuck.

Also, I see you camera. I see what you doing with Ciel and Daddy Phantomhive and the camera angles. I know the spoilers. I see you. Tricky, tricky, but you can’t fool me! He’s on the left, now he’s on the right? He’s super extroverted and bubbly and sweet but now he’s super shy and can’t talk? I see you.