#( ''i don't need to feel guilt because YOU were the one who fucked up'' etc etc )

[hostradio]

ᴅᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ғᴇᴇʟ ʀᴇᴍᴏʀsᴇ?

does  he  feel  remorse?  what  a  deliciously  vague  inquiry.  did  he  feel  remorse  when  he  took  his  first  life?  he  was  still  barely  more  than  a  boy  then  —  he  thought  the  dirt  would  cling  to  his  nails  forever,  a  reminder  of  that  original  sin.  yet  he  felt  empty.  numb.  perhaps  he  was  simply  born  with  a  taste  for  death;  someone  who  felt  guilt  for  their  actions  would  not  go  out  of  their  way  to  kill  again.  alastor  took  it  a  step  further  —  a  self-appointed  judge,  jury  and  executioner.  he  slaughtered  the  truly  irredeemable,  plucking  them  like  unsightly  weeds  from  a  garden.  not  out  of  a  sense  of  well-intentioned  morality,  but  rather  to  sate  his  disgust  and  revel  in  his  own  power.  and  he  would  do  it  again,  if  he  were  reborn  on  earth  anew.  and  again,  and  again,  and  again.

upon  further  consideration,  he  supposes  he  regrets  his  carnage  in  hell  even  less.  they  are  all  damned  souls  and  their  eternal  punishment  is  being  trapped  in  this  claustrophobic  cage  together.  if  they  were  good,  if  they  were  creatures  worth  saving,  they  wouldn't  be  here  —  now  would  they?  he  isn't  an  amateur,  of  course;  he  doesn't  slaughter  without  justification.  (  though  alastor's  criteria  for  killing  is  quite  loose  these  days.  )  they  deserve  whatever  cruelty  he  shows  them.

ah,  what  else...  trading  his  own  soul  for  unprecedented  power?  the  radio  demon  supposes  he  dislikes  what  inconveniences  such  a  short-sighted  decision  have  brought  him  —  but  he  is  working  on  correcting  them.  and  really,  what  else  was  he  expected  to  do?  pass  up  the  opportunity  to  consolidate  his  strength  naturally  instead?  that  would  have  taken  too  long  —  he  would  not  accept  the  indignity,  would  not  waste  years  toiling  away  in  hell's  filth.  alastor's  ambition  may  very  well  be  considered  a  force  of  nature  in  its  own  right  for  all  the  havoc  it  has  wrought,  and  it  shows  no  signs  of  stopping.

so  after  much  careful  consideration,  ❝  no. ❞   no.  he  doesn't  think  he's  ever  felt  remorse  for  a  single  thing.  he  isn't  planning  on  changing  that,  either.  what  a  worthless  hindrance  of  a  feeling.

TRUTH SERUM : 5 / 10

[live-fast-pet-frogs]

HOT TAKE on the episode 6 conflict

I see posts about how Blitz and Fizz making up was too rushed and how Fizz shouldn't have forgiven Blitz because he "made him lose his limbs and burn alive" etc. and. Like, don't get me wrong, valid points, but.

1. It's been 15 years

2. It's been confirmed to have been an accident

3. It was obvious Blitz still feels guilty and super bad about it (those lines from Brandon Rogers were just *chefs kiss*)

Like, I think the main reason why Fizz was upset with Blitz in the first place was because he thought what was done to him was on purpose and maliciously. But after seeing Blitz in distress and actually apologising for it, that was cleared up. Maybe if Fizz's life wasn't good he would hold more resentment but like he said, he's doing pretty well overall and makes the most out of his situation. And he isn't alone, that's very important!! He managed to move past his trauma enough to be able to have a healthy relationship with Ozzie who "understands him". The same cannot be said about Blitz who is pretty much alone in his suffering.

I'm not saying that if someone fucked you over you need to forgive them if the person is super pitiful, but if that's the one thing that keeps you both from moving past the trauma and deciding to close that chapter? Maybe it's for the best. It's been 15 years, yo. And the conflict was based largely on a misunderstanding. Yeah maybe it was underwhelming that the feud that's been presented from the beginning of the series could have been solved by one single conversation, but that's kind of life.

Personally I have a shit ton of conflicts that could be solved if me and the other person just sat down and heard eachother out, but it's just not happening. It's realistic. Just because you technically CAN solve the problem by talking doesnt mean you will actually talk. Both people need to be in the right headspace.

So I think based on all the facts we got it's not surprising Blitz and Fizz made up. This doesn't mean they will be besties or anything, but it's a start. They can let go of the resentment and steess and guilt over the broken relationship and start moving forwards. It was incredibly mature of Fizz, and hopefully it's gonna help Blitz get more in touch with his feelings and maybe get a bit of courage in trying to keep others in his life (*cough cough* Stolas *cough cough*)

I'm prepared to get mixed feedback on this and if you disagree thats fine! Let's have a convo if you're up for it, I don't have that many people in my life who I can discuss HB with :D

[thinkingofausername]

cw: rant, don't read if you're religious and easily offended

The older I get, the more I'm fascinated and avidly repulsed by religion.

I'm fascinated with the fact that so many people view religious texts as the objective truth. They don't even question it, it just is what it is. A virgin gave birth, a man made everything and is watching us all the time and knows everything about us and has a plan for us, a man turned water to wine and cured blindness and came back from the dead, another man parted the sea, etc. Somehow mermaids and vampires aren't believable.

I'm fascinated with the fact that religion holds so much power. It's put its hand on politics, education, healthcare. It dictates things it never should've. It's spoken of as a personal choice and belief which is to be respected and yet it's an all around force involved in things it should've stayed out of.

I'm fascinated with the fact that we never outgrew it, never evolved past it. It's such a backwards and rigid thing that I honestly can't believe we haven't left it behind. I can imagine centuries and centuries ago people needed to be told killing was bad because you will die and burn forever but how does that apply to this day and age? Shouldn't it be the most reasonable thing that our actions be controlled by morals, guilt, rationality, law, etc. If someone has to threaten you with eternal damnation in order for you to be good, than how good are you?

I'm repulsed by the mindlessness of it. It reads as nothing but mass control and simultaneously giving up control. It reads as controlling mindless masses who need to blindly follow something and never question it. I believe "the Lord is my shepherd" is very much on point. It reads as avoiding taking accountability. It reads as avoiding the fact that our lives are in our control. We have no inherent purpose and no one but us is guiding our lives. Our actions have direct consequences. God didn't save that person's life, it was the surgeon who performed the surgery for fifteen fucking hours. We are conscious creatures and we should be exercising critical thinking and not giving up control of our lives because "someone has a plan for us and all will be as he has imagined it".

I'm repulsed by the fact that it's spoken of as something that revolves around loving and forgiving and yet fear is at the center of it. We should believe in God because if we don't we are forever doomed? Religion gives you permission to meddle in other people's lives an question them and judge them? Religion gives you permission to look at a person with piercings/tattoos/skull accessories/black eyeshadow and feel free to tell them they will burn in hell? Religion gives you permission to look at two people who love each other in a way your beliefs don't align with and tell them they will be eternally punished for it?

I'm repulsed by the fact that it's based on lies and a superiority complex. Religion is apparently virtue and purity and mercy and yet it's caused and justified more suffering than anything else in the world. Religion painted women as silent servants in servitude of men and for the obvious reason men liked that and used it as much as possible and they still do. Countless women were burned for being "witches", people were tortured so they would accept a religion, countless other crimes were committed because it was "in the Lord's name".

I'm repulsed by the fact that nothing stands in the face of delusion. Religion is seen as the objective truth and whoever doesn't believe it is wrong, in denial, lost, has to be saved, waiting for God to be speak to them, etc.

I'm fascinated by the fact that the world is led by a cult and no one wants to admit it.

[becauseimanicequeen]

(I'm writing this after painting for almost 9 hours, so it might not make sense, lol, but here goes...)

Reading some thoughts/theories about My Stand-In the past couple of days has been equally entertaining and frustrating.

Some made me laugh because they matched my usual delulu theories (and I love delulu theories). (The whole reason I started my tumblr almost 5 months ago was because I wanted a space to share my delulu theories on DFF, lol.)

But, some of them were just... No. No. Fuck no!

And I'm writing this as someone who was raised on soap operas, Days of Our Lives in particular (which is weird because I'm not even American). Characters being kidnapped, possessed, dying and coming back to life is just a normal Tuesday for me. And I've mentioned earlier that I won't mind ridiculous shit happening in My Stand-In for this reason.

But...

If it turns out that Joe steps out into the light and magically travels back in time to a moment before Joe 1.0's accident so he can stop that from happening... I will riot.

Fortunately, I'm pretty sure they won't do this (even though I've been wrong about story progressions before).

But if they do, it will completely erase all of Ming's progress. Even though I know how fucking painful it can be to lose people you love (and add his guilt for being a part of Joe's untimely demise the first time on top of that), that was a big part of why he was so willing to sacrifice everything for Joe this time when he got a second chance.

(Yes, Ming is still a brat and all that, but it doesn't change the fact that he also gave up his anonymity/privacy to make sure Joe would find him, put up boundaries Tong wasn't allowed to cross, made an effort to be with Joe which Joe also noted was different, blackmailed Tong and his own family to be with Joe, was ready to trade places with Joe in the latest kidnapping, etc. All of that is progress.)

Sure, My Stand-In isn't really about Ming. It's more about Joe. But the same goes for him.

Stepping into the bright light (which is often a symbol of death/near-death experiences, even though the Master said it would break a cycle, so it might not even mean that he will pass on) to end his suffering doesn't feel like the choice the character I've seen in 11 episodes would make.

Joe will come back because, to me, he does the right thing rather than what's easy. If he's convinced it's the right thing to do, he does it (sometimes without thinking). He's shown it several times throughout the series (he even helped Tong, of all people, in ep. 11 because he knows what it's like to grow up without parents and didn't want the same for Tong and May's child).

Furthermore, there is no way Joe will leave when he still has unfinished business (especially with Joe 2.0's mom).

(I mean, come on, she's had a huge fight with her son twice now. Both times right before he was hospitalized. Cut her some slack!)

Having Joe travel back in time will fall flat for me, even if he decides to seek out Joe 2.0's mom and help her care for her son.

Again, I fortunately don't think this is the way they're going with the show. Instead, I think something will stop Joe before he walks out through those doors and steps into the light.

He might hear something (possibly Ming), he might see something (perhaps the flashbacks they included in the teaser for ep. 12), or he might just change his mind because he realizes he still has unfinished business (and love for Ming) and chooses life.

Or, he steps into the light (to break the cycle), but instead of passing on, he sees everything that happened after his first accident, realizes he's no longer a stand-in (at least in Ming's eyes), and is then faced with the choice to wake up from his coma or not.

Either way, I need Joe to choose. And I need him to choose life. Because he's coming back in one way or another. Of that, I'm sure.

(Just don't make him travel back in time. Pretty please, don't do this to me, lol.)

[eff-plays]

But Astarion does seem to feel guilt/remorse when meeting the 7k spawns… idk it feels sometimes he does feel guilt and sometimes he’s just heartless.,

If this is in response to this post I made, then that post was in response to this and also some other fandom bullshit.

So I'm not saying Astarion doesn't feel remorse ever, but highlighting that at the core of his being, he is deeply selfish and self-serving, which a lot of fandom seems to either excuse away, or pretend is super good actually.

Here's the thing. Astarion does feel remorse ... in the Spawn ending. And obviously he feels no remorse in the Ascendant ending. So what happens with reglier ol' Asty? Well, he's not letting himself feel remorse. Because he's still not ready for it. He's still afraid of it. And like, yes! That's a totally logical thing for his character to do in that moment.

My problem is what people do next, and it's that they assume that his being this fucked up is actually an excuse to be a shithead to his victims and to others. That we should extend sympathy only to him and not to the people he's hurt.

"Well he was forced into it!" And? If I was forced into hurting someone else for my own survival, I'd still feel bad for hurting them? Most people would. I'm not saying Astarion doesn't, but that is distinctly how he acts. Which makes sense, self-defense mechanism etc etc. And stans agree that yes, he does supposedly feel guilt but he can't express it. So why do they excuse it when he instead chooses cruelty?

Again, I'm not making a moral judgment on him, he's a fictional character. I think what he does is (generally, I agree the reaction to the kids vs Sebastian is a bit odd) logical and makes sense for what he is. But pointing out those flaws of his, that were written like that on purpose, that are acknowledged flaws both in- and out-of-universe, doesn't make someone "gross" or a bad person. People disliking Astarion for his bad traits aren't automatically bad people who just don't get him.

He's a dick! He's written to be a dick! It's fine if people don't vibe with it or joke about killing him or do outright kill him! Will they miss out? Yes! But that's their perogative. People not liking Astarion, or hell, just doing something as innocuous as pointing out that he's kind of a huge asshole, are not uwu missing the point or being "gross" or whatever. They are acknowledging a fundamental and undisputable part of his character.

You can't on one hand wax poetic about how complex he is and how he lashes out because he's in such deep pain, and then take issue with people who point out how he lashes out and how it hurts others when he does so.

Speaking of, the thing about his reaction to the spawn kids? And how he supposedly feels bad but can't express it? He's all about killing them again! He wants to kill them! And when does he express remorse over both this wish and his actions toward them when he first victimized them? In the Spawn ending. The one that requires you to tell him no. Don't do that shit. It's bad. What you want is bad for you and for everyone else, even if it makes sense why you want it.

As a friend pointed out, it is kind of wild to see how life imitates art. In order for Astarion to get better, you need to acknowledge and push back against his cruelty and challenge his view of the world. That includes challenging his shitty coping mechanisms and reactions to things. And yet, it seems some people can't even do that.

You can acknowledge the complexities of his writing without using it as a cudgel against any and all criticism. And in particular, you can sympathize with him without attacking anyone who doesn't have the same level of sympathy, for usually quite understandable reasons.

Like I keep saying. Just because you understand how he acts doesn't make it somehow correct!

Anyway, sorry about that. I just had some thots because my brain is so big and full of worms.

[utilitycaster]

I haven't seen WBN, so I can't comment on the comparison, but on the subject of Liliana, one of my favorite parts of last night was how Matt anwsered Fearne's question about how Liliana got involved with Ludinus. The whole scene with Liliana was stellar, but that answer made it so clear that is she is in a cult. The way Ludinus found her while she was unsure and looking for answers, mentored her, and showed her the "truth" about Predathos is a classic cult recruitment story. And her reasonings for staying in the cult after having recognizing some of its faults also rang true. She needs to "protect the children", the methods are wrong but the "truth" at the heart of their mission is right, the us vs. them mentality and fear of the exandrian authorities, etc. And I can see how that can make her sympathetic. She was taken in and conditioned by a charismatic, powerful leader. But Matt and the others have also made it clear, including in that scene, that she is complicit, and that the pcs at least recognize that her guilt does not absolve her. The members of the Manson Family who committed the Tate Murders may have been indoctrinated by Charles Manson, but they still killed 5 people in an incredibly grusome manner. The fact that they were following orders doesn't absolve them of their crime. And historically, cult leadership (which Liliana seems to be) who attempt to "fix" a cult either don't make any meanful change, or actually make it worse. I, at least, am very curious to see what will have happened in that regard when she next shows up. In short, people need to learn about nuance, and maybe sociology, and the Liliana scene was fantastic.

Hello anon. Are you spying on my Discord messages. This is not an accusation but I literally brought up the Manson Family there in discussion of how a lot of the WBN fandom in that like, people see wizards of the citadel (rightfully) as The War-Mongering Establishment, but forget that actually, there exist plenty of counterculture groups that also suck and just bc the US Government does horrible things doesn't mean the Manson Family doesn't. What if the Citadel AND a lot of Witches fucking sucked.*

To get back to Critical Role though, YEAH the Vanguard has been hitting every single aspect of a cult, and look. I get that the best way to get people irl out of a cult is to just be present for them when they decide to leave and not cut them off (the same is true for how to help people in abusive relationships) but also once they start murdering I feel that is no longer the move. The Liliana scene made me deeply uncomfortable and unsettled in the best way, namely, I knew they were talking to a cult member who is in too deep for them to get her out right now, and who has done terrible things to innocent people in service to that cult. Which brings me back to the first paragraph: a very true twist on "what if both sides of a conflict sucked" is "what if the victim of a system can still perpetuate the harm of a system onto others". (Also, if we want to throw Midst into the list of things where people have no-nuance no-sociology takes, and talk more about Steel? "what if someone with power within a system can still be a victim thereof."

Like, that is a really consistent set of issues in media analysis, actually. There's a lot of "this is the good side, and this is the bad side," and "this is a victim, and this is a perpetrator" and no understanding of "both sides are bad (or even complicated)" and "wow it's almost like the way systems and especially cults keep running is because everyone except the very top is to an extent a victim, but also everyone is a perpetrator." Very few people are unfettered evildoers doing it just for kicks. You can have sympathy for Liliana and also acknowledge that it's pretty valid for Orym to have no room for that sympathy. Traumatized and manipulated people can still be shitty people.

*I'm neutral-to-faint-positive on Suvi/Ame as a ship but actually "wow both our establishments really suck, how can we make something better together" is a great basis for a ship and "oh my god no witches are perfect and right and wizards are Bad and Wrong you're so correct about everything" is a dogshit basis for a ship which I think is worth highlighting given that we are in fandom spaces here although I may come to regret this when I'm sober.

[doubledyke]

What do you think would happen immediately after BPS? How would all the parents personaly react to their disappeared and returning children? The kids would really ever throw a party, or just have to fix all the wrecks and be grounded? And Edd and Eddy would even have a face-to-face good conversation about their adventure and what they learned?

I think Eddy would need a validation from Edd more than ever, and the fear they could have lost each other would let them even more attached.

i had detailed ass theories written out for each kid as to what lies they could tell their parents and what the likelihood was that they'd be believed, etc. and then i realized that it could all be solved with a simple phone call from one parent to another lmao. and lbr, the chances that someone's kid is gonna be gone all night and they're not gonna flip the fuck out are slim to none. outside of a couple exceptions of course. i felt like a moron so i didn't include it here. i guess i like to pick and choose when to adhere to cartoon logic 😂

anyway i do think the non-ed kids would get into trouble and be grounded for varying lengths of time. they might have just enough time to have a little kiki in the lane before heading home and getting dragged inside by the ear/bear hugged/further ignored.

one exception might be rolf, because i don't think it'd be entirely out of the norm for him to be gone all night on occasion. maybe he had an urban ranger camping trip that his nana forgot to tell his parents about, or had to chase down an escaped animal into the wee hours of the morning. he enters the house, clearly disheveled and sweating nervously, but probably gets nothing but a fine howdy do from everyone inside.

eddy would be grounded for a comically short period of time because he's a spoiled brat. a couple of days tops. it's really only an attempt by his parents to appease the angry mob. all the other parents know he's the little shit stirring ring leader and berate his guardians accordingly. regarding his absence, he tells them he and the boys rode out the storm in the van and that they were fine. he accepts his punishment because telling them what really happened means telling them he visited his brother and that WOULD get his ass in big trouble. legal stuff, you know. as far as any takeaway he might have... let's be real here, eddy's still the same ole eddy at this point. i don't think the full weight of what just happened has hit him quite yet. he's still reeling about being invited to kev's for jawbreakers and whatever else preteens who don't really like each other do for funsies. i do think that while he's spending aaaaaall that time alone (again, 2 days max), in between trying on outfits for that party at kevin's, the image of edd standing up to his brother does cross his mind. edd, the coward. edd the wimp, stood up to his tormentor. and got swiftly beaten into the ground for it. yet still ran over to make sure he was okay after ed essentially saved his life. ed the dolt. ed the idiot was the one to think of pulling out the pin (literally), and blasting his abuser with a face full of door. i think the guilt, shame and embarrassment would hit him hard, along with a lot of weird mushy stuff that he doesn't really know what to do with. so he doesn't do anything with it. not immediately anyway. but i've already talked about post bps eddy a bit so i'll leave it at that.

i've seen people say that edd's parents wouldn't even notice that he was gone overnight, because... so were they. and yall know i'm the #1 hater of edd's parents so of course i agree lol. if word gets back to them somehow though, i imagine them being very passive aggressive about it. shocking, i know. i feel like they'd go their usual route and punish him by not talking to him - as in not even leaving sticky notes around the house. except for one that says something along the lines of "dear eddward, you are not to leave the house today, as you are hereby grounded until further notice." along with a scroll of chores of course. but yeah they make him wait around and wonder when he'll be able to see his friends again. probably a good few weeks or so. i've always had the headcanon that eddy would be banned from edd's house and maybe this is when that happens as well. if word doesn't get back to them- which is more likely imo because they're so elusive that no one knows how to contact them - i think edd could likely have a bit of a meltdown over their indifference. not to mention the guilt he feels in either scenario. for starters, he feels like he simply must tell someone what he's just witnessed- especially as a future mandated reporter... nah i'm kidding but i do think he'd want to tell an adult what happened to his dearest friend. but he knows it would only compound eddy's grief. outside of that, there's the fact that he feels that he never received a comeuppance of his own. eddy got thrashed by his so-called "hero" in front of his peers, and if his previous punishments are any indication, ed is very likely enduring what can only be described as suburban confinement for the foreseeable future. he, on the other hand, has gotten away with a horrible deed, with more than a year's worth of horrible deeds without so much as a scowl from his parents. he has to fight tooth and nail to resist his compulsion to confess his wrong doing, directly this time. cuz the confessional he wrote at the beginning of this ordeal is still on his desk when he gets home. it's kind of like when people say "at least if you're angry, i know you care", but magnified 100x for his entire life. i think this is when the switch kinda flips for him and he has to come to terms with the fact that his parents are at best, extremely cold and aloof. and at worst, knowingly neglectful. either will be hard for him to accept of course, because he's got an image in his mind already of what "true" neglect looks like:

ed's going in the hole, man. it's the cliche where his parents fawn over sarah and are so thankful that she's okay and "you had us worried sick, missy". only to turn to their other child who was also missing for 24 hours and proceed with the finger wagging and reprimanding. i don't think sarah would rat him out though. in fact at this point she might even try to stick up for her now suddenly not so bad older brother. but to no avail. in fact, it makes his mom angrier - she must have hit her head if she's sticking up for her troublemaking brother. "you see, edward? your erratic behavior has finally landed your little sister in the hospital. hope it was worth it." as far as they're concerned, ed put sarah in grave danger by running away. he was a terrible influence, and for that he's gotta be made an example of... to himself? i'm gonna venture a guess here that dad'll be taking the stairs again. he also boards up the basement window. they take his tv, his tapes, his comics, and all his model making supplies. his mom wanted to take his gravy tub but dad insisted it was too much of a hassle. luckily for him though, they can't take that vivid imagination of his. he spends the next two weeks staring at the ceiling, coming up with a storyline for his own comic, which he starts working on as soon as his belongings are returned. it ends up being sooner than he anticipated. he was told it'd be a month, but his mom is sick of looking at the box of his crap in their bedroom closet, so he's off the hook early. lucky feller. next time he runs away though, he's making extra sure sarah doesn't follow.

obviously i think edd and eddy, really all three eds are going to be even closer than they were before their little excursion. but i think it takes time for eddy to mature enough to truly grasp how meaningful it all was. like he knows, but admitting it is corny af. edd is probably gonna be so preoccupied with deconstructing his relationship with his parents that he's a somewhat aloof for a period. there's also a rumbling within ed, especially after seeing sarah's attempt at defending him. i don't really know what conclusion he comes to except that if he wants even a chance at having a good relationship with his sister, he's gotta get the fuck out of there asap. i do think he'd start "running away" more often, possibly staying with eddward during his burgeoning rebellion, or from time to time, eddy. maybe even rolf. he might also sleep in the van when the weather allows. anything to be away from that hell hole. i wrote in my fic that he'd move out and live with may at age like, 17 i think? literally as soon as possible lol.

[p0rchc0ll4ps3]

Thinking about fucked up angst bw Harry and Jean. Headcanons for my au, warning for suicidal thoughts and the like

Anyways they were roommates and their old roommates kicked them out bc they were just way too much so they moved into a super tiny horrible apartment bc it was all they could afford bc Harry refuses to take bribes and he's busy doing his job instead of being a good corrupt cop like the rest of them. So he and Jean are sharing this super small one room apartment with only a gas stove in the corner as a kitchen and inevitably Jean reaches his limit with Harry and can't stand him anymore so he moves out and gets his own apartment and Harry can't handle it

Harry gets all aggressive and upset and fucked up over it and all the 'of course you'd leave, everyone always leaves me'

He tries killing himself one time and it doesn't work and he just starts to get worse and deeper in the hell and completely relapses

And then he just blows Jean off entirely like I don't need you I don't need anyone I'm god fuck you fuck you fuck you

And Jean has massive guilt and super upset about it bc he feels it's his fault for ditching Harry and causing him to spiral this hard but he's done with his bullshit he's had enough he's not going to deal with him anymore

And then Harry goes to Martinaise without Jean and he gets so fucking upset like he tries to get rid of the ledger and tries to quit and tries to kill himself with the car trying to drive himself into the sea

Harry's supposed to have died multiple times. With one time when he got shot, with the hanging, with the car crash, with the amnesia, with the time he gets shot with Kim, with the alcohol poisoning being so severe, but he just doesn't die

And Jean has all these guilt complexes bc yeah he did ditch Harry in the end and he did choose the selfish path of 'I have to survive so I have to leave him behind bc he's dragging me down' and yeah technically it is his fault Harry hung himself and Harry blew him off the case and all that but also Jean is like well actually no

I worked really hard to get you better. And you kept relapsing. And you never got better.

Even though I managed, and I thought you could manage coz you're my brother basically and you're like me, apparently you don't want to live and you're not strong enough and ok fine. If you won't listen then fine. See if I care. Go and fucking rot in hell

I'm done

And now Harry's forgotten him completely and his issues seem to have evaporated and what's more this new partner of his (who Jean really sees as a better cop) seems to be doing a way better job than Jean ever could at helping Harry

So it's gonna take a LOT to mend this whole thing even if Harry does remember. Bc basically Jean and Harry go from being REALLY close and fraternal and like I'll take care of you you'll take of me etc. having both survived horrendous traumatic shit together. To just this huge rift in their relationship bc Harry just cannot for the life of him get better. He cannot unstick himself out of his rut. He just wants to keep tearing himself apart

And Jean feels hugely guilty for leaving him behind but also he just can't stand him anymore AND ALSO it's a form of self harm that he destroy this relationship further, that he completely blow Harry off. Because he knows in his heart of hearts that the closeness and brotherhood they shared before was too good to be true. That he (Jean) will NEVER have anyone who understands him on that level again AND THAT even more so he does not and never will deserve closeness like that

So yeah. Jean is basically 'go fuck yourself. Go kill yourself. See if I care. I don't fucking care. I hate you.' <- said while caring way too fucking much

[fullmetal-scar-simping]

Nowadays I find Mustang and co’s whole thing to be faux-deep. Like it’s supposed to be a compelling story about guilt and how we’re all messy and terrible, and anyone who hates this just can’t handle protagonists being flawed people.

But in practice it’s about how PoC’s brutalization and misery, often at the direct hands of white people, is ultimately meant to be the backdrop behind the white character’s growth and maturity so they can better understand the world now. And if they keep stumbling then PoC have to patiently, passively accept their continued brutalization for the sake of the white character making the right choice for THEIR agency and development.

It’s demeaning as hell, it’s like their victims don’t actually exist other than to be perfect victims without feelings or thoughts who are just punching bags for the white character to feel sad over and maybe wonder about the perspective of, but the narrative itself doesn’t actually wonder.

As an addendum to my ask; I hate how the brutalization of their entire lives and culture is just the price that PoC have to pay for the self actualization and development of a few white characters. Jeez it’s cool that Mustang found a new purpose and meaning in life, too bad his peace of mind came at the cost of so many innocents who deserved that more than him! Like why is Mustang’s growth prioritized over Ishvalan lives, how many had to burn just so he could get the hint?

Very well said. The characters of colour are backdrops both literally and figuratively. The white characters won't worry about the suffering or personhood of the (in this case) Ishvalans. At best they (and the narrative) will project whatever is most useful for the betterment of the white/light skin characters onto the Ishvalans. All while dearly protecting the pro-military-under-correct-leadership message of the manga/show.

-

This is going to be a side tangent, but bear with me here:

No doubt you've noticed the phenomenon of tumblrinas flocking to defend USAmerican soldiers and other military personnel the moment anyone (rightfully) disparages the armed sector of the American empire. They'll cry "You don't understand! These non-billionaire young Americans join the military because they were preyed upon by recruiters! They're poor and they were promised an education and a career in exchange for their recruitment! Our education system is bad and never taught them about the military industrial complex! They had no idea what they were getting themselves into!"

Which is all such bold-faced horseshit for one too many reasons.

1) The USA is a military state. It's infamously exorbitant funding towards its various military branches and projects eclipse the GDPs of entire nations. Even the most ignorant American ever knows their military is a big deal.

2) Their entire entertainment industry, particularly the mainstream movie industry, is bankrolled by the American military. All anyone is fed is either at-home copaganda (police) or abroad copaganda (military). It valorizes itself, yes, but it's not hiding that you're going to commit violence on others in order to police the world.

3) American culture is deeply, deeply, DEEPLY nationalist. It exults its own military forces as their true protectors, and the protectors of "freedom" the world over. ('Freedom' is America's fave euphemism for its global dictatorship.) You ever hear a diehard military bootlicker/active duty pig/veteran talk about their time as a professional murderer? Most are pretty stoked to do what they obviously signed up for. I'm not remotely convinced that your average USAmerican teen/young adult has never once encountered this form of jingoism. Many themselves are just are pro-invasion, pro-war as their elders.

4) They train you in combat and the use of drones, firearms, armoured vehicles, etc. Put two and two together. You don't need to be an aged academic to grasp what the fuck the weapons are for. You're signing up to kill people, even if its coated in a paint of "protecting your own people". Generations grown on shit like CoD aren't left scratching their heads about what they might potentially do to people when they sign up.

And the most important, glaring point that every single apologist just can't seem to grasp: why in the goddamn should anyone outside of the USA and the West give a flying rat's fuck about whether an American youth can afford college or not based on whether they take up arms against the Global South and SWANA? They think their lives, their nation, their lifestyles trump the lives of the rest of the fucking globe.

To them, everyone else should be ok with having their resources, their land, their people, their labour, and their lives ruthlessly extracted and mass slaughtered because it helps ignorant American cunts afford to be better capitalists/workers (go to school and have a career)! Your average American is convinced they're more oppressed (and naturally more important) than the people in the countries they sign up to subjugate! Slandering the very cogs who sign up to be cogs, who are key to allowing the war machine to continue churning black, brown, and Oceanic lives into mulch for USAmerican prosperity hits American psyches too hard.

Americans are real people, complex and pitiable, noble but exploited. Everyone else are cold hearted barbarians who could never ~understand~ The States (nevermind that the entire world can't go 5 seconds without encountering American marketing, products, news, entertainment media, aggression, etc etc etc, but I digress).

-

I bring up this real world example not to equivocate fiction with the very real, deep horrors of unending American atrocities (let us not lose perspective). But rather to illustrate the threads of imperial and military propaganda so imbedded in the mass consciousness of imperial citizens. The logic of existing societal structures informs the stories that get produced by workers, embraced by audiences, and then reinforced by fandom and merchandising. Mangahood fans are very precious about maintaining the illusion of criticality against militarism and genocide because it offers them comfort in being cogs in these real world systems too. (There's blood on the hands of everyone in the West. When it comes to tech, the blood of mining and factories is on the hands of the entire world.)

It's tooootally fine that mangahood dwells only on the humanity of Amestrian pigs for the price of painting a lousy caricature of the Ishvalans on thin paper that backdrops this lousy attempt at an "anti-imperialist" narrative. Because soldiers are people too! And yes, they are. So why are they exempt from from the direct culpability of their actions, their patriotic dogma, their ignorance that "allowed" them to carry out the extreme violence bought them security in their fascist nation's hierarchy? Why should we swallow what fma wants, that the Ishvalans ought to "know their place" and accept that their extermination will better their exterminators? Why should Ishvalans, especially Scar (and whatever other radical/anti-Amestrian Ishvalans that are implied to be around but never seen), be ok with that? Mustang, Riza, Hughes, etc needed to commit ethnic cleansing in order to feel like maybe Ishvalans are people too? That this shit is unethical? That they should have never signed themselves to become professional murderers simply because they "didn't know it would come to this"? Because they were too idealistic and self-serving?

Obviously we want flawed characters. We want narrative tension. We want to explore stories about imperialism. We don't want to pathologize war criminals in such a way that its abdicates the citizen class from their key role in agreeing to commit these acts, or back imperialism more broadly. And I'll never be the sort to champion the wretched notion that "certain topics must never be written about or depicted". But we sure as hell can point out when something that's passed off as anti-racist is in fact the total fucking opposite, especially in the ways it defends dominant racial/national/ethnic groups against the groups they thrive off of oppressing. We need to see through the sleight of hand excuses baked into media, and the ways that fans regurgitate the logic of racist systems as a way to comfortably enjoy said media without grappling with hard truths.

Many want to convince us that the hard truth in mangahood is that fascists and war criminals are human. That your ideals can lead you to do tremendous harm (it does such a lopsided job of this). These stories fail this goal when they strip the humanity of people of colour. And the fans who can't handle critique of mangahood avoid the hard meta-critique that gets made in regards to mangahood's execution of such a story. It wants to present challenging themes but flubs the execution because it always opts for the framing that grants the most grace to the people within institutions that commit genocide.

The truly difficult truth for most fans is everything you wrote so well, anon. Racialized people exist to be the dominant race's personal development. That mangahood plays this trope straight, with greater criticism against the agency and actualization of racialized, oppressed classes. Ishvalan deaths are not a tragedy for Ishvalans, but a tragedy for the Good Real People who carried it out. Killing those teary-eyed Real People in retaliation is a more grave act than killing anyone who refuses to be amalgamated into the nation. (The fear of violent resistance against an imperial nation is core to mangahood.)

Mangahood does everything it can, as a story, to conjure these rote defenses of its primary military figures. Their mass slaughter led to guilt which led to resistance against Bradley, the council, and Father. So why should the Ishvalans be seen in any other light besides a glib plot point? They'll be made anew by their killers soon anyway. Because their killers have grown, as People.

[chaifootsteps]

Hey Chai, and others who have come to the defense of him, and making valid points against Vivienne.

I know I thanked you privately for this, but I want to thank everyone else who has publicly gone on Twitter and YouTube and Threads to make valid cases against Viv.

Trigger warning for CSA, noncon, rape, bondage, etc. down below. I'm going to come out with a brief version of one of my stories.

It relates to Viv, I promise. I'm sorry this is going to be long.

I'm a CSA victim. I have been abused by men and women.

Both have been sexual and nonsexual. With my experience with a woman, it was my caregiver at the time, and I was 14 years old. I started getting periods and she signed me up for swimming lessons. I made the mistake of telling her I didn't want to go that night because of my period.

She told me that "Those lessons cost a lot of money. You're going. You need to put a tampon in."

I went to the bathroom and tried, but I hated it because at the age of 12, I was raped by my 15 year old "step" brother. Not to mention, I am just very sensitive in that area anyway.

I should've lied to her. I was stupid enough to tell her I couldn't do it. She told me to go lie on my bed and take my pants off. I did.

When she came back in, I had started having second thoughts and told her I didn't want her "helping" me. I tried getting up to stop her, but she forced me down on my bed. She pinned me down as she put the tampon in. I remember crying, screaming and wrestling with her. Even beating and clawing at her face. She didn't stop and ended up getting her way. At first I felt... "happy" because it was in. Then I started coming out to my relatives about it and they were mortified.

One of them called her out on it and she was in such denial about being in the wrong, that 2 years later, when I was 16 and had a job, she went to my coworkers and boss and asked if what she did was bad.

I wrote a short story about this experience. But it's disguised under implications and ended up being bondagey without meaning to be.

After years of therapy, I still have a noncon/dubious kink.

I don't get off on these experiences at all.

But you do.

Viv, if you got off to that Dynastie video, where a woman is screaming, fighting, while being bound and gagged WHILE THE CAMERA PANS TO A BABY CRYING AND WATCHING, you are sick.

I don't care that the context is "the man saved the baby from the woman who kidnapped him!!! There's no SA!!!!"

It wasn't uploaded to show the man being a hero. People watching that scene aren't watching it for the plot. Look at the channel's favorite Playlist. The context doesn't matter on this case. Look at the comments saying how "hot" the video is.

Stop defending her. Just stop. Fetishes aren't all sexual. Look through her Zoophobia art. Jesus Christ, look at HB and now HH. There's consensual and nonconsensual bondage in both shows and in her art. Look at the fucking patterns.

Tuca and Bertie perfectly encapsulates the complex feelings and emotions and sexuality and fetishes and kinks. Her therapy sessions, Pastry Pete's getting his karma, and her guilt/empowerment are all so special to me. That show had a perfect blend of comedy and seriousness.

Viv does not capture this at all.

Viv said Raph was an SA survivor. He claimed before that he is not. She either lied or outed him.

She victim blamed the minor Raph harassed. It doesn't matter if he knew the age or not, Vivienne. An employee of yours behaved extremely unprofessionally, and if I were you, I'd be mortified.

I'd be even more mortified to have Raph boarding extremely sensitive topics and blatantly fetishy scenes. Fizz and Blitz in a cage? Raph boarded that too.

And what was Raph's reaction to all this? A screenshot from Twitter posted on his IG story saying: "that's what all the drama is about? A crewmember having a CNC kink?" And him getting a kick out of it, saying "he wants to frame this tweet".

As someone who is into those fetishes and a CSA victim, you are not handling it appropriately, in my opinion.

Especially a nonvictim boarding a very serious scene. Someone who so casually said "it's not a pedo ship, it's a rape ship 🙄" so casually. Someone who has made tons and tons of ValAngel art.

ValAngel is NOT consensual. It's not CNC. It's straight-up rape. I'd also like you to stop liking Val art that depicts him as sexy. It's not helping your case.

The way your employees behave (Morgana included) is horrifying and should absolutely be fired.

The way you behave is absolutely unacceptable.

You don't deserve to have your own show. You and I both know you didn't watch those bondage videos for the plot. You and I both know you've been getting away with hurting others for far too long.

Amazon should pull that show away from you.

You don't deserve to be at the top.

Get fucked, Vivienne.

But also...

Thank you so much for your story, Anon. And I really, really do think her day is coming.

[stillfrownyclownlol]

Disclaimer: please please please please please please please please please please please please please please don't read this.

Actual disclaimer: CW/TW for abusive/toxic relationships and most of the things they entail. Mentions of mental, physical, and financial abuse. If you don't like any of that stuff, PLEASE don't read this.

Also, this is long. Idk...I think about toxic ships a lot 🫠

Most of these are just reflections of the characters themselves but there's some stuff in here from my last relationship.

Just to clarify, I don't see the characters as this bad, this is just for fun/venting purposes, I'm not condoning this behavior irl... It's just some thoughts I had about some of their toxic behaviors and if they were already older. I'm not saying any of them would do this in canon 🤡👍🏽 Unless their morals dropped dramatically for some reason idk

(I was groomed at age 11-12 by somebody 12 years older than me for 6 years so I think I have some experience in the toxic relationship department lol)

Aidlyn relationship HCs if they were even more of a hot mess wowie

-Most of these are just like. Red flags they have that have been amplified to the max. Like how I say Aiden getting Ash expensive gifts isn't necessarily a bad thing, but here it reaches a toxic level. Like Aiden getting Ash things so expensive she can't hope to pay him back, or things that have to do with her livelihood (a car, renting an apartment, etc etc). Then he'll be like guilt tripping her that they spent all this money on you when she literally didn't ask bro. Wants to scream at him to take it back but like...she needs it tho so she's gonna shut up...

-Its really easy to make Aiden toxic cuz like he already has some behavioural problems haha 🫠

-Lowkey Ash is the type to rip Aiden a new one when her patience snaps. She has so much she wants to get into (pushing her boundaries, being an idiot, giving her a heart attack from stress, "ruining her life" if she's really over everything)

-He would threaten or actually go through with SH for her attention 🫠 pain doesn't really mean anything for him, it hurts worse when she leaves anyways... (SO glad I'm over that)

-She ignores/avoids him for long periods of time without actually telling him what's wrong because fuck it communicating is hard and like why even bother because she thinks he won't listen anyways (GIRL you have to ACTUALLY say smth)

-But I mean who can blame her cuz Aiden is real into that toxic positivity crap and likes to ignore all the problems in the relationship and tells everybody that everything is great (she does too don't worry) (worry.)

-Shes a bit of a hypocrite sometimes cuz she likes to ignore Aiden when he's getting on her nerves but she can't take it if HE'S ignoring her for once. She says she's just suspicious of what he's doing but. You know. Not that he would leave her but like if he did try she would. Not take it very well?? Aiden would be impressed.

-he's kind of. Weird. I don't really know how to explain it he just has like. A Weird Aura. Around her especially. Says weird things, sometimes inappropriate or threatening. But Ash literally feels like she's going crazy because he's ALWAYS like that so she can't tell that it's not normal or if he's just. Weird.

-They're the kind of couple to bruise each other's wrists ♥️ /sarcasm

-He'll push her boundaries and ignore her a lot because like he doesn't understand that she's being serious and that not everybody likes the things he likes. Grabs and touches and holds her a lot even when she doesn't want him too. Sometimes she goes along tho because she thinks it's not normal to dislike touching in a relationship or that she just needs to put in more effort (I'm projecting so hard rn) Also thanks to my bestie for this one! She's so smart

-Both possessive and overprotective little freaks. I feel like Ash would kill somebody for him and then she'd just fucking spiral and have a mental breakdown and the love-hate relationship would get worse, and if Aiden did it he'd just be "lol. Lmao."

-Loss of identity and self for both of them. Aiden has that disciple complex and his life pretty much revolves around Ash. Ash feels like she fell down a rabbit hole....

-he has no sense of consequences, his self destructive behaviors would be WAY worse here and can include Ash at the same time (like going over the speed limit while they're both in the car)

-but also she like lowkey enables his behavior because she knows that to stop it she'd have to leave him and she doesn't want to be without him. She definitely excuses his behavior to other people even tho she'll get on his ass about it-

-bit stalkerish and follows her around, she knows he's doing it tho- but yeah he won't leave her alone most of the time 🫠

-She goes into nervous breakdowns. Starts throwing stuff at him and when he gets closer she'll hit him, and he just holds her until she tires herself out.

-Oh man, he's pretty much addicted to her. She saved him, breathed life into his existence, made him feel alive for the first time in years, and what a euphoric feeling that is for him.

-Ash feels like she has to walk on eggshells around him because she doesn't understand what sets him off. She's generally more worried about him doing something to other people or himself than her own safety tho.

-They're really awful for each other but like. There's really nobody else for them, they just have to not get other people involved in the forest fire that is their relationship (The rest of the gang: 🧍‍♂️🧍‍♂️🧍‍♂️🧍‍♀️)

-Aiden and Ash: *literally just standing next to each other*

Aiden: *Looks at Ash*

Ash: ...?

Aiden: *Predator instinct* :) *Bites her cheek*

Ash: !!! MOTHERFU-

That's the relationship basically.

[empressxmachina]

"Innocent Guilt" by me | (Also on DA)

Fam. Y'all. Chat. Dawg. I shouldn't have gone here and gotten this far because my focus has been cooked because of it. But I've been led down a lovely path of some top-tier playthroughs, dubs, parodies, stage plays, musicals, and the cursed world of the fan works from Objection.lol and elsewhere, including the few from this hyper-specific corner of the internet that I know exist. 😉

So, what's this visual about? Well, the law is already complex with corruption and general crime, and what better societal conflict to emphasize the drama of it all than size differences!?

(A bunch of context and the stock references are under the cut.)

Prior World building:

Let's just say that... after some time of the smaller souls slowly climbing the societal ranks to fully equal/equitable rights, respect, and treatment, someone somewhere said, "Fuck that," and all the small souls are suddenly dehumanized if not eradicated for being inferior.

Phoenix, while actually having a solid circle of peers, disappears, with said circle fearing the worst of him. He, at his lowest, somehow ends up by Miles, who takes him in.

I do think that shifting sizes is possible in this tale, but I didn't apply that for these two.

Of course, it's not all calm, and them learning about and dealing with each other, their pasts, present desires, and future outlooks is puzzling. It's a game of debates and mysteries; we love Discourse™.

I'm intrigued by a system where the smaller folks can be "protected" by being bound under some tall soul's "ownership," like a pet, with Miles considering convincing Phoenix to apply for it under him for his safety and Phoenix denying it every time... until he may have to or feign it, such as...

What I had in mind with this scene itself:

Miles insisted on Phoenix's expertise and views being useful for a case as part of an investigation. Phoenix is (physically) brought in his classic suit to remind others of his once-renowned history and skill. Yet, despite him being truly useful as Miles imagined he'd be, he's not taken seriously by anyone else. Perhaps the defense attorney got in a literal mess, needing to be bathed away in this moment, and here's they are in his regal mansion, discussing all that occurred in that tumultuous day, all going on a roller coaster of feels:

the case as a whole (with an updated case/autopsy report, of course),

what society deems fair and false,

past mistakes made,

the shared disappointment of and the later reassuring each other of their mutual value,

etc.

It could also be a scenario ending in the same vein but starting with Phoenix going off on his own for some time, fighting hubris to remind himself that he's a person, just to come back distraught and be brought back to a harsh reality.

Obviously, a bitty bathtub couldn't be provided, despite Miles' big bank account, because in this broken society, that would publicly imply that Miles has a pet petite person, and anything bad that could be point to Phoenix, regarding his whereabouts or social status, is, well, bad for all involved!

Nor did he already have one because he wasn't very social enough to invite all sorts of people, let alone anyone, over until recently.

Do they and the powers of friendship and love win in the end for redeemed rights? Find out on the next episode of the Steel Samurai! Imagine what you want, but I like a happy ending!

All of this aside, while I know this could've been made better (especially with shadows because I just can't be bothered), I'm proud of myself for getting this far!

Though, I will say, I don't think I'd ever be pleased with Miles' hair bangs/fringe. The original media have quality character design and are a lewk, but, likely due to his form being cropped, I couldn't angle or visualize the best angle for the hair bits. I hope that they were at least recognizable enough to detect that he was him, disregarding the hard carrying the classic suit and the jabot/cravat do.

The same goes for Phoenix, his suit, and his Sonic the Hedgehog hair, but that came out more rationally to me. particularly the latter if he's implied to be washing it.

How about these "unnecessary... feelings?"

Sketchbook Pro

vignette

"Whisky on a Glass Cup" - Photo by cottonbro studio from Pexels

"Coffee cup" - Photo by lifeforstock on Freepik

"A Shirtless Man Looking at a Bathroom Mirror" - Photo by Eren Li on Pexels

"Person Sitting on Window Sill While Holding Wine Glass" - Photo by cottonbro studio on Pexels

"man, ..., moody, ..., emo" - Photo on PxHere

"Red necktie with blurred background" - Photo by and on Freepik

"suit, hanging, jacket, covering, garment, clothing, fashion, retro, urban, brick" - Photo by Marko Milivojevic on Pixnio

"Gold and White Chandelier Near Gray Curtains" - Photo by Skitterphoto on Pexels

"texture, pattern, red, pink, cloth, ..." - Photo on PxHere

"Round Golden Badge" - Photo by tasper on Openclipart

"Kraft Paper A4/C4 size String and Black Washer Envelope Mockup on light grey background. High resolution." - Photo by PrimeMockup on Adobe Stock

Circa October 2024... Yes, really. Happy Unnecessary Feelings Day! (That wasn't planned, but sometimes things work out.)

It's fresh because I had to tell somebody about this ASAP, or I'd crash out, thus I moved it up the queue. I'm not the only one who sees the vision, right? This vision is surely one to be vast and expanded, right!?

You don't have to tell me that I should just write a story. Yes, I should, but I can barely commit to anything that isn't a one-off. A girl is busy.

If you know my history, this is likely going to become a collection for which I'm going to need some pun name. (Or, I could just call this "Ace Attorney Fanaticism" like with my X-Files trilogy, but that's boring.)

Phoenix Wright, Miles Edgeworth, Ace Attorney, and related characters/themes © CAPCOM.

There's a bit of me that wanted to give this picture some "Turnabout" title, but I can't think of a good one. Do y'all have any ideas?

Where is AA7, for crying out loud!?

[sophieinwonderland]

On The Survivor's Network Admin's "Apology"

As many know, the Admin of the Survivors' Network made an awful post about me back in November. In the recent document from the Survivors' Network, it included the admin's "apology" to the server, and I wanted to address that.

The Original Post

Pictures of the original post are at the bottom under the Keep Reading. TW in advance for fakeclaiming, transphobia, misgendering, bullying, etc.

The "Apology"

When the post resurfaced this year, the admin had this to say in the Survivor’s Network: i am going to be fully transparent. i am the one who made that post, on November 28th of 2022. it was a shitty post. but ugh. i don’t know. i was in an abusive situation i was still in denial about and taking my anger out where i felt it was righteous. i had been trying to stay away from syscourse for similar reasons, but i’ve got a part i failed to keep track of there. and that is shitty. i was just so pissed that, just like she is now, she was only afloat after some terrible shit coming up because of claiming oppression she neither understands or actually experiences. i was so fucking upset, as a trans person, that she had repeatedly waxed about being and identifying as cis and then as soon as it benefit her claimed that she was oppressed in the same way trans people are. it fucking hurt to see that and to see so many people just accepting it— because that was why she said it. not because she actually believed it, but because it put her back in good standing to have a few more made-up oppression points. and then i did the Really Shitty thing and i decided to break through the Sophie Wall and talk directly to the host. and i got really fakeclaimy, and i regret the fuck out of that. if i could go back and have not made that post, i would. it’s private now, and, for full transparency, if any of you want to see the full post i can send it but in honestly ashamed by it now. i don’t care whether or not sophie is experiencing what she says she is, i don’t want other people to see that and be hurt by it. i just. ugh. i was being an idiot. in the place i am now, i’d never make a post like that. i feel really bad about it. it was immature and a very obvious display of lack of inhibition on my part. it does highlight where i think i’m still in need of s lot of growth, though, and reminds me i do need to continue to work with [alters name that I am not going to include in this incredibly public post, for system privacy] in therapy. i do also want to apologize to you all for doing this. i wasn’t leading by example. i wasn’t being mature. i was spitting vitriol, something that especially now, more than ever, with my current religious/spiritual growth and my personal growth in therapy, never feel is okay. i used to be a very hateful person towards people that i felt were wronging me and/or my community, and this is no exception to that. i regret it deeply, and can only rectify  that by promising that i have been growing and will continue to grow as time goes on. i’m really sorry. and i’m sorry that i didn’t deal with that post sooner— i would have if i had remembered it was there. i actually need to go through all my oldest posts, some of them are pretty bad.

Who the apology was for...

To be clear, this was not an apology to me.

It did not express any regret whatsoever at how it might have affected me. They express that they're concerned about other people being hurt by it and that they're sorry to the Survivors' Network for not leading by example. But they don't seem overly bothered by its impact on the person it was about.

Which is fine. I don't care. I'm not asking for an apology, and certainly wouldn't want them to fake one for my benefit. But since that one ask suggested I was given apologies, I suspect they might have mistook this post made in the Discord server... which wasn't intended for me, didn't express guilt over how it affected me, and wasn't in a place I could even find it unless I had a spy in the server... as an apology to me. I just wanted to establish for the record that this apology was worded in a way that it was directed at basically everyone but me.

Reasons are given in the document why they chose not to reach out and thought it would be a bad idea. And while those may have truth to them, this post reads as if they don't feel guilt for how this might have impacted me.

Maybe I'm wrong, but if that is the case, then I'm genuinely thankful they didn't try to give me some fake apology they didn't mean. I don't need and don't want it.

That's not what I wanted to talk about though.

Yes, Cis-Identifying Headmates With Different Genders Than The Body's AGAB Are Still Oppressed In The Same Way Trans People Are!

Let's zero in on this...

i was so fucking upset, as a trans person, that she had repeatedly waxed about being and identifying as cis and then as soon as it benefit her claimed that she was oppressed in the same way trans people are.

Do you think that the reason trans people are oppressed is because cis people just really hate the word trans?

That if trans people just called themselves by a different label, they'd totally be accepted in society?

No. Of course not!

And likewise, just because cis-identifying headmates with different genders from the body's AGAB don't identify as trans, that doesn't mean that they aren't oppressed in the same way trans people are.

That doesn't mean they won't be directly impacted by the way society treats any GNC people, and even much of the transphobic legislation being passed right now!

Transphobia isn't actually hatred of just the people who call themselves trans. It's hatred of people with different genders from their AGAB and GNC people, regardless of if they call themselves transgender or not.

On Why I Identify as Cis...

First, the most obvious reason I identify as cis is because I am. As far as I'm concerned, my inner form is my true form. And it's always been assigned female. What our shared body's assigned gender is doesn't matter to me.

But I will make a confession: the reason I talk about being cis so much, the reason I flaunt it, is to make a statement.

There was a very infuriating bit of sysmed gatekeeping last year that argued that headmates can't identify as transgender if their gender is the same as their AGAB.

I found this incredibly hypocritical given that almost all systems have non-transgender headmates with differing genders from the body's AGAB, but they're not forced to label themselves as transgender.

At the same time, they also don't publicly call themselves cis despite feeling cis on the inside.

So my goal of bringing up being cis frequently is to challenge accepted norms for systems. To normalize publicly identifying as cis headmates, and by extension, to normalize headmates with the same gender as the body's AGAB identifying as trans.

If people have a problem with trans-identifying headmates with a different gender from their body's AGAB, then they should also have a problem with cis headmates with a different one. And that means the vast majority of the plural community.

I call myself cis, all the time, to get people to think seriously about how we conceptualize gender when it comes to systems.

But identifying as cis doesn't mean I don't experience gender dysphoria while fronting, nor does it magically stop me or any other cis-identifying headmates from being victims of the same oppression we would face if we identified as transgender instead.

On Having Room To Grow

It was nice to apologize to the other people who saw it.

But this apology still doubles down on some of the most harmful points. It denies the oppression systems with cis-identifying headmates face, and practically presents our gender identities as less valid than those of trans-identifying people.

And in this way, they fail to understand a huge part of WHY their original post was bad.

Yes, the fakeclaiming was awful, and could easily send people into derealization spirals. The language itself was cruel and verbally abusive.

But let's not ignore the huge problem with the premise itself. The whole ideology it's built on that the only way GNC people can be oppressed is by explicitly identifying as trans. That discrimination against systems for our genders isn't as bad as discrimination against transgender people.

And this is something that I sincerely hope the user and anyone in the system community who agrees with them, can grow out of.

The Original Post:

Oh, and no one in our system has ever used 4Chan. 🤷‍♀️

[ipromiseimawriter]

anyone who knows me well knows that i tend to run on spite. for me, it's like if hope got its teeth knocked out a hundred times and got up for a hundred and one. one more round. one more throw. it's indignance. anger. baring my teeth. it's my father's fault for handing me his anger. because even through my fear and caution and cowardice, i became something he can't avoid - someone who gives a fuck about other people.

whatever you run on -- use it to fill your tank. provide for your people. reach out to your community (and yes that includes people you don't know, people you can help overseas and next door).

i can't pretend like i know what to do. there are genuinely helpful posts circulating around in terms of supporting yourself and getting medical appointments and doing the fucking work. i'll get those around too. like a lot of people, i'd hoped this would change things. but now that it hasn't (and it has, and it has), there's so much fucking work to do. i know there's a lot of that for myself, too.

last night i couldn't help but despair, even before the election results fully came in. body keeps score, etc etc. november is a weird personal month for me as is, and then the election happens. i don't need to get into that rn, we all know.

the world doesn't revolve around me. never has, never will. but i felt the pit fall and i felt myself slipping off of a precipice i've hooked myself onto. i'm not proud of that, but i can't hang onto that guilt. i know so many people were/are feeling fragile and grievous and like they're out of options.

but i went home after work and laughed with my friends. i talked to my roommate. i paced around my room and listened to music all night before bed, and woke up with something a lil newer and angrier. a new shard on my shoulder. i hope you can tap back into what moves you. i know you will, actually.

the grief isn't over. there are people in danger, all around the fucking world. but everything else continues.

[shintin]

Gunpowder Dreams

Chapter 5 (Glory-Hole)

↳ Vash the Stampede x Female Reader

They didn't know a wounded man would show no mercy when they took the best thing he ever had away from him. What did they say? Don't poke the dragon if you can't take the heat; if you do, expect the flames.

Genre: explicit smut, toxic relation, romance, angst (Mafia au).

Warnings/Tags: +18, NSFW, Alternative Universe/Modern Setting, no spoilers from manga and anime, dominate Vash the Stampede, sexual situations, dub-con, graphic violence, gore, angst, toxicity, gun-play, manhandling, cunnilingus + fellatio, creampie, fingering, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, hair pulling, too many smut scenes, emotional trauma, and etc.

Song Recommendation: Nancy Sinatra - Bang Bang

Note: This one has dub-con.

Chapter Index - Next Chapter

"I can save you."

Something shook you, inflicting waves of pain that pierced your consciousness.

"Wake up; I can save you."

The voice cut through the dense fog swirling within your mind. Blackness surrounded you, and it felt like you were adrift in a galaxy devoid of stars while an icy chill crept through your body, serving as a foreboding sign of imminent peril.

A hand firmly grasped your arm, administering another rough jolt.

"There's not much time left. I need you to wake up. I'll help you."

A slender beam of light pierced through the unending darkness of the room, creating a fissure. Your attention was fixated on the light while someone persisted in shaking your body, causing the crack to widen until a dazzling radiance seared through your eyes.

Fucking flashlight!

You let out a groan as a faint glimmer of understanding slowly surfaced. The firm grip on your arm tightened, and the voice urging you to awaken amplified. Once more, you were vigorously shaken, and the harsh movement finally jerked you into full wakefulness. Your eyes flew open, and although the reason was still unclear, your heart was beating out of your chest, pounding against your rib cage with the same intensity as the person shaking you.

The features of an elderly, weathered face with dull blue eyes behind black-framed glasses came into focus, only a few inches away from yours.

Startled, you instinctively recoiled, blinking at him with frenzy and bewilderment. "What's going on?" you choked out. The reality hit you like a thunderbolt in seconds, and you were swiftly reminded of the man's identity. After the ordeal of being kidnapped and enduring a brutal beating from Knives, he tended to your injuries and provided care.

Doctor William Conrad. The man who was currently in your face, staring at you with urgency.

"I'm going to help you. Please, get up."

The spine-tingling fear seeped through the haze and grew more intense as his hand seized yours and forcefully yanked you forward. A startled yelp escaped your lips in immediate reaction.

"I know you don't know me enough, sweetheart, but we must hurry before Vash returns."

With a gentle tug, Conrad pulled you once again, and you noticed the locked door of your room wide open. How had this man sneaked past the armed men and reached you? Was this another mind game orchestrated by that pervert Vash? Yes, pervert. The memory of how he had pressed his every sinew against you a few days ago was still fresh in your mind, and you wanted to rip off your traitorous skin for finding his warmth pleasant. The guilt of enjoying the proximity of a freak who had kidnapped you due to your father killing his partner—Nicholas, who happened to be a man—weighed heavily. A man, you idiot! He was interested in men!

You berated yourself for being foolish, as he likely felt nothing while pinning you against a wall and leering at your cleavage. And wait! The situation grows even more fucked up because, somehow, the fact that he didn't become aroused bothered you more than being trapped within his limbs.

WHY THE FUCK WERE YOU THINKING ABOUT HIM IN A SITUATION LIKE THIS?

Oh, deities! These feelings of yours had no logical justification, aside from the possibility that prolonged isolation and lack of sunlight had shrunk your brain or perhaps your subconscious harbored a cunning scheme. Because, just maybe, if you could entice him... there might be a chance...?

For fuck's sake!

You and your female body offered no advantage in this war. Ugh! Since when had you sunk to such levels of degradation? No wonder self-revulsion coursed through you. Sure, you weren't exactly spoiled for choices, but seriously! Attempting to seduce your kidnapper to find a way out? Had you truly lost your mind?

"Hurry up, sweetheart."

You resisted, and in an effort to stall, you asked, "H-how did you pass the guards?"

"I'm their family doctor. Now get up, please."

Leaving you with no other choice, he hoisted you up, hastening your progress while making an effort to maintain silence.

"Where are we going?" You were nearly frantic, and confusion was muddling your thoughts. Mainly, you couldn't figure out why the hell he was helping you. Wasn't he also involved with the Mafia?

It was then he looked at you, wearing a deranged smile. "I'm going to take you somewhere safe. No one will ever find you, I promise."

A lump lodged in your throat, and you struggled to swallow as the gravity of your situation grew increasingly apparent. No one would ever find you. While he might be rescuing you from Vash and his unhinged brother, it didn't guarantee that you wouldn't require saving from him either.

"Why are you doing this?" You breathed, your gaze darting around the basement, desperately seeking a way out of this dire predicament. There appeared to be only one visible exit, and he was guiding you directly toward it. For all you knew, he would lock you in a box and feed you through a glory hole. The image disturbed you so profoundly that you thought you'd rather take chances with twins instead.

"I became a doctor because I genuinely enjoy caring for people. But the hospitals never let me care for my patients the way I want."

Your heart dropped, and he peered at you with an unassuming innocence like a little boy admitting his crush to the prettiest girl in elementary school. His hand slipped into yours, holding it as though he were on the verge of kneeling down and proposing marriage. A frosty sensation embedded beneath your flesh, burrowing deep like a parasite. His hand was damp with sweat, but all you could feel was ice. This man… he was evil. Touching him felt akin to making contact with a dead body. You wanted to slide your hand from his and wipe it against the fabric of your t-shirt.

"I want to take care of you, sweetie. I-I'll treat you better than these people ever will. I promise I'll be good to you."

Your mouth opened, but no sound escaped. The fuck did he expect you to say to that? Yes, please, whisk me away to your creepy lair. Nothing would make me happier?

You wanted him to let you be free, not into the arms of another creep that would trap you for the rest of your life.

Stepping backward cautiously, you gingerly pried your hand from his grasp. His expression fell, and a wounded look flickered across his pale blue eyes as he watched your fingers slipping away from his. He reacted like he had bent down on one knee, and you had just declined his proposal.

"I-I'm not sure that's a good idea. If you do this, he'll know it was you," you cautiously voiced, attempting to reason with him. You didn't want to reject him flat out. His mental state seemed unstable at best, and you had no inkling of the true capabilities of this man.

Shaking his head, he snatched your hand angrily and pulled you forcefully. You suppressed a cry as he impatiently explained, " If we hurry, he won't suspect a thing. I have a plan; I just need you to come with me."

When he continued to drag you after him, your instincts to resist surged within you. Pain be damned, you snatched your hand out of his hold and scrambled backward. "No, I don't want to go with you," you snapped. His face morphed into a snarling demon, and the coldness radiating from him crystallized. This man was dead on the inside. He resembled nothing more than a rigid, decaying corpse.

You felt the burst of pain lancing across your cheek before you registered him moving. Your head whipped to the side, and fire erupted on the side of your face. Gasping, your mouth popped open as you instinctively clasped your stinging cheek, feeling something wet coat your fingers.

Pulling your hand away, you found several drops of blood tainting your skin. He backhanded you with a fucking ring on. A wedding ring. A mix of disgust and anger churned in your stomach, but you kept your mouth shut.

This had become exceedingly precarious, and you no longer had the luxury of doing or saying whatever the hell you wanted without severe consequences. And as much as you were tempted to throw down with the old fart, you weren't sure if he was armed or not.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Think.

His breath came in heavy, ragged gasps, and his ruddy face displayed clear signs of fury. It felt as if you were gazing into the eyes of a fucking zombie, animated solely by the malevolence dwelling within. "I would lavish you with the treatment of a queen. You would want for nothing," he spat vehemently, slashing a hand through the air as he emphasized his final word.

You nodded your head. "Okay," you placated gently. "But you're scaring me just as much as they do."

His posture straightened, and you observed the anger drain from his gaze like it just now dawned on him that he was acting like a goddamn lunatic. So quickly, his face shifted from a state of hysteria to one of sheepish understanding. "You're right; I'm sorry," he acknowledged, stepping forward. "I'm just… if I'm going to get you out safely, we need to hurry, and it seems you're not cooperating." You tensed but refrained from retreating as he apologetically grabbed your hands. "I'm sorry I slapped you, my dear. I'm just trying to help you. Please, come with me. I promise you'll be happy with me."

The panic and surge of adrenaline reached perilous heights, causing your heart to thump painfully against your chest. It was fucking hard to concentrate when he was staring at you so eagerly, and your entire body felt like it had been mercilessly tossed through a fucking grinder. However, amidst this chaos, there lay a potential opportunity to escape if you played your cards right. You needed to get out with as minimal noise as possible without alerting the terror twins, which left you with two options: hit this clown over the head and flee or let him take you along while seeking an alternative way out. Regardless, one thing remained certain—you were not staying here.

"Okay," you whispered, wheezing in a breath through your constricted lungs. When he noticed your visible relaxation, he quickly followed suit, victory sparking in his icy pools.

Taking hold of your hand once more, he guided you towards the metallic doors, creating a cacophony of clattering sounds. Suppressing any resistance, you trailed behind him through the corridor, shutting the door behind you. He led you directly to the staircase, urging you to keep your steps light as your legs propelled you at an alarming pace. Halfway down, you teetered precariously, nearly colliding with a potted plant. Grasping and holding to the railing, you managed to steady yourself and stifle any loud squeak that threatened to escape. You felt like throwing up, the adrenaline and fear intense and biting at your nerves.

Taking a left turn, the two of you headed towards the living room but swiftly veered into the nearest door upon hearing heavy footsteps approaching from above. Locking eyes with the doctor, your heart raced impossibly faster, and your hands quivered violently as you entered the room.

Casting a glance around, a shiver ran through you, induced by the cold and darkness of the place. The entire room was saturated with shades of gray, lacking vibrancy or vitality. The light fixtures suspended above emitted a disconcerting hum, their surfaces tarnished by layers of dust and the remnants of deceased insects. There was an undeniable absence of anything that could breathe life into this place.

On the wall, a framed picture caught your attention. It depicted a woman with flowing black hair standing alongside two blond boys. Squinting your eyes against the dim light, you studied their features, trying to determine which one was Vash based on their overall appearance.

Goodness, could this be their mother? Surveying the room, you took note of the bed, the sizable bookshelf, the wardrobe, and the dressing table. Evidently, this was her personal space, and it appeared untouched since her passing.

Instead of a typical bedroom, the room gave off an eerie, haunted vibe. The thought of meeting your demise in this space was dreadful, even though it appeared that she had, since the air carried reminiscent of death itself.

As you moved past a table cluttered with empty flower vases, some broken, a dangerous thought crossed your mind. If you could grab one of those shattered fragments and strike him in the jugular, he would be silenced, succumbing to death within minutes. With that threat eliminated, you could seize the opportunity to escape. You weren't entirely sure of your plan beyond that point, but there would hopefully be somewhere you could find help.

With one quick glance, you noted that his unwavering gaze fixed straight ahead, intent on his mission to take you for his own. You grasped a sharp shard from the table. However, as you approached to strike, he detected your presence and turned just as you aimed for his neck. The shard sliced across his nape instead, deviating from your intended target.

Blood spurted onto your face, and you turned away, trying to shield your eyes from the crimson spray. Amid his screams, he retaliated by delivering another forceful backhand, launching you to collide with the unforgiving ground. You landed awkwardly on your spine and yelped from the impact. The agony radiated through your body, momentarily stealing your breath away, and he was on you before you could think of what to do next, let alone breathe.

"You bitch!" he bellowed as his hands tightened around your throat, forcefully slamming your head against the wooden parquet. Stars exploded in your eyes, preventing you from seeing anything for several seconds. It felt as if the back of your head had been cracked open, but the hands constricting your windpipe jolted you out of the abyss of torment.

Panic took over, so intense it felt like acid in your veins. With sheer desperation, you clawed at his hands, the force behind your actions leaving behind a trail of bloody scratches in their wake, but they didn't deter him.

Conrad's face was contorted into a pure rage, his pupils dilated until they were nearly black, and his teeth bared, every single yellow, crooked tooth on display. You thrashed and fought, but his grip remained unyielding. And it was then that your life played out before your eyes, flickering like scenes from an old movie reel.

Your mother bestowing upon you one of her sweet smiles whenever you uttered something ridiculous. Amelia, her head thrown back in uproarious laughter at something you said or did, revealing the endearing gap between her front teeth—a feature she despised but you cherished. The various lovers came and went, each with their own flaws, some more egregious than others. And then there was Vash, the fucking wrecking ball of a man who had led you into this inferno of searing flames, reducing you to mere ashes beneath its weight.

You should have …

As darkness overtook your vision, leaving only a faint glimmer of light, Conrad's grip on you suddenly loosened, and something wet and warm flooded over your face. With a desperate gasp, you opened your mouth, urgently drawing in a breath as your lungs expanded. The taste of copper flooded your tongue, and you inhaled so deep that your eyes bulged from their sockets. It took a few moments to register the shocking discovery that only half of Conrad's head remained suspended above you, a mere second before his lifeless body collapsed onto yours.

Your throat became a warzone, where coughing and a gurgled scream fought for dominance over your throat. Impossibly wide, your eyes beheld the grotesque sight of the doctor's disfigured head now resting upon your shoulder while a pool of crimson slowly seeped into your clothes. The constant coughing fit continued to wrack your body, causing near-convulsions as a swirl of emotions overwhelmed you. Trapped beneath the weight of a corpse, blood trickling into your mouth, you grappled with the horror of the situation. More of his brain matter clung to you than remained within his own exploded skull.

The fragrance reached your nostrils before its owner emerged. The distinct scent of leather permeated the air, accompanied by a subtle hint of smoke. Yet, there was something else mixed within, an aroma so stifling that it would typically prompt an eye-roll if it weren't so oppressively suffocating.

"Stop freaking out. You're fine." Vash's figure bent over you, staring down at you with annoyance and a tinge of anger. "Get used to the sight of dead bodies, love. Looks like you'll encounter plenty every time you attempt to escape."

Grabbing the scruff of Conrad's collar, he yanked him up and suspended him over your face again. An additional deluge of bodily fluids and cerebral fragments cascaded over you. Barely closing your eyes in just enough time, you used your hands as a barrier as Vash laughed and wrenched the body off of you, dragging it toward the corner.

Finally, the pressure eased, and you were able to breathe without coughing, but then a low whimper leaked past your lips. Your body instinctively curled inward, coiling into a tight ball, trying not to think about how blood was in your mouth yet thinking of nothing else.

You gagged, your stomach revolting from the thought. Abruptly, a forceful nudge against your shoulder interrupted the retching, momentarily halting your distress. His boot. Angry at the insult, you proceeded to spit on it, pure red splashing on the black leather. Two birds with one stone—a fuck you to Vash and an attempt to rid your mouth of Conrad's blood.

Vash seemed unfazed by the act, though. "You're going to be fine. Our Doc was trying to kidnap you," he remarked in a nonchalant manner.

"Just as you did. So, you're saying you deserve the same fate, right?" you hissed, your body beginning to go into shock. You trembled violently while a creeping numbness ran up your arms and legs, gradually enveloping them.

Stay calm.

Breathe.

Just breathe.

As Vash's laughter filled the air, you clenched your eyes shut and worked not to freak the fuck out. His presence closed in on you. You knew that he'd crouched down, hovering above you. A warm breath grazed your ear, accompanied by the persistent sound of his chuckles.

"You have a smart mouth on you, but it's not so smart in this world. My advice? Dumb it down until the only words you can speak is 'Yes, Vash.' That way, you'll last much longer."

A solitary tear escaped, tracing a path down your cheek, while a stifled sob threatened to rise from deep within your throat. "Isn't that what I'd want? To not last long? Better than suffering forever, right?"

He sighed wistfully. "You're right. You're going to die here anyway. I guess it's not a matter of how long you last but how bad it hurts when it's over," he murmured, infusing his words with a somber reflection.

Your trembling lip betrayed your emotional state. Vash let out another sigh, his tone tinged with renewed frustration. "Come on, get up. There's work to be done since you're so eager to die," he commanded, his impatience evident. Rising to his feet, he took a few steps away before glancing back in your direction, expecting you to follow his lead.

In a dazed state, you mustered the strength to sit up. The pain began to resettle in your bones, asserting its presence once more. "Can I at least take a shower first?"

There must be something deeply awry within you to pose such a question. However, if faced with the prospect of death, you would prefer to be drenched in your own blood rather than that of another wretched soul.

Vash's gaze scanned your body, stained with the color of blood, and a grin stretched across his face. "Of course, love. You may shower. I find it more satisfying to discipline a clean brat than one drenched in disobedience."

Fuck.

*

Having him join you in the shower would undeniably be a more bearable scenario than the alternative — being commanded to draw back the curtain and wash yourself. At the same time, he sat on the toilet seat, legs crossed, wholly engrossed in his precious gun. Neither you nor your bewildered mind could comprehend why you entertained the thought of his gaze fixated on your ass when it was evident that he derived greater joy from counting his dear bullets rather than observing a woman drenched in the remains of a deceased man.

Still, you maintained your back turned to him as the rivulets of blood cascaded down your skin, and you nearly puked with the sight of bone fragments and chunks swirling towards the drain.

Already drowned in the piles of troubles that seemed like you couldn't stay away from, you focused on avoiding thoughts of the impending torment awaiting you.Undoubtedly, he possessed an entrepreneurial spirit when it came to devising novel methods to unsettle and disturb you. However, deep down, you harbored the knowledge that whatever pain he had in store would not be lethal. As the maniac had emphasized, he required you alive to provoke your father—an ironic twist of fate indeed.

One thing was clear: this bastard would not permit you to escape unpunished. However, despite the fear of the unknown, it didn't deter you from vigorously scrubbing your skin with whatever shampoo and bar of soap you could find long after cleaning the blood. These seemingly innocuous acts of self-harm served as a means for you to assert control over your body when everything else in your life seemed beyond your grasp. Perhaps, in some way, you hoped that these toiletries could cleanse your physical being and eradicate the weight within, leaving you hollow and devoid of any feeling.

With a fleeting glance, you observed him from the corner of your eye. Resting upon the fucking toilet seat, he exuded elegance adorned in a meticulously tailored ensemble of crisp black garments. His shirt was partially unbuttoned, revealing glimpses of tattoos on his neck and chest. Yet, amidst his immaculate appearance, a striking and irregular gash marred the center of his chest, adding a mysterious element to his otherwise impeccable appearance.

Your eyes settled upon his deceptively innocent countenance: his big, droopy eyes, soft spiked hair, and pale pink lips, and something stirred within you, a fleeting spark that caused a subtle flush to grace your cheeks. However, swiftly averting your gaze, you turned your head away.

While you diligently washed and rinsed your hair, making an effort not to bend too far over, you couldn't help but notice him reclining with his arms crossed over his chest. He watched you intently, a mischievous amusement gleaming in his eyes, like someone enjoying himself in a private, dirty dance at an exclusive strip club. You couldn't deny a part of you relished the attention, though a twinge of shame accompanied the awareness. Shame on you, you attention whore!

You shuddered as you shut off the faucet and noticed how quickly he rose from his seat, snatching your towel from the hanger before approaching you. Instinctively, your hands moved to shield your breasts and front, only to be met with his chuckles. "I thought I made it clear that your nipples don't interest me, love," he remarked, and you noticed his gaze lingering momentarily on your chest before he tilted his head. "Although I must admit, they are rather captivating." A twinkle gleamed in his eyes as he playfully winked, his lips curling into a knowing smile.

Your eyes widened, momentarily frozen in surprise, as you registered what he had just said. Clutching yourself tighter, your cheeks flushed with embracement and anger. And then, to your surprise, with great care, Vash carefully unfurled the towel and held it out, creating a soft and protective cocoon within his hands. A mixture of emotions danced across your face — astonishment, repulsion, and a touch of defenselessness.

As Vash waited, your heart thudded in your chest, the rhythm quickening like that of a wounded animal wary of any display of affection. It was there. The situation's intimate nature heightening the electric current of awareness. Your gaze oscillated uncertainly between his eyes and the towel he held, your mind struggling to make sense of the sudden turn of events.

He nodded in acknowledgment, and with a subtle tremor in your hands, you slowly lifted your arms, yielding to his guidance as he threaded them through the openings of the towel. Your body briefly tensed, a wave of vulnerability sweeping over you as you felt the tenderness of his touch. It was as if the act of being helped and cared for by him had momentarily stripped away your self-assuredness.

In that instant, you became keenly attuned to his closeness, his mere presence, and an unspoken connection that seemed to materialize between you. Your breath caught in your throat as his hands lingered longer than necessary while his eyes met yours. For a suspended moment, time stood still. Then, his gaze settled upon your scars, jolting you back to reality, causing you to cringe and retreat from the depths of what you were about to get drowned.

Having seen that, Vash took a step back, allowing you space to adjust the towel to your desired comfort. While tying the robe, you found yourself momentarily dumbfounded, your voice stifled by a flicker of something deeper that had emerged—a burgeoning sense of familiarity.

Now, perched on the edge of your bed, your damp hair clung to your forehead and neck, mirroring the weight of the tumultuous emotions that had stuck themselves in your throat. The usual vibrancy of your eyes had dimmed, eclipsed by the shadows of stress and fear that cast over your face. Each passing second stretched into an agonizing eternity as you anxiously awaited his verdict on your punishment. Your hands trembled, restless, as they fidgeted in your lap while beads of nervous sweat formed on your brow.

In stark contrast, Vash appeared undisturbed, radiating an aura of tranquility. The asshole simply stood there, casually observing the pipes that snaked around the room. His gaze remained fixed upon them as though these seemingly mundane serpents possessed an inexplicable allure, as if they were the most mesmerizing objects in existence.

A flurry of unsettling thoughts passed through your mind, each more distressing than the last. What the fuck he wanted to do to you? The uncertainty gnawed at your insides, coiling into a tense knot in the pit of your stomach. Your heartbeat accelerated, hammering in your ears like an unyielding drumbeat, overpowering all other sounds.

The walls seemed to inch closer as time ticked, closing in on your lungs. You stole furtive glances at him, but his unreadable demeanor only heightened your anxiety, leaving you even more unsettled.

Your breaths grew shallow, coming in gasps, as Vash's focus shifted from the pipes to your worried face. A sly grin stealthily spread across his lips. That bastard! His eyes, brimming with mischief, bore into you, further heightening your fear. With a mocking tone, he uttered words that sent a chill down your spine: "Don't worry, love. We're just going to play a game."

Every syllable that escaped his lips reverberated through you, fueling the restlessness within you, like ants in your pants stoked by a raging fire. And then, it happened again. You found yourself feeling like helpless prey ensnared in a cage with a feral predator, incapable of evading the imminent threat that lurked within the confines of the room.

Your words, against your will, spilled out in fragmented stutters as you inquired, "Wh-What sort of game?" Your eyes were wide and unblinking, just like the mounting unease welling up within you.

A wicked smile crept across Vash's lips as he responded, "One of my favs." Evil oozed from his tone, further fueling your apprehension. Nasty motherfucker!

With a deliberate purpose, he closed the distance, settling beside you on the bed. Instinctively, you shifted away, creating a physical space between you, as if this small act could protect you from the blond menace.

However, the devil would not relent until he was sure you were firmly ensconced in the depths of his hell. Drawing nearer, his presence loomed over you, so close that you could feel his breath caressing your cheek. In response, you tightly shut your eyes, desperately attempting to suppress the urge to bite down on your quivering lower lip.

"Russian Roulette," he proclaimed, his voice calm yet brimming with a disturbing thrill. The words bleak like a macabre specter.

Your heartbeats raced with each other, your mind reeling with dread. Vivid visions of a lethal game flickered before your eyes, each one hauntingly distinct. With a trembling hand, you instinctively grasped at the fabric of your towel.

Summoning your bravery, you looked at Vash with a blend of fear and defiance coursing through your veins. "No," you murmured, your voice a whispered declaration. Despite the tremors coursing through you, your tone resonated with unwavering resolve. "I won't participate in your fucking game."

Vash erupted into laughter, his voice echoing in the nearly empty room and darting back to you even more powerfully. His eyes narrowed, the delight maintaining as he registered your resistance. But a creepy grin soon returned to his face, revealing his true sadistic personality

. "Oh, my naïve love," he sneered. " You misunderstand. You have no say in the matter. The game has already begun."

Perfect! A ruthless man entangled you in a dangerous game.

Vash's fingers coiled around the leather grip of his holster. In one swift, well-rehearsed motion, he extracted his colt from its dormant position and clicked the metallic hammer.

"See this, love?" Vash's voice was low and steady. "This here colt of mine, she's a beauty. And she's got six rounds in her chamber."

Reaching into his pocket, he retrieved several bullets, presenting his open palm to you. "But as you can observe," Vash continued, his voice laden with a subtle taunt, "we only have five bullets. That means one round remains in the firearm." Paying no mind to your horrified expression, he casually returned the bullets to his pocket. Tilting his head, he stared at your frightened face, moistening his lips with his tongue, a contented smile playing across his mouth. "The rules are simple," he declared, picking up his colt, rotating the cylinder, and disengaging the safety catch. "We shall take turns firing."

Your terror peaked when you witnessed him placing the barrel of the gun against his own temple. Your heart throbbed relentlessly in your chest as though it could burst through your ribcage. Time seemed to slow to a crawl as you held your breath, your eyes locked onto the terrifying sight before you.

With a firm hand, he pulled the trigger.

Click.

The ringing noise was meant to valse across the room, but it was drowned out by your own piercing screams. You tightly shut your eyes, and your entire body trembled uncontrollably. Too much—far too much. This shit was unbearable. Fuck it.

His hand made contact with your neck, and your eyes snapped wide open.

A genuine smile adorned his face. "I must say, I'm deeply flattered. I didn't know you cared about me this much," he mocked, but his smile twisted into a sinister one as he extended the gun toward you. Shaking your head, you moved your hands behind your back, signaling your refusal to accept it. However, he grabbed your arm, pulled it forward, and firmly deposited the frigid metal into your palm.

"Rules are rules, love. I can't make an exception," he stated, tilting his head to gaze at you—your eyes filled with tears, your lips trembling, strands of damp hair clinging to your cheeks. With a gulp, you shifted your gaze from the gun to his face.

"What? You thought just because I said I want to keep you alive, I'll ignore your disobedience?" he said and chuckled. "I told you not to cause trouble, yet you proceeded to do the exact opposite. You have disappointed me. While I may be a kind-hearted man, my patience, like anyone else's, has limits, and you pushed too many buttons at once."

"I-I didn't have a choice. The doctor, he... he forced me," you stammered, despising yourself for stuttering in front of this monstrous being, but you didn't care about your dignity as long as you could live long enough to have a chance to survive in this madhouse.

"Love," he murmured, his fingers caressing your neck, encased in black gloves that always hid his hands. The leather seared against your skin. "Let's not undermine my intelligence. If you truly didn't want to comply, you could have screamed, and someone would have come to your aid. After all, Conrad was not even armed. So, please, do not spoil the fun and continue playing along."

A frigid shiver coursed through your column as the shock settled in. Then remembering what he did to Elendira left you with no option but to participate. Reluctantly, your trembling fingers made contact with the pistol's chilling surface as you held it. The weight of your decision pressed down upon you as if the entire world had shifted onto your fragile shoulders.

Casting a final glance at him, you beseeched him with your eyes, silently begging for mercy as he withdrew. Yet, his gaze held no trace of compassion, only a twisted sense of gratification. Uncontrollably shaking, you held the gun up to your temple with a heavy heart.

In that haunting moment, you closed your eyes, uttered a whispered prayer, and pulled the trigger. The room descended into a deafening silence, broken only by the stark knowledge that you, too, had survived. Yet, this fragile triumph couldn't prevent the shattering of your composure. Overwhelmed by relief and emotional exhaustion, tears welled up in your eyes and cascaded down your cheeks.

A ghastly grin stretched across the corners of Vash's lips as he invaded your personal space once more. Masking his true intentions with a sham display of concern, he extended his hand in an attempt to offer solace. However, as his touch made contact with your skin, involuntarily, you pulled away, your tears mingling with fear and disgust. His facade was transparent; you could recognize his attempts to exploit your vulnerability.

Vash's voice permeated the room, tinged with a sickly sweet tone. "There, there," he murmured, his words oozing with insincere empathy. " It's alright, love. You're safe, at least for the time being."

Your sobs shattered the air, a poignant expression of your struggle to fathom the extent of his cruelty. The tears served as more than just an indication of fear; they were also a cathartic release of anger, frustration, and an urgent plea for freedom. Keep your shits together, girl!

A wicked gleam glowed in Vash's eyes as he carried on with his bizarre act. "To motivate you, if I happen to die today, my men will set you free without hesitation. So, let's not stop now, shall we?" he coaxed, his voice dripping with a corrupted charm. "It is my turn once more. May your fervent prayers come to fruition, and I meet my demise, for otherwise, you shall endure yet another round."

He and his mocking priest tone.

You wouldn't be upset at all if his brain splattered onto you and necessitated yet another shower.

Without any pause or second-guessing, Vash brazenly pressed the gun against his own temple, and with a self-assured smirk, he pulled the trigger, his eyes twitching with a disturbing sense of fulfillment.

Nothing.

No fucking thing.

Watching in the eerie silence, your heart sank with disbelief, disappointment, and a glimmer of lost hope. As much as you had hoped for a different outcome, a chance for freedom from this torment, it eluded you yet again.

With each passing moment, Vash's smug expression grew more pronounced, his gaze fixated on yours, savoring your anguish. You comprehended that your turn had resurfaced, and despite the overwhelming odds stacked against you, an ember of determination ignited within your heart. Something shifted within you. This bastard may not have a plan to die tonight, but he could do nothing to stop you.

You embraced a newfound acceptance of your fate in a departure from resistance or yielding to fear. Surrendering to the Lady Death, you positioned the weapon against your forehead and quickly squeezed the trigger.

Nothing.

Again.

No.

Why?

A hushed silence permeated the room, and within its depths, a wave of hope surged through you. Like a delicate seed of possibility, it found its place within your heart, taking root and blossoming.

You survived. Once more, you dared to believe that perhaps, just perhaps, you had been granted a chance to turn the tables on your tormentor. If it wasn't you, then it could very well be him. Your spirit, once dampened, now flourished with a sense of supremacy.

"Happiness suits you," Vash said, extending his hand to retrieve the gun. "Your smile reaches your eyes."

He didn't mean it. He didn't mean it. He didn't mean it. You knew. Shitweasel!

"Go to hell!" you spat, devoid of any shred of compassion in your words.

"Stone cold, love. Stone cold," Vash retorted, his tone mockery. "You're breaking my heart."

"Monsters don't have a heart!" you exclaimed and had to ball your fists to control the thrills tripping your heart. You were almost too distracted by the anger to understand the significance of what you were saying.

"Is that so?" Vash responded, unwavering in his gaze, as he pressed the gun against his own throat.

Fire.

You watched in horror and disbelief how the room fell into oppressive silence. The gun had clicked empty five times already, a grim reminder that the bullet in the chamber was reserved for you.

You felt your body tensing, your breath catching in your throat as a wave of paralyzing fear swept over you. Your condition jolted you to your core like a physical blow. Standing on the edge of death, every fiber of your being screamed in terror. The line between life and death blurred, and you found yourself teetering on the edge of an unfathomable abyss.

Vash lowered the gun and shrugged. "Look what happened, love. Maybe your little Gods have abandoned you too," Laughing sickeningly, he said. You felt nauseated as each repulsive word seeped into your ears. When your own father abandoned you, telling these truths face-to-face was cruel, even for someone like him. You had to fight back tears because you knew that no matter how much he hurt you, he would never understand the magnitude of the pain he had caused. You wouldn't satisfy him. Not anymore.

Driven by an urgent desire to end this fucking misery, your trembling hands reached out, desperate to seize the gun from his grip. But your attempts were thwarted as Vash's hand closed around yours. You looked at him with burning anger and tried to free your hand from his; the iron grip refused to release its hold. "Didn't you want to play? Now it's my turn, and I want to finish my fucking round."

"Yeah, but I don't want you to win," Vash's voice dripped with malice as he offered an ultimatum chance. " As proof that even monsters have a heart, I'll offer another option. It's up to you whether you kill yourself or I devise another punishment. But—"

Refusing to give into his vicious desires, you resolved to take matters into your own hands. It would be much better for you if you faced the gun and put an end to this torture. Nonetheless, you got hit with a fucking new rule. A nasty note reverberated from Vash's voice, a reminder of what lay ahead. "...So, choose wisely, love, because if anything happens to you, your sister will suffer the same fate."

You were overwhelmed, your mind clouded by heavy fog, and your sanity was tested. You faced a harrowing dilemma as your love for your sister was entwined with your fear. You could never bear the idea of Amelia suffering the same fate as you.

So, you were caught between self-preservation instincts and the desire to protect her. However, your choice was clear. Every time, it was clear. Your loved ones always took precedence over yourself, and Vash seemed to know how to fucking finger the shit out of your weakness.

Having loosened your grip, you lowered your head in acceptance as you surrendered yourself to the dark thoughts of the man before you.

"Mm," he chirped in delight. "Such a good girl."

You pinched your eyes shut, not even a single strand of hope threading throughout the hysteria.

He tsked. "You're very predictable, love. We're going to have to work on that."

As you sat motionless, a realization gripped you: escape from this house was an unattainable feat. He was smart, but the scariest part was your inability to anticipate a single one of his thoughts. You felt like a dumb rabbit while he, as cunning as a fox, remained one step ahead.

"You're not touching me," you hissed, your voice wobbly and rife with unshed tears.

"What you gonna do if I do?" He directed his gaze toward the ceiling and the pipes. "I'm glad it's the dead of night, and this room is almost soundproof. So, you won't disturb anyone's peaceful slumber."

Driven by instinct, fear propelled you to your feet as you hurriedly made your way to the door, frantically grasping the handle and repeatedly tugging it up and down.

Open!

Please, open!

As you wrestled with the doorknob, attempting to force it open, a sturdy steel arm suddenly encircled your waist and lifted you off the ground.

"NO!" A piercing scream erupted from your lips as you kicked futilely at the space, fiercely resisting his grip.

"Oh, yes, love," he growled, swinging your body towards the wall.

You grunted from the impact, leaning your back against the wall; this time, you used it as leverage to kick against the bastard of a man. "Let me go, you fucking creepy-ass fuck—"

"Keep talking, and you'll just make it worse."

You screeched, out of breath and growing weaker, as he pinned your flailing body against the wall, rendering you powerless.

"We had a deal, didn't we?" Vash asked in a panting tone.

A tear spilled over your lid. And then another and another until you were on the verge of sobbing again. "We had, but—"

"Don't cry, love," he cooed. "It's going to get so much worse."

His breath skated over your cheek as he pressed himself further into your body, just like in the previous encounter. Towering over you, his larger frame enveloped you completely until all you could see, feel, and smell was him—his warmth, the distinctive scent that was uniquely his, and the way his black-clad body surrounded you.

"I like you scared," he whispered, sending shivers down your core. "I like you begging and pleading. Crying out for imaginary Gods to save you."

You felt the touch of leather on your face, and you flinched away. His fingers delicately traced a path from your cheekbone to your hair, gently tucking stray strands behind your ear. "I like you trembling beneath my touch, uncontrollably."

"You're sick," you snapped, doing just that. You were shaking from head to toe, and you couldn't seem to stop it.

"You think your pleas will only arise when your life is at stake, but you are mistaken," he grunted, letting out a deep, mocking laugh. "In due time, you will beg for my touch, craving it desperately."

"That'll never happen," you hissed, glaring at him with all your might. Or at least you thought you were. The dim light emanating from the ceiling lights shadowed his eyes. It felt almost like being far-sighted. Your face was so close to something, but clarity evaded you. The shadows were a part of him. He carried them around.

"It's time to punish you, and I've thought of the many ways I could do this," he said, ignoring your jab. It only infuriated you more that he found your lack of consent so inconsequential. So… worthless. "I'll be nice this time." You opened your mouth, but he cut you off with a deep growl of warning, "But only if you reciprocate, love."

Your teeth audibly snapped together, the sound punctuating the air and drawing yet another amused grunt from him. Your pride took a hit, and you wanted to knee him in the balls for it, but you couldn't lift your leg an inch as you tried.

"You freak! What are you going to do?" you spat out, the stutter of your words in sync with the beat of your heart. His searing breath brushed against your cheek as you felt the gentle glide of his lips tracing along your jawline. You swallowed but nearly choked from how dry your throat had become. Those lips descended to the column of your neck, skittering along until he paused on the spot right below your ear.

"I'm gonna play with my toy," he declared right before his teeth clamped down. Your back arched involuntarily, repulsion and pleasure marrying in your nerves, sending misfires to your brain. All coherent thoughts escaped from your mind, leaving behind only primal instincts to guide your actions.

But, somehow, as if he was electrocuted, he distanced himself. His gaze shifted downwards towards the collar of his shirt. The cross was there, concealed on his chest. His eyes changed momentarily, remorseful, maybe disgusted by what he had become. As if he was lost, struggling to find himself, but instead, his eyes found you—the one with the answers.

You wished you could show him hatred, but seeing your pleasure, he groaned, his teeth piercing as his tongue lapped at your flesh. Your mouth opened, and a silent scream suctioned away just as his mouth did the same, drawing in deep like he was drinking the essence from your body. And then, with a lingering sensation of pain, he withdrew, his teeth grazing your skin as he released his hold, leaving behind a stinging reminder.

Your hands pressed into his chest for stability or to push him away. You were not sure. Though your question was quickly answered when instinct coerced your hands to curl, gripping his shirt tight and anchoring yourself to him as if he was your lifeline. When in reality, he was the one killing you.

Severe shivers wracked your body when he licked a wet path with his tongue, descending from your neck toward the juncture where your scars resided. He paused, and it felt like your body teetered precariously over a sharpened blade. You held your breath, the anticipation rattling your bones. And then he was biting down again, pulling an animalistic sound from your chest. He did this, over and over, leaving behind a trail of bruises that marked his territory along your neck and across your shoulder.

You were breathless by the time he pulled away. "Good girl," he finally exhaled, his own voice airy. Somehow, that made you feel worse. You wanted him to hate it as much as you should've. "You like this, don't you?"

"I…ah," you panted, trying hard to conceal the depths of your desires because you were revealing more and more as he went further. You were fucking seconds away from reaching out and grabbing his cock through his pants and begging him to fuck you since you hadn't been touched by a human for a long time, let alone a man, and this thing in front of you had the power to make you momentarily forget everything, despite being the very reason for your need to escape reality. Then something occurred to your mind.

You couldn't explain why you did what you did next. You would ask Gods later. But at that moment, you were so overcome with a tsunami of emotions that you reached up and bit his tattooed neck. Hard, and you didn't care, just bit harder. Maybe you wanted to hurt him back, give him a taste of his own medicine, make him feel whatever you felt.

Regardless of the reason, he didn't take kindly to it. His hand wrapped around your throat, exerting pressure as he forcefully pushed you back, simultaneously tearing himself away from your body. He was squeezing tightly, but you couldn't care less. You felt justified. If he killed you here and now, at least you could say you left one last mark on him.

He growled low, a sound of frustration and an unnamed emotion that eluded definition. "I'm beginning to think you like to be punished, which means I'm just going to have to do better."

Before you could react, he hoisted you up, effortlessly tossing you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

"Fucker!" you snapped, your fists pounding against his back as you thrashed your exposed legs. You were not a potato.

A sharp smack to your ass was his only response. "Love, the wind can do more harm than what you're doing."

"Want to see my teeth again, asshole? I'll sure to grab your ugly face this time."

"Keep telling yourself that, but deep down, we both know you can't resist stealing glances at this face," he retorted, amusement coloring his words. Snarling, you resented his fucking unruffled calm. And because he was not entirely wrong. No, dumbass, he was wrong. He must be wrong.

More curses flooded out of your mouth, but they were cut short when he dragged your body down his front until your legs were wrapped around his waist, and he was cradling you to his chest. Oh, fuck this. You lifted your hands to scratch his face, maybe do a little eye-gouging, but instead, you just squealed. He swooped you backward, your stomach bottoming out as he set you on the bed, flat on your back. Your towel came undone, leaving you inadequately covered when he hovered over you, his arms positioned on either side of your head as he braced himself over you. You swallowed, tears pricking your eyes. "What a gentleman! Letting me look at your obnoxious face as you murder me," you mouthed off, forcing the words through your tightened throat.

You really needed to shut the fuck up. But you couldn't seem to stop yourself. Apparently, when you were in a life-threatening situation, all you could manage to do was make it worse. While some might perceive it as fearlessness, you could only assume it as an act of sheer stupidity.

Balancing himself with one hand, he reached behind him with the other. As you prepared to unleash more insults from your mouth, his arm emerged, revealing a tightly gripped gun.

Another audible tick of your teeth later, you were back to being choked silent with fear.

"I told you not to run away. I told you to follow the orders," he stated, his tone bled dry of emotion. "Typically, I would choose to crack open your skull and forcibly implant the words in your brain, but it seems you require a different method to learn your lesson."

"Okay, I'm sorry," you rushed out, your eyes widening as he pointed the gun at your chest. "I-I'm really, rea—"

"Shh," he hushed. "You're not sorry yet, love. But you will be."

A myriad thoughts ran through your head on what you could possibly say to get out of this. You were sorry clearly, wasn't good enough. "You're going to shoot me?"

Your bladder threatened to explode, and knowing that you might die in a puddle of pee brought tears to your eyes. A bewildering cocktail of emotions engulfed you. Fear had gripped you tightly, its icy tendrils coiling around your heart, as you found yourself trapped in this fucked up situation. Yet, amidst the suffocating grip of fear, there was a grotesque sense of fascination. You couldn't deny the perverse allure that came with the feeling of being trapped, as if a part of you savored being confined, even as it elicited a thrilling sensation. WHAT? What the fuck was wrong with you?

"You gonna taste this gun one way or another," he responded, his tone dripping with impatience. He punctuated his response by dragging the gun down through the valley of your breasts. The weapon continued its way down your stomach, stopping at the edge of your towel robe's tie. "Will you take the bullet or the gun?" As he inclined his head, his neck tattoos stretched, emphasizing the presence of the pulsating veins that wound their way toward his enigmatic mind. Meanwhile, the small golden loop on his left ear playfully winked at you while he patiently awaited her response.

"Are you fucking serious?" you panicked, your hands gripping the ends of the tie tightly, the fabric moist with sweat. He must be kidding, right?

"I was going to take it easy on you, but when you act like a rabid puppy, you leave me with no choice but to tame you," he said, tracing the tip of his gun along the edges of the towel. "This is your last chance, or I'll do as I see fit."

Your lip trembled, and a single tear slid down your temple. "Please, don't do this."

He cocked a brow, and the act was damning. He appeared so damn unimpressed with your pleas, causing another tear to trace the path of the first. You had to survive, didn't you? You had to endure long enough to witness this man's demise with your own eyes, didn't you? It couldn't hurt that much, could it? Just focus on counting, fixating your gaze upon the cracks in the wall, and listening to the faint chirping of crickets emanating from the pipes.

You gulped and answered, "I-I'll…"

"You'll what? I need you to be loud and clear."

"Y-your…your gun…" you stuttered, words all dropping dead on your dry tongue.

"What about my gun?" he inquired, sliding the weapon beneath the towel and directing it towards your bellbottoms. " Say it, love. Utilize that sharp tongue of yours that knows how to hurl curses."

With your eyes tightly shut, you released your grip on the tie, your hands trembling. "I... I'll... I'll take the gun."

"Take off your towel," he ordered, moving back a little. "Now!"

Sniffing, you finally listened. Hooking your thumbs into the towel's belt, you undid the tie. You fought the urge to cover yourself. Because you knew that the act of hiding would bring him greater delight than being almost entirely naked before him. He dug the thrill of conquering through struggle, and you were determined to deny him that win. You were only able to slide it a little before the muzzle of the gun got in the way.

He took the hint, grabbed the towel, and harshly moved it aside. More tears followed suit as you stuck your thighs together.

"Open your eyes and look at me."

You did as he said; your gaze got tied with his. Yet, as you stared into his eyes, you noticed something unexpected. No hatred, resentment, or even lust reflected in them. Instead, it was a vacant look devoid of any deeper meaning. It dawned on you that violence was his only language, his sole response to the world around him. He had not learned any other way to navigate life. Perhaps the only bright spot in his existence had been his beloved, cruelly taken away.

Maybe, but maybe in a parallel world, you thought, he could have been a different person—a better person, surrounded by love and family. In that alternate reality, you might have looked at him with a second glance, for his eyes, deep azure pools, his lips, and his face were reminiscent of something celestial, qualities that angels would possess, not those cast out from heaven.

Vash's touch shocked you back to reality, causing you to startle, as if you were about to leap out of your own skin. You had to beg your bones to stop shaking.

"Next, your hands," he commanded, jerking his gun to emphasize his directive. Reluctantly, you moved your arms away from your body and let them drop onto the sheets with a huff.

"Stunning," he murmured, his eyes tracing over the curves of your body. He leaned over you again, his mouth kissing the last bruise he left on your shoulder. "Do you know what these mean?" he whispered, pressing another gentle kiss to a different spot on your skin.

You shuddered beneath his touch, electricity sprouting from the point of contact and dancing across your skin. You didn't answer, but he didn't seem to mind. "Those marks," he stated with a sense of ownership, "signify that you belong to me."

The tip of his tongue darted out, trailing your flesh as he moved down toward your breasts.

"Don't—"

His teeth pierced the cigarette burns on your left breast before you could finish your futile plea. You gasped, squeezing your eyes shut as he left another mark on your skin. "Now, whenever you see these burns, you'll remember me, not that wretched excuse of a man who's supposed to be your father," he said, claiming your old remnants of torment as his own, leaving his mark upon them.

Once satisfied, he moved to the other one, leaving his own hickeys on your scars. And all you could do was just take it. Because you preferred to associate these scars with his sorrowful souvenirs rather than the memories of your father. To be Frank, in some inexplicable way, he seemed to be aiding you in moving past the deep-seated hatred that had festered within your heart for years. It was as if he was sucking that venom out of you, diverting your wrath towards himself. Did he do this on purpose, or was it merely an unintended consequence of his cruelty?

When your body was well and abused by his teeth and tongue, he lifted and forced your thighs apart. You strained against him, but it only hurt you in the end. He was too strong. With a firm grip on your waist, his clothed forefinger traced the delicate crease of your groin, starting from the juncture of your thigh and trailing downward toward the very center of your being.

Before his finger reached your clit, he tantalizingly ran it up and down your engorged vulva, coming perilously close to your pussy. The sensations were overwhelming, and you felt deeply ashamed as you realized your body was responding to his touch. You wanted to cover your face because you knew he was feeling your body's betrayal.

"You're drenched," he rasped out, his lips still wet from his saliva. The sweet Vash with kind eyes had vanished entirely.

"That's called discharge! Your gay ass wouldn't know that!" you snapped, hoping your lie would shoo him away.

He responded with a smile. "As much as I hate to say this to you, I'm no stranger to a woman's pussy and what it feels like when it weeps for me."

Your eyes widened. So this fucker had slept with women too? It seemed he had explored every possible avenue. Disgust curled your lip as you retorted, "Last time I checked, most girls weep because they're upset. Maybe you should take a hint."

He let out a chuckle. "Love, that's exactly what I'm doing."

With a firm grip, he spread your legs apart, baring your pussy to him, where the arousal glistened from within. He muttered a curse under his breath as his eyes hungrily devoured every detail of your being. Another tremble of your lips had you biting down on the traitorous flesh.

With one finger still positioned on your pussy, he raised the gun to your face with his other hand. You flinched back, squeezing your eyes shut and letting loose a startled yelp. "Calm down," he reassured you, his tone strained. "I just want you to suck it."

It took several seconds for his words to register. To process that he didn't pull the trigger and you were not dead. As the comprehension dawned, your eyes flew open, and you shot him a fierce glare. "Why the hell—"

He tapped the gun's tip against your mouth, effectively cutting you off. The remainder of your words dissipated into thin air as he glided the gun across your lips, almost as if he was painting them with lipstick.

"Suck," he ordered, his tone deepening with finality. Closing your eyes against more tears, you opened your mouth and obediently opened your mouth, allowing him to guide the gun between your teeth. You squeezed your lids tighter as you twirled your tongue over the cold metal, cringing from the nasty taste.

"My good girl," he said, pulling the dripping gun out, a trail of saliva following until it snapped.

Your entire body locked when the cool metal slid against your clit. You flinched against the foreign touch of an incredibly dangerous weapon. A wave of pure terror washed over you, and it took all your strength to keep from full-on sobbing.

Holding a gun to your head was far less intimidating than it being held between your legs. A gunshot to the head would bring instant death, but this? This would be slow and painful. Torturous.

He leaned in, close enough for his warm breath to caress your core. You raised yourself, yearning for a clearer view. He met your gaze at that moment, peering up at you through his long, thick lashes, his perfect blue eyes sparkling with delight.

As you parted your lips to question what he was doing, he stuck out his tongue, saliva pooling to the tip and dripping off onto your pussy.

"Seems like you can never be too wet, can you, love?" Sitting up, he traced circles around your entrance with the gun, the metal slipping against your skin.

What if he shoots you mistakenly?

"Oh, my God, please do—" This time, your words were cut off as he pressed the gun past your folds. Just the tip, but enough to close your throat, only allowing a startled squeak to escape.  

He laughed cruelly. "Don't hold back. Moan if you want."

You'd snap at him if you weren't frozen solid. You couldn't look away. Helplessly, you just watched him push the gun inside you, your rounded eyes barely processing what you saw and felt. Everything so fucking surreal.

Slowly, he worked the gun inside you, eliciting both pleasure and pain. You clenched your jaw, shuddering from his ministrations but refusing to make a sound. You were determined not to grant him the satisfaction.

He gradually worked the weapon halfway in before retracting it to the very tip, granting you a brief moment to catch your breath. However, that respite was short-lived as he buried the entire barrel deep within you. Your hands clenched the sheets as you sucked in a sharp gasp and let your head fall back, unable to bear witness any longer, drained of the strength to endure the sight.

This was so, so fucked up. Beyond fucked up.

As the gun pulled back and penetrated you once more, a noise did slip through as a wave of pleasure rocked through you. FUCK!

"Good girl," he breathed. "Now open wider, love." His free hand nudged against your thigh. Without a thought, your thighs instinctively parted further. Another praise, but you barely heard it over the beating of your heart.

"I can feel how tight your pussy is. The way it clings to my gun when I slide it out—exquisite."

You bit your lip, but it wasn't enough to hold in the forthcoming moan. Or the one after that. You could hear the suctioning and slurping noises as he fucked you with his gun, and shame filled you in response. The embarrassment nearly overrode the fear. But neither was more potent than the pleasure your body was compelled to submit to.

When he angled the gun in a particular way, he hit the spot inside you that sent your eyes to the back of your head and an unchecked moan to slip free. He growled in response, further fueling your arousal. Your back arched as he skillfully continued to target and stimulate that pleasurable area.

Your hole grew impossibly tight, biting into the gun barrel when his gloved hand gripped your thigh in a bruising hold. Your heart jumped when he leaned closer but only clamped his teeth onto your inner thigh. You cried out from the sharp bite, but it quickly morphed into a moan, sending waves of ecstasy coursing through your body as he hit that spot again.

His mouth sucked your thigh, and his movements quickened until you felt the familiar stirrings of an impending orgasm settled low in the pit of your stomach.

"Please," you begged but didn't know what for. He relented, briefly tearing his mouth away, only to clamp down again, this time lower but still frustratingly distant from your center. Too far away. Sadly far away.

"Tell me what you learned, love," he demanded, looking up at you, his mouth wet from his biting. The sight made your heart drop deep into your belly, right to where the gun was driving into you.

"Not to bite you?" you guessed, your voice trembling as if you were high. He answered by biting your thigh in a punishing grip. You cried out, the pain blinding. He loosened his jaw, allowing the pain to blend with pleasure.

A primal, guttural sound slipped out as he thrust the gun deep. "Are you going to make me ask again?"

You opened your mouth, but no answer came out. Your silence allowed you to hear his warning loud and clear. He cocked the gun.

"Okay, okay, fuck," you relented with a terrified hush. "I-I learned not to run away from my cage." Those words brought tears to your eyes because uttering them aloud made you feel truly trapped by this man.

"Who owns your life, love?"

You closed your eyes, resenting the lie on the tip of your tongue, ready to spill forth just like the tears streaming down your face. "You," you whispered, the bitter taste of the words clogging your throat.

A battlefield raged in your body.

One part of you craved his touch, longing for him to make you come. Meanwhile, another part of you harbored a dark desire, wishing for him to turn the gun upon himself and fire it.

You glanced downwards at him and noted how he was staring at you. And you had the terrifying realization that he saw through your deceit and didn't believe your lies.

"You have ten more seconds to come, love. No more chances after that," he warned before nipping at your thigh again. "Rub your clit."

You hesitated. The last thing you wanted to do was allow this man the satisfaction of making you come and, even worse, helping him do it. In your mind, he didn't fucking deserve it. And though your body was strung tight with desperation for release, your mind rebelled against the idea.

"Now," he shouted, his eyes blazing with something carnal and dangerous.

Muttering a curse, you reached down and twirled your fingers over your clit, too scared of the potential consequences. If it was between orgasming and getting shot, you were going to have to choose the option that would cause the least damage.

"Good girl," he whispered. It took two more thrusts of the gun before you were propelled over the edge, your ass shooting clear off the ground as the orgasm ripped through you. You were screaming. You could feel the sound vibrating the muscles in your throat and turning it increasingly hoarse. But you couldn't hear it. Not when your entire being was consumed in fire and ice, and you could only see a blissful heaven.

The gun worked inside of you faster and deeper, drawing out the orgasm until you were literally begging for it to come to an end. He ripped the weapon out of you, and your thighs snapped shut instantly, sealing off the remnants of your shameful orgasm.

You were left a shuddering mess from the aftershocks as the waves of pleasure subsided. Meanwhile, his body towered over you. Through your half-lidded eyes, still jerking from the little shocks, you glanced up and met his gaze. His face broke into the broadest smile you had ever seen on his face, and you noticed he had dimples.

He had fucking dimples.

He was easily the most beautiful thing you'd ever seen. And you wished you'd never seen it. Because something inside your heart was being torn apart, and it felt like fear, it tasted like panic, and you didn't know how to understand the image in front of you.

You didn't want to see Vash like this. You vehemently refused to perceive him as anything other than a monster. This wasn't right. Your body was full of rage, humiliation, and shame—you knew this. But it was like your brain couldn't process those emotions, so it was just choosing to feel nothing at all. Was this what trauma did? Knowing that you had been violated, yet your body opting for a state of numbness instead?

The silver cross sprung from his shirt, diverting your gaze to the scar it adorned. "Lick this clean," he said, placing his gun onto your bared breast. "I can't use this when it's dripping your cum."

Like a magic trick, he pulled his body back, and every heat you had in your veins disappeared. With one last lingering look, he stood up and turned his back to you, his hands probably adjusting his pants. Then he began to walk leisurely toward the wall, floorboards creaking beneath his weight. Not even a passing glance was spared in your direction. Probably you didn't exist for him anymore. He had taken what he wanted, reducing you to nothingness.

Men.

As he neared the worn-out brick wall, his hand delved into his pocket, retrieving a cigarette. With practiced precision, he placed it in the corner of his mouth. His fingers trembled as he reached for his lighter, or perhaps it was merely a figment of your imagination. Anyhow, he poised himself to ignite the flame, preparing to immerse himself in the disgusting cloud of smoke that would soon envelop him.

You moved without thinking, your hand wrapping around the sticky gun. You would never lick this shit. You stood on your feet, not caring about covering yourself. The second he realized what you'd done, he backed away, raising his hands in surrender—the stupid cigarette dangling between his lips.

You pointed the gun right at his fucking head, and all you wanted to do was blow it off. All you wanted to see was his brain exploding beneath the bullet. Because you were not looking into the face of the man who could easily steal your heart under different circumstances. You didn't see him at all. You only saw a faceless man who took what he wanted from you, and you let him. But now you wanted him to fucking burn for it.

Tears built in your eyes, your vision blurring. The gun was vibrating from how hard your hand trembled, but he stood close enough that you'd strike accurately. Whether the bullet hit his head, his throat, or his chest, you didn't care.

"Love," he whispered.

You squeezed your eyes shut, forcing the sweet but stupid, stupid, stupid whisper out of your head. You didn't want to hear it.

"I haven't done anything to you." Your voice cracked. "How can you hurt me like this?" Your eyes burned from the tears welling up. And within seconds, they spilled, running down your cheeks. It seemed like orgasm had pushed your feelings out with itself.

And he seemed to realize it too because a subtle change reflected in his eyes. "I asked you to stay away from trouble," he murmured, his voice so soft. "Why don't you listen to me?" He bared his teeth, his own ire flashing in his eyes. "Do you think I enjoy hurting you?"

"I do!" you shouted, thrusting the gun at him. You sucked in a sharp breath as a sob climbed up your throat. He nodded slowly, a glimmer of understanding replacing the anger that had once flamed in his eyes.

Deep down, you knew better. You knew he wasn't angry with you. He was angry because he was helpless. Hopeless. A goddamn lost cause. Because he would never be the same, and he knew that. But what he didn't know was what to do with it.

A sob escaped your throat, but the rage persisted. He slowly stepped towards you, like approaching a frightened animal with vicious teeth. His eyes didn't stray from yours as he advanced, and you were so close to slipping back into that paralyzing hold he had on you. Then he was right before you again, pressing his lips into the gun barrel.

"Does this make you feel powerful?" he murmured.

Another sob broke free, but you didn't lower the weapon.

"Does this make you feel free?"

You scowled but couldn't muster the courage to respond. You couldn't articulate what it made you feel—you just knew it made you feel something. You stared at the gun in your hand, at the smooth, heavy metal, and you were surprised to find that you enjoyed the way it nestled within your grip, like an extension of your body. It didn't frighten you anymore.

You could stand still in this moment forever.

"What you seem to have forgotten," he snarled, "is that I am already a dead man. I died months ago. So go ahead, pull that trigger, love. End the remaining fragments of my existence. I am nothing but a hollow vessel."

You broke and screwed your eyes shut against the flood of tears, but it was like putting a flimsy piece of paper over a bursting pipe. Agony etched across your face, consuming you completely. "I don't want to be here," you choked out, barely getting the words out before a gut-wrenching sob tore through your trembling lips.

"Let me help you—fuck love, just fucking kill me," he bit, his voice breaking. He opened his mouth, and the barrel slid in. His lips tightly closed around the gun, his eyes staring at you, begging you.

Pull the trigger.

It wasn't fair, but it was becoming harder and harder to look at Vash and blame him, too. You were beginning to revert to that weak, thoughtful part of yourself that was convinced your life wouldn't be such a goddamn shitshow if your father didn't come barreling into it.

But no! You would no longer let your emotions get in the way. You were supposed to play this game by its own rules. So if it were your turn to shoot, you would do it.

No hesitating. No understanding. Just pulling this little trigger.

Click.

To your dismay, there was only a vacant stillness, a blackhole that swallowed your hopes and replaced them with a rising tide of unease. Your chest resonated with the thunderous cadence of your own heart, the loud thud filling your ears as you refused to accept the defeat. Ignoring the gnawing doubts gnarling at your mind, you pulled the trigger again and again and again.

Click. Click. Click.

The sound of the emptiness mocked your growing desperation.

A cold sweat bead on your brow as you stumbled backward, your body shaking with disbelief. Your eyes widened in horror as you stared at the gun, and when your gaze met his face, your world unraveled further into a maelstrom of darkness. His lips contorted into a wicked grin, now devoid of the innocence and sadness he pretended to have. The sight sent a tremor scurrying up your soul, your skin prickling with a nauseating blend of aversion and revulsion.

"You taste fantastic, love" Vash's voice slithered with a perverse delight as he savored the moment, his tongue caressing his lips in a vile display. His hands, tainted with malice, raked through his disheveled hair. Then with an ear-splitting crack, he twisted his neck, relishing in the discomfort he inflicted upon himself. "You hate me enough to try pulling the trigger four times?"

Your blood ran icy as his words seeped into your consciousness, a sting as bitter as poison. Suffocating the room, his laughter took on a haunting quality, a symphony of evilness. Each note of his amusement revealed the true nature of his depravity, shattering the fragile illusion of triumph you once held.

"Did you really think I'll leave you with a loaded gun?" Then as if to prove how simple-minded you were, he reached into his pocket, extracting the sixth bullet with a perverse flourish. He presented it before you, a diabolical offering that sealed your fate. The weight of that one extra little bullet pressed down upon you, an oppressive force that smothered any remnants of hope.

"Game over," he declared, his voice dripping with finality, each syllable a nail in the coffin of your aspirations. The room contracted around you, a claustrophobic arena that confined you to this sleepless nightmare. "You've got balls."

Your eyes snapped up, your mind working quickly to fit all the pieces together, and he was gaping at you, staring at you in a way that was entirely foreign to you, in a way that said he was utterly, absolutely amazed. You were not sure if he was proud.

But the fact that the gun was empty the whole time was a kick in the gut. No. It was a gun in the cunt.

"It… empty…bullet…" Stuttering, you turned to look at the bed, sheets still wet from your heinous climax, and then yourself, every inch of your body bare to his disgusting gaze.

Fingers coiling like vipers ready to strike, Vash extended his arm, reaching closer to your slumped figure. As his hand reached you, he guided it downward with deliberate precision, his touch a phantom of sweetness. You remained motionless, your body as still as a fragile porcelain doll, your spirit hollowed out by his relentless torment. You offered no resistance, Your limbs heavy with acceptance. It didn't have a meaning anyway. This was his playground, and you were nothing but a worthless pawn.

The room held its breath, like you when you thought his fingers were headed for your hole again, only to find them closing around the gun with an ironclad grip.

He leaned closer to your ear, whispering, "You're far too naïve. I would never take even the slightest risk of losing my favorite toy."

Your eyes got shot closed, your lips pressing on each other as he planted a kiss on your temple and walked out without any more words.

You opened your mouth, and you screamed. You screamed and screamed until your voice cracked beneath the pressure. Until you feared your throat would shred from the force. You wanted to crawl outside of your body so desperately. Just so you could escape this feeling. No. You wanted that gun loaded with bullets to turn it on yourself.

One last shout ripped out of your throat, this one so full of pain that brought you to your knees. You crumbled. The raw sound tapered off, fading into a hoarse, staccato cry. You sucked in a deep breath, filling your lungs with oxygen you didn't want, but you were too lost in your grief to scream like you wanted to.

Unbeknownst to you, concealed beyond that door,

Lurked a man whose rage echoed, fierce and sore.

His clenched fists, like thunder, struck the wall,

Cracks of anguish appeared, a fractured sprawl.

Hiding behind fake smiles, a mask so sly,

His anger, a tempest, veiled in a lie.

A scarlet torrent, his fury took form,

Dripping blood, a cascade of rage, a storm.

Each drop, a vessel of despair and pain,

A sanguine river, flowing through his veins.

Violence and turmoil, a twisted display,

Beneath the veneer, his demons held sway.

In delicate descent, his anguish displayed,

The ruby tears of fury, his soul unswayed.

A tapestry of emotions, woven in red,

His inner turmoil, from which he bled.

Oh, the secrets held within that hidden space,

Where anger, despair, and violence interlace,

A glimpse into the depths of his tortured soul,

A tragic symphony, the blood's solemn toll.

The poem at the end belongs to me, so please don't use it without permission.

Disclaimer: The gunplay scene is inspired by the books I've read.

Taglist: @julk4e - @lune010 - @beanibon - @emptybrain01 - @changingchances

If you want to be on the tag list, leave a comment.

[hermitw]

Yap part II got me thinking about more things uwu (I'm going to assume you've caught up on the reading linked however it will probably make sense if you didn't?

Content warning for SA topics

Cursed energy

Choso

Sukuna

((alternative methods to reduce cursed energy))

In reference to the SA statistics mentioned above (how it affects far more people than natural disasters, etc)

Reducing cursed energy doesn't mean eliminating non-sorcerers. A lot of curses could be avoided just by focusing on sex ed, consent, preventing these crimes from happening in the first place.

In addition to the weird, gropey curses, there were others from overworked employees, stressed students, and insecure children repeat things like "bento box" and "what time is it" and "no fair" etc.

But God, if cursed energy is from negative emotions, then why not address the causes of negative emotions?

Losing sleep and working to death for companies - I think Nanami's time as a salaryman taught him that jobs in general, not just as a sorcerer, are going to prey on the emoloyees' bodies. We all joke about how he looks 45 years old and is younger than Gojo, still in his 20s - the dude doesn't have RCT and the stress of work made him look like that, I swear. If Gojo weren't constantly running RCT, he'd look just as bad I think, maybe even worse.

The problems with jujutsu society in general are that they don't treat the cause, but only address the symptoms as a problem. And that they benefit the most, those who exploit others, often children.

If everyone has a better quality of life, safer environment, then curses would become fewer and weaker. But no one in power would push for that idea.

I want to elaborate a bit on Choso.

He accused Kenjaku of toying with his mother - with such anger - it felt like he was there, aware, watching it happen from his test tube.

And @thepersonperson mentioned Choso's guilt over the way he involuntarily repressed the original soul when he incarnated into some random guy's body. Choso gained knowledge of the modern world through that, but he isn't aware of anything about him, or his memories. It's like his soul is no longer there at all.

Choso is sensitive. He's very compassionate, emotional, and he is not afraid to change his mind, to admit that he was wrong, or to cry (he had tear stains immediately, like that's an integral part of his being). He holds himself responsible for his mistakes (even if he couldn't have known better).

Choso feels the need to justify his own existence (much like Yuuji after the shibuya incident) because his life is a product of rape - from both kenjaku and the curse that assaulted his mother.

People in his situation suffer from that awareness. It's easy to feel dirty, disgusting, unworthy of human decency or any kind of love. Not to mention that Choso's dad, half of him, is a curse. We all say that Kenjaku is Choso's father, and that's kind of true, but all he did was mix his blood in. Another layer of fucked up when you wonder what the real Noritoshi Kamo would feel about this. I believe that Kenjaku sought out his body specifically to run these abortion experiments. He needed to use blood manipulation for this to work (I'm assuming it also played a role in keeping Choso's mother alive through all of this, because abortions were more dangerous than childbirth with the methods used back then - though maybe it's different with a curse involved).

Still, Kenjaku is considered their parent - no one ever says "🤓 Um, actually" about this. He is granted the role of parenthood despite doing nothing to earn it, except for committing horrid acts of violence for his own curiosity.

It seemed weird, but he is responsible for their existence - the death painting wombs are only there because of what he's done.

It's less weird when I realize this is what certain rape victims have to live with - their abuser being accepted by society, by their family, as the parent. As a title that assumes responsibility, love and care. How sickening.

Yet, the death painting wombs were all locked away in the cursed warehouse - assumed to carry the evil of their father, these objects were feared and placed under a pact. They hadn't even incarnated yet, but were already demonized by the sins of their father. (this phenomenon is seen in real life as well, I don't have the heart to elaborate)

And Choso felt guilt for not only the way he was conceived and incarnated, but for allying with the curses and killing Yuuji. Though he forgives his brothers easily, he doesn't seem to ever forgive himself, like he's afraid that (albeit accidental) tragedy and violence are biologically placed in his fingertips, because his father and kenjaku live on in him.

As much as we want Choso to accept his right to live, he feels most at peace when he's able to sacrifice himself for his brothers (which is kind of ironic bc they're in the same situation, yet Choso doesn't see them as dirty or obscene). He seems to feel that he is alive to pay for his fathers' crimes.

Sukuna

This quote ^ got me thinking that, yeah, when he first appeared it was ugly. He made a horrible first impression. Sukuna came out craving violence, he wanted to lash out, he had anger to release.

Also I read through the lyrics of s(aint), the song Gege chose for Sukuna. It makes a lot more sense now than it did before I had caught up on the manga. It's also interesting that Marilyn Manson was a victim of csa from his neighbor, an older kid who liked to play "prison" (as in, he played this off as a game). This guy went on to kill his dog (that had heterochromia) with poison (sukuna's immunity to poisons). I read his autobiography when I was 15. It was disturbing and I don't recommend it. I doubt any other similarities between mm and sukuna are worth mentioning. The book is called the long hard road out of hell, and Sukuna was inspired by a deity of hell. Both of them are victims of abuse who continue its cycle. I think it also mentioned finding human bones in a graveyard, grinding them and smoking it, just to see what would happen which feels Kenjaku-coded.