#(and the impact it would have on her)

[clouvu]

Cooking up an older Clervie outfit design so I don't have to keep drawing her looking like her child self but Long

[raynewolferune]

Meta Jazz, the Arkham Intern Therapist Pt1

Update 5/16/2024: Congrats guys, gals, and others! You have planted the seeds and they have grown. Today I wrote another 46 pages on this story (the first section was only 9 pages ya'll). I'm working on splitting it up into smaller sections so I can post it now because tumblr said no to doing it as one piece. I'll be using the tag #Meta Jazz Arkham Intern Therapist if you want to follow it.

Original Note: I'm going to go ahead and apologize for how OOC Bane is in this. It originally was Joker but I couldn't see Jazz tolerating his proximity for more than a single millisecond so Bane it is.

~*~*~

The hardest thing about being a Meta in Gotham was responding appropriately during a Rouge's attack, Jazz mused to herself. Or perhaps that was just the hardest part about being a Meta intern at Arkham while studying psychology at Gotham University. Or maybe it was just her, she considered watching the guards and Dr. Rylie whom she'd been shadowing for the past 2 weeks wide eyed, pale, and shaking as theybstared at Bane behind her. It must just be her, Jazz decided, newbie guard Kyle Jennings was definitely a Meta after all. She should probably give him some tips on hiding his enhanced strength considering how often he broke mugs, door handles, and other delicate items used in daily life.

"Weapons down or I'll snap her skinny little neck." Bane growled out, shaking her slightly for emphasis. She very much doubted that. Liminials were built different than the standard Meta, stronger, faster, better endurance, and senses even if they could mostly appear to be standard humans on the outside.  As such, their bones and muscles were much were much denser than regular humans or even Meta humans. Technically, she could be considered "invulnerable" much like the Kryptonians are.

"Back up! Let him through!" Dr. Rylie  shouted at the guards. "She's my student! Let him through!" His voice was higher pitched than she could recall hearing it before.

Ah. That was panic.

Jazz sighed involuntarily and glanced over her shoulder at Bane. Why the man had grabbed the only person close to his own height nearby was a mystery to her - no, nevermind, he clearly meant to use her as a shield - but it made looking him in the eye more difficult than necessary.

"Mr. Bane, remove your hands from my person, please." Jazz stated calmly, channeling what Danny called her inner mom as she spoke. "I will give you to one to comply."

Bane looked stunned for a moment then laughed.

"Five."

The laughing continued. Jazz could sense a stir of uncertainty through her colleagues as they looked on.

"Four."

"Did you really think that would work?" Bane snorted out, arms tensing more around her.

"Three." She continued, indifferent to his words from her experiences raising her brother. Once the count down starts you mustn't respond to anything the kids do or say until they comply or the count is done.

"What cab you even do if I don't?" Bane asked darkly breathing directly in her ear. She kept her face expressionless despite the urge to express disgust.

"Two."

"Jasmine..."  Kyle whispered halfway across the hall from her looking on with a pained and horrified expression. Gun tilting towards the floor. Sloppy.

"One." She finished and Bane gave a derisive snort.

Then she was moving. Hauling the enormous man up and over her shoulder using the arm that had been wrapped around her neck. Bane hit the cold tile hard enough that the tiles, subfloor, structural supports, and part of the concrete foundation buckled beneath him. His shoulder popped out of joint, his wrist cracked - a hairline fracture by the sound of it -  and his breath was punched out of him from the force of impact. She released his arm as soon as his was embedded in the tiles and moved forward. Kneeling over him, support most of her weight on her left foot resting on the broken ground, her right knees pressed firmly across his throat without supporting any of her weight. The position put more strain on her muscles than she would've liked but at least Bane couldn't risk fighting back without crushing his own neck in the process. He could hardly throw her while flat on his back with a mangled arm.

"Now," Jazz began, looking directly into the behemoth's pained eyes. "Do you know what you've done wrong?" She asked like she would have done with Danny as a child.

"Yes, Ma'am." Bane choked out. Jazz heard movement and murmuring behind her. She didn't turn to look.

"What did you do wrong?" She asked. It was important to make sure children correctly understood why they were in trouble after all. There was a long pause as Bane appeared to cast around for the exact right answer as if he feared getting it wrong. A bad habit Danny still uses as well, Jazz thought to herself.

"I tried to hold you hostage," He choked out in a rush, words tumbling over one another as he tried to get them all out. "I scared you coworkers and it was very disrespectful."

So he'd gone for the grab-bag response. It wasn't wrong per sey but it did indicate a past history of abuse. The type of answer given by someone who expected to be harmed or ignored if they gave the "wrong" answer. Danny tended to use that method also and their parents had always been negligent at best.

"And are you going to do it again?" She asked giving him a Look as she did. Bane's eyes widened and he tried to frantically shake his head as much as possible with the pressure on his neck.

"No, Ma'am." He promised fervently.

"Alright then," Jazz said giving him a warm smile. She gestured vaguely towards the guards without turning to look at them. "Kyle here is going to take you to see the nurse and then back to your room then. I'm sure you'll behave for him?"

"Yes, Ma'am. I'll behave." Bane said. Jazz stood slowly asking sure not to put any additional pressure on his neck as she did. Kyle came and stood next to her as the giant of a man slowly pulled himself to his feet then led him away with 5 other guards.

Jazz heaved a sigh. Well, time to find out whether or not she could play all that off as normal, non-Meta human behavior.

[trauma-bot]

sin eater

[itsmespicaa]

"Whoops, so sorry. Where are the shears for the least expensive clothes? Looks like it's not this one."

[elwayken]

START MAKING TIME A FREAK!!

I’m so tired of reading stories where all of the chain have distinctive “freak” traits that are often narratively explored and interesting. Wild is selectively mute, Twilight likes raw meat, Legend has chronic pain, Warriors has constant nightmares, Hyrule sneezes flowers.

Time is always- without fail- the most normal of the bunch unless it’s specifically a Time-Centric fic (which aren’t as common as you might think).

Let’s be honest, this man has gone back and fourth in time, he has been using transformation masks since childhood, he has no one who remembers his journeys. This man would be one of the most freakish.

Let him panic whenever Wild has a lapse in memory. Let him have insomnia because the clock in his head won’t stop. Let him have a sweet tooth that gets him in trouble.

Stop desaturating Time because he is the eldest or the leader. Let Time be a freak.

[fromtheseventhhell]

I love how people are only ever interested in defending Arya's right to be weird-looking. It's never defending her intelligence from people who claim she's incapable of thinking for herself, highlighting her importance to the plot and refusing to see her as just a prop, acknowledging how much of her story gets stolen and given to other characters, talking about her trauma or how often it gets erased and overlooked, seeing her as more than just an attack dog/bodyguard, etc. Nope. It's just a "why can't people let Arya be ugly/unconventional looking? :(" post every other week because people are, for whatever reason, obsessed with how Arya is visually perceived. One of the most misinterpreted characters yet the issue is only ever with her being portrayed as "too pretty" or the wrong "type" of pretty. This fandom will entirely rewrite a character's motivations, values, and role in the story to the point that they consider references to canon "hate" but! The true injustice to canon is we acknowledge that she is described as pretty several times. Arya simply existing as her pretty, important, and non-conforming self is too complex and confusing for people to comprehend 😔.

[harbingersglory]

Perhaps the Shogun Puppet and Sara (both trans) sharing the reader? The puppet offering up a volunteer (reader) as a reward for Sara’s devoted years of service, that quickly ends up with the reader getting spitroasted between them. Sara has the privilege of claiming the reader’s pussy (and by extension, their womb and eventual firstborn child) while the Shogun takes their mouth—this is meant to be Sara’s reward after all.

{☆} characters kujou sara, raiden shogun [ puppet ] {☆} notes drabble, fem reader, sub reader, transfem kujou sara, transfem raiden shogun {☆} warnings 18+ content, breeding kink, restraints, fingering, face fucking

Kujou Sara was many things– loyal, devoted and first and foremost a soldier. There was little time between a strict schedule for anything but honing herself like a dulled blade. She assumed she simply did not care for worldly pleasures, but now..

Her throat feels impossibly dry, her palms clammy as she tries to ignore how tight fitting her uniform feels all of a sudden. She cannot look away from the meek figure at the feet of the Shogun, her Archon, stripped bare and tied in an intricate display of winding ropes that accentuate your figure– she feels lightheaded at the sight, a broken groan tumbling from her lips, just barely muffled in time by her trembling hand.

"A reward," The stoic, unyielding voice of the Shogun rings in the room like the swing of a blade, cutting through the thick air with the ease befitting of such an imposing figure. "For your service, General Kujou." She gestures so easily to you, as if presenting an object to be owned rather then a person– she cannot find it in herself to dispute it. You are..beyond words. Ethereal, even as you are bound in tight ropes and left at the mercy of an Archon and a tengu.

"..I am honored by your generosity, Almighty Shogun." Sara replies quickly and stiffly, her eyes never drifting far from your body– always drawn back. "Yet you are still hesitant." The Shogun snaps back coldly, eyes narrowed– her shoulders grow stiff in tension, her mind scrambling for an excuse, yet she cannot manage to speak a word.

"If this reward is not suitable.." Sara nearly balks at that, her hands twitching and her teeth aching in an urge she thought long buried. Try as she might, she cannot ignore the desire she feels towards you..and she cannot simply refuse a reward from the Shogun herself. Archons, she is a weak woman, she realizes– her will broken by a pretty face..

"..It is suitable, Almighty Shogun."

Yet she steels her resolve like a honed blade, kneeling before her "reward" and clasping your ankles in her calloused hands– your skin is smooth, at least compared to her own, as she eases your legs apart. Archons, you are even more gorgeous up close. The satisfied hum of the Shogun, watching with piercing eyes as she claims her reward, spurs her on. She leans close to your face, cupping your jaw in her hand and taking a moment to appreciate your features. The bob of your throat as you swallow, the haziness of your eyes..she leans down further, pressing almost reverent, apologetic kisses to your jaw, exhaling heavily against your skin.

She cannot stop herself now. The sickly sweet scent of shampoo, likely the courtesy of the Shogun, fills her lungs and makes her feel dizzy. You're like a fine dessert and she wants to devour you.

Even still, however, she keeps a close eye on your face– watching the slightest changes like a hawk. She leans away from spots you seem to show discomfort from, pressing more kisses and nips to the spots that have your breath hitching in your throat. She likes it– seeing you beneath her like this..Archons, her uniform feels so suffocating now, her cock straining against it.

But she wants to take it slow, if only for her own inexperience. She wants to see your face twisted in pleasure, not discomfort.

So she takes her take unraveling you, her chapped lips kissing down your throat to your chest, the barest hint of bruises marring your skin as she drags her tongue across your nipple, a low growl building in her throat at the way you arched your back into her mouth. It's so distracting that she almost forgets the Shogun stands above her, watching like a statue as her hand slips between your thighs to sink a finger into your cunt– and how easily she does so, your thighs already sticky with arousal. She is slow in her movements, fingering you more like a lover, intimate in a way that feels foreign to her.

"You're so pretty," She murmurs in a haze, words slurred through the fog of desire, sighing softly against your shoulder as she eases another finger inside you, her tongue finding your other nipple. "Does this feel good?" Her eyes meet your own as she presses a kiss to your chest, practically pleading for the answer to be yes– she wants the validation, to know she's making you feel good, at least as good as she feels. Her touch is still uncertain and clumsy, but she has always been a quick learner.

It does not take long before you unravel beneath her, your squishy walls squeezing around her fingers as she eases you through your climax.

Your cum sticks to her fingers when she pulls her hand back, her own breath hitching in her throat as she swipes her tongue across her digits– had she not been in such a daze, she might've been embarrassed, but the taste upon her tongue only made the fog worse. She almost considered burying her face in your cunt for a better taste, but her cock was..painfully hard. So with a hint of reluctance, she fumbled with her uniform, tugging her aching cock free with a broken groan.

For a moment she almost seems embarrassed by your stare, her hands pushing your thighs further apart– but the look of raw need..it matches her own, feeding the almost animalistic urges that urge her to claim you, to push your legs up to your chest and fill your womb till it's bursting with her cum. Archons, she wants to. Just seeing her cum spilling out of your cunt would be enough.

Her nails dig into your thighs as she aligns her cock, dragging the tip through your folds before gently sinking into your cunt. It almost breaks her– the tight, wet heat of your folds around her drags a whine unbidden from her throat, breaths coming out in shallow panting. Her grip on your thighs tightens as she presses a shaky kiss to your chest, satisfied by the moans that tumble from your own lips. She wonders what it would be like to kiss you, but the thought is swept from her thoughts as quickly as it came, her cock slowly stretching your cunt around her, forcing you to take every inch.

You've never looked prettier in her eyes.

But her moment of admiration and awe is short lived, her body falling into complete stillness as she watched the Shogun step forward– Sara can feel her stare through the back of her head, sweat beading on her brow and her throat so dry it's difficult to swallow. Rather, instead of whatever Sara expected, the Shogun kneels.

It's only now she sees the twitching cock between her own legs, stilling any protests that bubbled up in her throat. She watched, transfixed as the Shogun slid a thumb past your lips, tilting your head back enough for her to sink her cock into your waiting mouth. The sight of it makes her heart stutter in her chest, her own cock twitching inside you as she bucks her hips instinctively, hissing at the sudden burst of pleasure.

Sara doesn't dare to speak up, but she can't help but feel transfixed by the way your throat bulges around the Shogun's cock, her hands digging deeper into your thighs. The ease in which you take the Shogun makes her wonder if you were hers– the idea of fucking the Shogun's pet..she was surprised to find the idea so enticing, her hips snapping harshly against yours as she fit herself fully inside your cunt, hands clasping your thighs to the point even her hands were beginning to ache.

The Shogun was still watching her, she could feel it, but it felt less suffocating and more..curious, maybe. Whatever rhythm Sara set, the Shogun would adjust, the gentle rolling of her hips accentuated by the short thrusts into your mouth. She felt dizzy at it all, burying her face against your chest and sliding her hands up your hips, along your ribs, clutching you tightly against as she pulled her hips back, nearly slipping out of your cunt altogether before snapping her hips forward harshly, the slap of skin making her groan.

She couldn't help it anymore– she needed to claim you, to see your face contort in pleasure as she claimed your cunt, filled you to the brim with her cum..she wanted it so badly it made her feel dizzy. A part of her wonders if the Shogun would even let her impregnate you, but she didn't care– she'd try anyway. Even if she had to fill you up again and again, as many times as it took.

Sara's gentle thrusts quickly crumbled into something much rougher, all sense forgotten at the promise of claiming you– of making you hers, from your cunt to your womb, and even your mouth, if she ever got the chance. She was practically an animal in her desperation, stretching your cunt to fit her with every harsh thrust and growling against your chest, leaving visible bruises and bites on your chest. The Shogun matched her with a robotic rhythm of her own, the sound of you gagging around the Shogun's cock making her shudder, her eyes following the drool dribbling down your face.

It was far more arousing then she wanted to admit, watching the Shogun use your throat while she used your cunt, giving you no room to breathe.

It is with a great reluctance that she pulls her gaze away from you and the Shogun, burying her face against your chest once more as the pressure builds, her lips caught between her teeth until the taste of iron flooded her taste buds. But she had no time to dwell on it, pressing her hips firmly against your own with a muffled groan as the pressure exploded, her cum painting your walls, still bucking into you in short thrusts.

She could only imagine the image of your throat being filled by the Shogun's own climax, her lungs straining as she gulped down air between shaky moans, pressing a kiss to your chest.

She was far from done with you, but you deserved at least a moment of respite before she filled you all over again.

[godisasimp]

VoidSeeker | Herrscher of Dream

[allisamemory]

4.2 / Masquerade of the Guilty Spoilers

.

.

.

Focalors: i created a perfect human

Neuvillette: you fucked up a perfectly good human is what you did. look at her, she’s got anxiety

[jaggedjot]

Louis and Claudia are not just identifiable as American by way of their speech (“American? Your French is ugly.”) and movement (“You could tell from his walk, he was an American.”), but are posited by the narrative to be symbolic representations of postwar America itself (“The American vampires appeared to be as dull and plain as their tourists and soldiers were.”, “Do American vampiresses all wear pastels?”, “And are all American vampires as alluring as you?”). The pair set themselves up in France as “moneyed Americans”, described by Armand as having a “velvet-heeled arrival” despite the pair coming to the city on the back of a truck. That Paris has been left by the war with deep physical and societal wounds is treated as an inconvenience that they have to impatiently endure. Santiago picks at these stitches during the performative execution of the pointedly foreign Annika, invoking the paranoia of occupation with his line “[...] the next time you're in the pew, you turn to your neighbour and say, ‘Peace be unto you.’ They'll give you up... in a wink!”. It is telling that the only explanation Armand gives for his choice of victims to the coven is that they are profiteering from the suffering of postwar France (“Whilst their countrymen clutch ration cards, they've made quite a killing manipulating the black markets.”), a statement which seems to deepen their appetite for the ensuing slaughter. These are not resentments and histories however shared by Claudia, who may revel in the massacre but has already knowingly associated with a woman branded as a collaborator, or Louis, whose attempts to engage with the world through photography only further positions him as an outsider. This detachment is what causes Louis and Claudia to be regarded as interlopers, suspected to believe themselves to be too important to heed traditions, manners (“It's custom and practice for traveling vampires to make themselves known”) or the welfare of their temporary home (“We were constantly cleaning up for them.”). Though American soldiers played a role in the later stages of the liberation of Paris, the increasing presence of Americans in the city is framed as another more insidious occupation (“[...] our Anglican friends now invading Paris postwar”, “My dear American friend [...] who has dominated my mind”). As Americans, Louis and Claudia are granted more privileges in society than other black ethnics groups (“But I wasn't an Algerian. I was an American”). It is not just that the French theatre troupe composed of multinational actors now has “five out of every seven” of their performances in English, but the coven has been instructed by Armand to remake itself as “an English company” and speak the language offstage too. Armand’s welcoming attitude to increasing American influence in the city, how it creates a “more receptive” and “optimistic” audience, is not a simple or universal one. There is a distinct bitterness belying the fanfare accompanying Louis and Claudia’s arrival, particularly from Santiago (“I ask you, Maitre, was it worth the wait?”), but it is also notably still present in Armand’s lighthearted teasing (“Seventy-seven years and it still feels like a slight.”, “Five months removed [...] the Americans were finally coming to Pigalle.”). At least during these early months, Louis and Claudia seem to view Paris more as a static backdrop against which they can discover themselves and heal their relationship. This is a mistake that they will likely only realise when it is already too late, for this fragile and volatile setting is entwined with the tragedy that awaits them.

[cloud-ya]

ggz apparently had monster hunter among its other countless collabs while hi3 only had like 3 collabs all these years....we could have new himeko

[clouvu]

It's been one of those weeks, pass the yuri‼️

[typosandtea]

Nobody including me posts about their ocs enough so please please please reblog reply or whatever with some oc tidbits!

[cosmichawk]

It's that time of year again so here are xmas harbingers edits by yours truly

bonus:

[lovesickeros]

☆ de fontaine

{☆} characters furina {☆} notes cult au, imposter au, drabble, gender neutral reader {☆} warnings angst, suicidal thoughts, hurt / no comfort {☆} word count 1.4k

This wasn't fair. This wasn't fair. This wasn't fair!

She thought, for one moment, she could put the mask down and breathe – for one moment of daydreaming, she thought she could just be Furina. She thought she would finally get to live the live she should've had in the first place, the life she threw away to play God to an audience who saw her as nothing but a circus animal, dancing to their whims. Furina just wanted to be selfish for one brief and fleeting moment..and it was gone before she could even grasp it in her hand. A comet soaring past far out of her reach.

She can barely keep her hands from violently shaking as she looks down at them – broken and bloody and more a corpse then a person – and she feels so numb she can't even feel the rain pelting against her back. None of this is fair, she wants to scream, why is it always me? But her voice is silent beneath the torrent of rain. She wonders if the ocean would take her if she sank into it's depths – just for a moment, she wonders how it would feel to finally be able to sleep at ease.

Furina is tired.

But Furina is nothing if not useful, isn't she?

So she forces her feet to move, dragging against the stone beneath her heels, and drags their bloodied body into the nearest empty building, letting the rain do the work of washing away the smeared blood following her path. The smell makes her feel sick, the feeling of it sticking to her hands and gloves makes her lightheaded, but she persists. Because Furina is useful, because Furina won't let them die out in the rain, because Furina won't stand by and just let them rot on the streets like some..pest.

Furina wants to go home. She wants to sleep and she isn't she if she wants to wake up, this time. But she keeps going anyway.

Because it's all she's ever done, and the habit sticks.

An Archon she may not be, not anymore, but the expectations of five hundred years still linger like eyes on the inside of her skull. They watch her, pry and prod at her thoughts, mocking laughter and judging eyes following her as she forces herself to dance to the song they weave with glee. Furina never stepped off that stage – she's still there, she thinks, watching the crowd stare at her in disdain as the curtain call looms above her like a guillotine. She still hears Neuvillette deliver her damnation and salvation with a trembling voice, still feels her hair stand on end when electro crackled like the crack of the whip, Clorinde's blade aimed at her like a loaded gun.

She's trapped on that stage and she never left, not really.

She hates it. She thinks she hates them, but it's not their fault. They didn't ask for this, didn't ask for everyone to turn against them, didn't ask for her to save them. Neither did she..yet here they are, she thinks.

She tries to tell herself she's in control this time, though. She can stop performing her part in this horrible, bloody play any time she wants. It makes her feel better, just for a little while, if she convinces herself she's still Furina, painfully human.

And Furina has always been good at lying.

It's the believing that's the hard part.

There isn't time for her to wallow in her own self pity, though. They're still bleeding out onto the dusty, creaky floorboards of some random, broken down house and she's just standing there as the blood stains the wood. She can fix it – she's good at fixing things. She's done nothing but fix things – try to, anyway – for five hundred years. She can fix a little wound, how hard could it be? Her hands are clenched so tight they ache as she kneels down, wincing at the creak of the floorboards beneath her heels– she hesitates just long enough to wonder if she's making a mistake before she peels away just enough of the outer layer of their clothes to see the deep, bloody gash across their chest. She tries not to think about it – it's deep, too deep, and she feels dizzy just looking at it, but she's handled worse, right?

Furina can fix it. That's what she's good at.

She doesn't feel so confident when she tries to wrack her brain for..something. Five hundred years, and a little wound stumps her? No, she had to have learned something, right? She's decidedly not trying to buy time because she's panicking, parsing through hundreds of years of memories like flipping through a book. Furina isn't made for this, not really – she's running on nothing but adrenaline and she's really not sure what she's doing, but she's trying. And just like before, it won't be enough, will it?

She'll fall short again – she'll be too late to fix it before she's alone again.

Furina was an Archon..used to be. What use would she have for that sort of knowledge? Which makes her predicament all the more harrowing and bleak. What was she supposed to do?

Furina had heard it first hand, that vitriol in Neuvillette's voice. She isn't sure she's ever heard him that..angry before. She's not sure he would listen to her if she tried, either. And that scares her more then anything. All of Fontaine was up in arms about this..imposter, yet here she was, staring down at them bleeding out in front of her, and she was trying to save them.

Why? Why is she throwing away her only chance at normalcy for a fraud? Why didn't she just turn them in?

They were dying – that should've been a good thing, shouldn't it? So why didn't it feel like it?

"Why you?" Her voice breaks as she speaks in harsh tones, grabbing the front of their shirt in trembling, bloodied hands. "Why now?" She wants to scream, to demand answers they can't give, to claw back the reprieve she was promised after five hundred years of agony..and all she can do is sob into their chest, pleading for an answer that will not come. "Why me?"

Silence is their answer, and it hangs heavy on her trembling shoulders as she cries.

Of course they don't, she thinks bitterly, no one has ever answered her pleas spoken in hushed sobs. Not her other self and certainly not them.

Furina has always been alone. Furina will always be alone.

Because Furina never left that stage, never left that moment when she looked at herself in the mirror and took up a mantle too heavy for her to bear. She always finds her way back eventually. There's no one on the other side anymore – she stands alone on a stage, waiting for an inevitable end she isn't sure will come.

"Please," She pleads through tears and choked sobs, clinging to them like they are all that keeps her from sinking. "Please don't leave me, too." The words burn on her tongue – how pathetic is she that she craves companionship from the bloodied body of the imposter? Perhaps she's truly lost her mind after all these years..perhaps she's finally gone mad. She must have.

But their presence is like the first feeling of gentle warmth upon her skin as the sun crests the horizon, like the gentle lap of tides along her heels, the sway of branches and leaves as the wind blows through them like an instrument all it's own. They are the soothing sound of rain against the window as she watches the dreary skies in fond longing, the first bloom of spring as color blooms upon the landscape like paint had been spilled across the hills and valleys.

They are like the faint spark she carefully nurtures and stokes, so fragile even the smallest wind could blow it out like a candle. She cradles it within her palms, pleads with whoever will listen – prays that someone finally listens, because if not for her, then for them.

She's failed to protect too much already, let too many people with so much trust in her fall between the cracks of her fingers like grains of sand. She won't let them go – she can't.

If nothing else, if she couldn't be saved when she begged for salvation from that five hundred year long agony, even if she never got that chance..

Furina will make sure they do.

[bumblingbabooshka]

When the only person who might understand what happened- understand. Not sympathize or empathize or comfort you but understand what happened, isn't there anymore. Or: 'A Man Made Me Do Something I Didn't Want To', for when you can't talk about it or look it in the eye [Patreon | Commissions]