#Have a longer life expectancy than those they oppress

[tobiasdrake]

Survivorship bias. We think of older media as inherently superior to new media because the only older media still around is the stuff people thought was good. When really, older media has simply been curated by time.

i do think theres something sad about how largely only the literature that's considered especially good or important is intentionally preserved. i want to read stuff that ancient people thought sucked enormous balls

[demiurgee]

💟 solidarity from the peoples of brazil to the people of palestine—

last year, @fairuzfan suggested that people make art in support of palestine. i planned something that was supposed to be posted on the last strike, but it took me longer than expected.

it's finished now! this is in solidarity with palestinians, including palestinian-brazilians, who have been working tirelessly for justice in brazil as well.

i chose to highlight aspects of the land that are important to palestinians and the palestinian cause: the olive trees, jaffa oranges, the figs, poppies, faqqua irises and the palestinian mountain gazelle. the figure of the woman itself is wearing the traditional thobe and headwear of ramallah, which i found! so beautiful!

for the brazilian figure i asked my grandma what she used to wear and what our family used to plant decades ago, when she lived in the northeastern countryside (she is way more familiarised with the land than me). had some help from friends of the region as well, so i drew a jaguar, manioc roots, corn, cashews, sweet potatoes, a carnaúba palm tree and mandacaru flowers.

some of those, such as manioc roots and mandacaru cacti, remind me of resilience and the sustaining of life in difficult times, and what they may allow to flourish and to go on:

vida e não apenas sobrevida. that is, "life and not only survival!"

may palestine and it's people live! live free from every form of oppression that allowed this genocide, this nakba to take place.

inspirations & sources bellow the cut.

inspired by the art of sliman mansour and dana barqawi, as well as palipunk & orangeblossombitch @ tumblr and nadasink @ instagram.

the books recommended by @palipunk (much thanks to you for making them available)

♥️ palestinian costume por jehan rajab ♥️ palestinian costume por shelagh weir ♥️ traditional palestinian embroidery and jewelry por abed al-samih abu omar

al-jazeera documentary about the preservation of palestinian thobes (i do not understand arabic yet but! it allowed me to have a closer look at the coins and headwear):

sites about tatreez

♥️ https://www.folkglory.com/ (i based the chest pannel on this item from their shop here.) ♥️ https://www.tatreezandtea.com/ ♥️ https://tirazain.com/archive

and the palestinian museum digital archive!

♥️ https://palarchive.org/

[s-lverwing]

01. SIN

pairing. aegon targaryen x velaryon (targaryen)!reader x maelor targaryen (aegon’s twin).

summary. thoughts weight heavier than ever as you realize what’s expected from you; having a secret relationship with the king’s heir isn’t one. destiny can be defied, but duty must be followed.

word count. 4.8k (sorry). ao3 link

warnings. angst, targcest (niece and uncle), manipulation, toxic relationships. heavy pinning. kind of infidelity? english isn’t my first language and i haven’t read the books.

a/n. i got this idea from watching domina hehe and i thought it would be fun to explore this little idea i had of aegon having a twin brother that looks like a hightower. i stretched a bit what happens from driftmark until viserys dies, since i was missing more years . so this is aegon being 18-19 me and the reader is one or two years younger than him . and helaena and aegon aren’t paired yet because i don’t have the heart to make her bear children at 14 yo .

The night was still, as if the very walls of the Red Keep were holding their breath. Not even the usual footfalls of the royal guards echoed through the dim lighted corridors, nor did the familiar murmur of chambermaids’ gossip snake its way to your ears. The rat catchers had already done their work in the lower floors, leaving behind a silence that felt as suffocating as it was unusual.

Yet it wasn’t the silence that weighed so heavily on your heart—it was something deeper, something that clawed at your insides and left an acrid taste in your mouth. The Red Keep, once a place of grandeur and life, now seemed to pulse with a strange, ominous energy. You could feel it in the air, thick and oppressive, and you couldn’t help but link it to King Viserys’ worsening condition. He was a shadow of his former self, a walking corpse whose very presence seemed to taint the air with decay. The stench of his rotting flesh clung to him like a shroud, especially when mixed with the smell of milk of the poppy. He was nothing but a walking dead, a man who no longer belonged among the living. It almost served as a reminder of the state of the Kingdom.

The court was no longer the vibrant place of your childhood memories. It was a place of whispers and shadows, of secrets buried so deep they festered in the dark. You could feel the weight of those secrets pressing down on you, a burden you were not ready to carry but could no longer ignore. The responsibilities you had once tried to deny now loomed over you like a dark cloud.

And then there was Aegon. The mere thought of him brought a new kind of tension to your chest, one that was equal parts longing and dread. What you shared with him was a dangerous game, one that could end badly only for you. The risk was immense, but so too was the pull you felt towards him—a pull you could not resist, no matter how much you knew you should. You knew all too well what would happen if the rumors spread, if someone caught the two of you in a compromising position. There was no place for such reckless passion in the Red Keep, no room for fleeting romances or secret rendezvous. Not when you weren’t cunning enough to know how to hide away from their prying eyes. You were being watched, judged, and weighed against the expectations of a world that would crush you if you strayed too far from the path laid out before you.

Ser Otto Hightower’s words echoed in your mind, a constant reminder of the duty and honor that were supposed to guide you. He had been the only Hightower to show you any semblance of kindness after Lucerys had taken Aemond’s eye. It was a kindness that clung to your memory like a fragile, half-forgotten dream, overshadowed by the cruel realities that had since unfolded. Like a small mercy.

You couldn’t help but feel trapped, suffocating under the weight of expectations you had never wanted. And yet, you could not bring yourself to let go of Aegon, no matter how much you knew you should. The risk, the danger, the sheer madness of it all only seemed to draw you closer to him, even as you felt the noose tightening around your neck.

And as you stood there, alone in the drowning darkness of your chamber, you couldn’t help but wonder how much longer you could keep this up—how much longer you could pretend that everything was fine when, deep down, you knew that everything was about to fall apart.

The quiet creak of the wooden doors took you away from your thoughts, but you didn’t turn from the window. The night outside was as dark and impenetrable as your own thoughts. You didn’t need to look to know who had entered; Aegon’s footsteps were as familiar to you as the beating of your own heart, an echo of years spent together in a world that seemed increasingly distant now. His scent, a heady mix of wine and something uniquely him, filled the room, bringing with it an uneasy comfort that had long since become part of you since this started.

He approached with a lazy grace, as if the world and all its troubles were mere trifles to him. His arms snaked around your waist, drawing you back against him, his head finding its place on your bare shoulder. The cool night air from the window kissed your skin, but his warmth was a balm you hadn’t realized you’d been seeking. He pressed a soft kiss to your cheek, a fleeting gesture that could be mistaken for affection, followed by a soft chuckle that was as intoxicating as it was disarming.

Aegon was in good spirits tonight, or so it seemed. His presence was magnetic, his charm an irresistible force that pulled you into his orbit despite the undercurrent of dread that always lurked beneath the surface. You knew this tenderness, however sweet, was a precarious thing—a mask that could slip at any moment to reveal the tempest underneath. Yet you leaned into him, seeking solace in the closeness even as it threatened to unravel everything you held together so carefully.

But then, like a gust of wind extinguishing a flame, his smile faded, replaced by a frown that marred his angelic features. You didn’t need to see his face to feel the change, to sense the tension coiling in his body as if he were holding onto something fragile, something that could slip through his fingers and shatter beyond repair.

It was as though he was clutching at a dream, trying to hold onto a world that was slipping away from him. And you, too, were caught in that current, powerless to change the course of the storm that was surely coming. The weight of unspoken words, of a future that neither of you could control.

“You’re far away,” Aegon whispered, his voice barely breaking the stillness that had settled over the room like a heavy shroud.

Before he could say more, you gently took one of his hands, bringing it to your lips and pressing a tender kiss to his knuckles. His skin was warm, soft, since he strayed away from sword training. It felt weird, as though the chasm that had opened between you was something that could not be bridged by mere touch. “I’m tired,” you murmured, the exhaustion lacing your voice with a fragility that felt almost foreign to you. “It’s been a long day.”

Aegon’s eyes narrowed slightly, his gaze probing as he turned you around with an effortless grace that belied the tension simmering beneath his calm exterior. “What’s on your mind?” he asked, his tone soft yet edged with something darker, an undercurrent of fear, perhaps. His hands lingered on your waist, grounding you, but also anchoring you to him and the chaos that comes with it.

A sad smile tugged at your lips. You searched for the right words, the right way to explain the gnawing dread that had taken root in your heart. It wasn’t your intention to hurt him, but how could you speak the truth without doing so? “I worry,” you confessed, each word heavy with the weight of unspoken fears. “I worry about everything. In fact, I think I often worry enough for the both of us.”

Your words hung in the air, a fragile admission that seemed to echo in the stillness of the chamber. The night was your sanctuary, the time when you could be together without the prying eyes of the Red Keep, even from the Gods, yet even this sacred space was not immune to the growing tension that lay between you. You felt the strain of it, pulling at the threads of your bond, threatening to unravel the delicate balance you had managed to maintain for so long.

Aegon’s expression darkened, his eyes searching yours for something he couldn’t quite grasp. His brow furrowed, as if he were trying to understand a riddle that had no answer, his grip on your waist tightening imperceptibly. “You worry too much,” he said finally, his voice barely masking the frustration that simmered just beneath the surface. “You worry about things that don’t matter, that will never matter”

But the conviction in his voice, once so reassuring, now felt hollow. You could hear the echo of doubts in your mind. How could you tell him that his recklessness, his disregard for the very things that weighed so heavily on your heart, was tearing you apart? How could you make him see that while he was content to drift through life, you were being dragged under by the currents of responsibility, duty, and the looming shadows of what was to come?

Aegon pulled you closer, his hands tight on your waist, but the embrace felt more like a cage than a comfort. “You’re living in a fantasy,” he murmured, his breath warm against your ear. “A fantasy of duty and responsibility that was never meant for us. We’re meant to live, to enjoy what we have, not to worry about what others expect… because we’re never going to be enough”

His words cut deeper than any blade could. Aegon’s indifference to his own fate, his refusal to see the consequences of his actions, was a stark reminder of how different the two of you truly were. He lived for the moment, for the fleeting pleasures that numbed the pain he refused to acknowledge. But you couldn’t escape the weight of the future, the crushing burden of knowing what was expected of you, of him.

“You can’t escape it,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “No matter how hard you try to pretend otherwise, it’s coming for us, Aegon”

“You’re always worrying,” Aegon muttered. “You’re starting to sound like my mother—always telling me what we should be, what we should do, as if we’re some perfect vision of duty.” He sighed deeply, rubbing a hand over his face. “Can you stop making everything so complicated?”

“I’m sorry—” you began, your voice trembling with the weight of your fears. “But I’m afraid, Aegon. It’s terrifying, this situation. Everything… don’t you realize?” You tilted your head, searching his face for any sign that he understood the turmoil that gnawed at your insides.

“We’re alright,” he scoffed, rolling his eyes in exasperation. “It’s you who’s making it difficult. You’re the one living in this fantasy—this fantasy of duty and faith, and everything being just— so we don’t repeat the mistakes of those before us. But it’s suffocating.”

You felt the tension coil tighter in your chest, the pressure building as if you were on the edge of a precipice. “Aegon, this isn’t just a fantasy. It’s our reality—our future. The mistakes of the past haunt us because they were real, because they had consequences. We can’t just ignore that.”

"Aegon—" you began, but before you could say another word, he silenced you with a sudden, fevered kiss. His lips crashed against yours with a force that spoke of desperation, the unmistakable taste of wine lingering on his breath. It was typical of him—this reckless need, this hunger that never seemed to be sated. His kiss was all-consuming, a fire that threatened to burn you from the inside out, and though you knew you should resist, his touch was woven so deeply into the fabric of your being that it felt impossible to pull away.

For a moment, you let yourself drown in him, in the way his hands moved up your waist to your back, seeking the laces of your sleep gown with a familiar urgency. But just as quickly, the sole thought of him lost in the arms of strangers, drowning in wine just the night before, flashed through your mind. The memory hit you like a cold wave, pulling you back to the surface of reality, and with a wrenching effort, you pushed him away.

Aegon stared at you, a frown creasing his brow, confusion mingling with the remnants of his frustration.

"Alicent—" you stammered, grasping for anything to say, your voice faltering under the weight of the lie. "She’ll be here early in the morrow," you continued, the words sounding hollow even to your own ears.

He knew it was a lie. You could see it in the way his eyes narrowed, a flicker of anger passing through them, but he said nothing. The silence between you stretched thin, taut with unspoken truths and the ever-widening distance that neither of you could bridge. His frustration, his anger—it wasn’t just at you. It was at everything, at the life he was trapped in, at the expectations that crushed him. But that anger, that resentment, was now directed squarely at you, the one person who had always been his refuge, and yet now felt like just another weight dragging him down.

And you felt your own heart ache with a sorrow that words couldn’t express. You loved him—Gods, how you loved him—but that love was starting to feel like a chain.

Aegon let out a chuckle, the sound tinged with a bitterness that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “That never worried you before,” he said, his tone almost mocking.

You held his gaze, your own resolve faltering under the weight of the truth you were about to speak. “Can you imagine what they’ll do to me if they ever find out about us?” you whispered, your voice trembling as you pressed a finger to your chest. “How shame and rage will rain upon me, Aegon?”

“That’s not going to happen,” he replied, his voice firm, dismissive, as if sheer will could bend the world to his desires.

But you shook your head. “There are bigger things than us, Aegon,” you said, your voice soft yet heavy with the burden of inevitability.

He rolled his eyes. “What could happen? My mother asking me to marry you?”

“That’s the best-case scenario,” you admitted, a fleeting hope lingering in your words. “But if she doesn’t want to marry my brother to Helaena, what makes you think she’ll marry me to you, the King’s firstborn son?”

“They’re bastards,” he spat out, a familiar venom in his words.

“—As much as I am,” you whispered back, the words cutting through the air like a blade. “This is going nowhere, Aegon,” you continued before he could respond, your voice filled with resignation.

And yet, despite everything, despite the certainty that this was all leading to ruin, you couldn’t let go. Not of him, not of the love that, for all its flaws and dangers, had become the very blood in your veins. But now, you couldn’t help but wonder if that love was worth the price you were bound to pay; since this affair was doomed from its beginnings.

Aegon’s expression morphed into something indecipherable, a mask of internal conflict as though he was waging a silent war with himself between the urge to remain and the compulsion to escape. His hesitation was palpable, yet ultimately he opted for departure, unwilling to incite another confrontation that would only drive a deeper wedge between you.

“Where are you going?” you demanded, your voice a cold lance piercing through the darkness, laced with fears.

“You clearly need to reconsider things,” he said, his voice firm and filled with resignation. “You’re entangled in this ideal of the perfect daughter, the flawless princess. We’re not going to get what we desire regardless”

“So you’ll leave me alone?” you asked, the weight of the words feeling like a burden on your tongue. And you couldn’t get angry at him for choosing to leave. It almost feels like you pushed him away.

Aegon’s silence was deafening, his only reply a weary exhale. He cast one final, fleeting glance over his shoulder, a look that seemed to carry an entire world of unresolved emotions and discontent. Then, without another word, he turned and slipped out of your chamber with the same quiet stealth as his arrival, leaving you alone with the heavy stillness of your room. The silence that followed was deafening.

You couldn’t imagine a life without him but the day will come — you’ll be betrothed and taken to some place you hate. And he will be betrothed too. That’s how destiny works for all of you.

The same destiny it’s the reason he opted to numb his running mind with wine and prostitutes… once more.

“Rūklun skoriot se bantis rāpa vūjigon tolvie rūklon,” Helaena voice echoes through the small garden. Her tone always dreamy and soft, like a haunting beautiful dream.

You can’t remember when was the first time you both laid on the soft grass; when was the first time she sang for you; when was the first time she entertained you with her bugs. Now her head is laid on your stomach, as she holds a small creature in her hand. Just admiring them, and you’re glad she’s your friend. She does have that capacity of looking beyond, of truly admiring other beings.

She leaves the small bug on the grass, as she continues her soft singing; “Pōnta ȳdragon isse rāpa tolīmorghon, gūrēñagon gīda isse se zōbrie,”

Helaena is equally glad for your friendship, as you understood her. As she felt cared for; she doesn’t feel like she’s the weird girl everyone claims her to be. For her own family doesn’t seem to care so much about her. You both hear tales and stories… whispers, rumors.

When Viserys and Alicent had welcomed their first son, a healthy, silver-haired heir, they had not anticipated the arrival of a second child so soon after Aegon. Though young and aware of her duty to provide the King with heirs to secure the bloodline, Alicent was overwhelmed. Yet, when her weary and anxious eyes met those of her newborn son, a profound sense of tranquility enveloped her. Aegon would grow to be the King’s heir to the throne but Maelor shall be hers. Forever.

Then came the only girl, and the rest… All but one raised in the most hostile ambient a child can grow.

But she had endured, alway pushed aside. Just a princess, whose fate was to get married to some Lord and be exiled away from home. “Jēda, iā lyka dīnagon, pālegīon pōja jaedos ezīmagon iōrves,” She continued with her soft and haunting voice.

Unease began to creep from the pit of your stomach. Helaena’s singing, usually a balm for worries and terrors, now seemed powerless against this overwhelming dread; this was something you feared nothing could shake away.

Strange days were merely the beginning. They would haunt your sleep, echoing in the dark with the lullabies of Targaryens ghosts.

“You’re such a fool—“ A hushed and forced through teeth phrase came out of Helaena’s grandsire; Otto Hightower.

In an instant, your head whipped around, and Helaena sat up. You didn’t need to see to know what the commotion was about—Otto was dragging Aegon toward his chambers, his grip firm and unforgiving. The sight made your stomach churn with fear, casting a shadow over your thoughts. The King’s alleged heir had a way of making your skin crawl. You haven’t seen him in a couple of days after your fight.

She gazed at you, her lips parting only to release the haunting melody: “Pōja istin jehikagrī ēnka sir rāpūltan, isse iā rāpa, lyka nārhēdegon” (Their once bright hues now softened, in a tender, quiet loss).

Soon, the groans and heavy footsteps melded with the birds’ chirping and the distant murmur of voices from the hallways. Yet, the garden remained an isolated enclave, housing only Helaena’s ethereal song and your tumultuous thoughts. A palpable silence descended, compelling you to whip your head toward her.

Alicent’s only daughter was already regarding you with eyes brimming with worry and regret. It was uncommon for her to look at you this way, and the intensity of her gaze sent a shiver down your spine.

“Sealing the bond,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “One will drift away, the other will be chasing phantoms for an eternity” The innocence of her phrase was a dagger to your gut, making you want to retch, as you tasted bile on your tongue. Desperation clawed at you, and you fled, seeking refuge in the only place that could never offer you peace.

The room reeked of stale alcohol and sweat; a reminder of the first and last time you visited an inn. The once repugnant scent was now a grim familiarity. Each morning you arrived early, loyal as a hound and pristine as a dove. But not this morning; delicate petals from the garden were still tangled in your hair. You smell like fresh cut grass. And you’re late.

Aegon lay sprawled on his bed, utterly naked and feigning sleep. He was waiting, because even if he played the role of an idiot, a part of him still cared.

You swallowed hard, “Aegon?” Your voice trembled, a fragile thread of hesitation woven through it. Fear of him was not the issue; it was the looming dread, the haunting sense of something profoundly wrong, lurking just beyond the edges of your understanding.

The mere sight of him being humiliated by any member of his family or by himself was something you’ve become to accept, to make peace with. Aegon hasn’t been on a leash since he was a kid; since his father proclaimed Rhaenyra as his legitimate heir. And so he decided to indulge in the pleasure of the flesh… and alcohol — a sweet but ultimately lethal form of enjoyment. And the fact that he has harbored feelings for you doesn’t even move him into change. Not because of you, but for him. He deserves to be respected and the honor of a house such as the Targaryen. Though, he’s not even respected by his own kin. By his own parents. Viserys was old, probably had an ounce of love for him which burned when he had realized he didn’t need more children to secure the bloodline. His firstborn was still very much alive; even if he was a woman. And Alicent only cherished his twin brother.

Aegon often wondered what it would be like to be the one born looking like a Hightower—instead of being a living reminder to his mother of the sacrifices she had to make, of her stolen childhood, and of every unavenged wound. Would he then be wanted as much as Maelor is? Deep down, he knew it was a futile dream. He tried not to care, but the fear of being crushed under the weight of everyone’s expectations gnawed at him incessantly.

After all, Maelor, has much more of a tender temperament and Aemond’s intellect and wit, which seemed to embody everything Aegon was not. His eyes were a warm, inviting brown, complementing his auburn hair—a perfect reflection of Alicent. He looked human, soft, approachable, and kind. In Aegon’s eyes, Maelor was the epitome of what Alicent desired, a role Aegon could never fulfill.

You dusted off your pale dress, swallowing down your rising frustration and anger. It wasn’t in your nature to be quick to anger, to point the finger, to blame others for their mistakes. But today, his actions felt unbearable. “Do—Do you even care?” Your voice sounded pathetic, a desperate plea for recognition, affection — just to be seen by yout lover.

He didn’t bother opening his eyes. Everything was too bright, too loud for his liking, especially after Otto Hightower’s sermonizing. “Uhm—? Ah, oh,” He yawned, shifting to make himself more comfortable in bed. “Yes, sure.”

His indifference sparked a surge of anger within you, the bile rising to tinge your throat with its bitter taste. “I’m being serious.”

“Don’t speak so loud…” He groaned, dismissive. But he was the one who sought comfort in your arms the last time you saw each other. “You should go, I don’t want any of your services”

It makes your blood seethe, each word from him striking like arrows piercing through your heart. The indignity of being called a whore stings with a venomous edge.

It was always a struggle to engage in conversation with him when he was saturated with the remnants of last night’s excesses. But today felt especially grueling; your patience is unraveling, eroded by the relentless tide of his cruelty.

You approached his bed, standing close enough to block the sunlight that accentuated his handsome features. You wanted to scream, to hit him, hoping that maybe then he would love you, maybe then he would strive to be better and meet your expectations. But Aegon wasn’t a fool; he knew you were the only one who forgave him every single time, without him even trying. Gathering all your courage, you spoke the words that had been festering within you: “You’re pathetic.”

So you think that too? He knew everything couldn’t be perfect. Aegon understood he was doomed, marked by fate’s cruel design. He knows this truth intimately… yet, despite everything, he clings to hope with a desperation that borders on madness. Because you’re the only one seeing him with different and softer eyes.

He can’t think because his mind is flooded with guilt, of everything that happened last night… Of everything he’s ever done to you, whether good or bad. “Go pester Maelor, he looks just like me. I’m sure he can entertain you… Maybe he won’t pleasure you as well as I do. But after all, all whores are the same, I’m sure he won’t mind”

Tears gathered at the corner of your eyes. His cruelty cuts deep, making you question if any of it is worth it—the sacrifices, the hurt, the strange looks, and your bleeding heart. Are they worth the fleeting moments of bliss? He’s capable of loving, and being kind — he has shown you that. Sometimes you like to fool yourself thinking that he actually cares about you, that maybe he thinks you’re more than just a pawn following everything he says… More than just a girl staring at him with wide, hopeful eyes. Thinking maybe, just maybe… he actually sees you.

But it’s the indifference, and his insolent words that creates a wall. One you’re too tired to try and bring it down.

You snort, deciding to play his game, ethough you know it will keep destroying everything. “Maybe I will, Aegon. Maelor has more honor in his little finger than you’ll ever have. You just wallow in your own filth.”

You speak with distaste, the words hurting you as much as they hurt him, because they come from a place of anger, a vengeful side you despise. It makes you want to throw up; the mere idea to succumb into your rage.

You turned around, unable to bear looking at him. If you meet his eyes, you’ll collapse under the weight of your own emotions and beg for forgiveness, even though it’s not your fault. You just wanted to make amends. “Do you know you’re throwing everything away, Aegon?” you ask, your voice trembling with the weight of despair. You don’t expect an answer. He already knows.

“I’ve been on my knees, begging for some kind of forgiveness from the Gods, for even the slightest hint of their consideration,” you whispered, your voice trembling under the weight of raw, unrestrained anguish. “Yet you persist in pushing me away. I’m on the brink, exhausted, uncertain if I have anything left to offer. I’ve sacrificed so much, endured countless trials for you, and now you cast me aside as if I were nothing.”

Each word was a dagger, cutting through the fragile silence with a bitter clarity. The raw pain in your voice seemed to resonate through the cold stone walls, echoing the deep fissures in your heart.

Unable to sustain the crushing burden of your sorrow, you turned abruptly and fled the room, covering your face and red rimmed eyes with your hands. The guards who opened the gates offered no solace, their stony expressions betraying no empathy. The heavy silence of the Red Keep was a stark contrast to the turmoil within you. You knew Aegon’s chambers were a sanctuary at this hour, shielded from the prying eyes of the court, save for the ever-watchful presence of Alicent.

“Princess,” a voice cut through your despair. You halted abruptly, your heart sinking as you recognized the only Hightower-looking son of Alicent. His eyes were filled with a mixture of curiosity and pity — not like he cared about you.

“Alicent is looking for you,” he said, his tone imbued with a sense of quiet urgency.

You lowered your hands, exposing your tear-stained face. The pain was a palpable force, constricting your throat and making it difficult to speak.

“Did Aegon do something to you?” he asked, his concern etched into every word, but the shy smirk betrayed him — not that you would catch it.

“No—no,” you choked out, shaking your head as if to dispel the crushing weight of your emotions. “I’m just—” The words faltered, it was not only pointless but dangerous to explain. “Where’s Alicent?”

— next chapter

[vi-is-badass]

Arcane Season 2 - The Base Violence Necessary for Change

I think this shot is the most interesting part of the trailer. We see a shot of Jinx as a painting on a wall. A symbol. A leader. Her actions stand for revolution in Zaun and I think this could be an interesting expansion of Arcane’s exploration of violence and the idea that there is a base violence necessary for change.

Silco is framed as an antagonist in season 1 because of his actions against the undercity people specifically.

In act 3 he’s not the revolutionary he positioned himself as and is instead hurting the people of Zaun through his leadership. He’s doing as much to hurt topside as Vander was in act 1 (meaning nothing at all). He’s even got the sheriff working with him just like Vander, but, unlike Vander, Silco is hurting his own people to facilitate power and he’s not even fighting for that freedom he claimed to want so much.

We see the damage his actions have wrought. We see the shimmer addicts, forgotten and exploited. We see that he's created a hierarchy rather than a community.

And it’s contrasted with the firelights. People considered terrorists to Piltover, who do use violence to fight back against Silco and topside, and yet offer the biggest glimmer of hope. They aren’t villainized. The act of fighting back isn’t villainized and it shouldn’t be.

Because it’s not the violence in and of itself that’s the issue. It’s what that violence is used for.

The series hammers this idea home through Vander. 

Vander’s staunch stance against violence is flawed as well. It comes from a good place. A desire to protect what he loves rather than destroy what he hates and it did create a time free of the death revolution brings, but it’s made it so no ground could be made to free Zaun and create a better world for the people in it. It created stagnation. 

The people of the undercity are still stuck in a cycle of crushing poverty, growing up without parents, dying young due to pollution or violence wrought by desperate people or oppressive enforcers.

It didn’t move the needle because Piltover and the system in place wasn’t going to change just because the people of the undercity were playing nice.

The unrest and anger felt towards Vander for his ideal was understandable. His views on the cyclical nature of violence and the fact that if you fight you will lose people (“What are you willing to lose”) is correct, but that doesn’t make this option the ideal one.

Which brings me back to that shot in the trailer of that painting of Jinx.

Season 2 looks like it’s going to be a season of opposites and rediscovery where it flips what we expect of Jinx and Vi on its head and further explores these ideas of violence, oppression, and revolution.

And I think this season might possibly do that by reversing how Vi and Jinx reflect Vander and Silco.

In the first season the siblings were direct reflections of their respective father figures, but now they’re inversions. Jinx can become the good to be found in Silco’s ideals and Vi the pitfalls of Vander’s.

Jinx’s actions in season 1 weren’t those of a revolutionary. Her actions weren’t meant to free the people of the undercity or improve their lives. She didn’t steal the hexcrystal to bring hextech to the undercity and improve their lives and she didn’t kill the enforcers on the bridge to get rid of dirty cops. She didn’t kidnap Caitlyn for a greater cause.

But we know that Jinx isn’t only the violence she enacted. That she is “the monster they (the system and people around her) created”. Her actions weren’t heroic in the first season, but they were driven by the life that was forced upon her. Her hurt and anger are justified.

Now that she’s away from Silco, no longer a part of his machine and actively participating in his actions that were hurting the undercity, her actions and anger can take on a new light. She can rediscover herself away from his manipulations (this isn’t to say he didn’t love her but what he did and said isolated her and allowed her issues to fester) and become that symbol we see on the wall.

Jinx could be in a way what Silco could have been if he didn’t let his own self interest get in the way of his ideals. Not quite as forward thinking as Ekko or as idealistic, but still a symbol for resistance that fights for Zaun.

Whereas Vi is sort of on a path to becoming a darker reflection of Vander’s ideals.

Vi becomes a part of the system she used to rage against.

 Based on the season 2 teaser that was released in 2021– 

“Nobody else needs to get hurt.”

–I think it’s likely that Vi believes she can prevent more death or can stop Piltover’s violence against the undercity if she takes Jinx in.

Vi sees herself as a protector who has failed at every turn to protect those she cares about. She lost her parents, Powder, Vander, Mylo, Claggor, etc. and she is constantly desperate to try and save what she loves and that will likely drive her decision to become an enforcer.

Vi, like Vander, wants to save what she loves and as a result isn’t going to fight back against topside. This is a much more extreme version of Vander’s ideals. Where she “compromises” in an attempt to prevent bloodshed but as a result enables (or in her case helps) the system in place.

This decision will have negative consequences (and deservedly so!) because no matter what thoughts or feelings are the driving factor in it she is still siding with her oppressors and ultimately helping the system that is the root cause of that loss and pain in the first place. 

Based on the clip released at Annecy and what people have said the writers explained about Vi’s arc in season 2 it seems like Vi will be ostracized for this decision and deservedly so. She won’t belong anywhere. To the undercity she’s a traitor and to Piltover she’s nothing more than an undercity rat.

She will have lost everything. She will have no one to protect. And who is Vi if she’s not a protector?

Vi will be forced to re-evaluate who she is and what she wants. Just like Jinx, Vi will have to redefine herself when she loses everything.

I can’t wait for season 2 and what the team at Fortiche has in store for us. The way the show tackles complex themes and ideas is incredible and Vi and Jinx are some of the most compelling and complicated characters I’ve seen on tv. I’m looking forward to November.

[insaniquariumfish]

Transwomen cannot be true feminist allies because they do not believe that femininity itself is inherently patriarchal, degrading, and unnecessary. IF they are in any way critical of femininity (which is rare), their only issue with it is that it is too strongly expected of women; they frame femininity as "something women should be allowed to choose if they want to," and not as something that is harmful to women in nature by default, whether they choose it or not.

They do not acknowledge the fact that a woman can only "choose" to be feminine in the same sense that someone raised in an extremely religious area can "choose" to be religious. Women are conditioned from birth to be feminine, told that their value as human beings is dependent on their ability to embody femininity, and if they are not feminine then they are punished for it and suffer for it. To frame this as a free and neutral choice is to deny the nature of what femininity is: something that is forced upon women, a tool invented and wielded by patriarchy to aid in the oppression of women and the empowering of men. And even if there were no longer any pressure from men for women to be feminine, the history of femininity, the centuries of suffering that women have been forced to endure in the name of femininity, why it was created, what purpose it is meant to serve, who it is meant to harm and who it is meant to benefit, none of those realities would be changed.

To trans women, femininity is essential to womanhood, and to be critical of femininity is to be critical of the very means through which their identity as a trans woman manifests. The idea of doing away with the association between womanhood and femininity poses an existential threat to them, especially to those who struggle to "pass," because how else can they signal their womanhood to the world, or affirm their womanhood to themselves, if they do not physically look like women and do not have female bodies?

They claim that they simply must be hyperfeminine, that they have no other choice, because for them to be gender nonconforming would result in them being mistreated and taken less seriously and struggling more in life. Well guess what, cis women face the exact same consequences for refusing to perform femininity. And masculine cis women do not have a panic attack every time they are misgendered, because they are secure in the knowledge that no amount of people not perceiving them as women can change the fact that they are women. Trans women claim to believe this themselves, that their womanhood exists independently of what they look like or how they dress or how they are perceived by others, but they do not act like this is the case. They act like validation that they are "feminine enough" matters more to them than the actual state of existing as a woman. They revel in femininity, find ecstasy in femininity. They cling to it with a vise like grip, embody the hyperfemme in as many ways as possible, and in doing so they only reinforce and perpetuate the idea that to be a woman is to be pretty, that to be a woman is to be dainty, adorned, coquette, frivilous, petty, bubbly, emotional, demure, submissive, stupid, sexy, slutty, an open mouth, an expectant asshole.

[yoursinisforgiven]

BIRDCAGE ──

pairing: isaac x reader (pickel)

cw: very reader (pickel) focused, implications of depression, reader is implied to have an existential crisis, non–canon characters, references to this fic (skin tissue) mentions of death, open ending.

you are responsible for your own media consumption

Part of you wishes he hadn’t given you a choice.

That day. The day your duties were complete. Yet somehow, your time there had become more than just a job—hadn’t it? The longer you stayed, the more Isaac lingered in your thoughts, his presence filling the spaces you didn’t even know were empty. Slowly, surely, your souls began to dance together, cautious at first, then bolder, more certain.

It wasn’t long before they swirled so closely they began to blend, seeping into each other until they became one—soul-tied. The bond was unshakable, like a knot pulled too tight to untangle.

But you hadn’t wanted that, had you? (You had. You wished you hadn’t tried to avoid it.) You’d never wanted to be tied down to anything. This was your chance—to be free, free of everything. That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?

The fire crackled softly, the sound soothing in the stillness of Isaac’s study. The warmth of the mug in your hand mirrored the heat radiating from the hearth. What exactly was in the mug? You couldn’t recall. It didn’t matter. The only room in the manor that truly seemed alive was this one, and not because of the fire or the faint scent of aged wood and leather. It was because of him.

Isaac’s voice pulled you from your thoughts. His words hung between you, heavy with meaning.

“I don’t know, Isaac,” you murmured. (But you did. You had known. And you wished you’d told him.)

His sharp gaze lingered on you, searching, waiting. “You’re not forced to stay here,” he said, his voice low but steady. “I kidnapped you, yes. But now I’m giving you everything—the money, the safety, the chance to leave. You’re free to go.”

The weight of his words settled over you like a shroud. Freedom. Safety. Escape. Wasn’t that what you’d always wanted? Yet the thought of walking out that door and leaving him behind felt like ripping out a piece of yourself.

Your grip on the mug tightened. Afraid you might shatter it, you loosened your hold, drawing in a shaky breath. “Do you… want me to leave?”

“No,” he said quickly, a flicker of something undefinable crossing his face. “That’s not what I meant. I’m—what else is left here for you?”

His words pierced you, sharp and cold. You bit back the tears welling at the corners of your eyes, unwilling to let him see how much they hurt. Was he truly asking this? After everything? The cases you had worked on together, the laughter you had shared, those quiet moments when words weren’t needed, and the kiss—the kiss that had unraveled everything inside you. Had it meant nothing to him? Was that all you were? A fleeting light to brighten his life before he discarded you?

Your voice trembled as you broke the silence. “I just… I want to be with you, Isaac. I love you.”

The words hung in the air, vulnerable and raw. His expression shifted, the mask of indifference cracking, but he said nothing. The silence was deafening, stretching out like a chasm between you. You could feel it, the weight of your words hanging in the air, vulnerable and exposed. The quiet was oppressive, pressing down on your chest, making it hard to breathe.

What had you expected? A confession that mirrored your own? A promise that he felt the same? The truth was, you didn’t know. And now, sitting in the thick of this unbearable quiet, you hated yourself for saying anything at all.

You lowered your gaze to the mug in your hands. The dark liquid inside rippled slightly, though the room was still. Was it your trembling fingers? Or the storm raging inside you? Your mind raced, trying to make sense of the mess you’d created.

Had you read him wrong? All those lingering glances, the way his hand would brush yours and linger just a second too long. The moments of quiet where his presence was so comforting it felt like home. The kiss. How could you have mistaken it?

But maybe you had. Maybe you were just another fleeting piece in his story, another face that would fade into his past.

The thought twisted like a knife in your chest. You had told yourself you were strong, that you didn’t need anyone. You had always been good at building walls—at keeping people out. Yet somehow, he had slipped through. Slowly, carefully, until you hadn’t realized the walls were gone until it was too late.

And now, here you were, stripped bare, holding your heart out to someone who might not want it.

You swallowed hard, pushing down the lump in your throat. The fire crackled again, an unwelcome reminder of the warmth around you that felt so at odds with the chill inside.

You wanted to run. To flee from the vulnerability clawing at you. But there was nowhere to go. Not really. Even if you left this room, this manor, this place, you knew it wouldn’t change the ache in your chest.

Because wherever you went, you’d take it with you.

“You don’t know what it means to love someone,” Isaac’s voice cut through the silence, low and steady, but with an edge sharp enough to make you flinch. “You’ve been given food, shelter, and safety here—you’ve built a false sense of attachment.”

Your breath caught in your throat, his words hitting you like a blow. False sense of attachment? Was that what he thought this was? A survival reflex?

The ache in your chest deepened, twisting into something darker, something raw. You opened your mouth to respond, but the words stuck, caught somewhere between your mind and your heart. How could you explain it to him when it felt as though he had already decided what your feelings were?

“Is that… what you think?” you managed to whisper, your voice trembling despite your effort to steady it.

He turned away from you, his profile illuminated by the flickering firelight. For a moment, he didn’t speak, as though weighing his answer carefully. “I’ve seen it before,” he finally said, his tone quieter now but no less resolute. “When people are desperate, they cling to what feels safe. To what feels like home.”

Desperate. Safe. Home. The words echoed in your mind, each one another blow to the fragile hope you had been clinging to. Did he truly believe that? That your feelings for him were nothing more than a reflex born out of circumstance?

Your grip on the mug loosened, and you set it down on the small table beside you, your hands trembling too much to hold it any longer.

──

That had been four months ago.

The cold winter snow of January stung your cheeks as you clutched the hefty white and black envelope in your trembling hands—the white one containing your payment, the black you weren't so sure of. The weight of it felt far heavier than paper should—its contents a finality you weren’t ready to face.

Your last memory of that place was running to the side of the house, where the garden lay buried under a blanket of frost. The air had been so still, so biting, it felt as though even nature itself had paused to witness your departure. You fell to your knees before his mother’s grave, the marble headstone partially dusted with snow, the name almost obscured.

You had whispered your goodbyes, your apologies, your regrets. But even as the words left your lips, they felt hollow, dissipating into the freezing air as if the universe itself refused to carry them.

Kneeling there, surrounded by the skeletal remains of once-thriving plants, you couldn’t help but see the garden as a reflection of your own heart. Once alive, once vibrant, now barren and cold. The grave was just another reminder that everything beautiful eventually fades, no matter how deeply it is loved.

You had always thought of love as something eternal, something unbreakable. And yet, here you were, love slipping through your fingers like the snow melting against your skin. Perhaps love wasn’t meant to last forever

You whispered one last word—his name—before rising to your feet, the cold biting at your knees through the fabric of your pants. As you turned away from the grave, you glanced back at the house. A shadow had flickered in the window—his silhouette, maybe? Or just your mind playing tricks on you, desperate to leave with one final shred of him?

The snow crunched beneath your feet as you walked away, the envelope still clutched tightly in your hand. Each step felt heavier than the last, as though the earth itself wanted to anchor you there, to force you to stay. But you kept going, kept moving, until the house and the garden faded into the winter haze behind you.

And now, four months later, that memory lingered in your mind like a ghost. What had you been running from? Him? Yourself? Or was it the inevitability of your own impermanence—the truth that every bond, no matter how strong, would one day be severed by time, by distance, or by death?

It was now April.

You sat beneath the shade of a café awning, the hum of life in the piazza swirling around you. Italy was breathtaking, a place where history and the present coexisted in an uneasy yet harmonious dance. Everywhere you looked, there was something that felt eternal—the cobblestone streets worn smooth by centuries of footsteps, the ancient cathedrals casting long shadows over the bustling markets, the faint melody of a street performer’s violin drifting through the spring air.

You sipped your espresso, the bitter warmth grounding you, pulling you back from the maze of your thoughts. The café was small, tucked away in a corner of the square, and yet it felt alive, as if it had its own soul. It wasn’t just a place; it was a witness to countless lives, each person who sat here leaving behind some invisible trace of themselves.

You wondered what trace you would leave behind.

The past four months had felt like a blur, your days filled with movement yet devoid of direction. You had walked the streets of Paris, watched the sunrise over the Swiss Alps, and now, here you were in Italy. Each place was stunning in its own way, yet none of them could quiet the ache you carried with you.

Italy, with its timeless beauty, seemed to mock you. The ruins of ancient empires whispered of the inevitability of decay, yet their grandeur reminded you that even in ruin, there was something enduring. Was that what love was? Something that persisted, even as it crumbled?

You turned the black envelope over in your hands, its edges slightly worn from being carried so long. You still hadn’t opened it. Part of you feared what it might contain. A confession? A farewell? A truth you weren’t ready to face?

The envelope was a paradox, much like the city around you. It was both a connection to the past and a barrier to your future. It anchored you to what was, even as it taunted you with what might have been.

A soft breeze rustled the papers on the table, and you looked up to see the café owner adjusting a chair nearby. He offered you a small smile, one that seemed to say, Enjoy this moment; it’s all you truly have. You nodded back absently, his unspoken wisdom settling uncomfortably in your chest.

Was that the truth you had been running from? That the present was all there was? That love, loss, beauty, and pain were fleeting, and their only purpose was to remind you of your own impermanence?

You set the envelope down beside your cup, staring at it as though it might speak. The past, the future—it all felt so distant, so intangible. But here, in this moment, the warmth of the sun on your skin and the taste of coffee on your tongue felt profoundly real.

Perhaps that was enough.

You turned to the man nearby, your voice tentative. “Excuse me?”

He looked up, his warm smile softening the sharp lines of his face. It was the kind of smile that seemed to know more than it let on, like a ripple on the surface of still water hinting at unseen depths.

“I want to…” You furrowed your brows, the words catching in your throat. What had you wanted? You searched for the answer, but it felt just out of reach, tangled somewhere between your heart and your mind. “I want to live.”

He tilted his head slightly, as though weighing your words. Then, with a subtle nod, he pointed upwards, down a narrow, cobbled road that glinted faintly in the afternoon light. “Fontana,” he said simply, his accent thick and lilting, the word rolling off his tongue like poetry.

“A fountain?” you repeated, confused but intrigued.

He disappeared into the café for a moment, leaving you alone with your thoughts. When he returned, he held a small, well-worn map, its edges frayed and corners creased from use. He unfolded it on the table, his finger tracing a path from your current location to a spot circled in faint blue ink.

“La Fontana di Respiro,” he said, his voice quiet but purposeful. “The Fountain of Breath. Old, forgotten by most. But beautiful. Alive.”

The Fountain of Breath. The name stirred something inside you, a faint flicker of curiosity that felt almost like hope. “Thank you,” you said softly, taking the map from him.

He nodded again, his smile lingering as he stepped back inside the café, leaving you alone once more.

You stared down at the map, your fingers brushing over the delicate lines of ink. The fountain wasn’t far—a short walk through winding alleys and across an old stone bridge. It wasn’t the destination that mattered, though. It was the idea of it, the possibility that it might hold something you didn’t know you were searching for.

As you stood, folding the map carefully, you couldn’t help but wonder: what did it mean to truly live? Was it the pursuit of beauty, of love, of fleeting moments that made you feel whole? Or was it simply the act of continuing, of putting one foot in front of the other, even when the weight of the past threatened to pull you under?

The cobbled streets stretched out before you, golden in the soft April light. The envelope is tight in your grasp. You stepped into the street, your heart beating just a little faster than before.

 ──

The cobbled streets felt different beneath your feet as you walked. Each step was slow, deliberate—like the rhythm of a life you hadn’t yet learned to embrace. The map had become more than just a guide; it had become a symbol. The Fountain of Breath. A place that promised something you weren’t sure you even understood. But maybe, like everything else in Italy, it wasn’t the destination that mattered. Perhaps it was the act of searching itself.

The air was crisp, a breeze swirling through the narrow streets, carrying the scent of fresh bread and earth. The buildings around you rose like silent sentinels—old, worn, but standing with a kind of quiet dignity. You wondered, briefly, how many lives had passed through these same streets. How many people had walked this path before you, searching for something—whether it was love, answers, or merely a moment of peace. The thought lingered with you, like the faintest trace of a dream.

As you turned a corner, the street opened up to a small square. The fountain wasn’t visible yet, but the sound of flowing water reached your ears, soft and soothing, like a whisper from another world. You walked towards it, your body moving almost on its own, guided by the pull of something intangible. Something that whispered to you that, maybe, this was where the weight of your thoughts could finally be washed away.

The fountain came into view then—no grand monument, no marble statues or elaborate carvings. It was simple, small, its stone basin weathered by time. The water flowed gently, trickling over the edge and into the basin below, where it pooled in ripples of silver under the afternoon sun. There was something profoundly peaceful about it, something that felt as though it had been waiting for you all along.

You approached the fountain slowly, as though unsure of whether to interrupt the quiet harmony of the place. As your fingertips brushed the cool water, you felt a strange sense of release, as if the water itself held the answers you had been chasing for months. The fountain, in its simplicity, seemed to embody a truth you hadn’t been able to articulate: that life wasn’t about finding certainty or resolution, but about accepting the flow of things, the ebb and flow of moments, of choices, of love, of pain.

You leaned over the stone edge, gazing into the water. The soft ripples distorted your reflection, and for a brief moment, you felt as though you were looking at someone else—a version of you who had chosen differently, a version of you who hadn’t left, who hadn’t felt so lost.

But then, the ripples settled, and the reflection returned to clarity. It was you. The same person who had walked those cobbled streets, who had traveled across countries, carrying pieces of a past you couldn’t fully escape. But perhaps that wasn’t the point. Maybe life wasn’t about running away from the past or finding a final answer. It was about embracing the journey, about allowing yourself to flow with it, and in doing so, becoming something more than you were when you began.

You stood at the edge of the fountain, your fingers curled into the cool stone, eyes closed, as you let the water run over your face. The crisp touch of it seemed to cleanse something deeper inside you, a quiet surrender to the moment, to the silence of the world around you. You were searching for something—an answer, a release, a way to end the restless ache that clung to you. You couldn’t explain it, but you weren’t ready to come up yet, to face the world with its questions and demands. You needed to find something—anything—before you could face it all again.

The voice that broke the stillness startled you.

“What are you doing?”

You jerked your head up, water dripping from your face as you blinked in confusion. There, a few feet away, stood a small boy—no older than thirteen. His clothes were simple, ragged even, as if he had been running about the city for hours. He looked at you, eyes wide and curious but unafraid.

You scrambled to gather yourself, wiping your face with your sleeve. “I—uh, I was just…” You didn’t know how to explain yourself. The truth was, you didn’t even fully understand what you were doing.

The boy frowned, his hands tucked into the pockets of his worn jacket. He didn’t seem as concerned by your strange behavior as you might have thought. Instead, he tilted his head and asked, “Why did you put your head in the water?”

“I don’t know,” you muttered, feeling a strange, uncomfortable vulnerability in the simplicity of his question. “I thought it might help me—clear my head.”

The boy studied you for a moment, his gaze darting between you and the fountain. Then, with a shrug, he said, “I don’t think it works like that.”

His words weren’t profound. In fact, they were almost dismissive, as if he thought you were being silly. But for some reason, they cut through the haze in your mind, reminding you of how often you sought external solutions to internal struggles—how often you thought that answers could be found in places or things, when perhaps the real answer was never out there at all.

“Yeah,” you sighed, shaking your head. “I guess not.”

The boy gave a half-hearted smile, his expression shifting slightly as he took in your still-drenched face. “You’re not from around here, are you?” he asked, his words straightforward, but somehow more perceptive than you expected.

You blinked, a little caught off guard by the simplicity of the question. “No,” you replied slowly, feeling the weight of the word more than you anticipated. "I'm not."

He nodded as if that made sense, a flicker of curiosity crossing his face before he looked back at the fountain. “You don’t look like it,” he said, his voice matter-of-fact. "People from here don’t usually... do that." He gestured vaguely toward the water, an unspoken judgment lingering in his tone. “The whole head-in-the-water thing.”

You couldn't help but let out a small laugh, the absurdity of the situation hitting you. A boy, no older than thirteen, was calling you out on your dramatic search for meaning. For a moment, you felt foolish—like you were the one who had wandered into a world you didn’t belong to, trying to force something out of the universe that it wasn’t prepared to give.

“I guess I’m trying to find something,” you said, shrugging, suddenly feeling the weight of your own search. It was hard to articulate, but the boy seemed to understand, even though he could never truly understand what you were feeling. He was just a kid, after all—how could he?

He raised an eyebrow. “Find what? A way to stop thinking so much? I’ve seen adults do that here, too. You won’t find it at a fountain. Or anywhere else, really.”

His words caught you off guard again. Not because they were particularly wise, but because of the raw honesty in his tone. He wasn’t trying to be profound, or to give you an answer. He wasn’t pretending to know what you were going through. He simply spoke as if life was much simpler than you’d made it out to be.

You opened your mouth to respond, but then the words fell silent in your throat. What was it that you were searching for? More control? More clarity? More... peace? You wanted something that would make the constant questions stop—the endless searching for meaning, for purpose. But the boy was right. You wouldn’t find it by running to fountains or searching for answers in places that held no answers. You had to stop running.

“Maybe you’re right,” you said softly, more to yourself than to him. “Maybe I’ve been looking in the wrong places.”

The boy, seemingly satisfied with your response, gave a quick nod and turned back toward the street. “You’ll figure it out,” he said casually. “But it’s not gonna be in that fountain. Trust me.”

The boy’s eyes widened when you blurted out your request. “Show me,” you said, your voice a little more desperate than you intended. “Where do you go, then? What do you do when everything feels like it’s falling apart?”

For a long moment, he just stared at you, his brow furrowing as though considering whether you were being serious. There was a flicker of hesitation, but then his face softened, and he gave a quick nod.

"Alright," he said, his voice light, almost teasing. "You wanna see what I do?"

You blinked, unsure of what you were getting yourself into, but the idea of following him—of leaving behind the weight of your own thoughts—was somehow more comforting than standing still. You wanted to stop questioning, stop trying to figure out what you were supposed to do. Maybe he knew something you didn’t.

Before you could respond, he turned and dashed down a narrow alleyway, disappearing around the corner. You stood frozen for a moment, a strange mix of excitement and confusion bubbling up inside you. After a few seconds, you shook your head, quickly gathering your bearings, and followed him.

You caught up with him just as he reached the end of the alley. Standing by an old iron bike rack, he was pulling out a rusty old bicycle, its frame worn from years of use. He didn’t wait for you to ask questions. Instead, he tossed another bike toward you, his expression playful.

“Come on, we’re going for a ride,” he said, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

You hesitated for a second, unsure if you should follow. The world still felt heavy on your shoulders, the questions gnawing at you. But the boy’s easy grin and the lightness in his voice made you feel like maybe—just maybe—this ride might offer something you hadn’t considered before.

You grabbed the bike, its weight familiar and comforting. It was old, a little squeaky, but it didn’t matter. The minute you pushed off the ground, the wind rushing through your hair, you felt a small shift inside. For the first time in days, you stopped overthinking, stopped questioning, and just moved.

The boy pedaled ahead, weaving through the narrow cobbled streets of the city. As you followed him, the world around you seemed to open up in a way it hadn’t before. The scent of fresh bread wafted from a bakery, and the distant laughter of children echoed down the winding alleyways. The sun was warm on your face, but the air was cool enough to make every breath feel like a cleansing one.

You didn’t speak much as you rode, letting the rhythm of the bike take over. The boy’s movements were effortless, as though he had ridden these streets a thousand times, and you were simply following a path he already knew. There was something comforting in that. You didn’t need to lead. You didn’t need to have all the answers. You just had to keep pedaling.

Eventually, you turned off the main road, following a narrower path that led to a hidden, secluded area on the outskirts of the city. The boy slowed down and stopped by the edge of a quiet river, the sound of rushing water filling the air. You dismounted, your legs slightly wobbly from the ride, and looked around.

A small group of kids, not much older than the boy, were gathered on the riverbank. They were laughing, splashing each other, their carefree energy infectious. One of the girls waved at the boy, and he waved back before turning to you.

“Come on, let’s go for a swim,” he said, his voice light and inviting.

For a moment, you hesitated. You had no idea who these kids were, and you weren’t sure if you belonged there. But something in the boy’s eyes—something in the openness of the moment—made you feel like you were exactly where you needed to be. You didn’t have to explain yourself. You didn’t have to be perfect. You just had to be.

You stripped off your clothes, feeling self-conscious for only a second before the water caught your attention. The river was cool, the current gentle, but the water felt like a shock to your system. A good shock. It washed away the weight of your thoughts, the questions, the search. For the first time in what felt like forever, you were just... there. In the moment. Not thinking, not analyzing.

The boy dived in first, making a huge splash, and you followed, laughing as you kicked up water around you. The other kids joined in, each of them as carefree as the next. There was no pressure. No expectations. Just the joy of being alive.

As you swam, the world felt different. The water wasn’t a solution to your problems, but it was a moment of relief, a moment of escape from the weight of your own mind. You didn’t have to solve everything right now. You didn’t have to have everything figured out. All you had to do was be. To live.

You swam until your arms ached, until the sun began to sink lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the water. When you finally pulled yourself onto the riverbank, breathless and laughing, the boy followed, lying down beside you on the soft grass. He stretched out, gazing up at the sky.

“You know,” he said, his voice quieter now, “you don’t have to have it all figured out. Sometimes you just have to live. Let things happen. And the rest will come.”

You turned your head toward him, a small smile tugging at your lips. You didn’t have the words for it, but you didn’t need to. The boy was right. Maybe it wasn’t about finding all the answers. Maybe it was about living—letting go of the need to control everything, to have all the pieces in place.

You had thought you were searching for something. But now, you realized, you were simply living.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, you closed your eyes, the warm evening air brushing your skin. For the first time in a long while, you felt at peace.

“Hey, where’s the post office here?”

──

You tied up any and all loose ends in Italy, giving the boy a tight hug, pressing money into his hand for ice cream and a treat for his friends as a thank you. He grinned, his eyes sparkling as he waved you off, but you knew this was the last time you’d see him—at least, for now. He had shown you a side of life that was easy to forget in the hustle of your own mind. The carefree joy of simply being, of not needing answers right away.

Before you left, you returned the map to the man at the cafe. He smiled warmly, telling you to keep it, that it was yours now. But despite his insistence, you slipped it back into your bag alongside the envelopes. You weren’t sure what you’d do with it, but you couldn’t bring yourself to part with it just yet.

And now, here you were, standing in the post office, your mind swirling with the strange mix of emotions you had been carrying all day. The walls, the fluorescent lights, the smell of paper and ink—they all felt like they were pressing in on you as you stood before the display of postcards. You spent far too much time pondering which one to choose. Some were too bright, too forced. Others too plain, too empty. None felt right. None captured what you needed to say.

You picked one up anyway—a simple, faded postcard of a seaside view. It wasn’t much, but it felt honest. You turned it over in your hands, the blank side staring back at you like a challenge.

What would you say? What could you say? You had so many words locked inside you—words you didn’t know how to express, words that were still tangled in the mess of your heart. You could write something vague, something polite. Or maybe you could just... let go. Tell Isaac the truth. About everything. But that would be too much. You weren’t ready for that yet.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, you picked up the pen. You hovered over the postcard, your hand shaking slightly as you wrote, the words coming out slowly, each one feeling like it weighed more than the last.

"I don’t know what I’m doing. But I’m still here. I’m still trying."

It wasn’t much. But it was honest. It was a start.

You stared at the words for a moment longer before sliding the postcard into the envelope, along with the map. There was something in that map, something in those streets and alleyways of Italy, that had shifted something inside you. You didn’t know what it meant yet, but you weren’t ready to let it go. Not yet.

On the front of the envelope, you wrote Isaac’s name. The address. Your hand moved almost mechanically, but your mind was elsewhere, drifting back to everything that had come before this moment—the kisses, the words, the silence between you both. Could you ever bridge that gap? Could you ever understand what it was between you?

You hesitated, fingers lingering on the edge of the envelope, before you pushed it into the slot, the sound of it sliding through the machine somehow final.

As you walked away from the post office, the weight in your chest didn’t lift, but it had changed. The knot wasn’t gone, but it had softened, just a little. There was still so much to figure out. So much unknown. But for now, you had made a decision. You had sent the message. Whether or not Isaac would ever read it, you had taken the first step toward something—toward him, toward yourself.

And that was enough for today.

 ──

You smile at the memories of Italy, the warmth of those days still lingering in your mind. It had been five months since you left, but it felt like a lifetime ago, like you had lived entire worlds between then and now. The landscapes, the people, the moments that had shifted something deep inside you, all felt so distant now, yet still so present. It was as if they were tucked away, just behind your eyes, ready to resurface when you needed them most.

Now, it was September. The air in New Orleans was thick with the humidity of summer, but it wasn’t the heat that consumed you. It was the festivals, the music, the life that seemed to pour out of the streets at every corner, filling the air with a rhythm you couldn’t escape even if you tried. You had come to the city on a whim, a place where you could lose yourself in the energy of it all, where the sounds of jazz and the shouts of street vendors could drown out everything else.

It felt like the city itself was alive, pulling you in, wrapping you up in its rhythm. You wandered the streets, not in any particular hurry, letting the sounds and colors of New Orleans guide your steps. The smell of crawfish and beignets filled the air, the clinking of glasses and the laughter of strangers mixing with the distant twang of a saxophone.

You had no plan, no clear direction. The days blurred into one another, and for a while, it felt like you were floating, untethered and free.

But somewhere in the back of your mind, Isaac still lingered. His presence was like a shadow that followed you, just out of reach but always there. You hadn’t heard from him since you sent the letter, and you hadn’t expected to. You had given him space, just as you had given yourself space. But the uncertainty of it all—of what you were running from, what you were running toward—hadn’t completely gone away.

New Orleans was a place for forgetting, for losing yourself in the chaos of the present. But you couldn't outrun yourself forever.

You found yourself walking toward the Mississippi River one evening, drawn by the sound of a trumpet playing nearby. The sun was setting, casting a golden hue over the water, and the air smelled like salt and summer. You paused, leaning over the railing, watching the slow flow of the river beneath you. For a moment, it felt like you were standing on the edge of everything—on the edge of the world, on the edge of who you were and who you were becoming.

A small group of musicians had gathered a few feet away, their instruments creating a rich, soulful melody that seemed to echo the pulse of the city itself. You closed your eyes, letting the music wash over you, its bittersweet notes reminding you of the things you had left behind. The weight of unanswered questions and untold feelings seemed to settle on your chest, but you didn’t mind.

You didn’t have the answers. And maybe, for once, that was okay.

The trumpet’s call grew louder, more urgent, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you felt something stir inside you—something that wasn’t fear, or uncertainty, or regret. It was hope. A quiet, stubborn hope, the kind that clung to you even when you tried to push it away.

You didn’t know where you were going, or what you were supposed to do. But maybe that wasn’t the point anymore. Maybe the point was to keep walking, to keep listening to the music, to keep moving forward, even if you didn’t have the map to guide you.

Because somewhere along the way, you knew you would find your way back to yourself. And maybe, just maybe, you would find your way back to Isaac too.

Tonight, after five months of blending into the rhythms of New Orleans, you had decided to venture into the heart of the city. The pulse of the streets called to you with a different intensity tonight—something raw and electric. Rumors had been swirling, whispers from the locals about the mythics, creatures from legends and stories, living in harmony with humans. The idea had haunted you since you first arrived, but tonight, it felt like the right time to seek the truth. Could Isaac’s grandfather’s discovery—the one that had once seemed so far-fetched, so impossible—actually be true?

You walked through the winding streets, the city alive with its usual hum—music leaking from open windows, voices carrying over the warm summer air, the clink of glasses in bars that spilled out onto the sidewalks. The heart of the city felt like a living, breathing organism, its pulse quickening as the night deepened. But there was something different tonight. A weight in the air, a strange energy that you couldn’t quite place.

You find yourself drawn to a dimly lit bar, its neon sign flickering above the door like a secret waiting to be uncovered. The street outside is alive, but the moment you step inside, it’s as though time slows down. The air is thick with smoke and the low hum of conversation, the clink of glasses, and the faint buzz of an old jukebox playing a bluesy tune. It’s dark—deliberately so. The kind of dark where secrets can hide, and where you can lose yourself in the shadows.

The door closes behind you with a soft thud, and for a moment, you're caught in the stillness. The feeling of being outside, of being on the edge of something, is suddenly gone. Inside, everything is different. The people here are not like those you’ve seen in the rest of the city. They’re... something else.

At first, you don’t quite believe what you're seeing. Horns curl from the tops of heads, tails flicker in the dim light, and eyes gleam with an unnatural shine. Monsters. Creatures that don't belong in the world you thought you knew.

You freeze in the doorway for a moment, overwhelmed, your heart hammering in your chest. Your mind races, trying to make sense of what you're seeing. This isn’t a dream, is it? This isn’t some fanciful myth whispered about in hushed tones.

A figure brushes past you, forcing you to step back. You blink, trying to shake off the shock. But the door behind you swings shut with a heavy thud, and it’s as though the weight of the world presses in on you. It’s too much. You feel dizzy, as if the ground beneath you is shifting, and for a moment, the room spins.

The adrenaline in your veins begins to wear off, but it leaves behind a dizzying sense of disorientation. Your legs feel like jelly, barely holding you upright as the world tilts and spins around you. The fear still claws at your chest, but it’s mixed with something else now—weakness. The kind that comes when you’ve been running, fleeing, trying to escape, but you can’t outrun everything.

You stumble forward a few steps, your vision blurring, and then—before you even realize what’s happening—strong hands catch you from behind. You don’t have the strength to resist as they gently, yet firmly, guide you away from the bar. A low, soothing voice hums in your ear, but you can't quite make out the words, your mind too foggy to process anything.

“Easy now,” the voice murmurs, their voice thick with an accent, its tone smooth and calm, like the warm comfort of a lullaby. “I’ve got you.”

You try to shake your head, to gather your thoughts, but the world around you pulls further away. The pounding in your skull grows louder, and with each step, it feels like your body is growing heavier. You reach out, your hands trembling, but all you can grasp is the thin air.

Through the haze, you catch a glimpse of a figure at your side—tall, broad-shouldered. Horns. Those horns. They jut from the top of his head, curved and dark, catching the dim light of the street lamps as you pass beneath them. 

Your knees buckle, and for a moment, you think you might collapse, but figure supports you, their grip never faltering. The ground beneath your feet feels less solid with each passing second, as though the world is slipping through your fingers. You try to fight it, but it’s a losing battle.

“Stay with me,” he says softly, but there’s something in their  voice now—something that isn’t quite as playful, as teasing, as it was before. It’s... concerned? Protective?

You want to pull away, to scream at them, but your body refuses to obey. You can barely keep your eyes open as darkness begins to edge in from the corners of your vision. The last thing you see before everything fades is the curve of those horns, dark and sharp against the night sky. The last thing you hear is their voice, whispering something you can’t catch.

Then, everything goes black.

──

When you finally come to, your eyes open slowly, the world around you still hazy. The first thing you notice is the couch—a deep, sultry purple that seems to swallow you whole. Its plush fabric is soft beneath you, and for a moment, you wonder if you’re dreaming. The faint scent of something unfamiliar—a mix of incense and old wood—lingers in the air around you.

Your head throbs, a dull ache that pulses with every beat of your heart, and you feel disoriented, unsure of where you are. You try to sit up, but the movement is sluggish, your limbs heavy, as if you’re fighting through thick fog.

As your hearing gradually sharpens, you become aware of voices—arguing, bickering, sharp and tense. You strain to make sense of them.

“You brought a human—a stranger, no less. Dontis, you're far too irresponsible,” a voice scolds harshly.

“Xanny—” A voice you recognize interrupts, the same one that had saved you at the bar, pulling you from the brink of danger.

“They’re not a hunter. I’d be able to tell,” a third voice chimes in, a bit calmer but still tinged with concern. “Didn’t you say they literally passed out?”

“They’re awake—” A new voice joins the mix.

“It doesn’t matter, Dontis. I need to make sure my love’s safety is ensured.”

“And it is,” Dontis responds, a note of finality in their tone.

“They’re awake.” The voice now grows louder, more insistent, as if the discussion can no longer be ignored.

The room falls silent for a moment, the weight of the words hanging in the air. You can feel the eyes of whoever is in the room on you, though you still can’t see their faces. The silence is thick—uncomfortable—like they’re all waiting for you to do something, to say something.

You try to focus, to gather your bearings. You don’t know where you are, and the weight of this strange place presses down on you. The words in the air feel heavy, as if they’re charged with meaning you don’t understand. The uncertainty makes your pulse quicken, but you force yourself to take a deep breath.

Slowly, your eyes adjust to the dim lighting, and you see shadows on the walls, figures moving in your periphery. It’s hard to make out details, but there’s an undeniable presence around you. You blink, clearing your vision, and finally, you manage to sit up, though it feels like you’re moving through water.

The room remains still, the silence pressing in on you like a physical weight. You can feel the gaze of everyone on you, even though you can’t see their faces clearly. The air is thick with unspoken tension, and your heart races in your chest, each beat louder than the last. You struggle to steady yourself, to make sense of the overwhelming situation, but your mind feels clouded.

You try to focus, to ground yourself in something familiar, but all the pieces of this strange place and the people around you are slipping through your fingers like sand. What is this place? Who are they? And why does it feel like you’re on the edge of something far beyond your understanding?

Your eyes begin to adjust to the dimness, shadows flickering across the walls, moving just out of the corner of your vision. You blink, willing your senses to sharpen, and slowly, like emerging from a fog, your surroundings come into focus.

The couch beneath you is plush and soft, the deep purple fabric contrasting sharply against the eerie atmosphere of the room. You glance down, your breath catching when you spot your bag and the envelopes tucked safely by your side. A brief sense of relief washes over you, but it’s fleeting. The black envelope—the one that has been the source of so many unanswered questions—is still there, close to you, like a heavy secret you can’t escape.

You shift your gaze up and find the four watching you closely. Two of them—neither of them human—stand at the edge of your vision, their features still too blurry to make out. But you can feel their presence, their intensity as if they’re waiting for something. You can’t help but feel their eyes on you, probing, as if they’re expecting an explanation you’re not sure how to give.

“Do… do you know where the nearest post office is?” The words slip from your mouth before you can stop them, the question feeling foolish as soon as it leaves your lips. You can’t even explain why you asked it. Maybe it’s just the first thing that came to mind, a desperate need to latch onto something familiar, something that feels like it might offer a way out. Isaac.

"Post office?" The voice you had earlier pinpointed to be ‘Xanny’ asks, his words dripping with suspicion. "Why would you need a post office?" There's a venomous edge to his tone, a quiet warning that you can't quite place.

The figure standing closest to Dontis—a gun tucked into their belt—scoffs audibly, the sound cutting through the tense silence. The weight of their presence is undeniable, like an impending storm. Your spine tingles, a chill creeping down the back of your neck as you subconsciously shrink into the couch, as if trying to make yourself smaller, less noticeable. It’s a futile attempt.

“Follow the Mississippi River until you see a building that looks out of place,” the figure says, their voice heavy with finality. The words hang in the air like a riddle, a puzzle that gnaws at your mind, leaving you with more questions than answers. Their tone is unyielding, but there’s something deeper there—something you can’t quite grasp yet, like the tension of a string pulled taut, waiting to snap.

You nod absently, your hand tightening around the strap of your bag, the black envelope tucked safely inside. Without another moment’s hesitation, you push yourself up from the couch and make a break for it, the words of the man—Dontis, you remind yourself—echoing in your mind like a distant echo. "Don't let the night engulf your spirit."

His voice, though distant now, lingers in your ears, like a warning that gnaws at the edges of your mind. The night feels different here, heavier, as if it holds something more than just darkness. A weight presses on you as you run, an unseen force that seems to pull at your very soul, urging you to keep moving, to escape the shadows that feel alive, watching, waiting. The city outside feels like a labyrinth, its streets twisting and turning, an endless maze that promises both answers and dangers.

You push through the doubt, through the fear that threatens to swallow you whole. Each step feels like you're running away from something just as much as you're running toward it. The world around you is dim, cast in the shadows of streetlights that flicker erratically, like a reflection of your own uncertainty. You feel a pull—an intangible thread that guides you, but not quite fully. It tugs at your heart, a constant reminder that you can’t turn back now.

What was it that you were seeking, truly? Was it the truth behind the strange encounters, the mythics, the envelope? Or was it something deeper, something more elusive—an understanding of yourself, of your place in a world you hadn’t yet begun to comprehend? The question hangs in the air like an unfinished thought, and you realize you may never truly know until you reach the end of this tangled journey.

The night grows colder, the air thicker, as if the weight of your choices is pressing down on you. You look over your shoulder, half-expecting to see shadows chasing you, but all you see is the endless stretch of the city, its streets swallowed by the night.

This was all a dream, surely. You just had to wake up.

 

──

The post office was a quiet, sterile space, a sharp contrast to the bustling, vibrant life of the city outside. The soft hum of elevator music played in the background, its light melody almost intrusive in the stillness, creating a dissonance that mirrored the turmoil inside your chest. As you walked through the aisles of postcards, your fingers brushed against the glossy surfaces, each card a reminder of places and moments you hadn’t yet explored. The weight of uncertainty pressed on your mind, and yet, you knew that you were on the verge of something—something you couldn’t quite name, but something that would guide you forward.

You stopped at a postcard that caught your attention. It illustrated a parade, bursting with color, and the words “New Orleans” sprawled across the top in the same sultry purple that had been the shade of Dontis’s couch. It felt like a sign, a strange connection to the chaos you had just left behind—a place full of life, full of noise, full of the unknown.

You hesitated for a moment, unsure of what to say. What could you possibly write? What message could encapsulate all the thoughts swirling inside you? You stared at the blank space on the back of the postcard, waiting for something to come to you, some words that might make sense of all this.

And then it hit you—quiet, almost imperceptible, but there all the same.

"Don’t let the night engulf your spirit."

It was simple, but it felt right. The words seemed to carry a weight, as if they were more for you than for anyone else. Don’t let the darkness swallow you whole, don’t let it consume everything. It was a reminder—a reminder not to let the world around you, with all its chaos and uncertainty, swallow your essence. To hold onto who you were, even when everything else felt like it was slipping away.

You weren’t sure if it meant anything at all to anyone else, but it meant something to you. It was a plea, a prayer almost, for guidance, for clarity in a world that seemed to offer none. You had been running from something, from the unknown, from yourself perhaps, but maybe it was time to stop running. Maybe it was time to face whatever it was that had been pulling at you.

You scribbled the words on the postcard, the ink flowing across the paper with a sense of finality. You sealed the card in an envelope, the weight of it in your hands somehow heavier than it should have been. You didn’t know if your message would mean anything to anyone else, but in that moment, it felt like the only thing you could offer.

You stepped up to the counter, handed the envelope to the clerk, and watched as they stamped it with a finality that seemed to resonate deep within you. The journey was no longer in your hands. You had sent your message out into the world, but now, it was time to let go of it. To move forward.

 

──

And now, you found yourself in the quiet countryside outskirts of Japan, the land blanketed by a gentle snow that seemed to still the world around you. The flakes fell softly from the sky, each one unique, yet all part of the same vast, intricate pattern. The snow was a quiet reminder of the cycles of life, of how everything, no matter how fleeting, was part of something larger, something beyond your comprehension.

The journey had led you here—across cities, through tumultuous feelings, and the quiet spaces of your own heart. The winding roads, the voices of strangers, the encounters with those whose lives brushed against yours for only a moment... it all had a way of pulling you back. Back to him. Back to Isaac.

Had it all been inevitable? Had everything—the encounters, the moments, the letters—been guiding you back to him, even when you tried to outrun it? You weren’t sure. But the more you tried to escape, the more it felt like you were being pulled toward him in some unspoken way, as if the universe itself had conspired to weave your paths together, no matter how much you resisted.

You stood there, in the quiet snow, wondering if you could ever truly escape what was so deeply tied to you. Was it fate? Or was it simply the pull of your own heart, the way it could never quite let go of someone who had left a mark on your soul?

The snowflakes settled on your shoulders, and you couldn’t help but think about the nature of time. How every moment seemed to stretch into infinity when you were lost, and yet, when you look back, it passes like a fleeting breath. And in that fleeting breath, decisions were made, lives were changed. Could you ever truly escape the past? Or did it exist, silently, in the space between every step you took, waiting for you to acknowledge it?

You thought of Isaac—his presence, his words, the bond you shared, the weight of it all. It seemed inescapable. Perhaps that was the nature of love, or the nature of connection: once it forms, it can never truly be undone. You could run, you could fight it, but in the end, you were always drawn back to where you came from. To where your soul felt most alive.

And so, standing there in the soft, falling snow, you asked yourself: Was it time to return? Or had you already been there all along, caught in the pull of something inevitable, something you couldn't escape even if you tried?

You closed your eyes for a moment, letting the snowflakes kiss your skin, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, you finally felt at peace with the question. Perhaps it didn’t matter what had brought you back, but rather what you would do with the time you had now that you were here.

 ──

Though time and distance may stretch between two souls, they do not sever the connection, do they? The knot that had formed between you and Isaac, the one woven through quiet moments, unspoken words, and the subtle dance of your hearts—was still tightly bound, unyielding. No matter how far you traveled, how many miles you put between yourselves, your heart continued to yearn for him. It was an ache that could not be quieted, not by the calm of Japan’s snowy countryside, nor by the bustling streets of New Orleans, nor the stillness of any place you tried to escape to.

Perhaps that yearning was what led you here. To the plane, to the cab, to the train, to another cab, and then the long walk back to the manor that had once felt so full of answers. You had left. You had tried to walk away, to forge your own path, but the closer you got to him, the more you realized that perhaps there was no escaping the bond between you.

You held the vacation card from Japan in your hand, the one that had sat dormant in your bag for so long. 

As you reached the gates of Isaac's manor, a flutter of nostalgia stirred deep in your chest. It had only been less than a year, but in that time, so much had shifted within you. The space between you and him had felt like a lifetime. The memories of your time here hung in the air, each one pulling at you, urging you to move closer. But how to begin this encounter?

Should you call him? No, that would feel too detached, too impersonal, for a reunion that had so much weight. Perhaps you could scream his name, but the thought of startling him, of putting him on edge after all this time, made you hesitate. You wanted this moment to be real, to be face to face, to bridge the distance that had grown between you without words, only presence.

You leaned against the gate, your mind swirling with possibilities, and then—without warning—you stumbled forward. Your hands shot out instinctively to catch yourself, but as your foot caught the edge of the threshold, you realized something else entirely. The gate hadn’t been locked. You had expected it to be, assumed it to be an impenetrable barrier, but instead, it opened easily, as if it had been waiting for you all along.

Your heart quickened, a sudden jolt of realization flooding through you. This was fate. The gate had been unlocked, just as you had been drawn back here. It wasn’t coincidence, was it? It couldn’t be. The universe had a way of bringing you back to the places you were meant to be, even when you tried to walk away.

You paused for a moment at the threshold, your breath catching in your throat. Was this the moment where everything would change? Was this the point where you crossed a line you could never return from, or was this a return to something unfinished, a chapter that had never truly been closed?

Fate, you thought. How often had you heard that word, thrown around carelessly by others, by yourself even? But now, standing here, feeling the heavy pull of something far beyond your control, you wondered—was fate real, or was it just the stories we told ourselves to explain the inexplicable?

The gate creaked open slightly more, an invitation, or perhaps a challenge. The uncertainty of it lingered in the air. Was it truly fate that had brought you back to this place, or was it simply the inescapable pull of the bond that existed between you and Isaac, the one you had tried so desperately to outrun?

You stepped forward, your feet moving without thinking. The path that lay ahead was uncertain, but somehow, that felt right. Sometimes, the most important steps are the ones we take without knowing what the ground will be beneath us. And as you passed through the gate, the feeling settled within you that this was where you were meant to be, for better or worse, despite the turbulence and the longing that had guided you here.

You ran, the snow crunching under your feet, the cold air biting at your skin. Each step felt like a moment of release, of finally letting go of the uncertainty that had plagued you for so long. The path ahead was still unknown, but for the first time in what felt like forever, you didn’t mind. The unknown was no longer something to fear—it was something to embrace, something to move toward.

The snow beneath your feet made the ground slippery, and you stumbled slightly as you neared the front door of the manor. The chill in the air nipped at your cheeks, and the cold was sharp against your lungs, but you barely noticed. All that mattered was the way your heart raced, the way your body moved on its own, drawn inexorably toward the place where your soul had always felt tethered.

You reached the door, breathless, your heart pounding not just from the run but from the weight of everything that had led you here. You raised your hand to knock, but paused. A small thought flickered through your mind, something mundane but oddly comforting: You’ll need to remind Isaac to salt the pavement so the ice melts easier next time.

The idea of returning to the small, everyday things—the moments that had once felt so ordinary—felt grounding. It was as if, in this whirlwind of emotions and decisions, the simple act of being with Isaac again could somehow bring balance, could bring you back to yourself.

You knocked, the sound resonating in the cold air, and waited. The warmth of the house seemed to invite you in, a stark contrast to the icy world outside. You could feel it, just beyond the door—the tension, the unanswered questions—but more than that, you felt the pull of that soul-tied connection that had never truly left you.

The woman answered the door, her posture slumped, a cloud of cigarette smoke hanging around her like an aura, a cigarette in between her fingers. There was a weariness in her eyes, a kind of detachment that seemed at odds with the warmth of the house you remembered. The smell of stale tobacco clung to her clothes, as if it had become part of her skin, a permanent scent that spoke of time spent in places long forgotten.

But what hit you the hardest wasn’t her appearance or the smell—it was the ache that bloomed in your chest, sudden and sharp. You had hoped, foolishly, that when you returned, things would be as they were before. But now, standing here, facing this stranger in Isaac’s doorway.  Questions flooded your mind like a storm, each one crashing against the others in an overwhelming rush. Had Isaac moved on already? Had he replaced you so easily, without a second thought? Was he truly capable of leaving everything behind, as though it had never mattered? The weight of those thoughts pressed down on you, each question a stone sinking deeper into your chest.

Your heart twisted painfully in your ribcage. How long had you spent running from the truth of your own feelings? How long had you buried your doubts, your fears, your longing? And now, in this moment, everything you had carefully built—everything you had convinced yourself to believe—seemed to crumble before you, falling apart with a single breath.

The woman before you didn’t speak right away. She simply stared, her eyes narrowing as if she was trying to place you, to figure out whether you were a threat, an intruder, or merely a fool. Her silence was suffocating, the air between you thick with questions left unanswered. Her gaze was sharp, like a blade, calculating, unyielding.

You felt her scrutinize every inch of you, every tremor in your stance. What was she waiting for? Was she waiting for you to speak, to show your true purpose here? Or was she simply testing how long you could stand in this uncomfortable space between words?

You couldn’t bear the silence any longer. You forced the words out, each one feeling fragile on your tongue, as if speaking them aloud would break something within you. “I’m—I’m looking for Isaac.”

The words left your mouth, but even as they did, you felt the weight of them shift, uncertain, as if they belonged to someone else entirely. Your heart pounded in your chest, each beat a reminder of how far you had come, how much you had hoped—and how little you truly knew.

The woman didn’t react at once. She just stood there, her eyes piercing into you, measuring you, sizing you up as if trying to determine whether you were worthy of an answer. You could feel her judgment—heavy, thick, like the smoke curling from the cigarette in her hand. It wrapped itself around you, choking you in its silence.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she spoke, her voice flat, almost uninterested. “Who?”

The word hit you like a slap, and for a moment, you couldn’t quite grasp what was happening. Who? Of course, she knew who Isaac was. She must have. But the uncertainty in her voice, the casual dismissal—it threw you off balance. You furrowed your brows, confusion lacing your thoughts, but you pressed on, trying to hold onto the fragile thread of your purpose.

“Issac. Isaac Rhodes.” You said it again, firmer this time, though it felt as though you were repeating something in a dream, something that didn’t quite make sense.

The woman stared at you for a long moment, her gaze now calculating, as though weighing your words. The silence stretched longer, and you could feel the weight of it pressing down on you, suffocating you. You wanted to ask her why she wasn’t answering, why she wasn’t reacting, but you knew better than to speak again. You could feel the tension building in the air, so thick you could almost taste it.

Then, with the slow, deliberate motion of someone who had all the time in the world, she lifted the cigarette to her lips and blew out a long stream of smoke. Her eyes never left yours as she did, and for a moment, you felt like you were trapped in her gaze—held there, suspended in time.

Finally, she spoke, and the words hit you with all the force of a gut-punch, each one leaving you breathless, suspended between disbelief and horror.

“He’s been dead for several months now.”

The words echoed in your mind, reverberating with a finality that shattered everything you thought you knew. Dead? Isaac—gone? The very idea seemed impossible, like a cruel joke your mind refused to accept. Everything you’d built, all the steps you’d taken, the places you had run to, had been in search of him. And now this? It was as if the universe had torn the ground from beneath you, leaving you suspended in an abyss, the air thick and suffocating around you.

You couldn’t grasp the weight of it. How could you? It felt like the fabric of time itself had been ripped apart—Isaac was dead. The words had no meaning, no place in the world you had fought so hard to understand. And yet, they hung there in the air, heavy as iron, pressing down on your chest with a weight you couldn’t escape.

Your heart trembled, a dull ache that spread through you like a slow-burning fire. In that moment, it felt as though everything you had ever known about love, about connection, had been a fleeting illusion—nothing more than a dream you were still trying to wake from. The dance of your soul, so sure of its steps, so certain of its path, suddenly faltered, tripping over a truth you hadn’t been ready to face. It was as if the rhythm of everything you had believed in had come to a screeching halt.

The world around you blurred, the edges of reality slipping away. You tried to breathe, but the air felt thin, distant, as if all sound had been muffled, leaving you in a quiet, suffocating void. The woman’s presence, her cold indifference, was like a distant echo now. You were no longer connected to her, to this place, to the world you had once known. Only the deep, gnawing emptiness of the truth remained, pulling you deeper into its grip.

How could something so final, so absolute, be true? You had felt him, the pull of his presence, the weight of his absence. You had searched for him, chased pieces of him across continents, across time, and now, in this moment, it seemed all for nothing. Had he ever been real? Had the love between you ever truly existed, or was it just a fleeting illusion, a trick of the light?

You tried to reach for something—anything—to hold on to. But it was as if the very fabric of your soul was unraveling, the threads of your existence slipping through your fingers like sand. You had always believed that love, that connection, was something eternal, something that could never be severed. But now, standing in the cold silence of this woman’s doorway, you were forced to confront the most brutal of truths: All things are temporary.

“His mail keeps coming here though—” The woman’s voice cuts through the haze of your thoughts, her tone casual, almost indifferent. She steps aside, and with a practiced hand, she picks up a pile of mail near the door, sorting through it carelessly.

But it’s the sight beneath her fingers that makes your heart stop. There, nestled among the letters, are the vacation cards you had sent—one from New Orleans, another from Italy. The edges of the cards are slightly bent, as if they’d been sitting there for a while, waiting. Waiting for him to open them, to read them. To understand the words you had carefully written, the thoughts you had sent across the world to reach him.

Your hand tightens around the card still in your grasp, the one from Japan, the ink from your hastily written message still fresh. And then, the truth hits you like a sharp blade to the chest.

Isaac had never seen them. The cards. Your thoughts. The messages. All of the things you had sent across the globe, with the hope that he might somehow, in some way, feel connected to you again, had never reached him. He had never held those pieces of you in his hands, never read the words you had poured into them, never understood the weight of what you were trying to say.

And for a brief, horrifying moment, you feel completely and utterly invisible. As if all your efforts had been for nothing. The love, the longing, the distance, the journeys you had taken—everything had been in vain. Isaac had been gone, and you had been chasing shadows.

You take one step, then another, your feet moving almost automatically as if your body is trying to distance itself from the weight of everything you’ve just learned. The cold air bites at your skin, but it does nothing to numb the ache in your chest. The world feels impossibly heavy now, the road before you stretching out into an uncertain future, filled with the echoes of what once was.

“Hey!—” The woman’s voice catches your ear, a sharp, choking sound that catches in her throat. “—You okay?”

The words break through the fog for a moment, but they feel distant, disconnected. You don’t stop, don’t turn around. There’s nothing left to say. Nothing left to do.

As you walk away, the weight of the black envelope in your hand presses against your palm, a tangible reminder of everything you’ve just lost. It feels like a cruel joke, the weight of the envelope stark against the emptiness in your heart. You hadn’t even realized you had grabbed it from the pile of Isaac’s mail. The black wax seal feels strangely cold between your fingers, as if it’s mocking you.

──

The world around you feels like it's closing in as you sit on that bench, the cold air sharp against your skin, biting at your chest like the ache inside you. The black envelope, now broken open, feels like the last tether you have to Isaac, and yet, it’s nothing but a cold, clinical document—a finality that doesn’t belong to you. Your fingers tremble as you hold it, trying to make sense of the words, but they blur before your eyes, the paper feeling heavier with each passing second.

Inheritance Documents.

The words hit you like a punch to the stomach, and for a moment, you can’t breathe. The air feels thick with grief, suffocating. You try to swallow the lump in your throat, but it’s impossible. Your chest tightens, and the tears—silent at first—begin to sting your eyes. You blink furiously, willing them back, but they come anyway.

The document lays out the legalities—Isaac’s final wishes. The manor, the estate, the property—all of it now belongs to you. The weight of the inheritance feels heavier than you could have ever imagined. You are left with his possessions, his legacy, but none of the pieces that truly mattered—the connection, the love, the understanding you once shared.

You had come here looking for closure, for answers, but now it seems as if you have only inherited the hollow remnants of a life that was never truly yours. The idea of ownership, of legacy, of what belongs to whom—it all feels strange now. What is inheritance, really? Is it just the passing down of things, of titles, of material wealth? Or is it something more profound? A passing of the heart, a handover of memories, of connections?

Isaac’s gone.

The realization that Isaac, the man you had loved, the man whose absence had gnawed at your soul since you left, is truly gone, hits you like an avalanche. It’s unbearable, this weight, this suffocating grief that consumes you. For months, you had run, thinking if you could keep moving, if you could just outrun the ache, maybe it would go away. But now, standing here, holding the final remnants of his life in your hands, you realize that the ache will never leave.

Tears spill over, hot and unbidden, sliding down your cheeks. They blur the words on the paper, but you don’t care. The letter, the legal jargon—it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. You squeeze your eyes shut, but the weight of the world presses down on your shoulders, and the sobs tear their way out of you, raw and unrelenting.

The cold doesn’t numb you. The night doesn’t silence the roar of grief that fills your chest, an agonizing, endless wail that you can’t silence. You put your hands to your face, as if trying to keep the world from seeing you fall apart, but the sobs come faster, harder.

How could he be gone?

You had left, yes, but it wasn’t supposed to end like this. You had come back, hoping for some kind of reconciliation, some kind of peace, but this? This was a cruel twist of fate.

You had hoped that maybe, just maybe, you could step back into his life, that the love you once shared hadn’t evaporated, hadn’t been buried in the years that had passed. But now all you hold is a set of papers, a man’s final wishes, and the bitter reality that you may never understand what happened, what changed. You had been so sure you would find him again, that there was something to hold onto. But now, it’s as if your entire existence has been reduced to dust.

You bend forward, your head dropping into your hands, and the tears come harder now, your body wracked with silent sobs. The ache in your chest is a hollow echo, a reminder of everything you’ve lost. The love, the connection, the moments you had hoped to find again—they are gone, and all that remains is this gnawing emptiness.

You had thought you were strong enough, that you could carry this pain. But now, as you sit there, alone in the cold, the weight of it feels unbearable. The loneliness, the grief—it’s like a heavy cloak you can’t shed.

And in that moment, you realize that maybe this is what life is—an endless series of inheritances. Not of things, but of grief, of love, of pain. The things we carry when the people we love are gone, the things we inherit even when we don’t want them. The burden of memories, of moments that are forever locked in time, and the knowledge that we can never truly let go, no matter how hard we try.

You sit there, shivering, your tears staining the paper in your hands, and for the first time, you allow yourself to feel it all. The grief, the loss, the love that never fades, no matter how far you run.

──

author's note: credits to @claiestve and this post, thank you for the idea!

just in case there’s any confusion, it was xanthus, love, dontis, and hunter who was bickering.

[prezaki]

Bucchigiri?! and 'being Honki' - a Show about Identity and Human Connection

With Hiroko Utsumi's newest work as a director now completed, I want to take a moment to discuss the thematic through-lines of Bucchigiri?! and explain why I think that the story was very coherent even if it first seemed erratic.

At the heart of the series is the concept of the Honki Person(TM) - and that's where the confusion starts. Leaving the word 'Honki' in Japanese for the subs suggests a lore-heavy emphasis on some kind of supernatural mechanic in-story. It caused many viewers expected a well-defined shounen-typical power system - but that isn't what Honki is nor what it was ever meant to be.

"Honki" is the Japanese word 本気, which means Seriousness, Earnestness (or doing something 'in earnest, for real' if used as an adverb). 'Honki People' literally just means 'Earnest People'

And thus "Honki" is doing double duty as a red herring Lore Concept and a regular word - an intentional ambiguity that is inevitably lost by translation.

In the show, the characters do initially think of the 'Honki Person' as a literal thing to become (a supernaturally powerful master martial artist) rather than as a state of being in which one is earnest - but the thing is that the narrative proves them wrong.

But before we get to that, we need to dig a little bit deeper into what a Honki Person is thought to be in-universe:

"Historically", those thought of as Honki were fighters who participated in conflicts 300 years ago - a bit after the end of the Sengoku Period, the continuously warring states that had defined Japan for two centuries. With the advent of the rigidly structured Edo Period, honorable fighters with no clear systemic alliance were no longer needed and the aspiring Honki People(TM) were mercilessly gunned down. This feels out of left field for an anime like Bucchigiri?! to focus on, so I propose a second more allegorical layer to impose over the literal pseudo-historical read.

Even beyond the historical fact that gun imports changed warfare, the usage of guns here is deliberate to represent something. Guns are associated with authorities, and contrasted against the Honki People(TM) shunning weapons and fighting only with their own bodies.

To be Honki(TM) means to be true to yourself and secure in your own identity - this is something that is a hindrance to a social system that relies on rules and groupthink to sustain itself. Supporting this assumption, the theme of 'death' by weapon/authority is mirrored in the show several times:

On the one hand, we have the NG Boys, a gang set apart from the other gangs in the story by their even more rigid hierarchical structure and their willingness to use weaponry. They all follow one leader, have one uniform look, and appear basically brainwashed into blind obedience.

The association of weapons=structure and authority is made pretty clearly through that alone, but is also enhanced by all the members of the NG Boys living under constant threat of being fed to the real authorities of society: the police. Fear keeps everyone in line.

And further, the idea of society as an oppressive force (especially to the lower class) is put into direct focus through Mitsukuni and Matakara. Poverty is brought up briefly before through Senya (our main Honki Person(TM) was a nameless orphan after all) and brought back with the Asamine brothers:

Mitsukuni wishes to escape his social status in order to offer a better life to his brother - and he's forcibly held down by the oppressive system around him.

The cop that causes Mitsukuni to go to jail is equivalent to the guns that shot Senya and Ichiya.

(Utsumi has explored this underlying socially critical current before. Not for nothing, her previous series SK8 opens with the memorable bridge of the title song reading: "before society can kill us".)

But Bucchigiri?! isn't about overthrowing the system. It's about the individual. Understanding the context about authority just helps setting the real theme into focus.

And that theme is to hold on steadfast to who you are and allow yourself to connect with others, even in various kinds of adversity.

After this long, long preamble, let's get to the actual main characters!!

Matakara and Arajin are people who are ruled by fear and who spend 11 episodes running from others and themselves in two very different ways.

Arajin is pretty hated as a protagonist, which amuses me a little, because nobody hates Arajin more than Arajin hates Arajin.

His past cowardice in failing to protect Matakara has clearly shown him that he is a pathetic person and he's spent his whole life since then trying to avoid being reminded of this. He avoids Matakara, the strongest reminder of his failure, but further than that he avoids connection with anybody that he could see as a peer.

Arajin is solely focused on finding love and romance because he feels inherently inferior to every person he would be invited to contrast himself against. He avoids other guys because he hates himself. He shuns connection and pursues only people (girls) he views as different enough to not invite any comparison.

Matakara meanwhile has major abandonment issues - he's lost his parents, Arajin, and his brother. Everyone important to him keeps vanishing from his life and in order to keep himself from feeling powerless about this he decides to blame himself.

If it's his own fault that people leave him (because he's weak) then there is something in his power that he can do in order to avoid being hurt again (becoming stronger). In order to maintain this state of motivational self-hatred, he puts others on a pedestal.

Matakara needs Arajin to be strong, powerful, honest and admirable... because that is the image he holds himself up by. In Mitsukuni and Arajin, Matakara creates god-like icons to chase after. And by doing so, he also shuns genuine connection.

Being confronted with Arajin as a flawed person gives Matakara a breakdown because it makes it harder to run from his own loneliness by focusing on chasing after Arajin.

Arajin is always running, but Matakara is always chasing... because he can't stand to look behind and face his monster.

In a lot of ways, Arajin and Matakara can't connect because they care about each other. Arajin can't stand what he allowed to happen to Matakara because he cared about Matakara. Matakara clings to Arajin because he loves him.

This theme of love hindering connection is again mirrored in two other characters - Senya and Ichiya, of course.

Ichiya, unwilling to confront his own terminal illness head-on, wishes to avoid it by goading Senya into killing him. By doing this, he can run from his own weakness and put Senya on a pedestal instead.

Meanwhile Senya is attached to their connection as-is and wishes to maintain this master-disciple dynamic forever - going so far as to deny his own strength in order to avoid acknowledging their changing dynamic.

Both of them are denying something about themselves.

It is their self-denial that makes their communication and thus connection break down.

Ichiya can't make Senya go Honki(TM) (which should have definitely been translated as an adverb here, e.g. 'failing to make him get serious') because he is also not HONEST with him or himself.

In the finale, Senya finally admits his motivations (his illness, his perceived weakness) and he is rewarded with the honest fight he'd been craving. They both stopped running.

This theme becomes even clearer through the two leads, of course, but even earlier than that it exists in Mahoro.

Mahoro's scene in episode 6 is the thematic linchpin that carried the whole show on its shoulders. Through Mahoro, everyone in the cast gets their first glimpse at true unrelenting Honki(tm) - and it is something totally unrelated to fighting prowess.

Mahoro is physically powerless against Akutaro, but she won't run. She has a heart that won't run away, the key quality of the Honki Person(TM), because she has an unshakable sense of self-identity.

It would be easy to dismiss her cutesy design as a contrivance to give Arajin a conventional-looking love interest despite going to Delinquent Academy - but it also says something about HER. Mahoro marches to the beat of her own drum. She does not care that she does not fit in, she does not mind being alone - she'll stick right to her own aesthetic and priorities.

So it's easy for her to call out Akutaro - and in doing so, call out the whole cast along with him:

You're empty. You are nothing but a shell, shaped by how you relate to those around you. You have nothing to offer.

And how are you supposed to connect with anybody, when you don't even know who you are?

(Notably, Mahoro is also a character who refuses to compromise on her self even for love - she knows she does not appeal to Marito, but she's not changing herself to be more his type. Her Honki does not budge, even for him.)

And lest you think I am exaggerating by connecting the theme of identity and emptiness back to all of the cast instead of just Akutaro: it does come back with Matakara.

Matakara can't believe anybody would know him and care for him, because he doesn't know himself.

For Matakara, facing himself means acknowledging his fear of abandonment rather than externalizing it as a hallucination of a literal monster.

But facing yourself doesn't just mean facing your demons, it also means facing your own positive qualities. And that is Arajin's story.

Even as Arajin turned into a scummy, evasive and selfish guy, there is a part of him that has a throughline to who he always was. He's someone who can get invested in others with reckless abandon.

Whether as a child with Matakara, or in the present with Mahoro... Arajin wants to connect.

Bucchigiri?! is a show full of innuendo and sexual gags. Merging with a genie gets equated to sex, fighting gets equated to sex... and of course this is for laughs, but it's also thematic.

Because all these things are about connection. About facing someone else with your whole self.

On a literal level, yes, Arajin absolutely wants to get laid. This is his sincere desire, and good for him.

But at the same time, his battle cry of 'I want to lose my virginity!' is him crying out for a real connection, even at a time when he shunned the idea thereof.

In the end, being a Honki Person(TM) has nothing to do with fighting. Fighting is the way a lot of the rough and tumble guys on the show like to connect, but it is not the only way to do so and not the only way to be Honki(TM).

Arajin never learns to love brawling - he did it out of circumstance and necessity, but it's not his hobby. He does not need to discover some hidden love of fighting, because this show fundamentally isn't about how 'fighting is inherently good' or anything.

It's a show about how even when you hate yourself and think you're as low as it can get, acknowledging your own self in full is the first step to finding a real bond with somebody else.

It just also happens to feature a bunch of delinquents who love to punch a lot.

[radzxv]

Hidden

pairing: gojo satoru x fem oc synopsis: After a successful mission, Gojo Satoru stumbles upon a disturbing secret: the jujutsu elders have been hiding a high school girl with extraordinary cursed energy to be their ultimate weapon. Bound by his own past and the life he was robbed of, Gojo resolves to protect her and give her the chance to live a normal life, free from the manipulative grip of the elders. However, the girl’s immense power proves to be both a blessing and a curse. Unstable and uncontrollable, her abilities make her a threat to those around her. As Gojo fights to shield her from both the elders and enemies drawn to her overwhelming energy, he must also teach her to control her powers—and to believe that she is more than a weapon. tags/warnings: lying and drama wc: 1140 spotify playlist previous chapter | next chapter

Chapter II - An Arrangement

The council chamber is steeped in an oppressive atmosphere—the kind that clings to the walls of institutions built on secrets and centuries of blood-soaked tradition. The elders sit behind a long, elevated table, their faces shadowed by the dim lighting and their ceremonial masks.

Conversations hush as Gojo Satoru strides into the room, intensity radiating from him. Gojo’s voice is calm, but his tone carries the edge of a blade.

"Fifteen years," he begins, his hands resting casually at his sides. "Fifteen years is a long time to keep such a secret, especially from the main families. A high school girl locked away, treated like a cursed tool. Care to explain what the hell you were thinking?"

One elder leans forward, his voice cold and authoritative. "You are out of line, Gojo. We answer to the higher purpose of jujutsu society, not to your whims."

Gojo’s grin sharpens, but his voice stays light. "Oh, forgive me. I didn’t realize ‘higher purpose’ meant playing God with people’s lives. Although, knowing you, I shouldn’t be surprised." His tone hardens. "Tell me. Was she dangerous? Or was she just inconvenient?"

"Both," another elder snaps, his voice firm, with none of the unease Gojo expected. "You speak as if this was an easy decision. It wasn’t. That girl’s curse technique is—"

"Spare me the excuses," Gojo interrupts, taking a step closer. "You’re going to say she’s too dangerous, right? That her power is some great threat to the balance of the world? You always pull that card when you’ve screwed up so badly you can’t justify it any other way."

The first elder straightens, his presence commanding. "You overestimate your understanding of the situation, Satoru. That girl’s existence is not your concern. We did what we had to do to protect her—and everyone else."

Gojo laughs, a short, humorless sound. "Protect her? Is that what you’re calling it? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you locked her up and threw away the key. Tell me, did you even give her a choice? Or was her fate sealed the moment she was born?"

The third elder, the oldest and most senior of the group, finally speaks. His voice is gravelly, carrying the weight of decades of authority. "This is not a debate, Gojo. You have no jurisdiction here. Your strength does not grant you the right to undermine our decisions."

Gojo’s energy crackles faintly in the air, subtle but suffocating. "Jurisdiction?" he repeats. "Don’t make me laugh. I’ve heard you old geezers spouting bullshit excuses before, but I’ve got to admit—this one takes the cake."

The room grows colder as the third elder presses on, unfazed by the creeping menace in Gojo’s tone. "And what will you do, Gojo? Destroy this council? Overturn centuries of structure and discipline because of one girl? You’ve always been reckless, but this—"

Gojo steps forward. The cursed energy swirling around him is no longer subtle—it’s palpable, a storm gathering in a confined space. His voice drops to a low, dangerous whisper.

"Say one more word about structure and discipline, and I’ll show you just how fragile your centuries of control really are."

The elders tense but hold their ground. The second elder glares at him. "You may be The Honored One, Gojo, but even you can’t fight the entire system. If you take that girl, you’ll be turning your back on everything jujutsu society stands for."

Gojo smirks, the intensity in his aura reaching its peak. "Jujutsu society? You mean your society. A bunch of old men hiding behind rules while kids die cleaning up your messes."

The first elder slams his hand on the table, his voice booming. "You don’t understand what you’re dealing with! That girl’s power could unravel everything we’ve worked to protect! Do you want to risk the balance of this world for your pride?"

Gojo’s laugh is short and bitter. "You always have a choice. You just chose the one that let you control her the easiest. Fifteen years locked away, no friends, no life... Tell me, did you even bother explaining it to her, or was that beneath you, too?"

The second elder counters, "And what would you have done, Gojo? Let her run free, risking everything we’ve built to protect jujutsu society? Your arrogance blinds you to the bigger picture."

Gojo’s energy flares slightly, a subtle reminder of the power he wields. "Arrogance? Funny, coming from the people who think they can decide someone’s entire life by themselves."

The third elder raises a hand to silence the room. His voice is calm but firm, like the roots of an ancient tree. "Enough. This argument serves no purpose. Gojo, you may not agree with our methods, but the fact remains: the girl’s power is dangerous. If she is to live freely, it must be under strict conditions."

Gojo’s jaw tightens. "Strict conditions? What exactly are you offering? Another cage, just bigger this time?"

The elder meets Gojo’s gaze, unflinching despite the crackling energy in the room. "She will be allowed to live outside these walls and experience a life of her choosing. However, she will remain under close supervision. Her movements will be monitored, and she will be required to answer any summons from the council immediately. These terms are non-negotiable."

Gojo takes a step forward, his voice low and dangerous. "And if she says no? If she refuses your little leash?"

The elder’s expression hardens. "Then she will be returned here. And this time, there will be no debate."

The words hang in the air like a death sentence. Gojo’s fists clench at his sides, and for a moment, the room feels like it might collapse under the weight of his anger. But then he exhales sharply, tilting his head slightly as if to shrug off the tension.

"You think this is mercy?" he asks, his voice quieter but no less cutting. "Fine. I’ll play along—for now. But let me make one thing clear. If any of you so much as think about crossing the line again, I won’t bother with words next time."

The second elder glares at him, her tone biting. "You overstep yourself, Gojo. You are not above the council."

Gojo smirks, a dangerous glint in his eyes. "Maybe not. But I’m above you."

The elders bristle, but the third elder raises his hand again, cutting through the tension. "The arrangement is final. The girl’s life is her own, within the bounds we’ve set. Ensure she understands this, Gojo."

Gojo turns on his heel, his coat sweeping dramatically behind him as he heads for the exit. Just before he reaches the door, he pauses, glancing back over his shoulder.

"She’s not your pawn anymore. Remember that."

And with that, he’s gone, leaving the elders in a room that feels far colder than it did when he entered.

A/N: I hope you liked this chapter!

[laifromthecosmos]

The black sheep of the family: rejection is a redirection.

“The black sheep has the courage to be true to itself, even when it is not popular.”

Self-knowledge has made me realize that I am not the person my parents, who get angry when I don’t obey them, believe I am simply because I don’t bow to their expectations. Giving birth and wanting a daughter who would be obedient was not something I came into this world to do. To be who I am, I must fight hard against the oppression of “who my parents wanted me to be.” The combined force of the family nucleus in oppressing you because you respect your authenticity makes you lonely and incomprehensible, which is why this black sheep label is not for everyone. These are chosen people who have a great power to bring about change, even if it causes great discomfort to those who have been thinking the same thing for generations. We have karmic baggage that our ancestors left us so that we can resolve it in this life. They didn’t leave it to your brother/sister, cousin, aunt… they left it to you, because they know how strong and capable we are of fixing something that should have been fixed already. We may think that we are alone in this situation and that no one is capable of understanding us, but believe that there are ancestral and divine forces giving you support and protection in these times. If they want you to resolve it, then they are the ones who will support you in it.

The black sheep is nothing more than that person who was born with their own eyes to see the depths of the problem and openly tell everyone, causing discomfort, fury, revolts and aggression. That was hidden for a reason, to protect their “truth” above all else. When this “truth” is questioned or shaken, fear reacts. These are problems, defects and hidden things that no one talks about anymore. The black sheep comes from strict and controlling parents with an obedient brother/sister with a touch of favoritism. They are so naturally authentic that they are threatening. They say what they think from a young age and are not trying to please anyone. I am not referring to the rebellious teenagers who leave home, get piercings, drink and other extrapolarities. I am referring to those people who question everything, causing discomfort in the controlling spirit of their family. Those who know that deep down, they are not doing anything wrong, they just have the courage to do things differently. Those who have the audacity to do/say something that no one expected to come out of their mouth, something that causes such indignation that they immediately accuse you of being wrong. Black sheep are not well listened to or understood, they were born in a circle where understanding is lacking and so they become rebels.

Dealing with this mark is not easy, because we have no support nor the tolerance to accept something that no longer serves us. Parents see us as a problem and that we must be fixed, that is, we must fix ourselves to be like them. Is this a solution? Our parents were once children, and I know that they wanted to be different from their parents, but for that to happen, internal and arduous work needs to be done and when that fails, they repeat what our grandparents did to them. I realized that in my acts of manifesting the black sheep, I am my younger mother, when she was the daughter, asking her to reconsider what she is doing and teaching her daughter so that she understands herself in a deeper way, and thus can understand me. Because a black sheep is a karmic baggage from past lives of something that was rejected (including from their parents) so that they can resolve, through you, something that they left behind, whether because they were prevented, got lost, surrendered… We are a mirror that many refuse to see, because we show the raw and naked reality. In some cases, our parents may even feel what we say but prefer to eradicate it, in the same way that they did. The black sheep breaks this, it breaks this imposition so that it seeks prosperity in its life.

I had to seek support from myself about the burden of being labeled as the black sheep. As an adult, I realized that if I don't know how to show my family the truth about things as they truly are, I fall into a state of rage to the point of having horrible thoughts against them. I know that I have a high power of understanding and therefore I have the ability to provide solutions and visions that no one else can say. I know this because I am constantly studying and realizing myself. I can have problems mainly in attending to the emotional side of those who are emotional and that is when I become inflexible (I have nothing in a water sign and my entire family has moons in water signs), but it is also undeniable that I feel that the conversation sometimes only wants to serve one side, so that things remain the same. I realized that they are afraid of change. I realized that someone in the conversation must be wrong, and this wrong person is obviously the black sheep. I am no longer surprised by this subtly controlling and manipulative attitude, but I get irritated and upset, I get tired and withdraw. I do not give up, but there comes a time when it is no longer worth talking, because it seems that they have all the power and if they do not, it is because it is three against one.

The black sheep is a natural healer, it is no wonder that we are born with this mark. But to heal on a spiritual level, we need to cause “chaos” and no one is receptive to that. I come from a Saturnian family and they fear chaos. The black sheep is the gateway to transformation in their family, but it is not always well seen. If it is for a beneficial and consented transformation, then it is fine, they accept it. But if it is a more overwhelming transformation, they feel threatened and prefer to contain you before you reach a point where you should not. The transformation that the black sheep offers is a whole package, not a part. They do not come to transform what our parents want, we come to transform everything. It is a big karma and it becomes tiring when we are seen as the problem.

I ask the Universe and my ancestors for support, since the familiar may seem a little difficult. I ask that I continue to follow my authenticity, but that it always redirects me when I seem lost. If you are the black sheep and feel alone, I hope this text finds you and comforts you. Know that we are not the terror nor are we the most wrong beings in the universe. We are blessed to see the world with our own eyes, we have the courage to go against the thoughts and behaviors that do not fit our identity. What seems to be a rejection of our family, in fact we are what they did not have the courage to be. Subconsciously, they have such admiration for you that it seems wrong to feel that way.

[the-eeveekins]

Prospera: my more serious thoughts on her and her character.

Like Suletta, I fully support Prospera's actions. You can't show me the Prologue where her whole life is violently taken from her and NOT expect me to root for her. She's just as much a victim of Delling’s actions and the systemic oppression of Earthians as many of the other characters in the show. I feel like a lot of people who don't empathize or sympathize with her either haven't seen the Prologue or haven't watched it since it was released nearly a year ago.

Yes, she did terrible things along the way, especially to Suletta, Eri and Miorine; but Suletta affirmed her choice of trying to help Eri over revenge (and arguably, affirmed her very existence in the process), Eri agreed with Suletta's choice, and even Miorine was willing to accept her as family if it was the decision of her fiancée. Fixing those mistakes will take time, years even, and who knows if Miorine especially will ever forgive her, but she has that time and she has that chance. I love that the show gave her a second chance at the life she was robbed of and a chance to make amends and fix her mistakes. Most shows would have killed her outright or gone with the Redemption Equals Death trope. Characters like her, especially female characters, almost never get that chance.

And, personally speaking, the scene where Suletta pulls her into the data storm is one of my favorites in the show. She gets to speak with the memories of her colleagues and Nadim, and express her guilt for deciding to focus on Eri's future at the expense of avenging them, only for Suletta and Eri to affirm her choice and tell her it's time to move forward. The mask breaks, Prospera "dies" and Elnora finally gets to hold Eri again and apologize to both of her daughters. It's one of the most cathartic moments in the show, a perfect conclusion to the Mercury family story and it brings me to tears every time.

I know not everyone is thrilled by Suletta's acceptance of her mom after everything she did to her, but I think it's highly appropriate: she loves people unconditionally more than anyone, understands Elnora did what she did from a place of love and selfishly wants to be with her whole family, mistakes and all. And again: Elnora is as much a victim in this show as anyone else. And even if Suletta accepted her mother, it's not like G-Witch forgave every awful parent of their sins: as I mentioned here, Delling may have surived, but his power to oppress is gone, he's under investigation for his crimes and by all accounts he's no longer a part of Miorine's life. We never see her forgive her father for what he did, and to be honest, I don't think she ever does. It's a hand she only extenda to Prospera because of her selfless love for Suletta.

And that brings us to one of my major issues surrounding Prospera: the difference in how certain parts of the fandom treat Prospera and Delling. The greatest trick Delling ever played was being a little nicer to his daughter before falling into a coma for half the show. Suddenly so many people forgot all he'd done and were willing to forgive his past actions and offer him up for redemption, all while condemning Prospera to death for her actions and claiming she was unredeemable.

It just reeks of the usual fandom sexism with it's double standards towards male and female characters. I just found the idea that Delling was redeemable but Prospera wasn't to be wrong, and find it especially frustrating the way people still tend to focus on Prospera's wrongs while ignoring Delling's.

Still, I think she's an amazing character, one of my favorites of all time. I'm so glad the show stuck the landing on her ending, not only giving her a chance to attone for her mistakes, but also giving her back the peaceful family life cruelly taken from her in the past. Mending her relationship with Suletta, Eri and Miorine will not be easy, it will take time and care and effort, but I believe someday those bonds will be repaired and they will truly become a family with mutual love for each other.

[candybowbeansies]

Red Spiderlily

warnings/notes: northern duke!au. this is dark, but can be read as dark romance ig. reader is implied to have been sent to their death in exile after being wrongfully? accused(ya'll committed it or not, up to you) of bad bad shit use your imaginations, arranged marriage(not forced, but can be read that way, just know that reader isn’t supposed to outright hate their husband-to-be), dark fairytales, regaining hope, and opening a new chapter in life. this is short af but i love shiggy so I may or may not expand on this.

New series anyone? Dukes of the North style, BNHA.

There were tales about the North, and the vicious eyeless demon who cursed its Dukedom with its eternal oppression. Hair damaged by winter’s neverending harshness, torn skin shamed by the moon. Harebringer of terror, an ugly creature shroud in darkness, bringing fear with him. But the moment that you, who had been accused of great sin and sent to marry into the Northern Dukedom-a so-called ‘flowery exile’ if you will, a complete mockery-had laid your eyes upon him, the so-called eyeless demon, you had realized he was in fact, no demon without eyes at all.

Silvery-white locks that bring shame to the brightest of stars shimmering on the surface of frozen lakes. Skin, though heavily marred, fairer than winter’s first snowflakes. Crimson hues, dulled and almost lifeless from the burden he was born to carry.

In the moment those hues met yours, you could tangibly imagine them lurid. Bright; full of luster, full of spirit, full of love. They reminded you of-

“Spider Lilies.”

“Pardon?” his rasp makes you jolt, realizing you’ve spoken out loud. Old habits die hard. The sight of his frown, of his browline furrowed in perplexion elicits a soft laugh from you. A small smile.

You were always outspoken, despite your family’s best wishes.

“Your eyes remind me of the red spiderlily. Keeper of death, taker of souls.” you begin, “He who drags his victims to their grave, he who protects their rotting corpses from Hell's hounds…” you trail off, watching his frown deepen in what you assumed to be disdain, though it only lasted a moment, “...posing as a purifying poison dyed by the crimson of blood.” 

His chin lifts and a brow quirks, regal in his glory, telling of his lineage; close yet so very distant Royalty.

“He who guides weary souls with his lurid hue to the cycle of rebirth.” you speak, your words, and the meaning behind them, oddly and darkly…romantic, in a sense.

“The red spiderlily.” you repeat softly.

Because the moment you were cast aside from all you knew, you were all but dragged to what they had hoped to be your damned grave; the North. And here, in a place meant for despair, where you had expected your end in nothingness, you encounter a reminder of a dark fairytale from your childhood that inspired what you thought you no longer had. Hope.

A silent understanding hung in the air, heavy. He lifts his arm, offering his palm, with a soft rustle of his heavy cloak and muted metallic chinks sounding from his armor.

Perhaps you did not fall in love with him at first sight. 

Yet, you knew this; he would not drag you to your grave an unwilling soul like they would in a heartbeat. The Duke-the man in front of you, would stay by your side and defend you to the bitter end. He would be that beautiful crimson hue that would lead you beyond to be born anew.

You swear you can already feel the warmth of the future.

You knock the ice from your bones, reaching for his offered hand without hesitation. He releases a soft huff, and you swear, you could see light in his eyes, only for a brief moment. As he turns, you step by his side, and he leads you to the next cycle of your life.

[mellifluousprince]

in progressive spaces there are so many unique, personable expressions of what it means to be a woman, and how girlhood is this beautiful open ended thing that everyone has their own definition of. I think it's wonderful to see women bond over their shared experiences & find companionship in each other as a result. meanwhile, what it means to be a man is essentially getting pigeonholed into this idea of being some violent, sex-obsessed beast; both by obnoxious men who keep pushing the whole alpha male manosphere garbage, and by women who see that trend & then view all men that way, ascribing every man with the label of a monster in order to protect themselves. there's nowhere else you can go. if you try to strike out on your own and define masculinity in your own way, in the eyes of everyone else you just fade into obscurity. it's like you don't even exist. the worst part is, it feels like i'm the only one who wants masculinity to have a broader meaning. so many other men i know want so badly to live up to this ridiculous ideal being forced on them. meanwhile i've known my whole life that i'll never be an "alpha male", because i don't want to be. but even if you don't subscribe to all the manosphere stuff and live your life free of those toxic expectations, as long as you're a man you'll only be thought of as bland and uninteresting. Women are seen as these inherently ethereal gorgeous beings(they're not, they're just people and saying this just further pressures them into feeling like they need to be attractive objects, but that's a different post), and men are either monsters or...nobodies. "Just some guy". John Doe. If that's what you want, then that's all well and good. But is that really all there is to being a man? when you strip away all of those preconceived notions about how men should look or behave or be seen by others, then what is masculinity, really? ideally, it should be the same as femininity in the sense that it's whatever you want it to be. you can see yourself in a traditional sense, as a proud, strong warrior who fights for honor & protects and provides for his loved ones, or a more non-traditional way, a demure prince who waits calmly for a princess or knight or other lover to sweep him off his feet. you can romanticize yourself as anyone you want: a hardworking scholar who wants to learn as much as he can or improve the world around him, a powerful athlete who lives for the joy of sport, an early-bird baker who embraces the quiet life, an iron-willed blacksmith who endures the forge to arm his brothers and sisters, a singer who lends his strong voice to uplifting the oppressed, a warm-hearted husband and/or father who has so many good wishes for others. sky's the limit. i understand why women often put men in a box and view men the way that they do. if you don't know a man's intentions, it's safer to lead with distrust. but i know in my heart that i would never hurt anyone like that, and so i don't want my personal sense of masculinity to be defined by those men who do such horrid things. i don't think any man should personally feel like their masculinity is synonymous with being a monster. i think they should burn the manosphere to the ground and just find the answer themselves. what's manlier than that? someday i hope people will feel comfortable enough to no longer think of masculinity as this stagnant, unmoving collection of violent, angry traits. i want it to be sought after and romanticized the same way femininity often is; as another equally glorious representation of what it means to be human.

[doumadono]

Warnings: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT!, original female character, non-con, bondage, forced orgasm, unprotected & rough p in v, mentions of alcohol abuse, breeding, name calling, creampie

Synopsis: Hoshiko is assigned to guard Shinjuro and help with his alcohol addiction, but he resists her efforts. One night, he decides to assert his dominance in the Rengoku mansion, proving that despite being a former Hashira, he remains a dangerous man

A/N: this original story was commissioned by my lovely @serenesaku on my Ko-fi page. Thank you once again for trusting me with your request ♥

DEMON SLAYER KO-FI COMMISSIONS CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 1 - THE HAPPENING

The night was thick with an oppressive silence, the kind that blankets the world just before a storm. 

Within the Rengoku estate, the air was stifling, filled with an unspoken tension that seeped into every corner. The household, once filled with laughter and the sounds of training, had succumbed to a heavy stillness, its vitality drained away by the despair that had taken root within its walls.

Shinjuro Rengoku, former Flame Hashira, sat slumped in his chair, a half-empty bottle of sake clutched in his hand. The room reeked of alcohol, a stark testament to his descent into self-destruction. His once fiery eyes were now clouded, the flame of his spirit dimmed by years of pure grief and regret. The loss of his wife, the pressures of his position, and the weight of his own failures had driven him to this sorry state. 

He took another swig from the bottle, the liquid burning down his throat, but it did little to numb the ache in his heart. 

The knock on the door was an unwelcome intrusion, cutting through the fog of his inebriation.

Shinjuro scowled, ignoring it at first, hoping whoever it was would take the hint and leave him in peace.

But the knocking persisted, growing more insistent. With a growl of frustration, he heaved himself out of the chair and staggered to the door, sliding it open with more force than necessary. He squinted at the figure standing before him, his vision swimming.

A woman stood there, with long, silver hair cascading down her back. She wore a dark, form-fitting uniform, a white cloak draped over her shoulders, and her hand rested on the hilt of a katana at her side. Her eyes, cold and piercing, met his with an intensity that cut through the haze of his drunkenness.

"What do you want?" Shinjuro barked, his voice slurred and rough. "Can't you see I'm busy, woman?”

The woman did not flinch. "Shinjuro Rengoku, I am Hoshiko. I have been assigned to ensure your protection and to assist you."

Shinjuro's eyes widened in disbelief, then narrowed in anger. "Assigned? By whom?" he demanded, his grip tightening on the bottle. "And why would I need protection? I am no longer a Hashira. I am nothing."

Hoshiko's expression remained impassive. "Regardless of your current status, the higher-ups have deemed it necessary. Your life is still valuable, and there are those who would seek to exploit your weakness."

"Weakness?" Shinjuro roared, his face flushing with a mixture of rage and humiliation. "You dare speak to me of weakness? You know nothing of what I have endured, what I have lost."

Hoshiko's gaze did not waver. "Perhaps not. But I do know that drowning in sake will not bring back what you have lost, nor will it protect those who still depend on you."

Shinjuro's breath came in ragged gasps, his fury battling with a deep, gnawing despair. He wanted to lash out, to drive her away, but something in her unyielding demeanor held him back. "Why a woman?" he spat finally. "Do they think I am so far gone that I need a babysitter?"

Hoshiko's gaze hardened. "I am not here to coddle you, Rengoku-sama. I am here to fulfill my duty. Whether you accept my presence or not is irrelevant."

Shinjuro staggered back, the room spinning around him. He slumped into his chair, clutching the bottle like a lifeline. "Fine," he muttered, his voice heavy with defeat. "Stay if you must. But do not expect me to be grateful."

Hoshiko inclined her head slightly, a gesture of acknowledgment. "I expect nothing from you," she replied. "My duty is clear, and I will see it through."

Hoshiko stepped across the threshold of the Rengoku mansion, her boots making a soft thud against the wooden floor. 

The air inside was thick and stagnant, a stark contrast to the crisp night outside. Her keen eyes scanned the surroundings, taking in the scene of disarray that greeted her. 

The grandeur of the mansion’s past was still visible beneath the layers of neglect, but it was a faint echo of what once had been.

Empty bottles were strewn about the floor, some still upright but many toppled, their contents long since evaporated or soaked into the wood. The acrid scent of stale alcohol clung to the air, mingling with the musty odor of dust and decay. Shards of broken glass glinted menacingly in the dim light, a silent testimony to the fits of rage and despair that had evidently taken place here.

Furniture was upturned, cushions and blankets tossed carelessly, creating an obstacle course of clutter and chaos. Papers and scrolls lay scattered, their edges curling with age and neglect. The remnants of what might have been meals were abandoned on tables, now a haven for flies. The once meticulously kept home of the Rengoku family was now a desolate, almost sleazy, space.

Hoshiko's gaze flicked over to Shinjuro, who had collapsed back into his chair, the half-empty bottle of sake still clutched tightly in his hand. His eyes, bloodshot and bleary, barely registered her presence as he took another swig, the liquid dribbling down his chin. His appearance mirrored the state of his surroundings — disheveled, broken, and completely lost.

She took a deep breath, suppressing the urge to comment on the squalor. There was no point in voicing her thoughts; the evidence of his downfall was all around them, and Shinjuro was undoubtedly aware of it. Instead, she steeled herself, allowing her eyes to convey her disapproval as she surveyed the room with a calm, detached air.

Moving deliberately, Hoshiko stepped over a pile of discarded clothing and made her way deeper into the mansion. She would need to clear a path, at the very least, to ensure there were no hazards for her charge — or herself. The sooner she could bring some semblance of order to this chaos, the better.

As she began to right some of the upturned furniture, Hoshiko cast another glance at Shinjuro. 

He seemed oblivious to her efforts, lost in his own world of misery and self-pity. 

She would not pity him, she decided. Pity was useless. What he needed was someone strong enough to drag him out of the abyss he had fallen into, someone who would not coddle or enable his self-destruction.

"Stay out of my way," Shinjuro muttered, his voice slurred, though the anger in it was unmistakable as he repeated himself yet again. "I don’t need your help."

Hoshiko paused, straightening a chair with a measured calm. She met his gaze, her eyes unwavering. "Whether you think you need it or not is irrelevant," she replied evenly. "I distinctly remember saying I am here to fulfill my duty."

Shinjuro scoffed, turning his head away, but not before Hoshiko caught a glimpse of the torment that flickered in his eyes. She continued her work, silently vowing to herself that she would not be swayed by his resistance. There was too much at stake to allow his pride and despair to thwart her mission.

As the night wore on, Hoshiko methodically cleared away the detritus, creating a semblance of order amidst the chaos. She worked silently, her movements efficient and precise. 

As she cleaned, Shinjuro watched her from his chair, a strange mix of emotions churning within him. Resentment, shame, and something else – a glimmer of hope, buried deep beneath the layers of his self-imposed misery. His gaze occasionally lingered on her with a flicker of curiosity as well.

The mansion, though still far from its former glory, began to look less like a ruin and more like a home in desperate need of care. 

Hoshiko knew that the physical mess was only a symptom of a deeper rot, one that would take far more effort to cleanse. But it was a start, and in this grim, forsaken place, even the smallest step towards order felt like a victory.

As dawn approached, Hoshiko finally paused, wiping a bead of sweat from her brow. She looked around, assessing her progress. It was far from perfect, but it was better. 

She glanced at Shinjuro, who had fallen into a restless sleep, the bottle finally slipping from his grasp. 

For the first time since she had entered the mansion, Hoshiko allowed herself a moment of hope. The path ahead would be long and arduous, but she was determined to see it through. 

Shinjuro Rengoku might have been a broken man, but within him still burned the embers of the warrior he once was. And she would not rest until those embers were rekindled into a roaring flame.

The days that followed were a grueling test of endurance, both for Hoshiko and for Shinjuro. 

He made no effort to hide his contempt, his behavior a mix of belligerence and self-pity. 

Yet, Hoshiko remained steadfast, her presence a constant, unyielding force in the household. She shadowed him with a quiet resolve, ensuring he ate, rested, and did not completely succumb to his vices.

Each morning, Shinjuro would awaken to find Hoshiko already up and about, methodically cleaning the mansion and preparing a simple breakfast. He would scowl at the sight of her, muttering under his breath about her intrusion. "You don't need to do this," he'd snap, pushing the bowl of rice away. "I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself."

Hoshiko would simply raise an eyebrow, her expression remaining impassive. "Clearly," she'd reply dryly, her tone never wavering. "And yet, here we are."

One particularly rough morning, Shinjuro stumbled into the dining room, his eyes bloodshot and his movements unsteady. The previous night had been a haze of sake and bitter memories, and now, the light of day was a harsh and unforgiving reminder of his failures. He saw Hoshiko setting the table and felt a surge of irrational anger. "Why are you still here?" he growled, his voice rough and strained. "I told you I don't need your help, woman!"

Hoshiko paused, her eyes meeting his with that same unwavering intensity. "And I told you I am not here for your approval," she said calmly. "I am here to ensure your well-being, whether you like it or not, Rengoku-sama."

Shinjuro's hands clenched into fists, his body trembling with rage. He wanted to throw something, to break the suffocating calm that she exuded. Instead, he swiped the bowl off the table, sending it crashing to the floor. "Damn you, woman!" he shouted, his voice echoing through the empty halls. "Do you think you're better than me? That you can just waltz in here and fix everything?! Get out of my fucking kitchen! I don't need your damn pity," he snarled, his voice slurring as he swayed on unsteady feet.

Hoshiko did not flinch. She bent down, picking up the shattered pieces with a steady hand. "No," she said quietly. "I do not think I am better than you. I am not here out of pity as well. I do think, however, that you can be better than this."

Her words hung in the air, a quiet challenge that cut through his fury. 

Shinjuro turned away, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He wanted to lash out, to drive her away, but deep down, he knew she was right. The fight left him as quickly as it had come, leaving behind a hollow ache.

There were other moments, too, where Shinjuro's brash behavior tested Hoshiko's patience. 

One evening, after a particularly heavy bout of drinking, the former Hashira confronted her in the courtyard. 

Despite the bleak circumstances, Hoshiko's discipline never wavered. She trained in the courtyard, her movements precise and deadly, a silent reminder of the strength she possessed.  She was practicing her forms, the fluidity and grace of her movements a stark contrast to his stumbling gait.

"Why do you bother?" he slurred, leaning heavily against the wall. "Why waste your time on a broken man?"

Hoshiko did not pause in her practice, her katana slicing through the air with deadly precision. "Because you are not broken," she replied evenly. "You are wounded, yes. But wounds can heal."

Shinjuro laughed bitterly, the sound harsh and grating. "You speak as if you know what it's like," he sneered. "But you don't. You have no idea what I've been through."

Hoshiko finally stopped, lowering her katana. She turned to face him, her dark blue eyes cold and unyielding. "You are right," she said softly. "I do not know your pain. But I do know that wallowing in it will not bring you peace."

Shinjuro stared at her, his anger simmering beneath the surface. "And what would you know of peace?" he asked, his voice tinged with vexation.

Hoshiko's gaze did not falter. "I know that it is not found at the bottom of a bottle," she stated simply. "And I know that you will never find it if you do not at least try."

Without warning, he lunged at her, his movements fueled by rage and desperation. Even in his drunken state, his speed and strength were formidable, remnants of the Hashira he once was. His hand shot out, aiming to grab her by the collar and throw her off balance.

Hoshiko reacted instinctively, her training kicking in. She sidestepped his initial attack, her body moving with a fluid grace that belied the tension of the moment. 

But Shinjuro was relentless, his fury driving him to press the assault. He swung wildly, a powerful backhand that she narrowly avoided by ducking low and rolling to the side.

"You think you're better than me?!" he roared, his voice a guttural snarl. "You think you can save me?! No one fucking can!"

Hoshiko's response was calm, almost maddeningly so. "I think you are worth saving."

Her words only seemed to enrage him further. With a roar, he charged at her, using his full weight to try and overpower her. 

Hoshiko danced out of reach, her movements precise and measured, but even she couldn't avoid him forever. 

Shinjuro managed to catch her off guard, grabbing her wrist and twisting it painfully, forcing her to the ground.

Pinned beneath him, Hoshiko looked up into his wild, tormented eyes. She could feel the strength in his grip, the raw power that still resided in him despite his years of self-destruction. But she did not flinch. Instead, she allowed herself a small, knowing smile.

Shinjuro's eyes widened in confusion and anger as he felt a cold, sharp pressure against his side. Glancing down, he saw the tip of Hoshiko's katana pressed against his ribs, the blade angled perfectly to pierce him if she so chose.

"Even in your current state," she said softly, her voice steady despite the intensity of the situation, "you are still a force to be reckoned with. But strength without control is meaningless, and you of all people should know that."

He stared at her, breathing heavily, his mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. He had her pinned, yet she had him at her mercy. The realization of his predicament, the futility of his rage, hit him like a physical blow. Slowly, the fire in his eyes began to dim, replaced by a flicker of something else — shame, perhaps, or recognition. “Why?" he rasped, his voice cracking. "Why do you care?"

Hoshiko's smile softened, but her grip on the katana did not waver. "Because, Rengoku Shinjuro, you are not beyond redemption. You still have a purpose. You just need to find it again."

For a moment, the courtyard was silent except for the sound of their breathing. Shinjuro's grip on her wrist loosened, and he pulled back, his shoulders slumping as the fight drained out of him. He stumbled to his feet, looking more defeated than ever.

Hoshiko rose gracefully, sheathing her katana with a fluid motion. She stepped closer, her expression a mixture of determination and empathy. "Let me help you, Shinjuro," she said softly. "You do not have to do this alone."

He looked at her, his eyes haunted and filled with a deep, abiding pain. "I don't know how," he admitted, his voice barely a whisper.

"You don't have to know how," Hoshiko replied. "You just have to be willing to try."

Shinjuro's gaze dropped to the ground, his shoulders trembling. The journey ahead was daunting, and the shadows of his past loomed large. But for the first time in a long while, he felt a tiny spark of hope — a fragile, flickering flame that Hoshiko had ignited within him.

He nodded slowly, the smallest of gestures, but it was enough. 

Hoshiko inclined her head, a silent acknowledgment of his first step towards healing. 

The days dragged on, a relentless cycle of anger, despair, and fleeting moments of clarity. 

Hoshiko remained a steady presence, her resolve unbroken by Shinjuro's brash behavior. 

Slowly, painfully, he began to see glimpses of the man he once was, buried beneath the rubble of his grief.

It was a long, arduous journey, fraught with setbacks and moments of darkness. But with each passing day, Hoshiko's unwavering dedication began to chip away at the walls Shinjuro had built around himself. 

And though he would never admit it, even to himself, a part of him began to hope that maybe, just maybe, there was a way out of the shadows.

Weeks after Hoshiko first arrived at the Rengoku mansion, the atmosphere had begun to change. 

The once pervading scent of stale alcohol had lessened, and the mansion, though still showing signs of neglect, had started to regain a semblance of order. 

Shinjuro had seemingly limited his drinking, his temper had cooled, and there were even days when he participated in the training sessions with a renewed, albeit tentative, vigor.

That evening, Hoshiko decided to prepare a simple yet thoughtful dinner. She hoped it would be an opportunity to foster a more constructive conversation with Shinjuro, to delve deeper into the pain that had driven him to such depths of despair. She spent the afternoon in the kitchen, her movements purposeful and serene as she prepared the meal. The aroma of simmering miso soup, grilled fish, and freshly steamed rice filled the air, a comforting contrast to the mansion’s usual gloom.

As the sun set, casting a warm, golden light through the windows, Hoshiko set the table. She arranged the dishes with care, creating an inviting space that spoke of normalcy and hope. She called for Shinjuro, who had been in his study, a room that had seen more use in recent days as he slowly reconnected with his old scrolls and writings.

Shinjuro appeared in the doorway, his face a mix of curiosity and apprehension. "What’s this?" he asked, his voice gruff but not unkind.

"A meal," Hoshiko replied, her tone gentle. "I thought we could enjoy it together."

He hesitated, his eyes scanning the table, then nodded slowly. "Alright."

They sat down, and for a while, they ate in silence. 

Hoshiko had learned not to push too hard, to let the conversation flow naturally. She watched Shinjuro as he ate, noting the way he seemed more present, more engaged with the simple act of sharing a meal. It was a small victory, but a victory nonetheless.

As they finished their meal, Shinjuro set down his chopsticks and looked at Hoshiko. "Thank you," he said quietly. "For this."

She smiled, a rare and genuine expression that softened her usually stoic features. "You’re welcome."

He paused, then asked, almost hesitantly, "Would you share a cup of sake with me?"

The request caught her off guard. She felt a surge of anger, a sharp reminder of the battles they had fought against his addiction. But as she looked into his eyes, she saw no defiance, only a tentative plea for companionship. Hoshiko took a deep breath, reigning in her initial impulse to snap. "One drink," she said, her voice firm but not unkind. "Just one."

Shinjuro nodded, a flicker of relief crossing his face. He fetched a small bottle of sake and two cups, pouring the clear liquid with a steady hand. 

They raised their cups, and for a moment, they simply sat in silence, the sake warming their throats and loosening their tongues.

"To small victories," Shinjuro said, raising his cup.

"To small victories," Hoshiko echoed, clinking her cup against his.

One drink turned into another, and then another. 

The conversation flowed more freely with each cup, their words mingling with the night air. 

Shinjuro opened up and spoke of his past, of his lost wife and the burden of living up to the Rengoku name. He spoke of his failures, his grief, and the crushing weight of expectations that had driven him to the brink.

Hoshiko listened, her heart aching for the broken man before her. She shared pieces of her own story, fragments of a life dedicated to duty and honor, and the sacrifices she had made along the way. 

It was the most honest and open conversation they had ever had, a raw and unfiltered exchange that brought them closer than they had ever been.

But as the night wore on, the sake dulled their senses, and the constructive conversation they had hoped for began to slip away. 

Shinjuro’s words grew slurred, his movements less coordinated. 

Hoshiko felt a familiar sense of dread creeping in, knowing they had crossed a line. “We should stop,” she said, her voice laced with concern.

Shinjuro shook his head, his eyes bleary but determined. “Just one more,” he mumbled, pouring another cup for each of them.

Hoshiko hesitated, but the momentary bond they had forged made it difficult to refuse. She took the cup, her resolve weakening. 

They drank, the sake blurring the edges of their conversation, turning it into a hazy recollection of shared sorrows and fleeting laughter.

By the time the bottle was empty, Shinjuro was slumped in his chair, his head resting on the table. 

Hoshiko felt a wave of disappointment and regret wash over her. She had allowed herself to hope, to believe that this night might mark a turning point. Instead, it had become another reminder of the long, arduous journey ahead. She rose from her seat, her steps unsteady. Carefully, she lifted Shinjuro, guiding him to his room. 

He mumbled incoherently, his body heavy and uncooperative. 

As Hoshiko guided Shinjuro to his room, she felt the alcohol beginning to exert a stronger influence over her senses. Each step grew increasingly difficult to control, the hallways of the mansion seeming to blur and shift around her. She watched Shinjuro collapse onto his bed, his breathing already deepening into the heavy rhythm of sleep. For a moment, she stood there, gripping the doorframe, trying to steady herself. "Rest well, Shinjuro," she murmured, her voice sounding distant even to her own ears. With a final glance to ensure he was settled, she turned and began the long, unsteady journey back to her own chambers.

The corridors seemed to stretch endlessly, the walls closing in and then expanding again in an unsettling dance. Hoshiko's steps were slow and deliberate, each one requiring a concerted effort to maintain balance. She had consumed alcohol before, even in significant amounts, but never had she felt its effects so profoundly. Her mind buzzed with confusion and a growing sense of unease.

By the time she reached her room, her vision was swimming, the edges of her sight tinged with a strange, almost dreamlike quality. She pushed the door open and stumbled inside, the room spinning around her. Her usually sharp, disciplined mind felt clouded, detached. It was as if she were merely an observer within her own body, watching herself move without truly controlling her actions.

She didn't remember crossing the room to her futon, but suddenly she was there, her fingers fumbling clumsily with the ties of her kimono. The fabric felt heavy and uncooperative, slipping through her hands as she tried to undress. Her normally precise movements were slow and uncoordinated, each task requiring an immense amount of concentration.

Hoshiko's vision blurred further, the room tilting wildly as she finally managed to shed her clothes. She couldn't recall how she had done it, only that one moment she was struggling with the ties, and the next she was lying on her futon, her body bare and exposed to the cool night air if not counting her cotton lingerie.

She felt herself drifting, the futon's soft surface barely registering through the haze that enveloped her. Her mind swam with fragments of thoughts and images, none of them clear or coherent. 

The events of the evening played back in disjointed flashes, her conversation with Shinjuro, the shared drink, the vulnerable look in his eyes.

Hoshiko's eyelids grew heavier, her vision darkening as she lay there. A vague sense of alarm flickered at the edge of her consciousness, but she was too far gone to grasp it fully. The room continued to spin, her body feeling both impossibly heavy and weightless at the same time.

As she finally succumbed to the pull of unconsciousness, a single, disjointed thought lingered in her mind: something was wrong. But the thought slipped away as darkness claimed her, leaving her in a deep, dreamless sleep.

The first thing Hoshiko noticed as consciousness clawed its way back to her was the darkness. 

The room was shrouded in the oppressive blackness of midnight, broken only by the faintest sliver of moonlight filtering through the shoji screen. The second thing was the rough texture of the futon beneath her, and the biting sensation of silken cords digging into her wrists and ankles. She was naked, her body splayed out and completely vulnerable.

Panic surged through her like ice water, her heart pounding violently against her ribcage. She tugged against the restraints, but they held fast, cruelly binding her to the futon beneath her. Every frantic movement only served to chafe her skin, the silken bonds cutting deeper into her flesh.

Her mind raced, piecing together fragments of memory. The sake. Shinjuro. The room spinning before everything went black. She had been assigned to watch over him, to ensure he didn’t spiral further into his drunken stupor. But now, it was she who was helpless.

As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she scanned the room for any sign of explanation. Her own quarters, normally a sanctuary of solitude, now felt like a prison. Her clothes were in tatters on the floor, the remnants of her once pristine uniform scattered like the fragments of her dignity.

A shadow loomed above her, and Hoshiko's eyes were drawn upward, her breath catching in her throat. 

Shinjuro Rengoku stood over her, his towering form bathed in the faint glow of the moonlight. The upper part of his attire was gone, revealing a muscular chest marked with the scars of countless battles. His broad shoulders and powerful arms exuded strength, yet it was the look in his eyes that sent a chill down her spine.

"Shinjuro," she whispered, her voice trembling with a mixture of fury and fear. "What are you doing?"

"Well, look who’s awake," he drawled, his voice thick with mockery. "The mighty Hoshiko, brought down to this. How the mighty have fallen."

"Shinjuro, please," she pleaded, trying to keep her voice steady. "This isn't you. You're better than this." 

His eyes darkened, a predatory gleam in their depths. He knelt down, bringing his face close to hers, the heat of his alcohol-stained breath ghosting over her skin. "You think you know me, Hoshiko? You think you understand what I'm capable of?"

"Shinjuro, let me go!" she demanded, her voice a mix of anger and fear.

His hands roamed over her naked body, rough and possessive. 

She shivered, a mixture of rage and helplessness flooding her senses. "You won't get away with this," she hissed, her voice breaking.

"And who's going to stop me?" he taunted, his grip tightening. "You? You're tied up like a helpless little bitch you are."

Tears of frustration welled up in her eyes as he continued his assault, her body betraying her as it responded to his touch. "Shinjuro, please..."

"Begging already?" he sneered. "How pathetic."

She turned her head away, unable to bear the sight of his face so close to hers.

His hand moved roughly to her face, gripping her jaw and forcing her to meet his gaze. "Look at you, the mighty Hashira, all tied up and naked like the helpless bitch you are."

He shifted his weight, straddling her as his hands roamed over her body. His fingers trailed over the tantalizing curves of her breasts, squeezing and fondling them with a cruel possessiveness. "So soft," he muttered, his voice thick with desire.

"Stop it," she gasped, trying to twist away from his touch. 

Her protest was met with a sharp slap across her cheek, the force of it snapping her head to the side. "Shut up," he growled. "You're mine now. You'll do as I say."

Tears of frustration and fear welled up in her eyes as he continued his assault. "Rengoku-sama, please..."

Another slap, harder this time, made her vision blur. "I said shut up. You don’t get to speak unless I say so."

His hands moved to her other breast, kneading the flesh roughly, his thumbs brushing over her nipples. 

The sensation sent unwanted shivers through her body, each touch a bitter reminder of her helplessness. She sobbed, her body trembling beneath him. "Please, Shinjuro, stop..."

But he didn't stop. He continued to toy with her, his hands roaming and exploring, leaving bruises and marks on her skin. Each slap silenced her cries, reducing her to a state of broken compliance. He took his time, savoring every moment of her humiliation. His hands roamed over her body, lingering obscenely on her breasts before trailing down to her thighs. He spread her legs roughly, his fingers digging into her flesh. "You think you can just walk into my life and order me around?" he sneered. "You think you're better than me?"

She tensed, her body trembling with revulsion. “You’re disgusting. Stop it!”

"You don't get to tell me what to do," he growled, his fingers parting her folds. "You're mine to use as I see fit."

He drew away a bit, teasing only the outside of her opening until he managed to lull her into a false sense of safety. As soon as she relaxed, he pushed his thick digit into her, not leaving her muscles any other choice than to yield and allow him entrance. He growled, "Fuck, how are you so tight, little Hashira?"

Her body tensed at the unwelcome intrusion, and a tear streamed down her flushed cheek. She bit her lip, trying to stifle a cry of pain and humiliation. "Please," she whispered again, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Stop."

"Not a chance," he murmured, adding another finger and curling them inside her, trying to find the sweetest spot of hers. "You're going to take everything I give you."

He moved his fingers with a cruel, practiced precision, in and out of her tight hole, while his thumb brushed against her sensitive nub. 

To Hishiko’s horror, his increasingly demanding strokes on her clit made her body react and to her embarrassment, an unwelcome heat started spreading in her belly. A while later, the woman felt a trickle of wetness between her legs and her cheeks burnt in embarrassment while she whimpered softly in denial. She squeezed her eyes shut. The unwanted pleasure mixed with the pain, sending conflicting signals through her body. She hated herself for the way her body responded, the way it betrayed her.

He stopped rubbing her clit, and her closed eyes popped open. 

Shinjuro was staring at her slick pussy with a hungry look in his eyes. "You are so beautiful like this, so exquisite" he claimed almost reverently. "I need to taste you now, so be a good girl and lay still for me," he chuckled darkly, as if she had any other choice.

Shinjuro then slowly lowered his mouth, all while holding her gaze. 

Hoshiko started protesting, but her protests were cut off with a gasp as he sucked her clit into his mouth. An involuntary moan made its way out, but she was too shocked to feel embarrassed. 

His hands stroked her thighs while his mouth attacked her core.

Hoshiko squealed quickly as she felt him release her clit and start petting her lower tummy soothingly while the other finger continued to slowly stroke in and out of her pussy, making her tremble. 

He then continued his ministrations on her clit while slowly pushing another finger into her while sucking her bundle of nerves into his mouth. 

She groaned and ground her teeth together as the slight burn made her pussy tense up. The stretch was harsh; he really had big hands, and she desperately tried to move her pelvis from side to side as if she could escape him. 

Shinjuro just chuckled and continued to pump in and out of her pussy while licking and suckling on her clit. 

Her inner muscles slowly started relaxing, and the burn turned into a firm pressure. She felt an orgasm building and was oh so desperate not to come. Hoshiko started protesting and begging him to stop yet again, but he just continued while humming softly with his mouth attached to her clit, the vibration adding to the torture. 

The next thing she knew, an unexpected orgasm slammed into her without her permission, and she was left spasming around his thick fingers.

He continued to stroke her velvety walls and tease her clit, drawing out the intense waves of pleasure. As the climax gradually subsided, he stilled his movements and gently withdrew his fingers from her pussy. 

She groaned at the relief from the overwhelming pressure, her entire body going slack as she tried to recover.

"So fucking beautiful, doll. Absolutely perfect, and all mine," Shinjuro murmured, his voice thick with lust. As he spoke, his other hand moved to stroke the bulge in his hakama pants, the fabric straining against his hardening dick. "I wonder, if feeling you come all over my fingers makes me feel like this, how would it feel having your pussy strangling my cock while you come all over it?"

He brought his fingers, slick with her juices, to his mouth and slipped them in, tasting her. His eyes never left hers, a dark satisfaction gleaming in their depths as he savored her essence. "Delicious," he growled, the word dripping with possessive hunger.

Rengoku’s words sank in, and she whimpered, a cold dread seeping into her bones. Her gaze drifted downward, her eyes slowly lowering to his pants, and she let out a gasp. He was clearly aroused, and the sight of the obscene bulge straining against his hakama sent a wave of terror through her. Tears trickled down her cheeks as the horrifying realization set in — he was going to take her, and by the looks of it, it was going to hurt. The anticipation of the impending violation made her shudder, her body trembling with a mix of fear and helplessness. “Leave me alone…” she begged.

He got off the futon and began undressing, peeling off layer after layer until he stood completely naked before her. His enormous cock was erect, its hefty weight counteracting its upward strain. The sheer size of him filled Hoshiko with dread.

Seeing her expression, he chuckled darkly. "Don't worry, you will take me, and you'll learn to love it before we're finished.”

He bent down and opened a bag that stood near the futon which she hadn’t noticed before.

With trepidation, she watched him lube up a large harigata.

He got on the futon again and moved towards her, and she was again reminded of her vulnerable position — completely restrained and exposed, with no chance of avoiding him or whatever he wanted to do to her. 

His calloused hand pushed the head of the harigata towards her rosy opening, and she tensed. "Relax, or this will hurt more than necessary," Shinjuro warned before firmly pushing the toy past her tight entrance.

Hoshiko let out a scream, but he didn't relent until the toy was fully seated inside her, bottoming out painfully. She started shaking and panting, trying to cope with the painful stretch and the horrible cramps from the firm pressure against her cervix. 

For a moment, he remained completely still, and through her whimpers, she heard him speaking.

"Good girl, such a good girl," he praised.

"It hurts," she whined pitifully.

He then started stroking her clit and withdrew the harigata before pushing it all the way inside in one long, relentless stroke. 

Groaning, Hoshiko had no other choice but to take it, letting him claim her pussy with the toy.

After what felt like an eternity of him thrusting it in and out of her, she tried to focus on her breathing to deal with the intrusion. The tingling sensation in her pelvis caused by the stimulation and the pressure on her clit made her groan in despair. She knew now that she had no control and no energy left to fight the upcoming climax. Hopelessly, she gave in to the electric waves of pleasure inside her and came with painful spasms, her body trying to expel the intruder or draw it in — she wasn't sure anymore.

As her orgasm subsided, her inner muscles relaxed, and the sensation of the toy inside her became intense but less painful. She drew a deep, shaky breath, and he immediately smiled down at her. 

"Absolutely beautiful. I knew you could do it. And I think you are ready for my cock now, my little Hashira,” Shinjuro mused.

She had little energy left to protest and just shook her head weakly, but with plenty of her juices trickling down around the harigata and aiding its intrusion, she had no doubt he would manage to get inside her, no matter his size.

He gently pulled the toy out of her abused pussy and tossed it on the floor beside the futon. He then stroked his cock, a bead of precum already visible on the tip. Settling his body over hers, panic surged through her again, and she started pulling on her bindings. He ignored that, lining up his cock against her opening and slowly began to push.

"No! Rengoku Shinjuro, I beseech you!" she groaned as she felt her pussy desperately trying to stretch around the head of the monstrosity, but it wouldn't go in. He didn't seem bothered and just increased the pressure until she felt a pinch that rapidly turned into an intense burning. 

All the while, he stroked her body in a mockingly soothing manner. His rough hand moved down to her clit to try to aid her in relaxing, and her inner muscles twitched in confused response as Shinjuro petted her bundle of nerves.

She ground out a pained cry as you helplessly pulled at the silken cords that tied your hands together above her head. 

Suddenly, the steady pressure made his thick cockhead pop through Hoshiko’s opening, and she screamed just as Shinjuro let out a guttural groan.

Desperation set in, and she started thrashing against her bindings until his voice cut through her panic, deceptively soothing. "Take it easy, doll. Just relax, it will feel good soon, I promise.”

Yet Hoshiko hissed through clenched teeth, tears streaming down her cheeks again.

"Don't cry," he reminded almost regretfully, holding himself completely still with just the head of his cock inside her velvety pussy. He reached up with one hand to wipe her tears away. "I'm sorry it has to be this way, but the pain will stop soon, I promise. And after that, I'll give you endless pleasure. I'll make you come until you don't care how much it hurts when I claim you with my cock.."

His words both soothed and worried her, but she knew she had no choice but to submit. Hoshiko obeyed him by taking a deep breath. The woman’s inner muscles relaxed a fraction.

He then started moving inside her, pushing slowly until he was fully seated in her wet, warm pussy. 

She panted as he withdrew almost completely before pushing in again, harder this time. There was pain, intense pressure, but also something else. Raw, crackling pleasure zapped up Hoshiko’s spine as Shinjuro’s thick cock touched every part of her pussy, forcing it to mold itself around him.

A sudden feeling of being completely and carnally claimed washed over her, and she moaned as her pussy spasmed painfully around his thick cock. 

"Little cunt," he growled in warning. "Don't do that unless you want me to take you hard. Do not test my patience."

But she couldn't control it. His words made more juices trickle down around his cock, and another spasm of her inner muscles made her moan.

"Look at me," he commanded, his voice like steel. "Look at me while I take what's mine, you fucking useless cunt."

Reluctantly, she turned her gaze back to him, her heart pounding in her chest. 

His expression was one of dark satisfaction, his eyes gleaming with a twisted hunger. He was relentless, each thrust claiming her further, branding her as his.

Rengoku then withdrew and immediately slammed into her again, and she lost all control over her body. The moans leaving her lips were no longer her own, and she writhed on his cock, trying simultaneously to escape and to draw him deeper at the same time. 

But it wasn't fully her choice — his hands held her hips in an iron grip as he slammed into her over and over again.

Her mind fragmented under the relentless assault, her sense of self slipping away with each brutal thrust.

She was too lost in the moment to reflect on the situation anymore. She felt another orgasm building and just let it happen, not caring about the pain she knew would come from her muscles tightening around his enormous cock. She heard him talking, praising her for taking him so well, calling her a good girl as her pussy melted around him as she came yet again in intense spasms. “S-Stop, please…”

But he didn't stop. He fucked her oh so hard, each time pushing her further into a haze of pain and unwanted pleasure. 

As Hoshiko seized again and again, overwhelmed by the sensations coursing through her body, she felt Shinjuro's movements becoming more sloppy, more primal. His thrusts grew deeper, more desperate.

Then, like a thunderclap in the night, she heard Shinjuro's primal roar. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he cursed. In that moment, Hoshiko felt the warmth flooding her insides as he released his thick, warm seed deep within her. “Fuck, take it, bitch, take all of it. I can’t wait to see you swell with my fucking offspring.” He continued to thrust his hips into hers with unrestrained fervor, ensuring that she received every last drop of his semen.

Their cums mingled together in a potent concoction, flooding her core until she felt drenched to the brim, every fiber of her being saturated with their combined releases.

He was mumbling soothingly in her ear about how beautiful she was shortly after. “That’s it, my little whore. You were so good to me, taking my cock oh so well.” He slowly started withdrawing his half-hard cock, and she whimpered as the pain made its way back into her consciousness. Shinjuro shushed her and soothed her with kisses and gentle caresses, pulling out as carefully as he could.

Hoshiko lay there, broken and violated, the reality of what had happened sinking in. She was no longer the aloof, untouchable Hashira. She was Shinjuro's possession, his conquest.

Her whole body ached as he began untying her legs. Shinjuro massaged her sore muscles gently and kissed every part of her. He was mumbling about how Hoshiko was his now, his woman, and how he was going to pleasure and claim her again and again. When he had untied her completely, he left the bedroom briefly, returning with a glass of sake. Rengoku carefully soothed her when she whimpered from the soreness, and then supported her head as he helped her down the glass of alcohol. “Drink. It’ll ease your nerves.”

Having swallowed the drink, Hoshiko felt a haze descend upon her, enveloping her in a cocoon of numbness. As she closed her eyes, surrendering to the oblivion that awaited her, the final image that burned itself into her consciousness was that of Shinjuro's face, twisted into a malevolent grimace.

"You belong to me now," his voice echoed in the darkness, each word dripping with possessiveness and dominance. "You are mine, my little, sweet cockslut."

The darkness of the night lingered long after the sun rose, casting a shadow over Hoshiko's heart. 

She woke up, a pounding headache splitting her skull, and an overwhelming nausea clawing at her stomach. As she tried to shift, she winced, feeling a sticky discomfort between her legs. Her heart plummeted as the realization struck her - she sensed the dried cum of Shinjuro on her inner thighs, a sickening confirmation of her worst fears she desperately wanted to erase from the back of her mind.

For a moment, she couldn't move, her body frozen in shock and disgust. Her eyes darted to her side, and she saw him lying there, naked and sleeping peacefully, as if nothing had happened. Rage and revulsion churned within her, a storm threatening to consume her whole.

With trembling hands, she pulled herself from the futon, her movements slow and deliberate. Each motion sent waves of pain through her body, both physical and emotional. She dressed carelessly, her fingers fumbling with the fabric as she tried to cover the marks of her violation. The once-pristine kimono hung loosely on her, a stark contrast to the meticulous care she usually took with her appearance.

She stood in the center of the room for a moment, her breath coming in ragged gasps, as if she could expel the filth through sheer force of will. The room around her seemed to close in, the walls pressing down with an oppressive weight. The very air felt tainted, corrupted by the heady scent of sex.

Shinjuro might have won this battle, but the war was far from over. 

Hoshiko clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms, the pain grounding her in the present moment. She would rise from this torment, stronger and more determined than ever. And when she did, Shinjuro would face the full force of her wrath.

As the first light of dawn filtered through the shoji screen, she closed her eyes, a single thought echoing in her mind: She would make him pay for this. But that would be another part of her story.

She moved silently through the mansion, her steps light despite the turmoil within her. The house seemed eerily quiet, the silence a stark contrast to the chaos of her thoughts. Each room she passed through held memories of her attempts to help him, now tainted by his betrayal, his violation of her rights.

When she reached the entrance, she paused, looking back one last time. The mansion stood as a testament to Shinjuro's fall from grace, a place she had hoped to bring light and healing. But now, it was merely a reminder of the darkness that had consumed him — and nearly consumed her as well.

Without another glance, she stepped out into the cold morning air. The chill bit into her skin, but it was a welcome relief, a sharp contrast to the suffocating atmosphere inside. She walked away from the mansion, each step a declaration of her intent to survive, to fight back. She left all her belongings behind, not sparing a single glance for the possessions that had once seemed so important. The kimono she wore was her only possession now. There was no intention of returning to this place, no desire to reclaim what she had lost. Everything she needed, she carried within her: her resolve, her strength, and the burning desire for justice.

The path ahead was uncertain, fraught with danger and challenges. But Hoshiko knew one thing with absolute certainty: she would not be broken by this. She would rise from the ashes of this night.

As she disappeared into the distance, the first rays of the sun pierced through the morning mist, casting a pale, ethereal light over the land. It was a new day, a new beginning, and Hoshiko would seize it with every ounce of her strength. 

The battle was far from over, and she was ready to wage it with every ounce of her being.

[txttletale]

do you think a communist can be religious at all? i'm a fairly well read classical-ish mlm but i'm also deeply religious. i make absolutely no concession to or apologism for organized or statal religion of course and think they probably should've been abolished yesterday but i'm one of those creatures who can't get through life without spirituality and hear a lot from other marxists that religiosity and marxism are an untenable configuration of beliefs. not having a crisis over my faith or my marxism by the way they're here to stay as an uncomfortable marriage, i'm just curious what your thoughts on religious marxists might be (and i get a feeling you'd question the fixation on individualism i'm probably hung up on a little bit here) since you're very well articulated and have a lot of interesting things to say.

in the same article i linked, lenin opines as such:

No number of pamphlets and no amount of preaching can enlighten the proletariat, if it is not enlightened by its own struggle against the dark forces of capitalism. Unity in this really revolutionary struggle of the oppressed class for the creation of a paradise on earth is more important to us than unity of proletarian opinion on paradise in heaven. That is the reason why we do not and should not set forth our atheism in our Programme; that is why we do not and should not prohibit proletarians who still retain vestiges of their old prejudices from associating themselves with our Party. We shall always preach the scientific world-outlook, and it is essential for us to combat the inconsistency of various “Christians”. But that does not mean in the least that the religious question ought to be advanced to first place, where it does not belong at all; nor does it mean that we should allow the forces of the really revolutionary economic and political struggle to be split up on account of third-rate opinions or senseless ideas, rapidly losing all political importance, rapidly being swept out as rubbish by the very course of economic development.

so, basically--it is lenin's position that historical materialism necessary leads to atheism if applied fully--but the 'question of religion' is a fundamentally unimportant one to the revolutionary struggle. so, yeah, i think a communist can be religious.

crucially, one of the arguments made in this article is that--again, under the view of historical materialism--all religions that currently exist are the result of the material conditions they developed under. as those material conditions are abolished, the ideologies (including religions) that arose from those material conditions will follow some generations later. so a revolutionary communist can be religious, but should expect (should a revolution be succesful) that their eventual descendents no longer be religious--at least in a way we can recognize.

while i think that abolishment of religion is a goal of communism, i want to draw all attention to abolishment as aufhebung, as a creative rather than purely destructive transformation. we may well see brand new religions develop under communism, or forms of old religions that are unrecognizable in substance because they are the products of totally new material conditions. ultimately we can speculate on but not truly anticipate the religious situation of the future!

ultimately i think that in the present any religion that does not impute any truths to the material is compatible with revolutionary marxism. as lenin said, unity in opinion on the class struggle is infinitely more important than unity in opinion on the soul or heaven could ever be

[spottheantisemitism]

Days of future past and the paper thin allegory

Of all the X-stories stories to hit you with the “this is an allegory for racism”, Days of Future Past is usually not one. Instead it’s more focused on the apocalypse and oppressive dystopia than how we got here and how do we change history The prequel however focuses on racism and tyranny and focuses on Kitty/Kate Pryde as her world falls apart. Making a young Jewish woman the lead in a story about a country falling into tyranny was indeed Claremont’s vision and the intended allegory (he does the Jews-Mutants parallel with Magneto as well) but what is never explored is the implications of that allegory nor any actual Jewish culture. The prequel fixes that

If you follow me at my main @gerrysherry you’ll notice the last panel is my banner. For good reason. This comic was make during a surge of racism and antisemitism in the summer of 2023.

There is a long running joke in the fandom that Xavier and Magneto in fighting each other rather than the anti-mutant bigots is allegorical for how real life marginalized people fight each other instead their oppresors.

In the prequel Magneto makes the metaphor quite clear. He speaks not of his worries but also his experience as a Holocaust survivor. And the writers managed to in one sentence change what “days of future past” means. It’s no longer “days of future past” in the sense that Kate is reliving the past (as was the case for the 80s original story) but that society is a whole is returning to 1940s era bigotry and oppression.

notice also how when it’s a ghetto the sign is green when it’s turned into a camp the sign turns red. I thought that was clever.

I never understood this scene when I read it last year but this year I can sort of understand. If you spent years pushing me out of your activism and scapegoating me, I’m not joining your coalition to fight the president now.

and yes Stryker’s administration is clearly commentary on the 2016-2020 Trump administration down to him being a demogogue figurehead serving with no term limits and it’s his cronies that run the country. Marvel isn’t predicting the future it’s just that second verse is the same as the first. Again the future is the past.

Kitty’s wedding to Peter in Chapter 2 is officiated by her Rabbi who sneaks out to perform a ceremony in secret. Historically many Jewish weddings were performed in secret and I’m sure the parallels are intentional.

they are also marrying in the rubble of the X-mansion symbolizing them clinging to the past. But this is done not simply out of nostalgia but also because they have no where else to go.

Magneto’s dying words are great. Days of Future Past Magneto post internment is a lot more calm and pragmatic than his 616 comics counterpart but he still feels like Magneto (even moreso than recent comics which mellowed him out TOO much). And the fact that it’s Yiddish rendered in Latin script (as opposed to the Hebrew alphabet) rather German like in X-men ‘97 or Polish like in X-men Apocalypse really speaks to the thought the author put in. Yes Magneto is a German-Polish Jew but do you really expect me to believe he sees either German or Polish as his native language? “This is a Holocaust survivor who just spent the last years of his life interned, he will not see freedom but his fellow prisoners will, what language shall his last words be in? Yiddish obviously”

What I love about this comic is that this comic uses past horror not exploitatively but in a sense that past events form patterns and can recur. Those who do not learn history repeat it.

the past informs and warns the future and in the convoluted time travel set in place in the comic, the future can inform and warn the past.

[tricksterkisses]

I’ve decided that I will no longer actively engage with discourse or social justice conversations on this website.

This decision comes down to a simple but frustrating realization: this platform seems to prioritize syntax and performative correctness over actual, tangible change. The energy I’d need to expend being Perfect for the people who (wrongly, in my opinion) claim to be my allies is better spent continuing the work I already do in real life: outreach, mutual aid, and community care. That’s where I can make a difference ngl, where my efforts are about action and impact, not linguistic perfection.

Recently, I made a post abt the oppression I face and how people like me are treated. To be honest, I expected pushback from people who disagree with me or the existence of trans-androphobia as a concept. But that’s not what happened. Instead, I was condescended to by people who call themselves my allies—because I made the apparent mistake of not using one word in a sentence. A single, ultimately irrelevant word.

Let me be clear: I wasn’t raised in the U.S. English is my third language. I don’t think in English, and I’m not going to pour endless time and energy into perfectly tailoring my words in a language that’s not even my own, just to appease people who are ostensibly on my side. This experience has taught me that this platform and many of the people on it, cares more about sounding right than about being right, about effect or praxis; thats not a value I share. I’d rather hear someone use imperfect language to say something important than see someone tear another person down because their linguistics weren’t pristine enough to pass an arbitrary standard.

In the real-world spaces where I do mutual aid, outreach, and harm reduction, this isn’t an issue. We’re too busy helping people to nitpick language. No one there questions whether someone deserves solidarity based on how “correctly” they phrase their sentences. That’s why I’ve decided that while I’d love to discuss the oppression and casual dismissal people like me face, I will not be doing it heree. This space rly just isn’t built for it. If you care more about the performance of words than about the reality of harm reduction, then you’re not my ally, and I don’t want to try to talk in spaces where that’s the standard.

I’m likely going to turn reblogs off on my one post about trans-androphobia and edit it to direct people here. I understand that some of the people who ‘corrected’ me probably thought they were helping, but their impact speaks louder than the intent. And the impact is this: it’s taught me that I cannot trust even my supposed allies in these spaces to care about the Movement as much as they care about the Words.

It was my wife, in fact, who had to sit me down and explain that what was happening wasn’t just frustrating and that it was punitive. I was being punished over semantics. That realization was rly eye-opening.

For those of you who are here because you want to see more of my thoughts about oppression, trans-androphobia, or other issues, I’m sorry to disappoint, but I won’t be using my own words to talk about these things on this website moving forward. I’ll still reblog pieces that resonate with me, and of course, @/velvetvexations is welcome to continue sharing thoughts I’ve expressed in private conversations. But as far as direct engagement goes, this is where it ends for me on Tumblr.

I’m genuinely glad that some people here have the comfort to focus so heavily on language. But I live on the brink of homelessness every month. I struggle to feed my family. I simply can’t afford to use the little energy I have navigating the minefield of linguistic perfection to avoid being torn down by “my own side.” If that’s something you can understand, I hope you’ll respect my decision. If not, I wish you well anyway.

srry.