#He's so human for it! This is a story where no-one is morally black or white! *People* aren't black and white!

[samsalami66]

A Canvas For Revenge

Hob/Dream | Explicit | Graphic Depictions of Violence | 3.6K

CW: Torture, Gore, Blood, Morally Grey Characters

Summary: Hob Gadling is a man of devotion and of loyalty. While saving his oldest friend from Roderick Burgess, he takes his time to turn the Nightmare King's torturer into a a blood-offering with methods he learned in his youth.

More under the cut or on ao3!

Dreams do not find Roderick Burgess anymore.

For fifteen years now, he has slept without dreaming, in silence, in peace. No nightmares of death and poverty, of his Randall lying dead in a trench in Gallipoli. These days, the only things that plague his mind are Alex and Ethel, and the Endless trapped in his basement. But those problems keep to his waking hours, and so at night, he finds rest. The first true rest, in as long as he can remember.

It is almost poetic that capturing The Prince of Stories is what finally grants him peace, a happy end to his story, which has never known anything but death and suffering.

Perhaps Destiny has it out for his younger brother. Perhaps the old fucker decided Roderick finally deserves something good, after everything.

That he deserves riches and magic and life. He deserves to live. Forever, even. Perhaps he might. He’s already feeling younger than he had five years ago, his vitality coming back to him the longer the Dreamlord sits unmoving in his cage.

Living forever… what a thought. To see the rise and fall of nations, of kings and politicians, to see how the world tears itself apart with war and greed. Roderick might just enjoy an eternity of that. An eternity of pain.

Not his own, of course. Never his own.

Roderick turns in his bed, the fantasies he spins in his mind making him deaf to the creak of the stairs, and blind to the shadow darting along the corridor outside his room. While he imagines tales of revolution and war, of torture and screams, he does not hear the gasps of dying life before his door, the thump of bodies hitting wood, and does not feel the sweeping gaze of Death as she reaps soul after soul.

She is busy tonight.

For all that Roderick believes to know about her and her siblings, believes himself grand and knowledgeable and superior, he does not even stir when she settles into the armchair to his right to await her final appointment of the day.

And this one promises to be an entertaining one, at least. Six hundred years of experience tend to make a man creative.

When Hob Gadling enters the bedroom of Roderick Burgess, it is with practised ease and quiet. He barely disturbs the air around him as he locks the door behind him, and his boots make no sound as he strides towards the man laying in bed, caught up in stories that were not his own. Dream would not grant him such dreams, were he free. Death knows this. And so she feels nothing but satisfaction when Hob holds a bloody dagger to the old man’s throat, and feels the fantasies turn and twist, into what her brother would call a Waking Nightmare. Although, she doubts any of his creations could come close to the vision that Hob makes in that moment.

The man is clad from head to toe in black leathers, gloves covering strong hands where they hold the dagger. But his eyes… nothing would ever match a human’s lust for blood, for revenge, Death knows this well. And Roderick was stupid enough to get the one with the most pent up bloodlust on this planet on his bad side. Robert is a dangerous man, when it comes to that, and old Burgess will find out about that just in time.

“Who- Who are you?” Roderick stammers. His eyes flick around in the dark in the search of something to defend himself with. But there is nothing in reach, and Hob knows this. He doesn’t look away from Roderick, his eyes fixed on those of the other man and he presses the dagger further into his throat. The smell of blood begins to seep into the room, but it gets swallowed hungrily by the foundations of Fawney Rig, the manor's bloodlust matching that of the man who will burn it down to the ground.

“I, old man, am your end.” Hob replies, his voice quiet but cutting, an auditory representation of the weapon he holds.

“If it's money you want-” Burgess cuts off with a pained groan as Robert presses the dagger further into his throat with a condescending click of his tongue.

“You will speak when spoken to, and will think twice about offending me with your narrow-minded world-view.” Silence follows those words, and Hob nods approvingly. “Good boy. Now, you have someone in your manor. Trapped.”

The fear in Roderick's eyes grows upon hearing Hob's words and Death can't help but smile to herself as she watches the man swallow and nod.

“This man-” Roderick opens his mouth to protest the fact that Dream could be anything close to a man, but Hob shuts him up with another swift move if his dagger. Never enough to kill, only to cause pain. “This man you have trapped. He is important to me. He is my friend. And I do not take kindly to posh old bastards stealing away the people I love and keeping them in their basements.”

Only just does Roderick resist the urge to laugh at Hob’s words, but the disgust is clear in his face and his tone, even if only one of them carries over the darkness of Night.

“Oh, come off it, beings like him don’t have friends. Especially not some human mortal.”

For a moment, Hob is silent, contemplating an idea. Death can see that it makes Roderick nervous, his throat constricting uncomfortably against the sensation of the knife pressing into the thin wound Hob has left behind so far. He doesn’t dare to speak, too afraid the other man might take the only thing he has left in his miserable existence.

But after some minutes, Hob finally nods and shifts the knife so it presses deeper into Roderick’s neck and so that he can whisper the next words into the other man’s ear. His voice is cold and clear as he speaks, a tone that immediately sends chills down Roderick’s back with fear.

“Do you want to hear a story, old man?” In an astonishing display of intelligence, Roderick slowly nods in response. “Smart thing,” Hob whispers, grinning. “Once upon a time, there was a man, sitting in a tavern with his friends. They talked and drank and joked, like they did every day. Normally, no one paid the drunken peasants any mind as their tongues loosened and their words got bolder. But on this day, when a man called Death stupid and proclaimed he would never die, someone was listening. Someone walked up to the man, pale as the moon and dressed in black, the red gem of a Lord resting on his chest, and asked to meet him in this very tavern, in a hundred years time.” Hob pauses there, takes a deep breath, and then grins. “That day was the seventh of June, 1389. And the man met with his mysterious stranger every hundred years after that day, over 542 years. And in order for his stranger to make their meeting in 1989, the man has to make sure that his friend doesn’t get hurt, or captured.”

“You’re lying!” Came Roderick’s hissed answer, the anger boiling in his throat spilling over into his tone. “This devil would never grant a peasant immortality.”

Once again, Hob grins, the echoes of memory shining in his eyes. “Oh, he’s no devil. And it’s been a while since I was a peasant, but I’m telling the truth. Alive, until I’m asking for Death. Now, how about we see how long you will stick around until you're begging for her sweet relief?”

“You will be waiting a long fucking time then.” Roderick spits in response, but Hob only tsks at him and grins with a glint in his eyes that matches that of Death’s brother when he is Nightmare more than Dream.

“Oh but Roddy, you forget something vital.” He gives Roderick’s cheek a friendly slap as his grin widens into something downright predatory. “I'm a mediaeval peasant. I grew up with torture so much worse than your privileged little modern brain could ever imagine. I saw a man being ripped apart limb by limb when I walked down the market square with my mum, saw a supposed witch’s stomach being eaten by rats as she screamed and begged for Hell to take her in. Oh, I know just the thing to break your precious pride, your resolve. You will scream so prettily for me, Roderick.”

The other man is struck silent at Hob’s words, at the edge of true malevolence in his voice. As all humans, Hob Gadling is neither an inherently good nor an inherently bad man. And, much like many others of his species, he is a thing spurred on by love. Love for life, love for learning, love for his friends. Hurting that which he loves has never turned out well for the offenders in the past. Death would know, after all she greeted all of them with the same satisfied smirk once Hob was done with them, and led them each to the Gates of Hell.

And after some centuries, she has come to appreciate Hob’s ways of delivering these souls into her domain. Watching him work was like witnessing an artist sculpt the most horrifyingly gorgeous pieces out of blood and bones and viscera, mediums only few would consider to handle with such reverence. But weren't all humans made up of these things? Why would a living human be any more beautiful than an Artwork of Death?

Each of those Hob has killed were offerings to her, sacrifices which she accepted with a smile as she felt the part of her that was fed by worship grow. And Roderick? He will make for the finest offering yet, with what he has done to her little brother, to Hob's most sacred friend.

Roderick will suffer. Hob will make sure of it.

“Just recently, I started studying history,” Hob begins to recall, threateningly calm as he pulls out knife after knife from his jacket and places them out of Roderick’s reach to his side, almost as if he were setting up a space for surgical instruments. “Can you believe it? A mediaeval peasant, studying the history he himself has lived through. Ironic, eh?” He pauses on a knife with jagged edges, smiles, and puts it all the way to the front. “As I was catching up on some stuff I had forgotten about again, the human brain can only carry so much information at once after all, I came across a rather funny section in a chapter on mediaeval torture methods.”

“What in God’s holy name could be funny about a passage on torture methods of a bunch of lunatics.” The other man hisses, and the movement of his throat causes the dagger to cut further into his flesh. The smell of iron in the room strengthens and the grin on Hob’s face grows with it.

“I'll let that misstep count because it's an excellent question. You see, Roddy, the passage talked about the infamous Blood Eagle, a method of torture and execution used by Vikings in the mediaeval era, of which they found several accounts in Norse scripture. But it seems to be unclear if this method actually existed or if it is just a product of mistranslation, especially as no archaeological finds could so far prove that it is indeed real.” Hob chuckles then, dark and thick and entirely devoid of humour. “But I remember it well. The little tradition carried over all the way to ol’ England and of course they had to try it. But where are the archaeological finds, if it was practised all over England? Well, you see, there are some things too gruesome even for a bloodthirsty mediaeval peasant to witness. There are some things better left sealed away and buried, things you will never unhear, things you will relive every single night for the rest of your life. And oh, how I'm looking forward to hearing your screams for the rest of my unending life. Every. Single. Night.”

And with those words, Hob gets to work. He guides Roderick out of his bed and orders him to kneel in the middle of the floor with the dagger still held to his throat. The old man is shaking with fear beneath Hob’s steady hands, his heart-rate worryingly high. Death would worry about him dying of a heart attack before Hob had his way with him, but then it’s well within her power to deny Roderick her gift just long enough for him to suffer through all Hob has planned… as repayment for his constant offerings, of course. To honour five hundred years of worship.

Death gets dragged out of her musings by a scream that echoes through the halls of the manor and seeps into its very foundations. It feeds into the darkness of this place, the inherent evil Roderick began to raise here with his Order of Ancient Mysteries. Once, he fed it with the screams of the innocent, with their fear and blood and tears. It comes as no surprise that a building of such corruption would turn against its creator without a second glance, would feed off him as it did off everything else. It seems to embrace the jagged knife that now pins Rodericks lower leg to its foundations, swallowing each rivulet of blood as it runs down the edge and pools on the cold stone.

“You bastard!” Roderick howls, his hands moving to rip the offending object out of his leg, but he realises rather quickly that the stone around him has begun to betray him, for the knife does not give. He is pinned to the floor, kneeling, completely at Hob Gadling’s mercy.

“When I was a lad, they said that if you could withstand this torture without screaming, you would be granted a place in heaven, despite your sins. Think you can earn yourself a ticket to the Almighty, Roddy?” Hob taunts from above him, a new knife already held in his hands. That grin of his, wild and predatory, turns into one of smug concentration as he cuts through Roderick's sleepwear and throws away the fabric after, revealing his canvas for the night. He runs the dull side of the blade once over the length of Roderick’s back, as if mapping out the diameters for his next artwork.

“You're sick! Utterly insane!”

A rather weak insult, all things considered, but eloquence tends to fail people in the presence of Death.

“Oh, yes.” Hob Gadling agrees, and then he presses the knife into Roderick’s flesh, deep, until he hits the ligaments that connect the ribs to the spine. It’s precise, clinical as much as it is artistic, a first brushstroke made by a steady hand. The scream Roderick lets out only contemplates the red trickling down his back and eventually mixing with the blood from his leg on the cold stone floor. It all looks the same in the dark, the same deep red that all humans bleed. But Roderick’s blood is darker in its essence, it holds all the hatred this man feels for the world. It looks much better spilled than it did flowing beneath Roderick's ashen skin.

The next cuts Hob Gadling makes sever the ligaments connecting Roderick's ribs to his spine, which makes it easy for him to pop out one joint after the other with strong hands, each sickening squelch of bones and flesh and blood accompanied by screams and cries and sobs. Roderick is not a pretty crier, and not a very proud man. He begs for mercy he does not deserve, promises compensation he cannot give. But Hob shows no sign of interest in such begging, ignores his pleas in favour of his work. Each move of his hands contributes to the sculpture he was turning Roderick into, forming his flesh like lesser artists would form clay. Hob is a man of the flesh, and so he knows this medium well. Better, perhaps, than those who invented the method.

Death remembers that the vikings and mediaeval executioners were much less precise in their torture than Robert is now. They broke bones where he disconnects joins, ripped muscle where he cuts it with the skills of a surgeon. Watching him work is beautiful in its darkness, its horror, downright nightmare-inducing. Dream will enjoy knowing Hob is doing this in his name, in his image. A show of devotion unlike any previous lover her brother held dear. And to think they have parted in anger last they met over the notion of friendship, when Hob now stands above his oldest friend's torturer, painting him into a picture of revenge.

Hob forces his knife behind Roderick's ribs next, severs what little flesh is still connecting them to the man’s inner organs. Death catches a glimpse of the beating heart underneath, the lungs contracting and expanding on every single of Roderick's sobs. But she only gets a full view of those inner workings once Hob forces his hands into the now free spaces, and pulls.

The scream Roderick lets out is one Death hasn't heard for centuries, one that has been buried and burned with the witches and murderers of the Middle Ages, only alive now in some of the souls in her Lands. But she does not usually make a habit of relishing in the screams of her wards, of those she serves. Roderick's screams are an exception. They are satisfaction given form, they appeal to the darkest parts of her being, the ones that crave revenge and blood prices and sacrifice in her name. When those ribs finally break under Hob’s hands the sound sends a shiver down Death’s spine, and she smiles indulgently as Hob moves them into position. He takes his time with it, unfazed by the blood on his hands and the heart beating under his hands. Once he is satisfied with the placement of the wings, the angle in which they stretch towards the ceiling, he runs a reverent finger over Roderick’s ever-beating heart.

“Beautiful,” he breathes, and smears the blood now on his hands over Roderick’s chest, right over where he can see his heart beating on the other side. A signature, marking his final satisfaction. “In Death, even a little maggot like you can learn what it’s like to be a butterfly.”

Roderick does not answer, does not seem to be capable of words, and so Hob just straightens with a smile on his face and sheathes his knives. Death does not see what Hob does next, for she doesn’t seem to be able to take her eyes off the kneeling man before her, not even for a second. All that she knows is that Hob returns moments after with her brother’s tools of office. The ruby glints much like Roderick’s blood in the light of the moon shining through the window, and Death can feel its magic strengthening with the devotion in the room, with the dreams of revenge fulfilled and forgiveness earned hanging in the air. He lays the tools out behind Roderick as if placing offerings at an altar, even closes his eyes in prayer. Hob Gadling knows the worship of old, knows the power it grants to their kind, and he is ready to pour all his knowledge into the revenge of his oldest friend.

Devoted to a fault.

“Please,” Roderick’s voice is raw from his cries, and his breathing is heavy, his lungs expanding much further than they should. “Please, just let me die.”

Only the answering silence in Hob’s sudden absence tells Death that the other man did not say these words to his tormentor, and so it takes her a moment to allow her eyes to leave the offerings and meet his eyes in the darkness of a blood red night. Presumably, Hob has left to free Dream of his cage, to bring him upstairs and present him with his artwork of devotion. Roderick will not receive her gift, not until her brother is here to witness Roderick’s final breath.

“You wished to summon me, Roderick Burgess, to beg for immortality. Is this not what you asked for?” A petty question. She enjoys asking it more than she wishes to admit.

“Not like this. Never like this.” A groan of pain escapes Burgess, and Death smiles.

“You do not get to choose the manner in which we meet, Roddy. You do not get to make demands from the likes of us. And you do not get to imprison us, display us like insects and expect no punishment.”

Roderick opens his mouth as if to answer, but then a shadow spreads throughout the room and steals away his voice, the air in his lungs and the warmth from his blood. Her brother is the furthest thing from human as he snakes around Roderick’s tortured body, around his artfully exposed heart, and in his wake leaves pain anew, before he locks Roderick’s mind into a carefully crafted dream of endless torture.

Hob Gadling stands in the open door, bloodied, an artist covered in the remnants of his work, smiling as Dream takes the mind of his tormentor for himself, plunging him into darkness unfathomable to the human imagination. He looks fond, unbelievably so, when the shadow that is Dream takes a more human shape again, although it is more Nightmare than Dream, more carnage than fantasy.

“You did this. For me.” Dream says, slowly, and Death stands to take her leave, unseen by both Hob Gadling and her brother. Even when indulging her darker urges does she not wish to impose on her little brother’s private affairs.

The last thing she hears before taking flight with Roderick’s spirit is Hob’s response, a dangerously quiet vow.

“For you, love, I’d make the entire world my canvas.”

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

I love Jiang Cheng and I hope you agree. The most tragic thing about yunmeng siblings is that JC and WWX really love each other the whole time… I like to think they can fix it someday

Someday perhaps....in the meantime, I bet he's loving having dogs run around lotus pier. As a WWX deterrent of course. No therapeutic reasons at all.

[midnight-bay-if]

"If silence claims the waters of Midnight Bay, death has come to stay."

"Every day, I miss him, and every day, I’m scared that I’ll miss him less. That one day, I’ll wake up, and I won’t remember how his hair would stick up in odd angles in the morning or how black he liked his coffee. That the bedtime stories he would read me before bed no longer guide my morals nor parse their wisdom in his voice..."

If you ask me why I still seek revenge, this is what I'll say: I will not forget.

Because nothing could be more terrifying than the idea of time passing without my father's death having any justice or resolution, and years down the line, I’ll be sitting in this diner with you, but we won’t be talking about my dad at all anymore."

Come on. Let's kill the killer.

Demo: Out Now (45,000) words.

Simon/Simone [f/m] Task Force Leader. Human Simon/Simone comes from a wealthy family with a long history of government service and civil partnerships. Simon/Simone is somewhat of a black sheep and is estranged from a large portion of their family. After a bout of teenage rebellion, Simon/Simone find themselves enlisted in the military to ‘correct’ their behaviour. However, with a penchant for leadership and a tactician's mind, they are recruited by a strange, secretive organisation with questionable goals.

After two more victims of 'The Bay Slasher' are found discarded on the bay, Simon/Simone drives themselves and their team into town, on orders from their mysterious higher-ups, ready to put away this killer for good. But cases such as these are never simple, and even more so with a far too clever and far too perceptive P.I. hot on their heels.

Rain [non-binary] The Mediator. Supernatural type; Pixie Rain grew up in a very wet biome of the world associated with fairies, pixies and elementals. After a great conflict, Rain was practically herded into the arms of a greater power, who guided them into the arms of Simon/Simone, who became their new leader.

When Simon/Simone tells them that one day, they will be going to the practically derelict town of Albach Bay to catch a dangerous killer, they shrug, smile, and pack their bags without a second thought. It doesn't take long for them to realise this isn't a typical case, even by their standards.

Taj [f/m] The Infiltrator. Supernatural type: Qita Taj is part of an ever-shrinking community hidden well in the Egyptian underbellies. Qita are a humanoid cat race native to Egypt and were once revered by humans at the dawn of their civilisation. However, that reverence began to fizzle out when a greater power, deciding their people had become too powerful,

After a great conflict, Taj is captured and 'recruited' to join a mysterious organisation dedicating themselves to maintaining balance. Taj is ultimately led to Simon/Simone and becomes the final member of their specialised team. Showing great resistance at first, eventually, Taj learns to accept and respect Simon/Simone, so when their leader declares they are to travel to the backwater town of Albach Bay, well... Taj comes along. Though not without reluctance.

Nazu/Naera [f/m] Supernatural type: Demon Nazu/Naera is a demon prince/princess from Hael. During a terrible conflict, their great power was muzzled as punishment for their part in the war. They've been seeking the people responsible so they can regain the power they lost.

Their search has lasted more than a decade, but now... Now they find themselves in a small, human town where sin oozes from every shadow, beckoning every passer-by to partake in its debauchery. To top it off? They can hear their power singing to them. It's close. Heh... They might even end up liking it here.

Umbra [f/m] Supernatural type: ??? Umbra is an anomaly. Nothing about them is real. None of it should exist. Every facet of their being has been strung together out of sheer will and barely held together by a thread. One wrong touch and they may fall apart, like unravelling a ball of yarn or pulling apart a puppet on a string.

So, why? Why do they exist? Simple.

They exist for you.

RO's appearances:

Simon: Broad-shouldered, athletic build with reasonably short black hair and light warm skin. He has warm brown eyes hidden behind fashionable square frames and is often wearing tailored suits designed to move in.

Simone: Athletic build with long black hair (typically pinned up) and light, warm skin. She has warm brown eyes hidden behind fashionable square frames and is often wearing tailored suits designed to move in.

Rain: They have a slim, petite build with flawless tawny skin, which is amplified by their pale blue hair and matching pale eyes. They tend to opt for a more colourful wardrobe in the pastel range.

Taj (male): He has a lean build, golden brown skin, and dark, curly brown hair that tends to have a mind of its own. His ears and tail are matching brown, reminiscent of a Havana Brown cat. (He keeps them hidden underneath his clothes, which are often oversized to hide this face.) He also has very serious grey eyes and numerous scars marking his body.

Taj (female): She has a lean build, golden brown skin, and dark curly brown hair that tends to have a mind of its own. Her ears and tail are a matching brown, reminiscent of a Havana Brown cat. (She keeps them hidden underneath her clothes.) She also has very serious grey eyes and numerous scars marking her body.

Nazu: (As a human)He is very built with dark skin, which ensures his almost luminescent amber eyes stand out. His long, dark dreads are usually pulled up in a bun. Nazu tends to opt for clothes designed to tantalise, as well as show off the hair dusting his chest and arms.

When in his usual form, he also has large horns that curl out of his head, with a more reddish hue to his dark skin. Plus, the whites of his eyes will turn black.

Naera: (As a human) She is very curvy, opting instead to amplify her femininity in human form. Her dark skin ensures her luminescent amber eyes stand out. Her long, dark hair is in tight braids that flow down her back. Naera will opt for clothing designed to tantalise, teasing her assets in a flirty way.

When in her usual form, her horns curl out of her head, with a reddish hue to her dark skin. Plus, the whites of her eyes will turn black.

Umbra (male): Tall and lean build with black shoulder-length hair that contrasts against his pale, almost ghostly skin. He tends to have dark circles under his equally black eyes, as well as a deep scar cut through his left brow. His clothing usually consists of a black leather jacket, black pants and black combat boots.

Umbra (female): Tall and slim build with long black hair, half up in a pony, that contrasts against her pale, almost ghostly skin. She tends to have dark circles under her equally black eyes, as well as a deep scar cut through her left brow. Her clothing usually includes a black leather jacket, plaid skirt and black combat boots.

An urban fantasy/romance IF based in the fictional town of 'Albach Bay'.

Customise your private investigator: choose name, gender, appearance, sexuality, skill set and personality.

Play as male, female, or non-binary: straight, gay, bisexual, pansexual, as well as aromantic, asexual, or aro-ace.

Late 90s setting with limited technology, so be prepared to wait ten minutes for your PC to boot up.

Roleplay your private investigator how you want to. My intention is no 'game over' screens. There are no wrong answers in this game.

5 main companions to befriend or romance, each with their own personalities and stories to tell.

Collect evidence in your notebook as you scour the dilapidated streets and beaches of Albach Bay for clues to finally catch your father's killer for good.

Revenge is best served cold.

Rated 18+

[alessiamalfoyzabini]

Howl at Midnight

Pairing | werewolf!Jimin x human!Reader

Word Count | 7.5k

Warnings | +18, angst, smut, halloween theme, an apparently abandoned castle (don't trespass on other people's property 🤧), mentions of a pact made with the city's residents, poison, MC doesn't really have much choice 💀, forced nudity, dark themes and also yandere (?), underneath MC finds the situation exciting, bites and marks, sink the canines and drink blood, PWP, oral sex, pussy worship, dubcon, begging, virginity loss, unprotected sex (use protection!), vaginal sex, big dick, knotting, MC abandons herself to her fate (I think Jimin's supernatural nature contributes in MC's choices), eat cum, this is not for minors.

This fanfiction is dark and yandere, if you don't like the genre, don't read and if you are not of age, don't read.

I don't want to hear any complaints in the comments, thank you.

This does not reflect my way of thinking or living at all, it is just a work of fiction, it is like watching a horror movie, many of us love horror movies, but we would never dream of what we see in those movies happening in reality as well.

Simply put, this story was written for entertainment purposes, it should not be seen as a reflection of my values, opinions or morals. I absolutely do not condone such acts.

⤷ Summary | You always thought you lived in a quiet, small town. You never imagined that the locals would be able to keep such a secret for centuries, you fell into their trap… But it doesn't seem so bad.

➢ Author's Note | Hi, guys!!! 🥹

My best friend and I challenged each other to write a Halloween-themed story using the following keywords: werewolf - halloween - virginity - castle - poison.

I don't know why I came up with such a story, it was supposed to be something simple but my dark side took over WAY too much 💀

Anyway my best friend liked the story and suggested that I publish it, so here it is, I already apologize for any mistakes and for the plot which is not who knows what 🥺

Howl at Midnight was written for recreation, but I still hope you enjoy it ❤️

PS: I really didn't know how to classify this story, when in doubt I put the warning “yandere,” since there are behaviors that go a little beyond 😵‍💫

Permanent Taglist | @katherine-kookie, @btsuga-d, @reallygenerouskoala, @takemeaway5402, @velvet-stardust2002, @jimincrystal, @ke1k029, @kylafox09, @pantara, @themwordsblog, @angelicsmilesworld

It's a rather dark night, you think, as the flickering lights of street lamps barely illuminate your path. You and some of your friends have decided to spend Halloween night roaming the more desolate streets of your small town, rather than attend the party of the school's homecoming queen, the most popular and at the same time most hated girl ever by you and your friends, a common ground that has certainly welded your friendship.

You are reminded of the afternoon you spent at Glenn's house deciding how you would spend Halloween night; Glenn's initiative had been rather unique, since he was not a fan of that holiday.

“It will be fun, everything is so scary at night, we might even meet a real vampire! I mean, not like Edward Cullen, I mean one who doesn't sparkle-” but Glenn's excited monologue had been badly interrupted by his girlfriend, Claire, who had hit him over the head with a book, and who knows why, said book was actually titled Twilight. You remember giggling, willingly accepting that idea, but now...

“We were simply supposed to go for a walk, Glenn,” you mutter ruefully, looking around, “Do you want to tell me where you're taking us?”

The red-haired boy snorts again, settling into his vampire costume bought at a thrift store stall, “Come on Y/N, what would life be without a little thrill?”

Claire, for her part, nods in turn with a euphoric smile, as if she knows something you don't, prancing merrily dressed as a red devil among black lace decorations and lace.

“Life would be as it has always been, wonderful,” you blurt out nervously, freezing suddenly.

The asphalt has run out and the streetlights have stopped dimly illuminating the entire street, you are at the edge of the most talked about lands in your town. When and how exactly did you get there?

“Here we are, my girls,” you hear Glenn say, satisfied with his feat.

“What are we doing here?” you swallow, far from cheerful.

Answering you is Claire, “It's an abandoned castle and this is Halloween night, what do you say?”

You grit your teeth, shaking your head, “You're crazy, I'm not going in there!” you take a step back, your heart stirring, but Glenn stops you in a single moment.

“Where do you think you're going? I promised your brother I'd keep an eye on you,” he tells you sternly, and you know he's right, you can't just leave on your own, the streets are empty but it would still be dangerous.

“Don't you want to see what it's really like inside, aren't you the least bit curious?”

Short answer? No.

More articulate answer? Fuck no.

“Come on, don't be a wimp now!”

You snort, casting a glance at the castle in question.

It is as large as it is gloomy; the older inhabitants of the town have always spoken of the presence of various monsters within it, which is why the lands surrounding the castle are so large, preventing the actual growth of the otherwise large and well-populated town. Some of the land had been ceded to keep the monsters quiet.

That's some bullshit. And you're certainly not a wimp.

What will you find in there, maybe overgrown spiders? You shake your head, certainly nothing up to the Acromantulae seen in Harry Potter.

“I'm not afraid,” you limit yourself to saying, Glenn and Claire seem satisfied with your answer as they begin to step over half of the downed iron bars surrounding the gates of the immense building. It bothers you that they haven't bothered beyond you, but it's Halloween night; you can't really spoil their fun.

You hold on tightly to one of the rusty old iron bars, lift one leg trying not to fall off because of the bulky skirt of your witch costume, and end up straight on the ground covered with dry mud and grass, thank the heavens that it hasn't rained in the last few days, otherwise goodbye costume, although more like an elegant medieval dress and nothing more than that.

“Guys, wait for me!” you exclaim as you turn toward them, but you find yourself rolling your eyes.

The darkness is almost completely pitch black, only the moon high in the sky gives you some brightness in that open space surrounded by green trees and uncultivated grass. Your friends are not there.

“Please tell me this is a joke, please,” you growl, turning only a few seconds to climb over the railing, “Glenn? Claire?”

A shiver of unease snakes down your spine, as if someone - or something - is watching you. But you immediately banish the absurd thought. The Halloween atmosphere always makes everything quite scary; your friends chose that place for that very reason.

Imagining that you simply find them in front of the castle's entrance, you also wander down the path that actually looks like anything else by now. You will meet each other there.

The wind blows without worrying about your bare shoulders because of the dress's boat neckline; the cape had long since been taken away along the way. You bought it in an antique store and the elderly man seemed quite eager to get rid of it. He even gave you a discount.

The sound of falling leaves under the force of the draught is quite terrifying, especially now that you've discovered you can't use your cell phone. There is absolutely no service there, and isn't that how the best horror movies begin?

A frustrated groan leaves your throat, you don't have to think about it.

“Glenn?” you try to call out once more, but along the path echoes the hoots of an owl that is probably scrutinizing you with condescension, wondering why a silly girl like you is wandering around in such a desolate, godforsaken place.

When you arrive at the gates of the castle, you find yourself admiring the extraordinary Gothic architecture of the huge, ancient building made of stone and marble. The fact that it has survived over the centuries without any kind of restoration is a testament to the good materials that were used.

One by one, you walk down the stone steps, sudden thunder jolts you violently, and with fear in your veins you throw yourself toward the immense reinforced door, finding it ajar, a sign that Glenn and Claire must have already entered. You ignore the hint of annoyance, since they could at least wait for you, you must escape the sudden storm.

Wordlessly you notice the large, thick black clouds enveloping the sky, obscuring even the immense full moon.

You carefully close the ancient gateway, looking around the thick-walled atrium decorated with paintings that are surely worth more than your current home, not to mention the carpet you are walking on, though a bit worn, is definitely from the time of the castle's founding. You wonder which lord lived there and whether it can be traced in the history books.

“Claire?” you whisper, afraid of disturbing someone, but who exactly?

Sighing wearily, you really have no time or inclination to play along with your friends, you rest your hand on the wrought-iron railing of the staircase, beginning to climb so that you can find those two idiots as soon as possible and get home safely.

They say 'God makes them and then matches them up,' right? You mentally growl, well, you would’ve just wiped them out instead.

Between corridors that are not real corridors but dead ends, some narrow and some exaggeratedly large, you finally find the wing reserved for rooms, hating the enormity of that place.

“Hey, you ... are you here?” you ask, slowly opening a bedroom door with one eye closed and one only slightly open, fearing to find the two lovebirds doing strange things in the leto of an abandoned castle, because they would be perfectly capable of it.

But what you find is just a lavishly decorated bedroom absolutely empty of any other life forms but you.

“This is definitely a joke,” you chuckle mirthlessly, clutch your arms to your chest, and continue that unwelcome tour of yours, continuing to open rooms at random, with no more expectation of finding anyone in them, until you come to a rather large bedroom.

Quite different from the others, which up to that point had been yes, beautiful, but empty, lacking a soul.

This one was immense just like the castle itself, yet warm, thanks to the burning fireplace. The four-poster bed was adorned with red silk sheets, as were the velvet curtains tied to the solid wooden columns, on the walls finely decorated with gold paint were hung medieval tapestries, depicting hunting parties, running horses and wolves, wolves everywhere. One that particularly strikes you depicts two wolves and a woman in the center, they seem ready to bite her fiercely, you notice with discomfort.

High glass windows with curtains left open allow lightning to illuminate the entire room, followed by a terrible, howl-like rumble.

That horrible noise seems to awaken you from the sort of trance you fell into while admiring the surely master bedroom, and you finally take serious note of the burning fire. Why a working fireplace in a castle uninhabited for years?

“To many the night brings counsel, to me it has brought a lovely maiden, I see...” you gasp surprised and terrified, turning toward the silky, warm, yet slightly hoarse, almost growling voice.

A relatively young man watches you with his shoulder resting against one of the stained glass windows. You had not seen him. No. He was not there before, you are absolutely sure.

His dark, shiny hair has been grown down to his neck, some curling around his sharp, elegant jaw, the neck left bare by his unbuttoned, white shirt is a set of sinuous, sharp, powerful lines. The soft black pants do nothing to hide the wonderful figure of his long legs, his feet are bare, you notice. He feels perfectly comfortable, as if... as if that were his home.

“I-I... I'm sorry, it's Halloween and some friends of mine thought...” you try to explain with your hands clasped to the skirt of your dress, but you are immediately interrupted by the man's sophisticated, sassy giggle.

“They thought it was a brilliant idea to violate my property?” you pale at his question.

“We... the whole town believes the castle is uninhabited,” you reply with a shy breath, trying to justify them.

The young man breaks away from the glass window, slowly approaching you, you take steps back, inadvertently bumping into one of the pillars of the bed.

“And does it look uninhabited to you, little girl?”

Little girl? By the look of him, he wouldn't seem that much older than you, in fact.

Now that he has moved closer, standing only a foot away from you, you notice details of his face that you did not catch a few moments earlier.

He has high, pronounced cheekbones, and his lips seem so plump and soft that you blush at the thought of kissing them, his nose is well-proportioned and straight, while the peculiar shape of his eyes gives him a rather sweet and angelic air, although the fun written in them is anything but angelic.

“I didn't know, I'm really sorry, sir,” and it's true, the last thing you want is to be a nuisance to someone you don't even know, “I'll get my friends back and we'll leave right away, I promise.”

Dark eyes rimmed with long eyelashes watch you closely, before dropping to the rest of your body. Suddenly you remember the deep cleavage of your witch's dress, your skin burning under his watchful gaze.

“Right now there is no one else in the castle, except you and me,” he approaches again, you can feel his warm breath meet your neck, you shiver as the man clasps one hand above your head, around the pillar of the bed, doing the same with the other. This makes it clear how statuesque his physique is, compared to your more petite one, you also catch a subtle citrus fragrance, light and not cloying, is that him?

With a huge effort, you process his words, widening your eyes. No one else?

“But how-”

“In my opinion you made it all up, little girl,” he sneers, "Just admit that it was your curiosity that drove you here," but you shake your head, vehemently denying it.

“I really came here with friends!” you fret, you've never been good at handling pressure and this guy is not helping you at all.

“Oh, really?” a devilish smile makes its way across his soft, smooth cheeks, "So it's just a coincidence that you're wearing this dress?" you don't know how to answer the question, you can't, not when he lowers a hand over you, brushes the outline of your face with a finger, trailing down the delicate line of your neck to your cleavage, your rippling, shivering skin longs to receive his touch once more, you struggle to recover.

“Th-this dress?” you stammer in shame, his finger is still grazing your chest and you are doing nothing to push it away.

“Mh-mh,” he nods, pushing your cleavage down a few millimeters, enough to make you squeak with red cheeks, “How much do you know about this castle and its owners, little girl?”

Nothing, you'd like to answer, but your eyes already communicate your answer as he pulls back, finally letting you breathe. His scent still hovers around you, though.

“Year 1479, the people of the town of Howl enter into an agreement with the seven lords of Midnight, ceding a part of their lands to these noble lords and agreeing to send a virgin once every ten years, on the so-called Halloween Night,” he narrates, leaving you speechless, “In return, none of the townspeople would be hunted down and killed, does that ring a bell?”

“L-Listen to me, I really don't know what you're talking about, I definitely have to go now,” you nod at your own words, but the door slams shut along with a new and terrible rumble, an anguished cry involuntarily leaving your throat.

“The dress you're wearing is soaked in poison, little girl” the imperious tone terrifies you, automatically your body closes in on itself, as a kind of protection.

“This must definitely be a joke, it is Halloween after all,” you whisper to yourself with tears in your eyes.

“It's a security, for us. It ensures that the girls don't run away, because we are the only ones who can neutralize that poison” you don't know why the man started speaking in plural, you just know that you have to leave, even though something inside you is screaming at you not to. Because it could end very badly.

“You'd better take it off, your body might absorb more poison than is really necessary, the sooner we start the better,” he sighs, beginning to take off his white shirt, showing off a well-built, smooth chest and abs studded with thin scars lighter than his skin, swallowing without any more salivation, following long lines of black ink that weave across his pecs, forming some kind of mark, perhaps related to some cult.

“What are you doing!”

The man tilts his head, his soft hair following the movement meekly, and grasps the edge of his pants, running his forefinger and thumb over it defiantly as he watches you, “I'm taking what was given to me, little girl,” he sneers again, not at all impressed by your shock.

It was not uncommon for him and his brothers to be served girls who were totally unaware of their own destiny, they were tiresome at times, they would not stop shaking and crying, praying not to be deprived of their purity, but you smell so delicious that it might make him go beyond your dullness.

The fabric of his excellent quality pants slowly flows over the flawless skin of his toned legs, the blood rushes straight to your cheeks, and your heart misses a beat with a strangled “iiih” as you realize that the stranger has not only freely undressed in front of you, but is not wearing any underwear.

You've certainly never seen a naked man in person, but based on your anatomy books, that is definitely not a normal penis.

With a strange feeling of dizziness and no little embarrassment, you realize that even at rest, it is definitely big, with a swollen base almost as big as perfectly round testicles and such obvious purplish veins that you wonder if it is actually already hard, in its own way. Could that vibrant pink be an indicator? God, what the hell are you thinking?!

After a little dizziness your eyes fly to the closed door, you have to leave, run.

“Are you sure this is what you want?” he asks you, smiling with a hint of danger in his eyes, “Do you want to run? Run away from me? Know that this will only excite me more.”

You try to look away from his cock, with extreme difficulty, as he spoke, his cock had moved slightly, as if agreeing with the man's words. You ignore the slight jolt between your legs.

“If I can get through the gates of your property, will you let me go?” you propose almost shyly, staring into his sly eyes.

“Um... if I let you go, you'd die from the poison, but if that's what you want...” he shrugs, making you frown. The story of the poisoned dress might be bullshit to convince you to let him fuck you, but what if it's not?

You shake your head, it's all just a bluff. This man is clearly a pervert, maybe he gets off on fucking on such nights with stranger women.

“That's what I want.” you assure with a note of panic in your voice, the desire to escape is so urgent you can hardly think, “Open the door.”

But the man shakes his head, “Strip and I will leave you free to roam my lands until I find you.”

“I don't-!” the words die between your lips, his singsong expression gone, giving way to a sternness that clashes with his regal features, the difference making that contrast frightening.

“I like to play, little girl ... but I don't tolerate whining, don't make me angry, because I might decide to take you now, we have a bed available right here and now,” he hisses, clenching his fist against the polished wooden backboard of the four-poster bed. The more he looks at you, the more his balls throb fiercely; he's trying to control his desire; if his cock hardens, that's the end.

You're the first woman he's seen in 60 years, finally his turn has come, and there's no way he'll let you go. Do you want to play? He'll let you, but eventually you'll give in to his desires. The scent of your sweet virgin pussy makes his wolf growl, eager to get out to meet you.

Perhaps you sense something strange, because with trembling fingers you go to unbutton the side opening of your dress, a little sorry to him, the plunging neckline raises and shapes your breasts invitingly, though the stench of the poison with which it is imbued leaves him disgusted. An idea of humans to persuade chosen women not to flee, his eyes scroll over the ancient clock hanging above the door, the hands turn and you have just four hours to go before the poison takes effect, killing you. He would be sorry to see you die without having had a chance to taste you first.

“Tic-Tac, the clock is ticking, little girl... the slower you are, the more likely you are to die,” he informs you with a smile, your fear written all over his face igniting his loins; he has to restrain himself so he doesn't jump on you, and you're aware of that now, too.

Your eyes study his shoulders, they have stiffened noticeably, and with embarrassing speed you unfasten the last side button, letting the soft black fabric of your dress slip off like a veil, leaving you in your bra and panties. You start up under his eyes, which move to observe every nook and cranny of your body, from the soft breasts enclosed in the cups of the purple lace bra, going lower and lower, past the delicious curve of your hips to the tightly clasped mount of Venus covered by more purple lace. You yourself realize that for a man who wants to possess you, that kind of lingerie might make you look like a neatly wrapped gift in his eyes.

“Don't stop,” he tells you hoarsely, his eyes veiled with glowing lust.

The blood leaves your veins; if he were to take you, you would already be ready to receive him. As your fingers move to get rid of your bra as well, you realize you don't find it such a disturbing idea after all, even when you finally pull down the light fabric of your panties, showing off something no boy has ever had the honor of looking at, his nostrils flaring as if to inhale something in the air, you are aroused.

“You'd better start running, little girl, I'm going to give you exactly twenty seconds head start,” his voice comes out as a guttural sound, making you widen your eyes and really run, when the door suddenly opens wide.

You don't even wonder what strange contraption he used to close or open the door without having to physically do it, you just know you are definitely in danger.

Every nook and cranny of the castle is an unknown, he owns it, he may know passages unknown to you; therefore, you always try to wander the corridors with no visible openings. A tense, animalistic roar makes you scream in terror, with spirited eyes you look down the stairs, you are close to the stairs to the hall, the door has not been locked, you just need more time, you can make it.

You sling yourself barefoot down, almost tumbling from your haste and throw yourself out, skipping the stone steps and then to the wild path, short of breath and fear dictating your decisions, you remember it took you a good twenty minutes to get to the castle, but walking the whole path is out of the question, it would be too obvious and easy, you necessarily have to lengthen the path and consequently put in more time to get away from that terrifying place.

With horror you realize that you don't know where Glenn and Claire might be at all, would he hurt them if he found them?

Of course he would.

You don't know the man, but you have noticed all too well the bestial aura around him; he is someone capable of harm, and he will harm you if you cannot escape him.

Your feet step on scattered branches on the ground and you whimper trying to ignore the pain, another roar - or maybe it's a howl? - rips through the air, mingling with the howls of the rushing wind, and you stifle an anguished cry.

Scratches open along your body, trees ravaged by bad weather and never tended seem to want to block your way in every way possible, and the darkness certainly doesn't help.

Like a wounded animal you limp aimlessly, not imagining the hunger of the ravenous beast that sneers at the scent of your blood.

You feel tired, sluggish at times, your peripheral vision somewhat obscured, an excruciating doubt makes its way into your mind. Could it be that the story of the poisoned dress was true?

But why sell it to you, how could the seller have known that your friends would take you to that castle on Halloween night?

You begin to stagger, a sharp twinge in your head stops you, it is so painful that you collapse on the icy, muddy ground.

You realize you are screwed in every sense of the word when a weight suddenly crushes you to the ground, you scream in terror and wide-eyed, trying to shake it off.

Jimin doesn't think twice about clasping you in his vigorous arms, burying his nose on your neck damp with cold sweat, the accelerated beat of your heart rumbling in his own chest, driving him to moan with need. He presses himself against your soft curves, basking in your feverish warmth despite the stormy, icy night.

“Don't hurt me,” you shake your head with your eyes closed, trying to fight the unusual fatigue to plead with him, "Please, I was wrong, forgive me...I won't come back here again, I swear," the boy snorts against your flustered skin.

He reluctantly lifts himself up to allow you to turn toward him, you find some strength to open your eyelids wide, being invested by his sometimes divine appearance. His eyes, no longer as black as you thought they were, are tinged with an extraordinary shade of gold, he watches you from receptive pupils as you notice the grin on his mouth, a mouth larger than you remembered. There is something strange, not human, about him now. And despite the run he must have made to keep up with you, he doesn't have the slightest hint of fatigue in his breath, he's as fucking fresh as a newly bloomed rose.

“You're dying, little girl,” he hums, shaking some hair off your forehead, you lose a beat at the sight of long claws where once there were short, well-manicured nails.

The claw grazes your skin unhurriedly, you feel it scratch without hurting, you anxiously lick your lips closing your eyes, you are so sleepy that you even willingly accept your fate, Jimin snorts through his nose, almost laughing, before lowering himself onto your jugular.

It would be really easy for him to sink his canines into your flesh and bite your throat to rip it out, but fortunately for you he is not a vampire. All he wants is to sink his cock into your pussy and make you cum repeatedly, but if you died it would be hard to put his plan into action. He wants you alive and receptive.

He licks a long streak of saliva onto your delicate neck, heedless of the dirt that has stuck to your skin, before gently biting you. Your reaction is immediate, you start sobbing like a puppy at the feel of his fangs penetrating your flesh, you cling to his shoulders trying to move him weakly from you, and you kick awkwardly with your legs, legs that are locked in a vice grip by his. That way it is easy to feel something hard and heavy pressing against your belly, you try not to think about it as the man seems inebriated by the taste of your blood flowing straight down his throat.

The bitter taste of the poison is revolting, but fortunately your blood has such sweet notes that it counterbalances that horrendous taste in a balanced way, here, now he just has to lick your wound thoroughly. He collects the last rivulets of your blood with his tongue, before dripping his saliva into the tiny holes created by his sharp canines, little holes that begin to close with light smoke, cauterizing the wound and partly removing the poison toxins from your blood.

With no longer a grip on your throat, your head falls limply back to the ground, you gasp trying to fight off the shock of such an experience.

“Mpf!” his tongue invades your mouth treacherously, the taste of your blood making you squeal on his lips, so unfairly soft and pleasant to the touch. The hot and unusually long muscle pushes into your oral cavity eagerly, saving your life has as if awakened the more primal side of Jimin, one of the seven lords who unleashed hell in Howl's town. And the mating ritual has begun, but you cannot know this.

You break free by gasping for air, “W-why?” you stutter breathlessly, “You don't even know me!” you cry as you drive your nails into his forearms, triggering in return a reaction of possession in him, prompting him to grab your thighs and lift them onto his shoulders to your profound horror, he is so wild as he spreads your legs wide open to sink his face in between them that you can't utter a single breath.

As he runs his tongue along your pulsing, hot folds, Jimin realizes with nastiness that during your escape you got wet for him, he had smelled your arousal as he pursued you, on some people the quickened heartbeat has that effect, but the sweet and slightly salty taste of your juices are now a definitive proof for him. And you can't deny it, you love how he teases you by slowly sliding around your swollen clit, plays with it by holding it between his lips and then releasing it after sucking hard, almost biting it. He tortures it by pricking it quickly with the tip of his tongue and then returns to lapping your thick juices from the soft slit, which seems to melt every time that devilish tongue penetrates it, managing to lick and stimulate walls that a normal tongue could never reach.

You shyly move your pelvis against his face, your thighs stained with your arousal tremble against his cheeks, and a terrible heat makes you pant desperately. The man abandons your slit to push himself again against your unbearably sensitive folds, they are so moist that you can hear the noise they make every time that cursed tongue stimulates them to push a few millimeters toward your clitoris, never reaching to touch it.

“God!” you curse, suddenly reaching out an arm to grab his hair, not recognizing yourself when you desperately push him against your pussy, longing for the pleasure he was spoiling you with at first.

His arousal makes him grunt like a wounded animal as he sinks into your core with languid, sensual movements, rewraps your desperate clit with his lips and tongue before continuing with more direct, zigzagging movements, crushing it at times with the flat part of his tongue and then flicking it with the tip soon after. He would never stop kissing and licking you like that, his tensed cock vibrating each time he eats you up a little more, delightedly swallowing your juices, enjoying retrieving them each time they flow between your wide-open, rosy thighs. A clearer, liquid substance squirts slightly out of your slit, causing you to shake around his head, you clench your lower lip between your teeth with tears sliding down your flushed cheeks, you are instigating Jimin to pleasurably hurt you, and the funniest thing is that you don't even notice.

Finishing licking some of that shiny, transparent substance from your inner thigh, the boy moves up your body, biting slowly at the flesh of your belly and then higher and higher to the softness of your breasts, titillating a turgid nipple before pulling it between his lips.

“W-What are you doing to me?” you gasp, wishing he would never stop adoring and cuddling your body, why? Just moments before you were running from his clutches, why are you lifting your pelvis now, inviting him to take you as if you've been waiting for this all your life?

“Are you just...” he murmurs, before kissing your chin with his devilish lips, "Responding to your desire" he kisses your mouth again, an electric sensation forcing you to comply, chasing his tongue with yours, collapsing to the spicy taste that is now all over his mouth, your taste.

With half-closed eyes you realize that the dark lines of ink are moving, taking the shape of a wolf watching you, you have no way to comprehend the unsettling sensation that invades you. The man, with one hand pressed against your bare back, forces you to turn away without you having any say in the matter, you find yourself with your face to the ground and the wind blowing down your back, shivering under his fiery, golden eyes, your legs trembling from the effort to keep you on your hands and knees, fighting the sweet pain pulsing in your naked pussy.

“Now hold still, little girl,” he murmurs in your ear in a husky voice, sensuously pumping his cock with one hand, swollen veins pushing against his palm, which squeezes along the entire shaft to the base, then back to the thick tip from which he is already dripping his thick cum, "I need to get all the venom out of your pretty little body, am I right?" he sneers, positioning himself at your entrance.

You open your eyes wide, panic stifled by arousal, but it's still there nonetheless, clenching your fingers between the grass and damp earth, rubbing your knees against pebbles that make you moan in pain. The length of his cock begins to push against your slit, forcing it open for him, a choked cry leaves your throat, feeling your walls that, despite their wetness, struggle to let him in.

“You're still so tight,” hisses the man unfamiliar to you, "I must spoil you some more, huh?" he chuckles, sliding his hand between your legs, using his index finger to stimulate your throbbing bud, you gasp arching your back and raising your buttocks toward the man, who takes the opportunity to plunge his cock another inch into your entrance, which throbs and squeezes him rhythmically, almost making him lose control of the situation.

The sensation of the claw grazing your folds each time he presses and massages your swollen clitoris brings you almost to the edge, you feel a wild sexual desire, something you never experienced even during your teenage years, a crucial period of sexual development.

“Go ahead, please!” you exclaim breathlessly, pressing your forehead against the ground, every single millimeter that moves inside you without really penetrating you is like torture, your index finger moving languidly, and you're going fucking crazy.

“Are you really begging?” he teases you, you grit your teeth until it hurts, but finally you give in.

“Please... fill me, take me!”

“Do you want it?” he asks again, pulling the tip almost completely out, the only part he had managed to get in, you clench your legs desperately trying to recover what your intimacy has lost.

“Yes! I want it! I want your cock, I want it to fill me all the way, and I want it now!” you growl with an anger that burns under your skin, looking at him from behind, his face is an emotionless mask, but his eyes...oh, those never lie, you read the fire of desire in them, he's suffering that anticipation as much as you are. Bastard.

“You begged for it so well, little girl... I'll just have to satisfy you,” the cavernous tone clashes with his appearance, but it anticipates what happens next and leaves you breathless, abandoning your contracted clitoris he grips your hips tightly, almost penetrating your delicate flesh with his claws, pushing himself into you with a vigorous thrust, instantly breaking the thin membrane at your entrance, effortlessly. The burning that follows makes your eyes water, your body instinctively trying to escape the man's savage assault, suddenly realizing that you have lost your virginity that way, out in the open, sweaty and dirty, just like an animal.

The man on top of you hisses and makes strange deep sounds, inebriated by the sensation of his throbbing cock finally and completely squeezed between your trembling walls, trying to adjust to the abnormal size. You gasp whimpering, moving your pelvis trying to disentangle yourself from the overgrip, his claws are hurting you, but he doesn't seem to want to let go, not now that he is buried so deep.

With a grunt he thrusts out slightly, watching as your pussy instinctively clings to him, as your thick juices and virginal blood wet his entire length, lubricating him. Leaning toward you, he lets a long trickle of saliva fall back between your buttocks, slipping between them reaches the point where you are joined. He thrusts back into you forcefully, striking deeper and deeper, and you feel every detail of his cock penetrating you and thrusting higher and higher, touching points so delicate and sensitive that you howl meekly, like a she-wolf offering her whole self to her mate, the pain has been replaced by the need to be possessed, you move against his pubes with urgency, the thread of pleasure is getting thinner and thinner, you feel incredibly wet, practically soaked, and the sounds of your union are so obscene that you are shamefully aroused. Your walls flutter drunkenly with pleasure, at one point with the thick, red tip he manages to hit the entrance to your cervix with precision, you stiffen whimpering breathlessly, and Jimin collapses on top of you, continuing to move his hips tirelessly and with spellbinding sinuosity.

You take it so well that it is impossible for him not to want to have you again and again, throwing back his head to be hit by the moonlight that increases his desire, his pupils widen and he feels his testicles clench with urgency as the base of his cock swells, making him shake all over. Without a second thought, he begins to enter you with deeper and longer thrusts so that his whole cock sinks into you without any more constriction, he hears you panting and crying and this only causes him joy, you are completely abandoned to him and your sensations.

You're about to come, you're not so ignorant that you don't know what's happening to your body, you've even heard of intense orgasms, but this... god, this is going to be devastating, you know very well. It's nothing like the ones you had with masturbation, this one is deeper, snaking through your lower belly and you feel it in your uterus. You stiffen all over, trying to block the erection that keeps pinning you down between hard, sensual thrusts, every time it touches your cervix you risk going crazy.

“Don't stop me, little girl... It's here, isn't it?” he gasps at you, slamming into you once more, high up between the entrance of your uterus and another sensitive area that makes your clitoris and walls tear with intense pleasure, your toes curl and you can't help but nod desperately, "Alright, love," he replies without even realizing it, kissing your bare, sweaty shoulder, his knot is almost complete, but he wants you to come before he gives you his cum.

He teases a sensitive, turgid nipple with the tip of a claw as he reaches the point of your union, massaging your folds to help you come, though with a hint of naughtiness he doesn't dare touch your clitoris, he wants you to orgasm on your own, knowing that the intensity then will be greater and you will collapse weak and distraught in his arms.

“Oh, fuck-!” you widen your eyes, being hit by a pressing and beautiful sensation of jouissance, sucking him furiously into you amid tremors and searing waves of pleasure, the same clear liquid as before leaks from your slit, this time in a greater quantity, causing Jimin to grunt as he is run over by your jet, slamming into you almost brutally, streams of his cum fiercely fill your core, as if to mark you for life, and finally his knot swells completely, locking him inside you.

Although immobilized, he cannot stop coming, his testicles quivering violently, and only one thing could quell his aching desire. With his eyes now almost completely encompassed by the black pupil, he pushes your hair away from your neck, exposing your previously tortured skin.

“Why does this go on?” you ask feverishly, confused by the enormous weight widening your walls and locking his big cock into you.

“Sssh” he rubs the tip of his nose against you, making you shudder, "Just wait a little longer" his words are followed by an excruciating twinge, his grown canines penetrating like blades into your skin and sinking into your flesh amidst your shocked and submissive screams, your body surrendering to his force, instinctively submitting and waiting for him to finish marking.

Jimin loves blood, your blood, it pleasantly bathes his tongue with its density and sweetness, he moans with need as he loses himself in your scent, instinct commands him to move his hips once more, even though you are both locked together, with a weak moan you take in the last strings of his cum, resting possessively in your belly, you feel heavy and unbearably full, but at least he seems to be finished, you feel him relax as he once again licks the holes left by his teeth, healing them. He looks like a wolf cleaning up after his mate after mating.

“What are you?” you ask wearily, by now surrendering to the idea that the man cannot be a mere human, that probably everything he has told you, from the poison-soaked dress to the deal with the town, is real.

“Jimin” you hear him grunt at such a low frequency that if you hadn't been alone, you probably wouldn't have heard him. You snort weakly.

“I asked you what you are, not your name,” you murmur, the strange, heavy weight preventing you from moving, hissing as Jimin moves awkwardly between your legs, putting you in a more comfortable situation, letting you rest against his chest lethargically, occasionally kissing the back of your neck and licking your neck, or behind your ear.

You'd be lying if you said you didn't like all that attention; you feel a delicious bite around your heart as you cling to his embrace, protected from the evening chill.

You don't know exactly how long you spend like this, maybe forty minutes, maybe an hour, the fact is that finally that thing between your legs seems to melt away, making you sigh almost strangely.

Jimin gently untangles himself from you, leaving your warm shelter slowly and with a feeling of emptiness that stuns you, your legs finally relax and you try to move them to regain some mobility, you feel his cum pushing to come out and two of his fingers enter you, plugging your entrance. No claws, you notice as he slowly turns you around.

You hiss at the burning, your knees are completely ruined, but Jimin begins to sprinkle them with kisses and saliva, the man is back between your thighs again, you can see his long, wild hair shining as he licks and sucks your skin from time to time, all the way to his fingers, he moves them slowly inside you and you twitch involuntarily, closing your eyes at the warmth of his tongue licking a thick streak of cum and juices dripping roughly from you, pushing it down to your hypersensitive clitoris and you moaning in pain.

“Don't do it,” you gasp, closing your legs tightly, but he doesn't give up, grabbing your chin between two fingers and forcing your mouth wide open, your heart faltering with a strange emotion, you let him spit all his creamy load into your mouth, running along your tongue with a surprised cry.

“Swallow,” he orders with a gleam of interest in his eyes.

You do as he tells you, wanting to please him in every way possible, accepting him back into your mouth for a slow, intimate kiss. It is also dominant and sweet, intense.

“I'm Jimin, a werewolf and also one of the masters of the castle,” he explains pushing you against his bare chest, you hug him back as if it were the most natural thing in the world to be there, clasped to him on a bed of dry leaves, "You are my mate, it's no accident that you were chosen ... being a virgin at your age is unusual for humans, but not for us wolves, you waited for me," he emphasizes with fire in his eyes.

“But ... my friends?” you can't help but ask, which makes him chuckle.

“My people have learned to be among humans, they recognized you by scent and led you to me at the right time, they are fine,” he informs you with a caress, “In fact, you should worry about yourself,” he says with a note of reproach.

“H-How?” fear advances again.

“I've waited too many years for your birth, little girl... it's time to repay the wait,” he hums as something hot and hard returns against your belly.

“Jimin, wai-!” too late, the tip of his cock captures your entrance again, this time with more ease and the next thrust has you writhing against him with tears in your eyes, “Oh, shit!”

© 𝐀𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐚𝐌𝐚𝐥𝐟𝐨𝐲𝐙𝐚𝐛𝐢𝐧𝐢 -  𝐀𝐥𝐥 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝. || 𝐔𝐧𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐳𝐞𝐝 𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝/𝐨𝐫 𝐝𝐮𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐡𝐢𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐝.

[pirateshelly]

One thing that really fascinates me about interview with the vampire (the show) is this sort of tension between power and powerlessness in all of the characters. Because it doesn't present becoming a vampire as something that just gives you power and magically makes you completely detached from all human concerns and struggles.

And that seems to be something Lestat does very much want to believe, and he's in enough of a position of privilege that he's able to convince himself it's true, and it's a fundamental area where he just cannot understand Louis because Louis CAN'T pretend even if he wants to. (And of course Lestat cannot ACTUALLY separate himself from "human troubles" the way he likes to think he can, he just has an easier time pretending than most). Because as much as becoming a vampire grants these characters supernatural power it doesn't just magically take away the very tangible human ways that they were previously vulnerable or powerless.

Becoming a vampire doesn't negate Louis' struggles with racism; in some ways it amplifies them with how he is alienated from his own family and community; his closest connection becomes Lestat. He loses his economic independence and becomes socially dependent on Lestat in a way he wasn't to anyone as a human because in some ways becoming a vampire made him MORE vulnerable, despite granting him physical strength/speed/etc. The promise of freedom in vampirism Lestat presents to Louis (that I do think he does genuinely mean, but "freedom" means very different things to Louis than it does to Lestat) is never fulfilled.

Likewise Claudia learns the hard way with Bruce and later with the coven that she may be a vampire but the world still looks at her and sees a vulnerable young black girl and that will always put her in danger.

Claudia rescues Madeleine then turns her into a vampire, but rather than protect her from future harm the "crime" of turning her becomes the very thing that gets her killed by yet another angry mob.

And 514 years as a vampire will never be enough for Armand to truly trust or believe in his own power. Because the first 200 or so years of his life he was literally never once allowed any agency at all over his own identity or his own body (child slave sold to a brothel, sold to an abusive master, captured and violently indoctrinated into a vampire cult for centuries). No amount of material strength and power is going to undo the psychological effects of that. (And I know some people like to read his frequently passive demeanor as simply manipulation and a way of catching people off guard (because how could someone so old and powerful possibly feel a genuine sense of fear/vulnerability/etc 🙄) but to me that's an incredibly disingenuous reading of him. But that's a different rant for another time!). Being a vampire does not save him from being horrifically abused, nor does it save him from the lasting emotional effects of that abuse.

And I think there's something interesting to be said about the way that, in order to survive safely, they have to feed on the most vulnerable members of society (people undesirable and therefore least likely to arouse suspicion) in order to go unnoticed. If they want to live they have to prey on those vulnerable in possibly the same ways they themselves once were (and in many ways still are).

There's a frequent argument I dislike that we shouldn't be viewing any of these characters through too human of a lense because they're literal monsters (to be honest it's an argument I see most often made when people simply don't want to talk about the show's complex depiction of racism/misogyny/abuse/etc and used to dismiss those as issues "too human" to be relevant to a story about a bunch of monsters with a supposedly alien sense of morality), but I think the show itself makes a huge argument that for these characters there is no escaping or separating themselves from the very human struggles and vulnerabilities that marked them before they ever became vampires. It's like a sort deconstructed power fantasy.

[kyuuumie]

random sfw billdip headcanons (⁠｡⁠•̀⁠ᴗ⁠-⁠)⁠✧

headcanons below the cut (๑◕◡◕๑)

🌲 - dipper often reminds bill that he’s human and will die eventually, to which bill either scoffs, claiming he’ll just drag dipper back from the afterlife, or outright avoids the topic, unwilling to even entertain the idea.

⚠️ - bill loves showing off his vast knowledge of the universe, but dipper constantly questions and challenges him, which secretly delights bill because dipper’s curiosity is one of the things he adores most.

🌲 - dipper spends nights pouring over ancient texts and magical lore, while bill lazily hovers over his shoulder, correcting dipper’s translations or making fun of the humans who wrote the texts.

⚠️ - bill’s idea of a date is often something surreal, like visiting a nightmare dimension or exploring dreamscapes. dipper complains at first but ends up being intrigued by the strangeness.

🌲 - dipper is prone to overthinking and insomnia, so bill, who doesn’t need sleep, often floats around the room narrating absurd dream stories or weird facts to help dipper relax.

⚠️ - when they argue, bill tends to get loud and dramatic, sometimes altering reality to prove his point, while dipper stays calm and logical, which drives bill crazy.

🌲 - dipper has a fear of thunderstorms, and although bill doesn’t fully understand why he would be afraid of something harmless, he awkwardly tries to comfort dipper, sometimes making the thunder quieter or altering the storm to be less frightening.

⚠️ - bill will sometimes alter reality slightly, like changing the color of the sky to match dipper’s favorite shade of blue or making stars form constellations spelling out embarrassing messages of love.

🌲 - dipper struggles with trusting bill fully, always keeping one eye open for tricks, but deep down, he knows that bill wouldn’t harm him at this point—if he wanted to, he already had plenty of chances.

⚠️ - bill often has fantasies of apocalyptic scenarios where he and dipper rule over a broken world together, though he’s never shared it with dipper because he knows how much dipper values the world’s stability.

🌲 - whenever dipper has a nightmare, bill immediately senses it and dives in, reshaping the dream into something less scary, though he often makes it weird and chaotic instead.

⚠️ - bill gets incredibly jealous when dipper spends too much time with other people, making passive-aggressive comments or causing minor reality glitches as a sign of his displeasure.

🌲 - dipper constantly acts as bill’s moral compass, reminding him that not everything needs to end in chaos or destruction. this creates a strange dynamic where bill tries (and often fails) to tone down his destructive tendencies for dipper’s sake.

⚠️ - bill warps time whenever dipper is about to miss something important, like giving him an extra few hours to finish a project or study. dipper gets annoyed because it’s technically cheating, but he appreciates it.

🌲 - dipper sometimes struggles with the moral implications of being in love with someone as dangerous as bill, but he ultimately decides that love isn’t always black and white, and his feelings are genuine despite the risks.

⚠️ - bill constantly tries to make deals with dipper, offering outlandish rewards in exchange for little things like affection or time together. dipper always refuses, but bill keeps trying, purely for fun.

🌲 - dipper isn’t afraid to call bill out on his more questionable behavior, and though bill laughs it off, dipper knows that bill respects him more for being able to stand his ground.

⚠️ - bill struggles with human etiquette, often forgetting small social norms. dipper has to remind him not to laugh maniacally in public or avoid turning a small argument into a reality-warping event.

🌲 - dipper finds it hard to express his deeper emotions around bill, knowing that bill thrives on control and chaos. but in rare moments, he lets his guard down, and bill responds with surprising tenderness.

⚠️ - bill tries to cook for dipper but ends up using ingredients that are barely edible. dipper appreciates the effort, even if the food is... questionable.

🌲 - dipper’s natural curiosity sometimes drives him to ask bill questions about the darker aspects of the universe. while bill is more than willing to indulge, dipper always keeps a careful boundary between curiosity and crossing into moral grey areas.

⚠️ - bill sometimes reads dipper’s thoughts and responds to them before dipper can even say anything, which dipper finds both unsettling and endearing.

🌲 - dipper has become so desensitized to the supernatural that bizarre occurrences, like reality warping or bill’s eldritch transformations, no longer faze him.

⚠️ - bill often hints at his ability to make dipper immortal, teasing him with the idea of an eternity together, though dipper isn’t sure if bill is serious or just messing with him.

[phyrestartr]

Divine Favour | Sukuna x Kitsune!Reader (TEASER)

#full is NSFW, mild yuuji/reader, yuuji and gang are v early 20s, heian sukuna, male reader, typical kitsune shapeshifting, mentions of abuse, typical canon violence, morally grey reader, sukuna has FEELINGS but is BAD AT FEELINGS

A/N: this fic is so long rn lol I just have to release a piece of it into the wild :sob: feel free to reply if you want to be tagged for the full story when it's ready

☆☆☆

You were never supposed to be anything more than a trinket. You were a gift from some family trying to show off for Sukuna, so much so that they offered him a delicacy, something he surely didn't have yet–a yokai. A kitsune, to be more exact. One with peculiar black tails. 

Sukuna found it interesting, and similarly desperate, to be brought such a creature as tribute. Certainly, it was meant to be seen as a high honour, yet somehow it felt…off. Why would humans give up something so powerful? 

Unexpectedly, it'd be you who told him. 

They submit me for the sake of convenience and mockery, your withering voice whispered where no one else could hear. You sounded weak. Tired. Maybe afraid, yet brave enough to reach towards the king and unveil the intentions of the men who brought you before him. 

Sukuna's eyes flicked to you, his feigned interest in what the sorcerers said falling straight into dismissal. You were much more intriguing. 

“Oh?” Sukuna asked, a smile creeping onto his face. The speakers ceased their jabbering and stared at your back with fierce intensity. Sukuna grinned wider. Oh, how he loved the way fear twisted mortal faces. 

You didn't shift or crumple into yourself under the eyes of so many, however. You pushed on with what little energy and life you had, so intent on dragging that clan through the mud. 

What I say is true, you assured simply. I expect to die today–

“Speak so everyone hears you, fox,” Sukuna commanded.

“--so I–I–” you coughed and cleared your throat, trying to rid your voice of the scratchy, weakness it struggled through. “I wish to not die with regrets.

“They have rendered me ill and unable to produce children, they see the black of my tails and regard me as an ill omen; yet they bring me to you, daring to spin sweet tales about the value of such an offering. But they lie,” You hissed. Your eyes glinted with molten malice, and Sukuna fell captivated. “They throw me to you as they would diseased meat to dogs.” 

The courtyard fell silent, and Sukuna basked in it. You really were such a little troublemaker. A quietly chaotic force of nature. 

The king stood, rolling his shoulders as he did, and his pride flared as you dropped to your knees before him in respect. He walked to you and patted your head as one might a child's before appraising the sorcerers stood before him. 

“What a disappointment,” Sukuna sighed, raising another hand. The couple took up position, pooling their cursed energy in hopes of fending off the monster standing before them. The effort was quite cute. “Here I thought your clan might actually earn my mercy.” His hand dropped as the two lunged. Then, the two clansmen fell, too, both in neat, vertical halves. Quite overkill, yes, but he had a point to make. 

Where he expected a reaction from you, he got nothing. Only panting and poorly-stifled coughs came from you, racking through the entirety of your skin and bones frame. Sukuna could see it up close now, the way your body trembled from fatigue, the sickly greying of your skin, the scent of disease clinging to you. 

That wouldn't do. Sukuna liked his things to be in good shape. 

“Uraume,” Sukuna droned as he stared down at you, “fix this.”

[dragonlands]

There's so much negativity around Izzy's death so I wanted to address some of the points I keep seeing thrown around.

"Izzy's death was pointless"

No, he just had his big speech about how basically they can kill him but they cannot kill the movement. That is a clear paraller to a lot of real life protestors of unjustice. He died protecting the community, he died so the community could go on.

"Izzy's death made his healing pointless"

No it didn't. Healing is always good, feeling happiness and belonging are ALWAYS worth it. We never know how long we've got, doesn't mean we gotta stop trying to be better or happier. His healing was still real. It still mattered.

"Izzy's character arc was left unfinished, it's bad writing"

Oh my god. If you open any writing guide about how to write impactful deaths, and the first thing that comes up is to leave some part of their arc unfinished. And his arc did go through quite a beautiful line, sure there could've been more but his story didn't end like, mid arc. As a writer, of course you want to make the audience sad when a character dies. It's good storytelling. Good stories are supposed to make us feel.

"Izzy died on the arms of his abuser"

Where the hell did this idea come from? Ed and Izzy have been in a toxic codependent relationship way before this show started. You could argue that Izzy was Ed's abuser, but that is not the argument I want to make here. Yes, we saw Ed driven to madness shoot Izzy on screen, but we know Izzy's the one that forced him to be Blackbeart when he didn't want it anymore. There's turmoil all around them. But the final moment is them finally meeting as people, not as components of Blackbeard.

"Izzy's death was unnecessarily awful"

His death was sad, yes, but it was quite beautiful as far as deaths go. He was surrounded by family who cared for him. He was loved, and accepted as he is. He knew his legacy will be carried on.

"They killed off the only character that showed us healing is never too late"

Did we watch the same show? That begins with then unhappy 40+ year old Stede deciding it's finally time to reach for his dreams? Where we see Blackbeard slowly gaining back his humanity? Where Black Pete starts off as toxically masculine dude but ends up in a soft gay marriage? Where most of the crew wanted to mutiny but then they realized being soft is good, actually. Jim's whole purpose in life being revenge but them learning to let that go and instead concentrate on love and fun and family. And so on. Izzy's arc is beautiful, but he's not the only person healing who thought it was too late already.

"Izzy's death was bury your gays trope"

No, what, no. In a pirate show where everyobody is queer some queer people will die. Bury your gays is about only having one or few queer characters and killing them off while the straights get their happily ever afters. This is so far from that.

Also, I want people to be aware of the phenomenon, where creators of diverse shows are subjected to more critism than those of non diverse shows. If this intrests you, Sarah Z on Youtube made a great video on it called Double standards and diverse media. Our flag means death has given us so much, queer love story with a happily ever after, finding community, nonbinary character. And the creators have always been so kind to fans, so let's show them tht kindness back. Because critizicing this one aspect can easily turn to seeming like the whole story is just unwanted. That stories like Ed and Stede's aren't worth telling. And I'm so aftraid that will happen, when just now for the first time in years we are finally getting queer stories.

Also, I understand people are sad. I am sad too - Izzy was an amazing character and his death was sad but that's just. Good writing. You can grieve, but trying to turn it into a moral or dramaturgy issue is just not a good look. And attacking the creators of this wonderful show is just horrible.

Remember - this fandom is a safe space ship 🏴‍☠️🏳️‍🌈

[scratchtovoid]

“Make it a son for a son”

There’s a new season two promo where we hear Matt saying Daemon’s infamous line for the first time. And it has me wanting to bring up something I see with the team black fandom.

(BOOK SPOILERS)

There’s an impulse within team black to distance the characters of team black but particularly Rhaenyra from B&C by presenting it as a rogue act committed by Daemon on his own.

Now, first the book does not tell us that. The book gives us little to go on beyond Daemon’s involvement and the obvious implication that Mysaria was his KL contact to set everything in motion.

The rest of the details are mostly speculation.

Rhaenyra’s involvement is limited to a letter from her husband promising that Luke would be avenged. We have no further details on what she knew or how she reacted. Which also gives the show lots of room to present Rhaenyra’s feelings about this revenge plot however they like.

But what I see often in this attempt to isolate B&C to a Daemon-plan not a team black plan, is a misunderstanding of Daemon as a character.

In a bid to defend Rhaenyra’s innocence in the act, Daemon can not just be the lone perpetrator, he is also the monster.

Except this is an intensely human act.

A personal attack.

He could have killed all of Aegon’s heirs in that moment. As well as TG’s two queens. That would be the political move. Taking out the other side purely for political gain regardless of the innocence of the children he attacked.

And this is where those arguments from even within team black fall flat to me.

Because this is not political. This is personal. This is a grieving parent and husband who has no control and could not prevent the initial attacks on his family.

It’s not only rage and revenge, it’s grief and guilt.

So when team black talks about this event and may even lean into the interpretation of Daemon being a monster. It actually takes away from the greater story of team black, part of what makes them unique in contrast to the greens.

The greens, and this looks to continue based on the promo which seems to suggest Otto wanting to use Jaehaerys’s funeral as a propaganda tool, are very politically driven.

Think about it, they’re acting on tradition, purposely wishing to limit the power of women. They use rumors at court as a weapon, look for deals to be made, deck their king out in symbols of legitimacy. They always have a political angle to the moves they make.

This does not mean they do not feel emotional! I’m not saying that. But team green always has this internal conflict of making the political move at the cost of the emotional gain.

And team black (but particularly Daemon) are the opposite. They will make politically bad moves to satisfy the emotional urge.

Look at Rhaenyra marrying Daemon in secret, yes there is a political angle, but ultimately that marriage was one for love. Or Rhaenyra imprisoning Coryls after turning on the dragonseeds.

And with B&C there is no political advantage! They gain nothing in terms of good will with the public or lords of the realm. They have no eliminated any threats. They actively let threats live!

So what am I getting at here?

I’m not justifying Daemon’s actions. But this is fiction. And sometimes I think it’s good to look at a story for more than just “right” and “wrong” or moral lessons.

I think GRRM asks such interesting character questions in the Dance.

What does it mean to do something in an act of pain that is clearly going to be detrimental to the other side?

What does it say about a person to do that?

I think team black specifically should be asking questions like that.

[theweirwoodfiles]

The Weirwood Files: Rhaewin (Rhaenyra x Harwin)

Subject: A defense of Harwin Strong and an analysis of his relationship with Rhaenyra.

I want my first real post to be a deep dive into the beautiful relationship that is Rhaenyra x Harwin, a relationship that team green considers shameful, while team black (mostly staunch daemyras), finds it shallow and boring. I believe both interpretations are incorrect, as even with their limited screen time together, Emma and Ryan managed to tell a beautiful love story, even in just the way they looked at one another. With a single look, so much was said without a word being spoken. 

One thing that Rhaewin has begun to get criticism for lately, is the idea that Harwin is no better than any other man in Rhaenyra’s life, that he too has groomed and taken advantage of her, that perhaps he is no “saint” as he seems to be treated by the fandom. 

The truth is, there is nothing within the canon to suggest this. The first moment we get between them is when we see Harwin giving Rhaenyra an encouraging look after she returns from killing the boar. Nothing here implies he is lusting after her. Instead, Harwin merely just stands out as being the only one at the hunt to look at her with admiration while everyone stares in confusion or judgment. 

The next two scenes we are given of them also definitely don’t have any hint of predatory behavior from Harwin. He runs into her after she snuck out with Daemon and presumably decides to keep her secret, and the one after that he carries her away out of the chaos during her wedding after being given permission by his father, the hand. 

There is no canon evidence to support Harwin groomed her. Grooming implies a pattern of behavior over time that we do not see from Harwin. He and Rhaenyra have no pre existing relationship before they conceive Jace, Harwin does not even put himself forward for her hand during her marriage tour. Harwin does not commit any predatory actions towards Rhaenyra. 

This quote by Sara Hess is the closest we have to an official canonical description of Harwin, and while granted, Hess has said her fair share of questionable things in the past, there is nothing in the canon that disputes what she said. 

“He’s one of the more unambiguous characters, he’s just a good dude. You don’t see him off doing morally questionable things, which almost everybody else is doing. They’re so flawed and human and messy. He was able to be a paragon of decency and generosity and handsome strength. He’s one of the guys you could just love and feel great about loving and then he’s ripped from you too soon, before he does anything that could fuck that up for you. He’s our perfect angel.”

With this settled, I want to move on to their actual love story. We know they did not have much time together before they conceived Jace, considering the timeline of events. What we can put together at least, is that Rhaenyra was in a vulnerable position with Laenor. After they tried several times to conceive and failed, she needed to secure her position quickly and found solace in Harwin, who proved himself to be one of the only trusted figures she had in court. 

The next time we see Rhaewin is after the time jump. They have already had two beautiful sons together and another has just been born. Despite this implied intimacy, they have to hide their affections, only able to give each other coy smiles and a playful line here and there. Harwin holds their newborn son and Rhaenyra looks at the sight with adoration, yet also a hint of sadness, as if she is thinking of a world where they could be open about their love. In the night, they are in each other’s arms and make sons, princes of the realm. Yet in the day, these stolen moments are all they can afford.

The next time we see Harwin, he points out Criston Cole’s lack of care in his son’s training. He attempts to teach Jace as distantly as he can, and it is very clear he is increasingly frustrated with only being able to go so far in his son’s teachings. In the end, Cole still provokes him, and Harwin unleashes his anger on him. All the pain and frustration of only being able to love Rhaenyra and their children from afar is let out in the form of this beatdown on Cole. 

It would not follow without consequence however. Harwin is ordered to leave his position as Commander of the City Watch and go back to Harrenhal, away from Rhaenyra, away from their sons. Ryan Corr does an amazing job in this scene and you can just feel his utter devotion when he says one of my favorite lines from the show “you have your honor, and I have mine”. 

In a world where conceiving bastards is considered sinful and shameful, Harwin sees their union as one of love and honor. His sons are not treacherous reminders of sin and lust, but worthy princes born of love.

Rhaenyra and Harwin’s final scene together is one of the most heartbreaking scenes in the show. Rhaenyra is losing one of the only trusted figures she has in court, the man she sought comfort in and who fathered her three sons, and Harwin is losing everything that means the most to him. And once again, despite the privacy, despite the fact that this is their last moment together, they still cannot be open about their love. There is no final kiss goodbye, not even a hug. There is only a single look between them that says all we need to know, and a hopeful promise that Harwin will return. 

One of the most tragic things about this scene is that Jacaerys picks up on everything between them. He sees the looks shared between them, the desire for a hug or a kiss, he sees it all and he knows what it means. His mother and father have a love story that they can never tell anyone about, not even their own son. 

TL;DR: Rhaewin is a beautiful yet tragic twist on the knight and princess love story trope. Those that see this relationship as shameful have had their brains rotted by team discourse who buy into the “bastardphobia” present in universe (despite the fact that that is constantly criticized by the narrative itself), and wave it away as a “mistake”. There is nothing at all shameful about their relationship, and their sons were not made of sin, but of love. Rhaewin is also far from boring or shallow, to say this is to insult the work done by Emma and Ryan. There is a very beautiful, and rich love story between these two characters for those that have eyes to see it.

[dearunreliablenarrator]

I'm here, queer, and highly likely to disappear*; but here's a very unreliable introduction to this narrator.

Hi, I'm Saturn (for now at least, i think.)

I'm a black 20-something year old writer with a imagination that happens to be active at the wrong times. When I'm not writing, you'll find me struggling through classes and holding my cats in air jail for chewing on my clothes. and you probably thought a college dorm dryer was bad...

I often use music as a progression for my writing, using it to build the personality and lifes of my characters, cause I think you can tell a lot about a person with the type of music they listen to. This goes the same for food, whether they're cooking (or lack thereof), eating (which there'll a lot of and not just food), just for the sake of storytelling. Cause food can tell a story too!

You'll also see the use of Sims4 in these posts, there's nothing better to me than to be able to build my world from the ground up even if it is tedious. I often burnout myself out between both writing and building so its nice to be able to switch between the two! here's a small character visual as a start!

it's also nice to watch my characters evolve real time, they tend to outgrow some things faster than i can keep up.

As a current researching and scrappy practitioner, you will see hints of practical magic(k)/workings/information in my works. Influences from traditionally african american practices will be underlying themes in this world of mine; within my scope of course. How my characters navigate through a world that is both mundane and spiritual is something they'll have to overcome in all aspects; and how they affect future lives and timelines is all hanging on the fading tradition of storytelling.

follow, share, and embrace their stories; because there's only one way to keep them alive.

as for what i write or rather my niche: the unreliable multiverse

genres: (comp) (hist) (queer) romance, urban/southern horror, urban fantasy, and apocalyptic sci-fic.

topics/tropes: religious deconstruction, religious trauma, witchcraft (mundane, practical, scrappy, cultural, A(A)TRs.) anti-racism/racism,politics, social structure,found family, star-crossed lovers, childhood friends to lovers, ancestral/familial secrets, morally-grey protagonists,coming of age, the anti-christ, HEA, small town horror, mental illness/disorders, philosophy.

for some these topics may be a lot, and while i want my writing to be a source of escapism...fiction will always be influenced by reality, and that is something that will be in my writing (just not to the extremes), expect CW and TWs but they will not always be there.

CURRENT WIPs: the big three

Where The River Bends:

Bored of modern romance and her own life, Elaine Brown suffers from being a daydreaming, skeptical, hopeless romantic. In a plead to the Universe to grace her with a new addition to her routine, she finds herself stumbling into spell unlike her very own. Warren Soo has be dreaming of a life where days can feel like a breath of fresh air. When a random chance driven by his choices puts him in the space of unsuspecting Elaine, he can't help but be bewitched by the ease in which her days go by. Together, they navigate the modern world of romance with just the sprinkle of magic.

theme song

tag: #goddamnitsamson

Aletheia:

Sanctum, place of human design created to preserve those who survived the last of nature's destruction. When humanity was suddenly reckoned with the damage of over creation they are forced to pick between two things.

Stay or leave.

For those that had the ability to leave, Sanctum embraced them with open arms; promising a generational haven within their walls. Here, the people are communities; removed from the worries of past plagues and mortal insecurities. But all peace must follow order.

Questioning the world she's grown in , Emilia Porter has wanted to escape the stone boundary of Sanctum. Taking a chance to explore the land beyond, she registers for the Vanguard; the exploration and task forces that protect and serve the lasting stand of humanity.

Now away from the containing hands of those who seek perfection, she must weigh the truths; both tailored and unwritten.

theme song

tag: #findthetruthyouseek

Cherries Under The Sun:

A southern gothic horror that follows Grace Davis even in her dreams. Stuck in a constant cycle of despair, Grace often finds herself living in a loop of a forgotton past, wondering about the should've, would've, and could haves of her life. When her small college town of Marietta is shaken by a rise in missing cases, her hollow world soon becomes a flash of white papers and bloody lines. Now that her daily life of being ignored comes to halt and the lives of those around her are blurring together, they must now find a way to get their world back to normal. Before it is erased altogether.

theme song; intro; taglist

tag: #howsweettheesound

I don't know what else to put here, but that my characters are much like myself. Weird, witchy, creepy, romantic, sensitive,sarcastic, inquisitive (that's a big word for elmo), and a range of clumsy that only a handful of people can enjoy sooo...

IF you've found me or my wips to be interesting, please feel free to follow, ask a question or comment. Thanks for reading all this and from reader to another, create the book you've always wanted to see. Edison out!

i also don't really know how taglist work but if you wanna here's where to keep up! #theunreliableverse

1.* psst...you can find me and (to be)published works here!

[hadesoftheladies]

“that’s just war” is what i keep getting told. women get raped and butchered? that’s just war. children get bombed and buried? that’s just war. when i read stories of the hamas hostages and the frustration and pain of jewish families caught up in the war, what do online politics offer? “that’s just war.” that’s just the price of resistance. when i tell my dad while watching the news on palestine “thousands more children were bombed by israeli forces this week” all he can say is “that’s just war.” if a man pointed a gun at you wouldn’t you want to have a gun, too?

were the allied soldiers better than the nazis? depends on who you ask. they bombed, raped, sabotaged the planes of women in their own army. nazis were terrible. did that make allied soldiers saints? we weep for the mass graves in 20th century concentration camps across the world. then when we grow up we learn that those black and white photos were actually grey all along. the victims had also victimized others. male prisoners could rape as the soldiers did.

“ignore war men will be men” some women say. “they’ll find a way to keep killing each other. let them have at it.” is it feminist action to bask in our own self righteousness as women? do people sleeping while sirens go off in their city have any choice other than to wake up and run? can they ignore such a thing?

where should i stand? will the white women online help me if their president ordered a siege of my country? my country’s history is riddled with blood. the resistance gave me freedom. I can walk on my own land. go to school and own a car. I can dress myself without dressing a white mistress first. I can farm for myself and not for some smelly englishman. that’s good, isn’t it? but they also killed scores of setttlers, the resistance. they raped white women and girls. slaughtered white children and dumped their bodies in pits for their husbands and fathers to find. wasn’t that bad? but wasn’t it the black kikuyu children and women that bent their backs over white fields? wasn’t it the white people who put them in camps and exacted harsh curfews. didn’t white men shove broken glass up black detainee’s private parts? which white women came to free them? didn’t they laugh at the same racist jokes as their husbands did? didn’t she smile and pour tea for him as he told her about work? didn’t she love having such a wide sprawling estate? wasn’t that bad?

“so you stand with the evil black men that raped white women just because they could? you think their rape served a purpose?” no, but— “so you stand with white women who were okay ordering your people to be shipped, slaughtered and starved?” no! these questions are like asking me which bullet i’d prefer to be shot with. the answer is i don’t want to die. i am not comforted by the rape of women or by the enslavement of my people. why would either be something i want?

what this all is, ultimately, is a question the entitled never like to hear. in regard to the oppression of women by men, blacks by whites, the indigenous by the colonial, the one question at the heart of it all is this:

who has the right to self defense?

why is the woman that killed her rapist jailed? why is the slave that killed his master himself killed? by what means and to what extent do we rule an act of violence as self-defense or something monstrous?

the answer is even more uncomfortable: to the extent that we view the aggressor as human.

it’s not an answer that really solves anything. it doesn’t change what happens in war. it won’t stop any war.

but in these scenarios, my way has been to accept that there is rarely such a thing as moral purity in a human, and for this reason, our default attitude may need to be humility, the acceptance that we can be hypocrites. that we aren’t exempt from tragedy or more special than another life. that we’re as alike as we are different, even if we may not be equally guilty of certain acts. because if we are open to the humanity and dignity of the life of others (and I do extend this to animals as well, because they have the capacity to suffer and the will to live), we are bound to be less prone to repeat the cruelties we decry.

and maybe that’s more of a solution than a neat, easy answer or a casual dismissal like “that’s just war” might be.

[mostlyvoid-partiallyflowers]

The most recent episode of Interview with a Vampire let's us see Lestat's side of the story and see how it compares to Louis' accounting of their relationship. As a result, it reaffirms just how unreliable of a narrator Louis is, but it also further illuminates elements of his character that the director and writers have been playing with since the beginning of the show.

There's this part in the episode where Lestat turns to Louis and apologizes and it's framed with Lestat turned to Louis on one side and Claudia on his other side. They're the angel and devil on Louis' shoulders, but who is the angel and who is the devil? And as my friend said, Armand and Daniel are placed into that same dynamic with Louis later on. We are being asked to decide who to trust, who's telling the truth, who's the good guy, but the fact of unreliability robs us of that decision.

This whole story is about Louis, he's the protagonist, though not the narrator, and he is constantly being pulled in two directions, no matter when or where he is in his story. He's a mind split in two, divided by nature and circumstance. He's vampire and human, owner and owned, father and child, angel and devil. He's both telling the story and being told the story. His history is a story he tells himself, and as we've seen, sometimes that story is not whole.

Louis is the angel who saved Claudia from the fire but he's also the devil who sentenced her to an life of endless torment, the adult trapped in the body of a child. He's the angel who rescued Lestat from his grief and also the devil who abandoned him, who couldn't love him, could only kill and leave him.

He's pulled in two directions, internally and externally at all times and so it's no wonder that he feels the need to confess, first to the priest, then Daniel, and then Daniel again.

He's desperate to be heard, a Black man with power in Jim Crow America who's controlled by his position as someone with a seat at the table but one who will never be considered equal. He doesn't belong to the Black community or the white community, he can't. He acts as a go-between, a bridge, one who is pushed and pulled until he can't take it anymore. He's a fledgling child to an undead father, he's a young queer man discovering his sexual identity with an infinitely experienced partner. He's confessing because he wants to be absolved, that human part of him that was raised Catholic, that child who believed, he wants to be saved. He wants to be seen.

Louis wants to attain a forever life that is morally pure, but he can't. He's been soiled by sin, by "the devil," as he calls Lestat, and he can never be clean again. Deep down, I think he knows this, but he can't stop trying to repent. He tries to self-flagellate by staying with Lestat and then tries to repent by killing him, but can't actually follow through. He follows Claudia to Europe to try and assuage his guilt. He sets himself on fire, attempts to burn himself at the stake, to purify his body, rid himself of the dark gift.

Louis is a man endlessly trying to account for the pain he has caused and he ultimately fails, over and over again, because he can't get rid of what he is. A monster. He's an endlessly hungry monster. He's hungry for love, for respect, for power, for forgiveness, for death. He's a hole that can never be filled. He can never truly acquire any of those things because he will always be punishing himself for wanting and needing them in the first place. He will never truly believe he deserves them and as a result, can't accept them if they are ever offered. He can never be absolved for he has damned himself by accepting the dark gift and thus has tainted himself past the point of saving.

[wakeywakeyjakey]

to batjokes or not to batjokes

so now that i'm on tumblr and interacting with the fandom i (a batjokes shipper) am seeing all the anti-batjokes shippers lol hey. one of the biggest arguments i'm seeing against batjokes is the whole he killed jason/paralyzed barbara/etc. and batman "wouldn't do that" because he's a "good person" and it "goes against his moral code" and like okay, i see where our wires might be getting crossed—

because you're operating under the belief that batman is a good person and i am not. personally i don't think that he can be a "good person" being batman and doing what he does but more than that—that's just not how goodness works. it's not like being a good person = you only do good things. good and evil are multi-dimensional and nuanced and complicated. it's not black and white, it's not just a theory or something that can be done "by the book" and as much as batman is a symbol, he's also a man.

i think we can objectively agree that from a moral standpoint, fucking the person that killed your son falls under the "bad" category. but thing is, batman goes to the extremes. this dude took the normal desire to do good in the world and became a vigilante who spends all day and all night on this crusade to do good. so yeah, i fully believe that when he leans into the "bad" category it is also just as extreme. like, batman does bad things too because we all do, that's literally what being human is. and y'all are trying to tell me that batman being evil is just... what? him getting a parking ticket? yelling at a waiter? no! good and evil balance out in the end (even sans joker/within ourselves) and if that's meant to foil all the good he does, it has to be pretty fucking awful.

and so that's also part of it—personally i think batjokes makes him a more compelling character. batman is already the only superhero i can stand because he's more morally ambiguous and less mary sue than the rest. and hey, if you like your heroes mary sue i can totally respect that bc i don't police what people enjoy in fiction. but batjokes gives us an entire realm of possibility beyond the traditional one-dimensional portrayal of good and evil. joker is a mirror because he puts batman's hypothetical goodness to the practical test. he doesn't just exist to show us what batman is not, but also what batman is.

what does it say about batman and his humanity if he loves joker and still chooses to be batman? what does it say about joker and his humanity if he is able to be the object of affection to someone who is as "good" as batman is?

personally, i really like the fics and portrayals that actually address what happened with jason or where the batfam find out. because then we get to see beyond what batman thinks about himself (which is often way too self-deprecating regardless) and can see how the world he's most aligned with sees him. then it's about how much humanity can be offered to a good person who does bad things (ha) and i've seen it go both directions. it's the answer to all the aforementioned hypothetical questions and it's so cool to see creators unpack the reality of human existence beyond the fantasy we’re provided.

batjokes takes batman out of this infallible narrative, this children's story about right and wrong, and brings it to a level we can understand by taking it somewhere we could not otherwise comprehend.

to me, that's what good fiction is. that's what make a good story.

the fact that i also get sexual gratification out of it as someone with pretty extreme kinks that are already overrepresented in canon is just icing on the cake.

[deconstructthesoup]

Some miscellaneous stuff for the Fantasy High Leverage AU:

After getting kicked out, Kristen got taken in by Ankarna and Cassandra, who are living their best country-lesbian vibes out on a farm together---a farm which eventually gets in financial trouble and almost gets shut down by a corporation, which is how the crew learn about Kristen's past before she was a hitter. The farm winds up doubling as a safehouse. (Also, Ankarna wears flannels and has a shotgun, and Cassandra does tarot readings at their stall at the farmer's market on weekends. They also have a little black cat, with no relation to Kalina.)

Despite all the rumors swirling around, the way Fig and Fabian met is surprisingly mundane: when Gilear moved from Portland back to London after he and Sandralynn divorced, Fig went with him, and she got enrolled in the same school that Fabian was attending. The two of them became fast and immediate friends, wound up becoming the most popular kids there due to their combined chaos and the fact that they were kind to those who needed it, and were pretty much inseparable from that point forward. And when Fig introduced Gilear to Fabian's mom, who'd been widowed for a while and was looking for someone stable... well, as much as Fabian complained, it meant that he and Fig were officially siblings. (They learned how to grift from Hallariel, who was a very well-renowned thief in her day. It's how she met Bill, after all.)

Fig is the sibling who's the "bad actor in a theater setting, good actor when she's breaking the law" type, though it's a bit more complex than that. She's amazing at coming up with a character on the spot, building off of the questions that people ask her, and remembering details so none of the information contradicts what she's already said, but she finds scripts "boring and restrictive," and always tries to put her own spin on things... which doesn't always fit well. She does get a little better at following a script of sorts when she's on the crew---at least, she learns to follow the plan.

Kristen hasn't gone by "Kristen Applebees" since she was fifteen---instead, the criminal underworld knows her by "Kristen Justice-Forester," referencing her adoptive moms. Mostly because that sounds generally more badass, but also because she really wants to forget about her old life as the church girl next door.

Gorgug's legal name is "Gavin Thistlespring," but he's been going by Gorgug since he was twelve---it was the name of his first ever D&D character, and it eventually became his hacker handle. (This is really because I just needed an explanation as to why a perfectly normal human in a world that's basically ours would be named "Gorgug." I do something similar for Fig in a lot of my AUs---her name's either just "Fig," or she's named after a character from a fantasy series that Sandralynn likes.)

Someone suggested that Kalina is the Sterling equivalent, and I liked it so much that I decided to make it canon---but instead of being Riz's former partner, she's his dad's old partner and mentor who was forced to help cover up Pok's death. She's not necessarily bad, but she does have a very black-and-white view of morality, and she's not a fan of Riz's new, less-than-legal idea of justice.

Adaine still has the Parker rep of being "crazy," but in a very different light. Rather than being a thrill-seeking ball of chaos who's an unpredictable wildcard in every way when the story begins, she's unsettlingly quiet, perceptive to the point where she can predict things minutes in advance, and acts seemingly without morality and with her own skewed logic. As she spends more time with the crew and warms up to them, however, everyone starts to see that Adaine is unflinchingly and unfailingly kind---and that once she actually warms up to you, she will talk nonstop about anything she's invested in, whether it be obscure history facts, thieving tips, or whatever show, book, or video game that one of the others has gotten her hooked on. She's just closed off as a defense mechanism.

Fabian is the sibling with a deep and personal bond with Riz---not that Fig isn't close to him, but Fabian and Riz shot each other when they first met, and you can't beat that. And while Fabian used to have a thing for Riz, he eventually realized that Riz wasn't interested in any kind of relationship, though neither of them fully had the words for it (because, y'know, this story still starts in 2008). Still, though, he considers Riz his best friend and vice versa, and once he's on the crew, he never dates anyone without introducing them to Riz first. And his affections tend to bounce back and forth between Gorgug and Ragh. Or both. Let's just say that Fabian's got the most romantic drama out of any of them.

Riz is still close with his mom, despite the fact that, as a lawyer and former cop, he knows that she probably wouldn't approve of what he does. He just tells her that he runs a private detective agency, which isn't too far from the truth---hell, it's their cover story, after all.

Fabian's father was the greatest thief in the world when he was alive, but that came with a lot of enemies, and that's not something that Fabian wants to deal with---not to mention, he's always been adamant about making a name for himself, and to not just skate by on the Seacaster name. If that means that he has to refer to himself as "Fabian Faeth," well... so be it. He reasons that it's Fig's last name. Not Gilear's.

Fig has never met her bio-dad before the story begins... but she does meet him eventually. There's a whole thing there.

Adaine does not kill Angwyn in her backstory. However, she does get to do that eventually, and it's cathartic as fuck.

[duckiemimi]

jjk 261 leaks

i'm gonna ramble a bit here idk if it'll make sense.

i've always been the biggest advocate of not viewing things black and white in jjk, meaning everything is understandable from the readers' point of view, BUT that doesn't mean that the story itself doesn't have distinct boundaries between what's "good" and "bad" in the narrative. take geto, for example. great character, you can't help but like him, but even then you know he's an antagonist for a reason. the narrative says so, even the characters say so. there's a running theme in jjk where every antagonist (and antagonist-adjacent) character is motivated to control other people's bodies—geto and non-sorcerers (to a lesser extent), kenjaku and his CT, mahito and his CT, sukuna needing to have a host, etc. kenjaku, for the most part, has always been our point of reference when we talk about evil in the story. which is why it's so jarring to see yuuta, of all people, resort to the same thing. for the greater good? okay, let's talk about the do or die of the greater good in jjk.

the greater good in this arc is to stop sukuna to save humanity. but even then, this cause has always been eclipsed by less righteous, personal reasons, like wanting to save megumi, or wanting to fight sukuna. those are the reasons pushed for readers to see, to care about. while understandable (they are human, after all), compared to its contemporaries, jjk isn't really a manga where characters sacrifice their morals for the greater good. in fact (i've mentioned this once), for a structured organization with the goal to protect humanity, humanity itself isn't of much importance in the narrative. the story has always centered around the sorcerers. but that aside, in times of despair (like yuuji in shibuya), they've always shown remorse and regret for the things that they cannot control, hesitation. while there is no altruistic character in the series, no one has ever wanted or willingly suggested anything aligned with puppeteering. (why would they? isn't the cog mentality something we're trying to move past, especially with the machine now destroyed?)

to have yuuta be the first to suggest a plan like this is...jarring. from what's written, sure we can accredit it to his love and understanding for his teacher, but yuuta knows what happened to geto. the cast has seen what kenjaku can do and has done. you could say that yuuta has a history with control (rika, in a way), but i like to think that he's grown since volume 0. could this be a desperate last resort by a panicked child? yeah, maybe. but it barely reads that way. there are too many interpretations to call it that, it isn't convincing enough. this is also the first time we've ever seen gojo referred to as a "monster," despite being untouchable and revered as god-like throughout the manga. there are some panels earlier in the series of the cast being asked what gojo is to them, and most people answered that he's the strongest alone. i don't recall yuuta being asked, so maybe he's thought of this concept of "monstrosity" for a while, but it would've built up better if we were shown some sympathetic sentiments from him prior to this chapter. it would've tied everything together well. alas. thanks for the off-screen growths, timeskip.

while for different reasons (does the end justify the means in this story? what about geto?), the fact of the matter is yuuta has adopted kenjaku's methodology for the greater good. what does that mean for jjk's alignment and ideology? could this be commentary on the dreariness of teeth-gritting reality? maybe. i think this chapter alone has ultimately changed what morality means in the bigger story. after all, it's practically a lawless land right now with everything destroyed. but what kind of message will we end with? is there something that needs to be said, or is there nothing at all?