#IT MUST CREATE IN-UNIVERSE JUSTIFICATION

[aquamonstra]

FUCK MAN i feel like i just got kicked in the gut bc the actor who plays the newsstand guy is the same actor who plays the main Sanctuary guard in Past Tense in DS9, and I know it's just bc they reuse actors a lot but my brain did a whole BUT THE IMPLICATIONS explosion here...

[psycheetamore]

Sharing his most precious darling

Summary: Feyd's trainer saves his life in battle, allowing him to request everything from the young lord. He requests you, the favourite concubine of the na-Baron himself. After a brawl, his fighter gets you for a night. Despite Feyd's acceptance of this settlement, he seeks to overturn it, only to be convinced by you to join both of you, rather than fight. 

Tags: MDNI, Feyd-Rautha is his own warning, smut, threesome (MFM), p's in everywhere, dp, dub-con, humiliation / exhibition kinks

Motive: it is the last day of October kinktober, so the last day I can create something like this with no excuse needed. The one thing I was struggling for a while to connect was Feyd-Rautha and a MFM threesome. Because, would he ever share? Well... I am happy to announce I have finally found a plausible justification. Here you go my darlings.  

A couple of firsts for me here: written from the ‘you-perspective’ (let me know if you prefer this or not). I woke up early and started thinking about this, so it came quite quickly on paper (or in other words: higher risks of typo's - post publishing to be removed) and needed to post this while it was still kinktober ;-). As a result: a very quick burn (for my writing standards that is). 

Word count: 4k 

+++

Every time he went out for battle in Arrakis, you were fearful. You knew he was one of the best trained warriors in the universe, but still, your na-Baron was human. He could be overcome in just a blink of an eye. A small tiny distraction could cost him everything. So, each morning that he lingered for too long in your warm bed, you forced him out to meet his battle trainer for lessons. Sometimes, you would watch from the shadows, see how this man would try his best to best your man. And every now and then, it would succeed. 

His trainer was not a Giedi Prime or Arrakis native, but was a person once enslaved from Caladan. Twice the age of the na-Baron he was freed to rise in the Harkonnen ranks. A sun kissed skin, light brown hair and green eyes: quite the opposite of your Feyd. Years in battle had strengthened his body and roughened his face, but had never managed to remove the boyish twinkle in his eyes and lips that escaped every time he saw you. It was electrifying, and he knew this was a sure way to get you to escape from the shadows back into the safety of the palace. 

You were already lying in bed, when you heard the horns bellow to alert the inhabitants of the Arrakeen palace of yet another fight won. He may come to visit you this evening, or he may visit one of his other concubines or pets. This did no longer upset you, knowing he was safe again. 

As you tried to fall asleep, the door opened softly. Footsteps neared your bed, and you heard him crouch next to your head: “my darling” as the na-Baron pet your head. You opened your eyes, holding back tears, which he must have seen, as you interrupted him: “I am so relieved you are back again, in one piece.” Typically, he would chuckle, and tell you he would never be harmed as he is the best skilled warrior with the fiercest army. But this response did not leave his mouth. He merely responded: “thanks to my trainer. He saved me.”  

Your eyes opened further while you felt your heart drop. This would not be the last shock you would hear, as he continued: “it is our custom that if you save your lord, you can ask everything your heart desires. Everything. And I cannot refuse, unless I want to fight a last battle to the death with that person.” You responded: “I am so happy he was with you. You should give him everything he asks. He has trained you to be the fighter you are. He deserves it.”  

Feyd responded: “He requested you.” Your mouth fell open. It was only now that you saw he had a black eye and scratches on his face. “I refused him, because you are my favourite. I have seen how he looks at you, and I have tolerated that for too long.” You gasped. If your man would fight this Caladan warrior, there was no saying how this may end up. “He told me that you are not immune to the looks he gives you.” He softly grabbed your chin as he forced you to look at him: “is that true, my darling?” You swallowed and were happy the lights were very dim as your blushing would have given you away immediately. You decided to take a more politically sensitive route, the avenue of submission, which always worked with the na-Baron: “Whatever you request of me, I will not decline my lord.” He knew you long enough to be able to answer with a low voice, laced with disappointment: “so he was right. Well, I told him I would need to kill him if he wanted to have you as his own pet. So, after a small discussion, we settled that he would get you for one night.” You looked at Feyd-Rautha with near contempt in your eyes. Did he beat your lord? But there was no time to think about that, as he continued while standing up: “this should make this a pleasurable evening for you.” He growled disgruntledly as he closed the door: “he will be here in 5 minutes. Make sure to not disappoint me." 

It was a mystery what he meant with not disappointing him. Should you either be as coy as possible with the man who saved his life, should you prevent getting any pleasure from this, or should you treat him as you would treat your concubinator? But there was no time to think about this, as you were given a mere five minutes to prepare. To remove your nightgown, to put on something with more substance, and to digest what had just happened. You were filled with conflicting feelings. Relieve as the young lord survived, fear that it came so close that he needed to be saved, anxiousness that he seemed to have uncovered the eyes you had placed on his trainer, and pure excitement you did not want to acknowledge of what was to come this night. 

You had just finished to tidy up your hair as the door flung open. Still in his fighting clothes, less the armour, he stepped in your room. As he walked towards you, you gasped and froze. The metallic smell of blood hit your nose, while you saw him looming up. His beige shirt dirtied with what used to be the lifelines of Fremen warriors, unbuttoned to his solar plexus, showing some of the curves of his chest, graced by hair. The sleeves rolled up showing his toned arms. Legs covered in black pants and boots.  

He could not have been more different than Feyd, and yet still so similar. You knew how tightly strung men could be when coming home after a fight. Focussed on relieving themselves from the last bit of aggression roaming their body. It was not dissimilar to how the na-Baron would barge into your room and nearly force himself upon you. You had grown accustomed to it.  

While you stood there, keeping still as a statue, he started talking. He had never talked to you before. You had only heard him shout, but never speak. From his face, at least as bruised and hurt as that of Feyd, come the words: “you can call me Ivan, my love” as he hummed to show he was pleased. His voice sounded rough. A thick accent, not all letters pronounced as clearly as you were used to. It surprised you that you had actually never learned his name before. This could not be anything else but the result of machinations of Feyd-Rautha. Thinking about it, it became clear that he must have known of the looks you were giving to this man. Feyd knew it all along. Nothing ever went unnoticed.

A blush appeared on your cheeks. “So, you are alive. I was fearful at first that I might end up with your corpse. You see, you never quite know how a Harkonnen will respond to a request like mine” he chuckled. Your face turned into contempt, to which he responded: “I am just joking. Relax” while both of you knew he was quite close to a potential truth. 

But here he was, and he made it clear he had no time to waste, as he placed the last step to be able to grab you in his arms. “You have no idea how long I have longed to have you. Since the very first time I saw you hiding in those shadows, noticing how possessive your lord is over you. I knew I needed to have you. Even if I would die while trying.” You started to wonder whether he had truly saved Feyd, or used the chaos of battle to get his desires fulfilled. But soon, all these thoughts left your head, to be replaced with his exploring tongue that had forced itself into your mouth, his ravishing hands finding its way through your hair to push you against him. He was slightly taller than you, yet so much stronger.   

You were still standing on same spot, in front of the mirror where you had been tidying up your hair, as he flung you around. Looking at you, gazing over your shoulder while he tore your dress to uncover your chest and stomach. His hands roamed your body, cupping your breasts, pinching your nipples, grabbing your hips, licking and biting your neck, breathing in your ears, as if he was in a hurry to experience everything before time ran out. Which was probably also in line with the truth. Who knew how long the na-Baron would accept his favourite being enjoyed by another man? His favourite enjoying another man – which was perhaps worse. That knowledge must have been the reason why he did not even bother putting on fresh clothes, or wiping the blood from the fallen off his body. He had a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, that was worth dying for. 

He pulled your dress up to allow his hands to roam where they needed to explore. Soon, you threw your head back on his shoulder as you decided you would succumb to what he had to offer. It was not as if you had any say in this anyhow. His touch was rough. Rougher than Feyd’s. But not less welcome. Your body warmed up to his presence quickly. He could feel how pleasure took over your body so quickly. “So wet. Just for me. Already coming on my fingers. I am starting to understand why you are his favourite. Or have you just been waiting all this time for me?”

This entree would not take long, being whisked off the ground. Perhaps this was triggered by your own roaming hands. Resting on his hips you took the opportunity to remove his shirt. Briefly you stalled: his chest and back were covered in scars from being flogged. “That is the Harkonnen treatment for you, milady” he laughed, responding to your observations. The scars were ridged. He must have been submitted to horrible treatment. And clearly was able to survive and thrive. A wonderous man this was, as you returned the kiss he had given you earlier. If this would be your last day on this planet, you too, so you had decided, would enjoy yourself.  

He did not carry you towards the bed. You did not make it there, as he placed you in front of a table. With no time to waste, he shoved you forward while dropping his trousers and pushed himself in you. No progressive build up, no tenderness, no time to allow him to fit pleasantlyin you. There was no time. He would use any second he could get as he sheathed himself in you entirely, filling you up completely and hitting your cervix.  

After a few thrusts you grew accustomed to his size, allowing you to get increased pleasure from him. Each push pulled you further of the cliff. It was one thing to come on his fingers, but to come on the cock of another man was nothing but a death-warrant to be signed. As you lay draped over the table, being succumbed to the pounding movements of Ivan, heading towards your next peak, the door opened again.  

Gruffly the na-Baron ordered: “stop.” His trainer looked up at him, and glanced deep in his eyes, while keeping his hands on your hips and not stopping: “make me, Harkonnen scum. Kill me while I am fucking your favourite. A good way to die for a warrior.” His laughter filled the room. After it died out, a warning came soon, retaking the silence in the room that was only overcome by Ivan's grunting, your moaning and him hitting your buttocks with his pelvis and balls: “careful.” But that only enticed Ivan further, as he increased the pace and grabbed your hair to show your desperate face to your lord: “see what I am doing? See how she is falling apart? She clearly needed a good fuck from a true soldier.”  

You wanted to avert your face, filled with shame, but he would not let you. As he continued stroking your innards, you tried to salvage whatever was possible. “Feyd” you moaned, reaching out for him as a wave of pleasure surpassed through your frame. You wanted to scream Ivan's name, but you had just enough sense still left in you to know that would have been the death verdict of at least two people in this room.  

The na-Baron stepped closer to you, looking down upon you with disappointment on his face, contradicted with excitement on your eye level. You hooked your hand in his trousers, as if to stabilise yourself while you were being shoved across the table. 

This gesture did more than that. It stabilised something else. It caused him to only have attention for you, as he proceeded in a manner you did not expect him to. He stepped towards you, mere centimetres of air remaining between you and him, and stayed put. He did not respond to Ivan. He did not talk. He just looked at you. As his hand moved to caress your hair, his soldier quickly removed his and reduced his pace, allowing you to regain some control over your body.

A new equilibrium was found.  

With your available hand you touched him, feeling his cock restrained by his pants. You felt the outline. Looking up to him, the disappointment had been replaced with longing and urge. He grabbed your hair, signalling what he was expecting. You knew him so well, and he knew you knew. Before long he had undone himself from his own bloodied shirt and stepped out of his trousers, allowing you to take him in your mouth.  

Your head sideways allowed you to see both men from your peripheral vision. It did not go unnoticed how they looked at each other in admiration, while they were both driving themselves in you. They were comrades in arms, shortly replaced by being adversaries, to be mates again. You were the bounty of the fight they shared. And you loved every second of it.

Before long you felt another peak come up, the moans of which transferred onto Feyd as he buried himself in your throat. You saw him looking at Ivan, with increased tension. His trainer was clearly nearing his own peak, and you had a feeling how your lord would feel about another man's sperm in your pussy. A feeling that would not be positive.  

It did not surprise you to hear his dark voice order “don't come in her pussy” after which you were immediately abandoned. Ivan heavily panted behind you, recollecting himself before he could argue with Feyd. Meanwhile, Feyd continued to thrust in your mouth. It must have been a sight to behold for the warrior to which you were gifted this evening. 

"Sir, I believe your lady is not yet fully satisfied. I believe we still have an expedition ahead of us” as he managed to cool down a bit. Feyd hummed, as he looked down on you: “yes, she has quite an appetite.” Looking up at Ivan he continued: “this is your evening. You earned it. What do you propose, comrade?” Ivan chuckled: “I would propose we continue at a softer place. The young lord removed himself from your mouth and looked at his mate: “the honour is yours.”  

It should not have surprised you that he exactly understood what he was to do, as they had fought in battle shoulder by shoulder for years, but it still did. A gasp escaped your body as you were flung over Ivan's shoulder carrying you to your bed, with Feyd leading the way and opening the doors.  

Laying you softly on your bed, he asked your concubinator: “so what else is off limits for me?” A smirk arose on Feyd's lips: “just don't come in her pussy. You earned all other benefits.” Ivan smiled, he seemed truly appreciative of what his lord had offered him. “I recommend her mouth” the na-Baron added. 

As you scooted back on the bed, Ivan followed you on hands and knees, to hover above you. “Did you hear that, little one? We are going to have so much fun” followed by another deep kiss while he grabbed your neck to hold your head close to his. A kiss now with less haste and more adventure. Feyd's cooperation had provided all of you with more time. And in that sense, also with a sense of more agency over yourself. There was no need for you anymore to be passive and merely accept what was offered. You could find your own path now. Or so you thought. 

“Gentlemen” you started, as you had pushed Ivan of you and had pushed yourself up on your elbows, “you have already brought me incredibly much pleasure.” The blue eyes of your pale man and the green eyes of your sun kissed man staring at you in anticipation, as their hands started to touch your legs. You hummed with content, as you continued: “I love how you boys are so committed to my pleasure...” The words had not left your mouth, or they had started to wolf you down. Devour you. Feyd was trailing your legs to reach the core of your pleasure, while Ivan crouched over you again, hands all over your chest, your neck, your hands. Both lapping you like dogs. Engulfing you in attention, replacing any room left in your head with primal urges.   

“Harkonnen, I believe she needs to be filled again” Ivan spoke to his leader, after he noticed how you managed to get a hold of his cock while opening your mouth wide to allow him to penetrate you with his tongue. “Your observing nature has always been one of your best traits, Ivan” Feyd said, removing his mouth from your folds. “Feyd” you moaned, as you tried to buck to meet his mouth again. “Not so impatient, pet. We decide when it is time that you will have us again.” You growled to show your aggravation and tried to lift your knee to hit your lord's face. “Ivan, she needs to submit. Teach her. Fuck her mouth.”  

Ivan, being the compliant soldier that he is, did as he was told, and did so with pleasure. He grabbed some pillows to place under your neck so you could tilt your head backwards, moved to sit beyond your head so that he could see your entire body, and placed the tip of his hard cock on your lips. “Open. Wide” he ordered, as placed his thumb in the corner of your mouth to open it.  

While he looked at you as you sucked him, drawing him in deeper and deeper, your joint master was sucking you. As he thrust into your mouth, Feyd thrust his tongue into your pussy. It was overwhelming. The attention. The pleasure. Both men seeing each other slaving for your desire. Soon you came again, trying to scream with Ivan deep in your throat, hands grabbing Feyd's bold head. “You did not lie, Harkonnen.” 

Suddenly, Ivan removed himself from you, again. Panting, trying to brief deeply. He clearly wanted to enjoy you as long as possible, knowing that this day would never come again. “Any other suggestions, sir?” as he recouped.  

Feyd removed his mouth from you, and replaced it with his fingers: “whatever you want to do. She has more holes that require pleasure”, as he softly pressed his thumb on your ass, stealing a glance. “Don't you, my darling?” You moaned, but Feyd did not accept that: “tell me. No. Beg me. What do you need? Beg us.” A sigh left you, as you arched your back to face the wall. The humiliation of this vile request, while being gazed upon by both men was hard to deal with, but the pleasure you needed was a bigger burden. Biting your lip, you felt him curl his fingers, as if to remind you of the answer he needed. “Fuck... why are you torturing me like this?” toes curling as you felt another wave coming. Bucking your pelvis on his fingers, arching your back repeatedly as a cat, moaning, the eyes of both men feasted on your naked body in extasy. “I can't... I can't take it... Feyd, please...” You knew he was teasing you. You knew you were so close. He knew exactly what he needed to do, yet, he withdrew his fingers just a bit. “You know what you need to do, little pet.”  

You groaned again. Closing your eyes as tightly as possible, while moving your hips even more ferociously, you moaned: “I need to feel your cocks inside of me.” Feyd continued to tease: “you need to be more specific darling. And you need to beg.” Agitated you pushed his thigh to show your contempt: “I am begging you. Please. Please fill me. Feyd, I need you to come in my pussy. Ivan, I need you to fill my ass. I need both of you. Please. Deep inside of me. This is too much.” 

Feyd rewarded you by pushing his fingers further in and allowing you to come again. “You see Ivan? She is listens well” as he offered his fingers to be licked clean by Ivan.  

“And sweet as well” Ivan replied. “May I?” as he looked at Feyd. “By all means. Drink. Feast. It is my pleasure. My reward for you” as Feyd extended his arm to welcome Ivan between your legs. Backing off the bed, the young lord looked at the sight in front of him, gratefully: his comrade in arms pleasuring his comrade in bed. Before long you fell in pieces yet again. 

“You promised me” you blurted out, soon after yet another wave had passed. Feyd walked up to you and squatted: “so little patience, small one. But I made a promise” as he walked around the bed to lay down next to you. His cock aiming at the sky, you knew what you were to do and straddled him. Meanwhile Ivan looked at you, jerking his cock. Making himself ready for the last course. 

As you were riding the lord, he softly guided your mouth to meet his. While allowing his tongue to also explore this crevice, he placed one hand on your butt to prepare you for what was to come. Softly pushing, softly opening you up, knuckle by knuckle moving himself in you and out again. With his other hand he snapped his fingers, calling Ivan to get closer and take over his role. 

As Ivan placed his fingers to continue, Feyd grabbed both butt cheeks to create more room for his soldier. Two fingers going in entirely with ease, throbbing in you, while you had buried Feyd inside your pussy, caused Ivan to declare: “I believe she is coming again, sir. This woman something else.” 

“She absolutely is. Now, while she is coming, push yourself in.” As you rode out yet another orgasm, it was strengthened by the sudden influx of more cock into your body. You moaned deeply into Feyd's mouth, grabbing hold of his chest and pushing your nails deep into him. It caused him to smile with pleasure. He loved to fight, yet he lived to satisfy his favourite.

A few pushes were all what was needed to have both men spill themselves in you, while you were fucked with more intensity than you had ever been fucked before. Being filled deeper and fuller than ever before. As you experienced your last wave, you let your head hang down, kissing Feyd's neck and whispering: “thank you.” 

[komsomolka]

In your esteemed opinion, is Mikhail Bulgakov actually a good writer or is he more in the Orwell end of the spectrum: popular for anti-soviet sentiment (despite clear disdain for women and working class) his works are heavy on?

Bulgakov was definitely a talented writer so much so that he was tolerated by Soviet power despite reactionary character of his works and even sometimes was (sort of) defended by such people as Gorky and Stalin (their pet liberal of sorts😅).

Gorky: Bulgakov is not my brother [...] I have not the slightest desire to defend him. But – he is a talented writer, and we don’t have many of those. There is no point in making “martyrs for an idea” out of them. The enemy must either be destroyed or re-educated. In this case, I am for re-education. (Further in the letter Gorky says Bulgakov wants to contact Stalin personally to ask for help with stable employment. Bulgakov later got a place in Moscow Art Theatre).

Stalin: Of course, it is very easy to "criticize" and demand a ban on non-proletarian literature. But the easiest thing cannot be considered the best. The point is not a ban, but step by step to force old and new non-proletarian trash off the stage in a competition, by creating real, interesting, artistic plays of a Soviet character that can replace it. And competition is a big and serious matter, because only in a competitive environment can we achieve the formation and crystallization of our proletarian fiction. As for the play itself, "The Days of the Turbins" (Bulgakov's play), it is not so bad, because it does more good than harm. Do not forget that the main impression left on the viewer by this play is an impression favorable to the Bolsheviks: "if even people like the Turbins are forced to lay down their arms and submit to the will of the people, admitting their cause is finally lost, it means that the Bolsheviks are invincible, nothing can be done with them, the Bolsheviks". "The Days of the Turbins" is a demonstration of the all-crushing power of Bolshevism. Of course, the author is in no way “guilty” of this demonstration. But what does that matter to us?

Bulgakov was heavily censored, called for questioning by authorities multiple times and struggled a lot financially due to his bourgeoise and White sympathies while living in proletarian state. But isn't it the same for communist intellectuals in capitalist countries? So i personally don't cry crocodile tears over his suffering artist lifestory. Bulgakov works were accused of valorizing the Whites by Soviet literary critics (he was universally hated by them) which is true but as Stalin mentioned idealogically it was still net positive for Bolsheviks bc Bulgakovs works were pretty defeatist when it came to Bourgeoise class.

Interesting analysis of Bulgakov in Soviet Literary Encyclopedia released in 1930s: Bulgakov entered literature with the awareness of the death of his class and the need to adapt to a new life. Bulgakov comes to the conclusion: "Everything that happens, always happens as it should and only for the better." This fatalism is an excuse for those who changed milestones. Their rejection of the past is not cowardice and betrayal. It is dictated by the inexorable lessons of history. Reconciliation with the revolution was a betrayal of the perishing class' past. Intelligensia's reconciliation with Bolshevism, which in the past was not only by origin, but also ideologically connected with the defeated classes, the statements of this intelligentsia not only about its loyalty, but also about its readiness to build together with the Bolsheviks - could be interpreted as sycophancy. With the novel "The White Guard" Bulgakov rejected this accusation of the White émigrés and declared: the change of milestones is not a capitulation to the physical winner, but a recognition of the moral superiority of the victors. The novel "The White Guard" for Bulgakov is not only a reconciliation with reality, but also self-justification. A forced reconciliation. Bulgakov came to it through the cruel defeat of his class. Therefore, there is no joy from the knowledge that the bastards have been defeated, no faith in the creativity of the victorious people. This determined his artistic perception of the winner (i.e. Proletariat/USSR/Bolsheviks).

[4rk4n4]

“How can Arcane have “copaganda” in it if they show how corrupt the enforcers can be?” is a question that keeps popping up in response to anyone critiquing the show’s depiction of oppression, police brutality, and the prison industrial complex. There is no simple answer to that question, but to give a simpler response anyway it’s that “copaganda” doesn’t have to explicitly state that cops are good.

It can also be copaganda by providing a narrative distraction away from the harm done by cops, include scenes that create a power fantasy for cops and authority figures, and narratively playing the devil’s advocate when their ethics are called into question. That includes making morally reprehensible actions taken by cops seem more complex and contextually justifiable.

Arcane can show you that the system is flawed, while still inadvertently playing into copaganda. The Heavy is the Crown scene is a power fantasy, even if we know the consequences of their actions are bad. That is beside the point that gassing The Undercity is given both in universe justification and justification by viewers because of the perceived danger The Undercity presents to Piltover.

That is just one of multiple examples where the show presents the police state not necessarily as “good,” but powerful and necessary. Even the implication of “heavy is the crown” is that their authority is a burden that they must bear for the protection and betterment of their society because there are worse things out there (i.e. Silco and The Chem Barons) which Vander himself states!

We know the enforcers killed civilians on the bridge, but the narrative focus is shifted to Silco and Vander as guilty parties who lead their peers to their deaths. We know that enforcers put Vi in prison for years as a minor, but the narrative focus is shifted to Silco and The Chem Barons who are “ruining” The Undercity. Vi briefly joins her oppressors just to stop them with the “benevolent” support of the council.

We know that some individual enforcers become corrupted, but the narrative focus is shifted on the corrupting agents being non-enforcers such as Silco with Marcus and Ambessa with Cait. We know that Piltover has systematically robbed The Undercity of their resources for their own gain, but the narrative focus is shifted onto their right to defend themselves after a “terrorist” attack.

We know that Jayce and Vi are responsible for the death of a child in the Shimmer factory, but the narrative focus is shifted to the fact that The Chem Barons are responsible for the children working in the factory. We know that calling an oppressed population animals and then gassing them is wrong, but the narrative focus is shifted again onto The Chem Barons who “deserve” it.

We know that Piltover used enforcers as a tool to oppress The Undercity, but the narrative focus is shifted to the fact that the enforcers and their weapons are needed as a defense against foreign enemies and invasion. Not only this, but they do so by bringing the people of The Undercity who have been oppressed by them into the fold to protect Piltover which “earns” them rights.

This is also how copaganda operates. It operates to distract from the core issues within the system, justifying their existence by giving you a boogeyman (i.e. criminals, terrorists, and foreign threats) that they must stop. It is not just to say “cop = good” which is why I think a lot of you are confused when people say this show has copaganda.

Any time I’ve brought this up, people try to explain canon events to me in order to say that I’m wrong, but I don’t need the canon explained to me. I am talking about how the canon was built and how writers and artists may use implicit bias in their works to tell a story that can include things like copaganda even if they intended to show us that the system is flawed.

Critiquing that doesn’t mean that the show is bad or that watching it means that you are directly supporting police brutality and the prison industrial complex. It is to say that copaganda is pervasive and insidious, rather than just in your face blatant approval of their existence and actions.

[couldtransitionsaveher]

GRELLE SUTCLIFFE from BLACK BUTLER

JUSTIFICATION:

"(mentions of suicide) grelle is a trans woman in victorian england! you can imagine how wonderful her life must be! shes a reaper, and in the kuro universe, a reaper is made when a human kills themselves. its punishment for throwing away your life; you have to forever live in this purgatory of reaping souls, knowing that you can never truly have the satisfaction of death. grelle constantly calls herself a lady and uses feminine terms for herself (ie actress, as well as comparing herself to juliet from romeo and juliet), and in response, everyone around her calls her a perverted man (of course, she isnt perfect—she can be pushy with her flirtatiousness, but always backs off after enough rebukes). with that factoring in with the fact that she will be "alive" forever, shes constantly reminded that she'll never be a woman in the eyes of the world. the poor girl dreams of transitioning, claiming that the thing she wants most is a sex change, and that she thinks god made a mistake in creating her to be a man." - @pop-roxs

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[antigonick]

just stumbled into one of your snippets and i'm OBSESSED with your writing style. it is so fluid and punchy and such a delight to read. if you ever feel like answering, how does your writing process works? what are your inspirations, style and tone-wise? and what themes do you enjoy exploring the most?

have a lovely day! 💌

Oh, that's... WELL. That's! The best compliment you could have sent me, thank you so much, I don't know what to say.. I'm actually trying to write a... I'm gonna call it a novel when it's just a mess of fragments right now, but—yeah. Fluid and punchy is exactly what I strive to achieve with the character's voice so this is so nice to hear. WHATEVER. THANK YOU.

Anyway! My writing process is really... steeped in rhythm, I guess? It starts with character writing, which leads me to character voice, which leads me to finding the right "mind" tempo, and from it cascades the headspace I need to write. In that, in the idea of perspective and voice influencing the story first, I'm indebted to Faulkner, to Marlon James, to Woolf's The Waves, to Shirley Jackson—to the perspectivism twists of horror and gothic writing as a general rule. Rereading her, I think Emily Brontë has shaped my metaphorical network very early on, and my handling of violence, especially in dialogue—though more recently, Tamsyn Muir made me tick about dialogue too. Malin Rydén is one of my utmost inspirations, not a little because the main character of my story was first created for his story, but also because he was my gateway into harder, grittier speculative fiction and digital literature, which both inspire me now for the story I'm trying to shape—horror out of the gothic castle and into the terrible anticipation of what comes next, with more politics, with ghosts and body horror twisted to technology. In terms of pure form, I'm extremely impacted by poetry—E. E. Cummings, Alice Oswald, Emily Dickinson—those who deconstruct syntax to wrangle it into breath. He didn't influence me because I discovered him too late, but I feel a kinship to some of the early stylistic experimentations of Frank Bidart too. Hanif Abdurraqib, whose first name I gave to one of my main characters too because his voice is incredible: it moves. Charles Olson's Projective Verse gestures at what I feel when I write, you know? "ONE PERCEPTION MUST IMMEDIATELY AND DIRECTLY LEAD TO A FURTHER PERCEPTION (…). Always one perception must must must MOVE, INSTANTER, ON ANOTHER! (…)" and then "Breath allows all the speech-force of language back in." Even silence can be your story-weapon.

I'm interested in... blowing apart labels, dichotomies, I think, making them harder to grapple with—right and wrong, love and hate, personal and universal; transgressions, fluidity; how language fails, how language betrays; the way human connection can both fuck you and raise you up, in its constant failure and constant trying, in the violence of intimacy, in the tension between hardness and vulnerability—more than anything, I'm interested in the way individual desires clash with collective needs or personal ideals, in the lies and justifications you can find for yourself, in what it means for you when you come to dismantle them (or refuse to). I love palimpsest, stories retold again and again, and/or I love difficult, ugly settings, speculative and dystopia topics, I want the story to be political in itself, even when it's not politicking; and I LOVE mindfucks: using our terribly faulty, terribly subjective perception / perspective / memory / dreams / FEARS / intellect to tell a story that is both fascinating because it's unique, and trapped by it. Can't escape yourself. What are you gonna do with yourself (against yourself, for yourself) now?

Formally, I try to use that in writing: trapping the reader in one voice that swallows them really, ideally that jostles them a little, that blurs the boundary between them and the character: extreme immersion. I like to try and convey emotion / impression and even action as it is experienced, rather than explaining it clearly. In that phenomenology has influenced me, I guess? Deleuze, Guattari, Merleau-Ponty, and poetry again, I guess. Archibald McLeish says "a poem should not mean / but be...", and that's what I try to do with the character I choose, and then I let them be, and they drive both the story and the writing that should echo it—form and content cycling each other like mirrors.

Goddamnit, that got so long. Anyway. THANK YOU for being interested, I'm really touched.

[jingerpi]

Its honestly very concerning how popular ContraPoints video on "Transtrenders" was. I want to make a post discecting it briefly because I feel the video does a disservice to young trans folk looking to learn, instead leaving them feeling unjustified in their indentitiy under the guise of some radical acceptance One of the main issues with the video as a whole is how natalie breaks down existing understandings of trans medicine as a tool to try and unseat transmedicalist talking points, and show how being trans is about personal experience and "feelings". While its important to critique transmedicalists, what she does here is undermine what many people see as the best justification for trans existence without replacing it with anything. She does this in my opinion, because she honestly doesn't have anything to replace it with, and doesn't understand the real basis for gender in the world. Saying this is all well and good, I can critique anyone for not giving good basis for thing but its no help if i don't give anything of substance to back it up either, so heres a brief explanation of why transphobia is a problem, based in actual socio-political analysis.

Patriarchy is an economic structure which has been built up across centuries of accumulated surplus value which was passed down through the eldest son of the ruling class. this is a vast over simplification, but functionally this means there are systems in place in society which privilege men, give them access to more wealth, better positions, and control over non-men. Patriarchy has grown and changed over time and held different shapes depending on the society, we no longer have eldest sons inheriting royal rule (in most places), but we continue to have men as the group with the most economic and social agency in our societies. This privilege that Patriarchs have is constituted not of some magical benefits bestowed upon them from an abstract "system" but are instead taken directly from those who are not men. More specifically, men and Patriarchs take labor and resources from those whom patriarchy considers "non-men". Reproductive labor goes unpaid, women are under privileged in political society, we often don't get choices over our bodies. This isn't merely a coincidence, but serves specifically to give men power and confer more benefits onto them. Because of this, there must be systems in place to manage who is let into the patriarchy, who can be a Patriarch.

The most universal way of doing this is by deciding whether or not someone is a man and conferring onto them certain benefits as long as they uphold this structure, and ostracizing them if they are not. They do this ostracization because if this structure is not upheld artificially through oppression of women and bullying of nonconforming men to keep the categories of man and woman or even man and non-man distinct, the privilege given to the in-group starts to fade. In the same way that "White" is an artificial construct created and upheld to facilitate racism like slavery, imperialism, housing discrimination, and unpaid labor, so too is "manhood" and "womanhood". These constructs appear to be based in existing biology, so they often go without question, but race is also based on such "biology" and that does not mean its a founded construct. The basis for both "race" and "gender" break down once you look at higher level understandings of these concepts. Not all people with xy chromosomes are men, not all people of African decent have black skin, etc etc... I could go on about the "exceptions" for quite some time but you likely know many of them already. These are categories created fundamentally to give one specific category an economic advantage and justify their oppression of those who are outside of said category. The reason we need to respect trans-ness isn't because there is something inherently justified about being transgender, nor because we just have to be really nice to everyone and treat their feelings as absolute truths. Its because the systems which confine us and define gender so rigidly exist purely to oppress and extract value from others. These borders are deeply unjustified and we need to tear them away. We do not need to justify existing outside of the borders, but instead challenge the borders in the first place. Contrapoints fails to meaningfully do this Natalie focuses almost entirely on the arguments surrounding justifications for transness and gives little thought to the justifications for patriarchy. It is treated as a default, always existing, status quo that is unquestionable. It makes me wonder how aware of it she really is, she seems to get stuck in justifying her own existence. the "Transtrenders" video focuses on a discussion between several characters where the primary issue at hand is how to justify being trans, should it be done through medicial, scientific frameworks? or should it be done from a kind and accepting view of others? She makes arguments against the former for being flawed and the latter for being unfounded, but she never actually replaces it with any critique of society, instead saying: "Okay, so what am I supposed to tell Jackie Jackson then? What am I supposed to tell the TERFs? That I'm a woman because reasons?"

"No, not even because reasons. Just because you are."

"So it's what, a leap of faith? Oh great. I'm sure that's gonna convince all the rational skeptics. Justine, it makes us sound completely delusional."

"Well Tiffany, delusion is what separates us from the animals." Which is an extremely unhelpful answer to give after tearing down what is to many, a key aspect in their reasoning for why they are justified in their identities, and while it is partially correct that trying to use one of the specific theories she outlined earlier to justify trans existence is an exercise in futility, she can't seemingly offer any alternative than some kind of "because I said so" when there ARE very good reasons to be in favor of trans acceptance, and historical reasons for our existence. In failing to do so she misleads perhaps an entire generation of trans people into thinking theres no real justification for their existence

The justification comes from understanding that the premise is false, that the forces which try to bind people to a specific societal gender role are themselves the issue.

She tries to point out that we dont need to justify transgender existence because the frameworks which hold us to cisgender existence are the real problem, but without ever talking about these cisgender standards in an actually meaningful way, instead talking abstactly about societies "expectations" or whatnot, where she should could be attacking the real economic forces of patriarchy. She should be tearing down patriarchy first and then using that to liberate trans existence but instead she tears down trans existence without touching patriarchy or any of the coercion or exploitation that arise from it. I consider this a great tragedy, and a prime example of her failures as an educator.

[sweet-old-hereafter]

APE ENGLISH RAMBLE PART I

The first rule of ape english is that the rules are fluid. This is partially for realism and partially because I cannot be expected to keep up with all of these rules even though I created them. My mind is not big enough.

You will notice a slight discrepancy in the spoken dialogue of the apes and Noa’s inner monologue; there are some non-diegetic reasons for this that I’ll be covering, but in-universe it is still physically uncomfortable for the apes to speak for long periods of time, despite the fact they have an understanding of language just as complex as modern humans at this point. The workarounds are regional; Eagle Clan would supplement with sign language, but the Coastals will speak to the point of vocal injury I’m derailing nevermind

Limited physiology is the main thing that governs the conventions of ape english. So, this dialect prioritizes two things; brevity and precision, the latter being the more important, because having to repeat or explain yourself is worse than adding on a few additional words for clarity. With that in mind, let’s get into it.

Warning: this doesn’t actually make sense

Exclusions/Omissions

There are two unwavering, hard and fast rules to ape english; NO ADVERBS, NO CONTRACTIONS. Let me explain-

Why no adverbs? I should clarify that I mean adverbs of degree or manner, which typical[ly] end in -ly (with the exception of only. They say this a lot.).

The -ly ending involves both a liquid consonant and a vowel glide, a structure that requires vocal dexterity unique to humans. Just as it is depicted in the films, the apes have an intense pharyngeal intonation that is just not capable of pulling off those delicate, flowing sounds, at least not with ease.

Not to mention, I think most of the time they are unnecessary. In cases where it would be necessary to utilize one (such as the example below; where the distinction between how much fur an ‘echo’ would have opposed to an ape) you would just drop the -ly. I do this a few times, sparingly.

From a white sheet, a limp arm thick and dusted light [not lightly] with fur flops with each step between them.

Why no contractions? Saying ‘don’t’ is a hell of a lot quicker and easier than saying ‘do not’. No it isn’t is not! As I said, they value precision over all else. Contractions involve a complex mechanism of dropping syllables, compressing vowels, merging consonants…this all involves fine motor control and it’s way easier just to round out those harsh consonants with the ‘o’.

Alright, moving on to some omissions that are utilized in a looser sense.

95% of the time, I will substitute fragmented sentence structure for actual article omissions in internal monologue to maintain the archaic feel. I have no real justification for this other than constant article omission is pretty much unreadable. I wrote a draft like this and it might as well have been reading oo oo ah ah.

However, subject/pronoun omission is much more tolerable! Particularly when referring to one’s self using (or not using) ‘I’. For example, it is always acceptable to drop the ‘I’ when introducing oneself or describing oneself using ‘am’.

‘Am Noa,’ I say.

I should not be nervous. Am not nervous - for myself.

This is acceptable because the use of ‘am’ is sufficient for conveying that you’re referring to yourself. Who else would you be referring to? In the second case, we also have ‘I” in the preceding sentence, and it’s proximity to the next one is more than enough. Here’s another example of an acceptable pronoun omission;

‘Mother’s voice hums through the wood of our home. Cannot hear what she says. Must be beckoning him back to rest.’

In the second sentence, its implied well enough that he is the one who cannot hear what she says, BUT even if that was missed, it’s not particularly important in the context of the sentence to understand WHO cannot hear her, just that she cannot be heard. The third sentence can omit the pronoun "she" because it directly follows two sentences where the subject—the mother—has already been established.

      ‘It is’ can be streamlined to just ‘is’ in most cases. ‘It’ can be implied from context, especially when the sentence follows a clear reference to what "it" refers to.

Is alright. Raka says it makes me look tough.

Is no one’s fault. Is only the way things are.

Here’s an example of when it would not be acceptable:

The way is narrow so that only two can walk side by side. [I] fall behind, lost in the cavern of my mind.

‘I’ is critical in this sentence because this sentence transitions to a whole new action, and the preceding sentence has a different subject. And no, ‘my’ in the same sentence doesn’t count because it’s a possessive pronoun, it doesn’t indicate anything about who is performing the action.

Dropping expletives is also fine in most cases.

‘Then is the hilly meadow,’ vs ‘Then there is the hilly meadow.’ An expletive like ‘there’ adds nothing to the sentence other than some structure, and the apes are not particularly worried about that.

Keep in mind these do not have to be omitted; they’re often not! It all depends on the cadence and the contextual continuity.

Confused? Me too. In the next installment I’ll go over sentence structure and vocabulary. So much parataxis!!!!

[gale-gentlepenguin]

Gale Theories: Who is "The Supreme"?

In the Miraculous World Special: Tales of Shadybug and Claw Noir it is revealed that the two villains were not the main one's causing chaos, but two villains working under someone or something called "The Supreme" and we never see what they look like, just their logo and influence.

(Spoilers below)

Shadybug and Claw Noir are both clearly terrified of the villain, Betterfly even comments that the two villains he is fighting are being used by the Supreme.

We know that the Supreme gave Gabriel his miraculous and his misuse lead to... well

But thats not all we see of the Supreme,

Tikki and Plagg are both Gagged by the Supreme, the miraculous he gave to Shadybug and Claw noir have kwami unable to speak.

We also know that even if someone were to combine the Ladybug and Cat miraculous that belong to the Supreme

Gimmi, the Kwami of reality CAN NOT grant wishes and even says

Only The Supreme defines reality. Reality is The Supreme

So this begs the Question, who could this "Supreme" be?

Now if we look at the Supreme's symbol it looks like the Order of Guardian's symbol, but with an X through it

This could imply that the being known as the Supreme has had some affiliation with the Guardians in the past or at the very least knows about their existence.

Which leads to the First Theory

The Supreme is the Evil Version of the Order of Guardians

I have seen going around is that the Supreme is an Evil version of the Guardians, and that it is simply a representative of a group as a whole, which does seem feasible, especially when we look into the picture of Gabriel facing multiple symbols but that could also be a stylistic choice.

But if the Supreme IS a group as opposed to just a singular individual than the group MUST be under the evil version of Su Han OR the Wizard that created the Miraculous originally.

I think the theory is a bit lacking as we know very little about the wizard and Su han (while being a competent fighter has shown to be incompetent in literally every other field) so him being the villain doesnt make sense.

But the next theory does hold a bit more water.

______________________________________________________________

Nathalie is the Supreme

We never see who or what the Supreme is, and we never see a version of Nathalie from the other Universe. We know Nathalie used to be a Lara Kroft like explorer and was the one that found the butterfly miraculous. It could be possible that in this timeline, Nathalie FOUND all of the miraculous and used them for her own benefit, making herself the supreme. She has shown to have a better grasp of the miraculous than Gabriel even before uncovering the knowledge.

But this is also speculation as we dont know if Fu is still around in that Universe and if the events of Feast actually happened. And while I do love an all powerful Step Milf. It is also unlikely. The next one may also seem out of left field but does have a bit more justification

___________________________________________________________

Lila/Cerise/Whomever the f***, is The Supreme

Lila as the Supreme? Well she is evil and competent enough. Lila also has the cold hearted nature to accomplish such a feat, And the ending of Season 5 does have something happening that causes our universe's Lila to freak out. An alternate universe conquering Lila does seem feasible with how well she adjusts, but with people commenting she is only 14 that it wouldnt work, what if Lila isnt 14?

The girl knows how to navigate and change persona's at the drop of a hat. The planning and way she acquires things she wants is on a much more devious method than most teens would even consider. Lila could feasibly be someone with eternal youth or a medical disorder that makes her look young. (Yes an Orphan situation). And it is basically a fandom joke at this point with how much Thomas believes that teenagers are the meanest people.

But similar to Nathalie such a possibility is limited and likely not the case.

Which leads us to the final and probable individual that is likely the True Supreme

______________________________________________________________

Fu is The Supreme

Now why would I say this is the most likely situation. On Rewatch, Shadybug does refer to the Supreme as "Him" at one point. Which could be a dubism, but if it isnt there is also the reasons below on why it could be Fu

Fu has canonically had a negative experience with the Guardians

Fu is responsible for the Guardians disappearing the first time by accident

Fu has a deep understanding of the miraculous and was trained in the ways of the guardian.

Fu going mad with power and being alone for almost 2 centuries would be a logical backstory to turn him evil

Since we know that certain events are consistent in the other universe, like Adrien losing his mother and Marinette getting bullied by Chloé. It is likely the events that created Fu are the same. And if the events are the same or similar, than the order of Guardians are no more, leaving one person who would have had ALL the miraculous, and that is Fu.

And lets say the Events DIDNT play out the same, Fu could have made a faction that simply took over from the original Order of Guardians, thats why that symbol is there and is crossing out the Original one.

Fu would also know how the wish works and thus likely made the wish to be the one to alter reality, he likely gave himself the power to have control of things. And while people may argue that Fu is incompetent, he actually has shown to be quite clever and quick to figure things out. Fu also was competent enough to pick ladybug and Chat noir to fight Hawkmoth, so he must understand what is needed.

And that is where I stand on the "Who is the Supreme"

[the-garbanzo-annex-jr]

A proposed amendment to the bill requiring teaching ethnic studies in California’s public schools passed the first hearing on October 8, 2021. The amendment contained “guardrails” to prevent teachers from incorporating antisemitic and anti-Israel content. Many UC ethnic studies professors bemoaned the guardrails proposed in the bill.

Specifically, ethnic studies professors objected to the provision in the bill which said that ethnic studies must “[n]ot reflect or promote, directly or indirectly, any bias, bigotry, or discrimination against any person or groups of persons on the basis of any category protected by Section 220” of the California Educational Code. Section 220 prohibits discrimination on the basis of nationality, race or ethnicity and religion (among other biases).

Shockingly, the UC Ethnic Studies Faculty Council branded this provision as “censoring teachers,” since they view it as hampering their ability to teach an anti-Israel, pro-“Palestine” curriculum. These professors view anti-Zionism as central to the discipline, while, at the same time, deny there is any trace of antisemitism in this worldview. 

The amendment died in the Senate Appropriations Committee in mid-August 2024 with the explanation that further work on the bill was needed. 

In addition to the existing high school requirement, the UC Ethnic Studies Faculty Council (UCESFC), whose leadership overlaps with the antisemitic Institute for the Critical Study of Zionism, petitioned to make one semester of ethnic studies a prerequisite for acceptance into the UC system.

The proposal was met with pushback from groups outside of the UC community, especially Jewish groups. 

A petition organized by the AMCHA Initiative stated:

“We firmly believe this proposal: 1) is the direct result of a small group of activist-educators determined to circumvent state law and manipulate the UC governance process to push a widely rejected and antisemitic curriculum for their own political and financial gain; 2) has absolutely no educational merit or justification and may even harm students academically; and 3) will unleash hatred and bigotry, especially antisemitism, into California’s public, charter and private schools.”

The ethnic studies professors were enraged by the opposition, responding:

“We also understand that the UC caved to spurious charges, in some cases advanced by people and organizations with a known history of racism, that our proposed criteria are “anti-Semetic” and disparaging to Jewish Americans. This is a LIE. Nowhere in our course criteria do we mention Israel, Jewish people or Judaism, much less any specific religion.”

A vote finally took place in May 2024. Ultimately, the motion did not pass, and “further discussion was tabled.” Some perceived the intense anti-Zionist rhetoric around the Hamas-Israel War as the reason the motion failed. 

UC’s Ethnic Studies Faculty Council

Refused to accept the Hamas attack as terrorism and accused Israel of “genocide”

Promoted the pro-Hamas encampments, exclaiming, “The University is Ours!”

Advocated for the firing of all UC chancellors for involving the police in removing the illegal encampments

Expressed “unequivocal solidarity with the students who have courageously seized the reins of moral leadership by launching Palestine solidarity encampments”

Anti-Israel Agenda in Ethnic Studies Departments

The UC Berkeley department website defines ethnic studies as “the critical and interdisciplinary study of race, ethnicity, and indigeneity with a focus on the experiences and perspectives of people of color within and beyond the United States.”

Ethnic studies departments usually focus on four groups: African Americans, Chicano/Latinos, Native Americans and Asian Americans. Arab American studies fall under the umbrella of Asian American studies.

Ethnic studies builds upon concepts of intersectionality and Critical Race Theory. “Palestine” comes up frequently in ethnic studies teaching, but exclusively from an anti-Israel point of view.

[emilysidhe]

I just finished A Desolation Called Peace by Arkady Martine, the sequel to A Memory Called Empire, and I *loved* them both, but I’m still going to point out a few nit-picks I have with it, in order of petty to significant:

I do love and appreciate Mahit’s prioritizing her need to keep her sense of self as non-Teixcalaanli by refusing to live in the City until she’s certain that her love of its culture won’t consume her. Nevertheless, as a reader I continue to be more stressed out than the text wants me to be about how and when the Stationers’ visa applications are being processed when their sole-ambassador-who-has-no-staff is two months’ space travel away from her office on Teixcalaan. The one line about having her mail forwarded did not help!

A high-tech space empire typified by massive bureaucracy and high education standards that’s made first contact with aliens at least once before *must* have actual, qualified xeno-linguists somewhere in its government or academia. Three Seagrass assigning herself and Mahit to the task of deciphering an unknown alien language basically because she’s bored at her desk job and wants an excuse to see Mahit again is a way bigger deal than the characters or the text ever acknowledge. They are already having a border war with this species and the stakes of figuring out how to talk to them are so high, and Three Seagrass is like, “Well, as a poet, I’m really good at my own language and Mahit must be good at figuring out foreign languages and cultures since she understands ours so well, so that’s basically the same as being an actual linguist right?” No. I understand that taking someone with official qualifications along would have added another original character to an already expanded cast, and undercut Three Seagrass’s already flimsy excuses to drag Mahit into this, and created a third wheel to get in the way of developing Three Seagrass’ and Mahit’s relationship, but if the author wasn’t going to do it, there should have been either a stronger in-universe justification for Three Seagrass and Mahit to have at least no worse chance of success than a real language specialist like the Fleet requested, or a greater acknowledgement of how huge a dereliction of duty deciding to take an unqualified crack at this herself actually was.

Avoiding explicit spoilers, I didn’t like the resolution to the Darj Tarats subplot. Him being present in the final scene felt very contrived and also pointless. I kept wondering why, from a story perspective, he was even there - right up until his final line, which was like, “well, I guess I know why he had to be here for the story now, but I’m not sure this justifies him adding nothing to that whole previous scene.”

Also, why was he there from a character perspective? Like, he tells Dekakel Onchu that he’s going to do something, and then he doesn’t really seem to try to do that, he just - yells at Mahit in front of the Teixcalaanlitzlim like he thinks if he just berates her harshly enough she’ll make the battle go how he wants with - idk, magic I guess? - even though the general he wants her to manipulate is standing right there listening to all this. I get that he’s supposed to be a ruthless and power-abusing man who has spent so long obsessing over one idea for a master plan that he’s lost sight not only of the moral ramifications but also practical questions about whether it would even work the way he envisioned even if his agents obeyed him completely and has nothing left but to take it out on them when they don’t and it doesn’t, but I’m not sure that he’s intended to come off quite as foolish and shortsighted as he ultimately does.

Anyway, despite what it sounds like, I did genuinely love both of these books (somehow it’s easier to list problems than to genuinely enthuse about all the things I loved!), and I’m really looking forward to rereading them in the context of what I now know from having read them and to seeing what else the author writes in this universe.

[whitehairedanimeboyfriend]

Sorry for the ask, but I'd like to straight up ask someone.

So I may be misunderstanding, but proshipping is just saying, "do what you want in fiction," no? Why is this controversial? I completely understand having squicks and blocking people over that, but threatening lives over this seems way over the line. I hate feet fetish content, but I can just... filter that out and not bother enjoyers. I get a lot of content is not so easy on the brain, but is it not better for people to throw those thoughts on a page? Personally would rather people vent it out through fictional means than be eaten by those thoughts.

Am I missing something or is this another case of people creating a wildfire over simple concepts?

You would think, wouldn't you, anon?

There's a lot of reasons why antis think the way they do. Most basically is that humans instinctively assign morality to the feeling of disgust. "If I'm disgusted by this thing it must be bad." Basically everything else after that is justification for this thought process.

Some common justifications for the mindset:

Children can be exposed to this content.

Adult groomers could use the content as material to further bond and groom their child victims.

Anyone that regularly consumes perverse fictional content may become desensitized to the disgust all humans should feel towards it and therefore will eventually try to act out these fantasies in real life.

Sexual arousal has a unique ability to corrupt people in this way and it's not the same as playing a violent videogame or listening to true crime podcasts.

Of course, examining these points objectively leads us to the following conclusions:

Children can be exposed to any graphic content, regardless of the "morality" of said content. It happens all the time and has been happening since graphic content was first depicted. Kids get curious, especially about things we try to keep them away from.

Abusers can and will use anything to bond with their victims. Maybe it is a adult/child ship or noncon fantasy. Maybe it's My Little Pony or Steven Universe or comic books. Maybe it's Game of Thrones or Steven King. It can be anything the victim cares about. Contentious material is not uniquely effective in this manner.

Disgust should not be what guides one's moral compass regardless. While there may be people that eventually become abusers that start out with fictional material, the order of operations is "I want to abuse kids. -> I will read/watch/look at fictional content until I get access or opportunity to exploit kids -> I now have the opportunity to abuse victims" rather than "I'm interested in exploring dark material, perhaps including fictional abuse of underage individuals -> I can now no longer control myself around kids and I'm a ticking timebomb."

This is literally just Puritanical Christian beliefs and isn't true.

[shintin]

Gunpowder Dreams

Chapter 5 (Glory-Hole)

↳ Vash the Stampede x Female Reader

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

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

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

Song Recommendation: Nancy Sinatra - Bang Bang

Note: This one has dub-con.

Chapter Index - Next Chapter

"I can save you."

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

"Wake up; I can save you."

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

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

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

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

Fucking flashlight!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For fuck's sake!

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

"Hurry up, sweetheart."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Think.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You should have …

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stay calm.

Breathe.

Just breathe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck.

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

With a firm hand, he pulled the trigger.

Click.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He and his mocking priest tone.

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

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

Nothing.

No fucking thing.

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

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

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

Nothing.

Again.

No.

Why?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fire.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Open!

Please, open!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You gulped and answered, "I-I'll…"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Open your eyes and look at me."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Don't—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What if he shoots you mistakenly?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Who owns your life, love?"

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

A battlefield raged in your body.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He had fucking dimples.

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

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

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

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

Men.

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

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

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

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

"Love," he whispered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Does this make you feel free?"

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

You could stand still in this moment forever.

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

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

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

Pull the trigger.

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

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

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

Click.

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

Click. Click. Click.

The sound of the emptiness mocked your growing desperation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Unbeknownst to you, concealed beyond that door,

Lurked a man whose rage echoed, fierce and sore.

His clenched fists, like thunder, struck the wall,

Cracks of anguish appeared, a fractured sprawl.

Hiding behind fake smiles, a mask so sly,

His anger, a tempest, veiled in a lie.

A scarlet torrent, his fury took form,

Dripping blood, a cascade of rage, a storm.

Each drop, a vessel of despair and pain,

A sanguine river, flowing through his veins.

Violence and turmoil, a twisted display,

Beneath the veneer, his demons held sway.

In delicate descent, his anguish displayed,

The ruby tears of fury, his soul unswayed.

A tapestry of emotions, woven in red,

His inner turmoil, from which he bled.

Oh, the secrets held within that hidden space,

Where anger, despair, and violence interlace,

A glimpse into the depths of his tortured soul,

A tragic symphony, the blood's solemn toll.

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

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

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

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

[myrfing]

ancients arent fascists and are far too fantastical to fit into any real political system but people tend to view them in the story in a bubble (which, they kind of are portrayed as such in-universe so w/e) when I don’t think their position in the story can be extricable from garlemald. amaurot is dead and gone by the very beginning of the game and are introduced in shb as a means to examine why/how. what they represent is an ideal upon which garlemald’s purpose is built. what matters is not that they were good or evil but that their mythical perfection was upheld and used as justification for what came after 👍 not saying that this is ALL they are but imo it’s a big old chunk of it. the goal of extermination based on innate traits is not to kill people for fun forever (though you could argue it becomes entwined) it’s the idea that if the only people existed in the world were the most intelligent, most able, most “whole” that the world would be at peace and there would no longer be conflict or great suffering.

one neat thing about EW is its deconstruction of this “mythical fatherland” type of paradise and one of my favorite examples of this is their depiction of ultima thule. if you google “ultima thule” you’ll find…lol a boatload of controversies surrounding its usage in stuff like band names because of its heavy ties with nazi mythos/symbology. it refers to a place “beyond the borders of a known world”, a mythical grecoroman-styled land to the north from which the perfect people once hailed, were lost, and to which the “true” people who adhere to the ideology must return. blah blah blah a lot of parallels to christian ideas of an immortal paradise. i’d like to think that the developers were aware and deliberate with this context considering how easily accessible it is! Thule in the game, when you reach it on the edge of the universe after you go through elpis (a temporary veneer of paradise) is a dead and stagnant land built as a cobbled together amalgamation of a bunch of dead civilizations and peoples who did not make it through “the test” that hermes in purposeful irony imposes on the ancients, who again, represent that ideal. instead of being a paradise, it’s a purgatory where everyone DOES live forever but as ghosts in a dead land scraped of everything that gave it meaning, that orbits a heavy and turgid cocoon of despair. the world that is “born” (everyone imagine imagery analysis here I’m too lazy) is miss endsinger’s wild neverending ride where there is no real substantial world where anything lives but instead an endless mish-mashed retrospective recollection of all the loss and terror it took to create it. i think this is very cool. It’s swagful

[sisaloofafump]

Marvel creates teams, DC creates characters.

Disclaimer: this is a gross over simplification and greatly limited to the comics that I have read. I can think of dozens of examples that do not fit these observations, but it's what I've been noticing as I (an X-Men kid) fell deep into DC over the past many months. TLDR at the end.

Marvel is incredible at writing teams. Look at how well balanced their x-men adjacent stories are—both within the individual groups and within mutantdom as a whole—and compare that to the absolute mess of the JLA or any of DC’s crossover groups above 2 members.

But, DC knows how to write individuals and (when they’re small) their support networks. Where as Marvel, with the exception of Peter Parker, consistently falls flat and struggles to write compelling individual arcs that don’t rely on external characters or world events.

So much of this has to do with how the franchises were created in the first place.

The JLA is a an awkward mismatch of individually created characters and franchises whose only justifications for working together can be massive multiverse-ending events. This leads to a never ending slew of crossover stories where each issue is 70% dense exposition of stakes that are too high to matter and 10% visually discordant fight scenes. The remaining 20% is split between the characters that bring in the readers (Superman and Batman) and the characters without a solo run—leaving all others as background fodder. The villains are only repeats of an individual franchises. There are no JLA-specific villains (aside from bland cosmic entities) because the JLA is not a team, it is a crossover.

Marvel, whose franchises centre on teams rather than individuals, can have a group (be they the Fantastic Four or the X-Force) focus on meaningful, local, character-driven stories. However, take a character out of their designated group and now you have one fifth of a whole acting as another team’s third wheel. Only long-time, well established characters (currently: Emma Frost), or those created as a solo adventurer (Deadpool), can break the mold. Ironically, I feel the Marvel Cinematic Universe betrayed the strength that Marvel’s comics have—by setting up each post-Civil War (and arguably earlier) Avenger as their own franchise it lost the balance of a team and became instead a crossover.

A point in DC crossovers’ favour, however, is that because all the world-changing events only happen when every major player is involved, they hit the whole world equally. Inner-franchise climaxes don’t become large enough that they should disrupt others. It’s believable (somewhat) that each hero family stays in their own city—a major event to Green Arrow isn’t effecting the Amazons, and vice versa. In contrast, because the groups in Marvel get so big, their problems and scope can get even larger. What happens in one stream (say, the mutants terraforming Mars) should have massive effects on everyone, but it rarely does. (To be fair, I think Marvel has been doing an overall good job at balancing this recently).

The individual based module also works great for minor crossovers. But, this only works so long as the pairing stays small—Superman and Batman can have many team ups against new and original villains, whereas mutant/Avenger duos rarely happen and when they do, they stay firmly within their established franchises' concerns. Again though, these pair ups only work when they're small: compare World’s Finest issues that focus just on Superman, Batman, and Robin, with chaotic ones that cameo the whole JLA.

This isn't to say the individual method treats characters better, in fact, it often makes it worse. Lead characters must stay stagnant, their circumstances and relationships never changing. Side characters must fit their original archetypal role and purpose—if not, they're erased (adult Lana Lang), put in limbo (Tim Drake), or added to an ever increasing support team for a franchise not written for teams (basically everyone). When the X-Men needs novelty, they can just rearrange the roster. If a character no longer fits, they can join another subgroup or (albeit rarely and awkwardly) join another franchise's team (just look at Kitty Pryde's whole history). DC will never let Jason Todd escape Batman's shadow, because he was only ever built to orbit him.

Their treatment of the characters over the course of decades however, is different than its individual stories, and I would much rather pick up one of DC's short side character features than Marvel's. Within a short timeframe, the dynamics switch. Aside from when they're introducing a new mini-franchise, Marvel's short solos often work to push the plot of an adjacent team and the characters are reduced to pieces in a grander puzzle. DC's short solos in contrast exist to spotlight characters, allowing the autonomy and uniqueness that they may loose in the long run.

I don't know which I prefer. I'd love to see the writers/editors of Marvel take over DC for a few years, and vice versa. Might solve some problems.

TLDR: Marvel’s franchises are centred on large teams, and DC’s are on individuals. These both have their strengths and downfalls when it comes to crossovers.

When it comes to teams: The Justice League is a crossover group of individuals, not a team, only focusing on world-ending stories with no room for character arcs. But, the characters have a lot more mobility for small team-ups, and the world feels more cohesive. In comparison, Marvel’s teams are true, well balanced teams. But take a character out of a team, or do small scale crossovers, and they float awkwardly under developed. As large events and characters stay locked in their group franchises, Marvel as a whole feels split into disconnected parts.

When it comes to characters: DC allows for more short term solos but very limited long-term mobility, whereas Marvel characters aren't as stuck in archetypes, but short solos focus on contributing to grander plots rather than fleshing out niche characters.

[rjalker]

Martha Wells really didn't think anything through for her version of The Imperial Radch. (Aka The Murderbot Diaries)

Ancillaries from The Imperial Radch are all different looking because they literally used to be real people who were kidnapped, murdered, and their brains taken over.

Martha Wells tells us that Constructs (anthroids, but she wanted to be special and make up new terms to confuse everyone) are made from cloned human tissue, but then...it's never brought up that they'd all be exactly identical to eachother because they're all clones from the original source? It's implied that they all look different, even though they also apparently all have the exact same proportions.

If they didn't all look different, then we would have gotten comments from characters about confusing Murderbot for another construct, or thinking it has a twin.

So, we're supposed to casually accept that all constructs are physically unique except for their proportions, which are all exactly the same.

And yes that's already extremely contradictory for no good reason. Gawaine giving away the horse and finding it dead five seconds later, yada yada yada. It's a game of telephone but for writing.

But even if we accept this contradictory statement as true, that each individual construct was cloned from a different source that's...not how capitalism works.

Modern day capitalism doesn't' care about genetic diversity even when it's crucial for species we eat not going extinct.

There's absolutely no way capitalists would suddenly care about preserving "genetic diversity" when it's literally not needed in any way. Constructs don't reproduce. Genetic diversity is not even remotely a consideration.

There is no in-universe justification we’re ever given, and considering Martha Wells’ loathing for doing world building for this series, we’re just never gonna get one.

They all look different because, despite the fact that she’s never bothered to describe it, Murderbot has to be Unique and Special™.

Even though it makes no fucking sense. The point of cloning en masse is that it’s supposed to be cheap and easy and can be done over and over and over again without end.

No capitalist is going to go out of their way to collect so many samples of genetic material to create a supposedly unlimited supply of completely unique anthroids who don’t even reproduce.

It’s a small detail, yes, but it’s just another inconsistancy upon piles of inconsistancies, born out of her insistance that her protagonists must be the most special characters ever to exist, while also trying to mimic better writing that...doesn’t prioritize creating Mary Sues.

She wants the cool vibe of The Imperial Radch, but doesn’t want any of the nuance or actual depth for characters and backstories and worldbuilding.

Murderbot is simultaneously super expensive and worth investing constant repairs in, but also cheap and easy to replace and not worth repairing. And you’re just supposed to believe both of these things at once, and who cares if they’re completely contradictory.

Murderbot is a disposable plastic cup, because Ancillaries are disposable and Martha Wells wants Murderbot to be as cool as them.

Murderbot is expensive and worth investing endless repairs in, because Martha Wells is ableist and lazy and would rather die than write a character who becomes physically disabled over the course of the story, even though Murderbot’s literally based on a character who -- *gasp* -- became physically disabled over the course of her story! Multiple times! And none of them were ever magically healed like they never happened!

Murderbot is made of cloned human material, because that sounds cool and scifi-y, but isn’t actually a direct clone of anyone, or one clone among many, because Martha Wells’ protags have to be the most unique and special and best characters in the setting ever, and she thinks that specializes would be diminished if Murderbot had a few thousand clone-siblings running around.

So we just end up with another completely contradictory set of ideas on top of the rest that we’re already supposed to accept in the series.