#Scar and his plight in it

[bucketsofgiggles]

one thing i heard consistently after watching fmab is that the flashback sequences of the Ishval Extermination were heavily cut, almost censored compared to the manga. well i read volume 15/chapters 58-61 and well…

Damn

everyone was right holy shit what a volume. i don’t consume a ton of war story media, but that was probably the best and most realistic depiction of it in fiction.

[eddiazx]

clean shave - eddie diaz x reader

It was a devastating day.

You’re sure the sun is dimmer and the birds are chirping less today. The universe is probably mourning just as much as you are, because…

Eddie is going to shave the moustache.

You’re leaning on the doorframe of the bathroom, meeting your boyfriend’s eyes through the mirror’s reflection. Eddie had a can of shaving foam in one hand and a razor in the other. His amused eyes stare straight at the mirror back at you, knowing how much you loved the facial hair, but also determined to get rid of it for practical reasons. It didn’t mean you were happy about it though.

“Need help?” You ask, walking into the bathroom so you’re standing right behind him. You know logically that this isn’t a two person job, that Eddie has been shaving himself for the past decade and a half. But Eddie nods anyways, because why would he turn down having your hands on him?

He turns to face you slowly, his bare chest grazing your clothed one, making him shiver slightly. You step back wordlessly and leave the bathroom. Eddie is puzzled, but not for long, when he sees you re-enter with a chair. You urge him to sit down on it, gently prying the foam and razor away from him.

The angle isn’t quite right though. It’s slightly uncomfortable to shave someone when they’re sitting down and you’re hovering over them. Eddie clocks this because he is nothing if not aware and observant, and places his big hands on your hips to yank you forward. You squeal, thinking you're going to fall, but of course, Eddie would never allow that. He maneuvers your thighs to make you straddle him.

This position is infinitely better. You are level and only inches away from Eddie’s face now. You hum appreciatively, spraying a dollop of cream onto your fingers before gingerly spreading it under Eddie’s nose. Your eyebrows furrow and your tongue slightly pokes out of the corner of your mouth in focus.

Eddie didn’t think this through. Having you on top of him with a concentrated face was quickly making him hard. He knows you can feel him through his grey sweat shorts, because you stop what you’re doing for a moment and raise an eyebrow at him like really?

Eddie shrugs back at you like can you blame me?

You shake your head with a fond smile, and get up briefly to put the shaving cream back on the sink. You drop back down onto Eddie’s lap, shifting slightly forward before picking up the razor again.

Eddie closes his eyes and exhales through his nose. Your movements were not helping his situation at all.

“Don’t move” you warn, unaware of Eddie’s plight. “I don’t want to scar this pretty face.”

Eddie chuckles, but abides. With his eyes still closed, he feels your palm rest on his cheek to keep his face steady while the other hand starts shaving the stache away, slow and steady. The gentleness and the way you were taking care of him made Eddie feel warm all over.

You finally move again, dropping the razor onto the counter with a clunk before leaning back to see your handiwork.

“Are you disappointed?”, Eddie questions, knowing that you had grown more than a little attached to the moustache.

You shake your head again, smiling softly, before leaning in to kiss his now clean-shaven face.

“Never. Never with you.”

[remxedmoon]

“the eternal wanderer. even death cannot release it from its plight.”

tribeless

1 power - 1 health - 7 bones

unkillable - when a card bearing this sigil perishes, a copy of it is created in your hand.

corpse eater - if a creature that you own perishes by combat, a card bearing this sigil in your hand is automatically played in its place.

brittle - after attacking, a card bearing this sigil perishes.

hidden trait - cursebearer

this card cannot be sacrificed at the sigil stones event.

finally posting my isatscryption stuff here!!! yipee!!! here’s a writeup about the card design because frankly i put wayy too much thought into all of these cards. sorry if these are a bit hard to parse!

unkillable and corpse eater effectively make sif immortal, since every time he dies, he’ll be placed back on the board! and i thought that was fitting for. y’know. timeloop reasons. brittle is only there to emphasize the whole constantly dying thing. because is it really isat without siffrin torment

also didn’t notice this until after i designed this card, but the brittle sigil art has a star on it??? not intentional in the slightest but it is Fitting

sif is a fox here! i know that that would technically put them in the canine tribe, but i felt it’d be more fitting for them to be tribeless? and base game inscryption already kinda bends the rules when it comes to tribes (such as the bullfrog being a reptile and the rabbit being treated internally as a rodent) so i think it still works

i’m well aware that card traits don’t actually have cool names or anything but i still want to give them cool names because it’s fun. anyways! cursebearer! i gave them this trait both because these sigils are extremely overpowered, and for lore reasons. sif sees their sigils as a curse! they don’t want to force them on anyone else!! it’s their burden to bear!!!

tangentially related to that last point, but sif is a talking card in this au! because it’s fun :3. and because i think it’d be really interesting to see how he’d react to the cabin

sif’s scar is covered by the hat a bit but it’s Star Shaped. and so is the eye shine teehee

this was the first card i made and Boy Does It Show. i had the WORST time trying to get the card generators to work for this because oops! both of the card generators are inaccurate in different ways! plus theres a few mistakes in the card art that i didn’t notice until after i finished most of the others... i promise the others are a little more polished

also, since i didn’t mention it above the cut, the sigil patch is for the bone king sigil! which makes the card award 4 bones instead of 1 upon death. this is less for lore reasons and more for the synergy with his sigils. since he’s constantly dying and coming back, he can basically give you infinite bones for Zero Cost. fun!

aaand i think that’s all the notes for this card! thanks for reading this absurdly long post. here’s his alt card art without the patch for your troubles 🫡

[importantstudentbusinessspy-blog]

Cold-hearted wolf

Masterlist

Pairing: Cregan Stark × Martell reader

Tags: arranged marriage, cregan starts out mean in this, enemies to lovers cus he's grumpy and has no time for feelings,

Chapter 3: the way he's obsessed with you, can't stop thinking impure thoughts while he's away, the calm before the sex... pick your favorite.

Note: I made up a war with Highgarden subplot that's not Canon. Ahem, for the plot, so bare with me.

Cregan Stark sat inside a tent with his face twisted in a mix of pain and discomfort. The maester carefully worked to stitch up a nasty gash that ran from his neck to his lower abdomen, courtesy of an enemy soldier's sword. He had little pity for the other man when he cut him clean through the heart with his own blade. The wound was a battle scar from the successful siege, a strategic victory that had his soldiers celebrating and chearing outside.

One of Cregan's knights entered the tent, bearing two pints. He handed one to his injured ruler. "This ale should ease the pain, my lord."

Cregan took the offered drink. "Bring more. This stitching feels personal."

The old man, still focused on his task, dismissed Cregan's jest. "Your Highness, if you'd stop squirming, it would help."

Cregan held still as the maester continued his work. "How many casualties did we suffer?"

The knight looked thoughtful for a moment. "Surprisingly low, my lord. The plan was exceptional."

Cregan's gaze shifted to the ground, and a sense of guilt crept over him. The plan that had proven so effective during the battle was one that you had worked on together. Right before he rudely discarded you. Your tactical insights and knowledge of warfare had been instrumental to saving his and his men's lives today. "I should have listened to her sooner.”

“My lord?”

“Lady y/n.” Cregan specified.

The knight nodded in understanding.

The maester stitching spoke up. “It takes time to see the wisdom in others, my lord. We can only strive to make amends."

Cregan hated being proven wrong. He kept his mouth shut.

As the stitching neared completion, the knight spoke up, "You've fought well today.”

Cregan shook his head with a satisfied smile. "I can't take all the credit. Tyrell's sword was his own downfall.” His enemy's weapon, though notoriously giant, was unwieldy, and Cregan, younger, more agile, and more practiced with his weapon, found his opening.

With the gash stitched and the pain somewhat subsiding, Cregan took another sip of ale. He couldn't help but feel a need to have you close. To celebrate with you, and thank you for your strategy, which was invaluable to his cause. He wanted you beside him in the next council meeting.

But you were far off, warm, and safe in Winterfell. No doubt giving his sister an earful about what an awful husband he's been if the letters he's received from her were any indication.

I like her very much, Cregan. And if you open your mind you would come to like her too. Also, it would help if you'd stop behaving like an ass.

The thought of you two getting along made him smile. Even if it was at his expense.

He was ashamed to admit there was truth to your accusation that night. No, he had not seen you as an equal. How could he?

What could you possibly know of the plight of living in the harsh and unforgiving environment of the North. Of its values and way of life. He'd read about Dornish life in his studies. Sunspear was warmth, music, dancing, and hedonism, literally the opposite of Winterfell. This showed to be true the moment you stepped foot on his grounds. You, with your carefree attitude and enticing dresses, perhaps accepted in your culture, but downright scandalous in his.

He remembered his anger in the hot springs when he heard the men going on about your wardrobe.

“I'd like to see if the Dornish sun forgot a few places.”

They were only jesting. Men, especially soldiers, made vulgar jokes all the time. But the fact that his men spoke about you in such a way made his blood boil hotter than the springs underneath the palace grounds.

All it took was a look from Cregan, and the man shut his mouth, swallowing nervously. But Cregan's anger didn't subside so easily.

He closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair, remembering taking his frustration out in your bedroom that same day he heard the vulgar comment, and the two more times that evening, and once more the next morning. His hands gripped his chair, mimicking the possessive way he'd held you with every thrust.

He wondered if you questioned why he was so upset. Although even if you did, judging by your whimpers and moans, you didn't seem to mind.

Visions of you flooded his mind. Walking around with a high brow, flaunting your skin freely with seductive silks for his court to admire. Looking elegant and graceful while flipping him onto his back in the training yard. Unknowingly offering up a fantasy of an exotic warrior princess from the far south to hungry and repressed northern eyes… all just so you could prove a point.

He laughed. Maybe his sister was right. Stubbornness was something you two definitely had in common.

----------------------------------------------------------

War was a lonely ordeal. And despite the women from the neighboring towns being more than happy to keep his men company, Cregan’s mind kept finding flaws in each of them.

Their lack of quiet defiance made them too agreeable, he decided. Although, no, not only that. It was also the missing fire in their eyes, the missing pride. They also had the wrong color hair and the wrong length, too. And on top of that, their clothing was also too... cold, yes. Too modest.

The gods help him. He was fucked.

Amidst the noise of his tent, he sat at a table surrounded by his men who were drinking and celebrating. The soft glow of candlelight cast a warm ambiance in the night. A raven's message had arrived, and he quickly sloppily unfurled the parchment, his eyes scanning the words eagerly.

The letter was from you, recounting the events of the day. "In an attempt to offer you a change of scenery, I will try to paint an image of how things are back home.” Your handwriting said. “Winterfell is alight with celebration of your victory. The town square was full of life. The common folks greeted me with glee and danced and sang. I even tried deer meat at an inn. It was… chewey."

A corner of his mouth lifted as he red the letter in your voice.

"You are well loved and admired, my lord. And missed. Also, please pet Grey for me as he is dearly missed as well."

A chuckle escaped Cregan's lips as he reached over to scratch his loyal dog behind the ear before continuing to read. "I even showed one boy how to use my Dornish blade. My favorite one."

Your willingness to connect with his people - your people, he corrected himself, was quite marvelous. A smile tugged at the corners of Cregan's lips as he pictured you among the celebrating townsfolk. He felt a painful pull at his chest, his hands itching for your skin.

He wondered, not for the first time, how he could remedy his actions of your last night together before he marched off. Regretfully recalling the fire and hurt in your eyes.

It would take more than a letter to make up for it. Cregan was neither poet nor a man of many words. He took action. He needed to fix this the only way he knew how.

The next day, he helped his squires and men pack the Stark army camp. With victory secured, they would be marching back to Winterfell.

Cregan was coming home.

@malfoycassimalfoy @leahnicole1219 @literishdegree99

[thestrangepoet]

The Furrcinating Adventures of Champion, the Archives Cat | The Magnus Archives Fanfiction | Ch 1/?

Based on @ultramarinaa’s Cat!Martin AU 

CONTENT WARNINGS: None

DISCLAIMER: As per usual, this is an unedited first draft that I haven’t proofread. Forgive any typos and roughness around the edges – I tend not to go back over fanfics, as they’re just a bit of fun writing for me. (I am a full-time professional writer, and if I start telling myself I need to edit and proofread my fanfics, it’ll cease being fun for me.)

This is chapter one of…I don’t know. I may continue if enough people are enjoying it.  Next Chapter →

──── •✧• ────

Oh God, Martin thought to himself as fur began to emerge from under his skin, covering newly reshaped limbs and hiding sharp claws from sight, Jon’s going to be so mad at me!

Oh no, Martin panicked as blunt teeth gave way to pointed canines, this is so unprofessional of me! 

Only then did Martin allow the terrible question to enter his mind – what was he becoming? 

He should have known better than to pick up an unfamiliar book lying around in the archives of the Magnus Institute, the academic home of research into the paranormal and esoteric. At the very least, if he was going to pick it up, he should have done so only to tidy it away. Why he had felt compelled to open the tome and sneak a peek inside, he couldn’t say. 

As the world around him lurched into a new angle, Martin could only think about the presentation his boss had delivered a few weeks prior. 

Obviously, you shouldn’t be dealing directly with any artefacts of note, Jon had said dryly, tapping the large screen behind him that showed countless examples of seemingly mundane objects. We have a department for that for a reason. However, it’s not unusual for one or two to slip through the cracks; particularly books, given the extensive nature of our library. If you should check out a book as part of your research and you see the name ‘Leitner’ involved in any capacity, do not read the book. Put it down immediately. Martin, that goes double for you – if you even think the word ‘Leitner’ near a book, I want you to turn around immediately and walk back to your desk – do you understand? 

Had he seen the name ‘Leitner’ in this book? There had been a torn bookplate in the front, and maybe the remaining letters had been ‘ner’...

Did it matter? He was paying for his stupidity now, Martin thought. All fur and claws and fangs, and oh, what hideous monster would emerge from what had once been Martin Blackwood? 

Martin lay down, his fluffy belly flat against the floor, and pushed his newly shaped paws over his eyes. Oh, it didn’t bear thinking about! Jon would burst in at any moment, see some horrible creature, not realise it was Martin, and—

“Martin?” 

As if on cue, the door to the shared office of the archival assistants opened, and in walked Jonathan Sims. “Martin, have you taken your lunch break? Tim and Sasha have already gone, and Elias has been getting very prickly about me making sure you all…oh. Martin?” 

Martin had scampered under the table in hope of avoiding his boss’ gaze. Treated now to a blurry view of the man’s green socks and scuffed brogues, he watched as Jon entered the office. “Oh. Good. He’s gone already,” Jon said to himself with the air of a job well done. He turned to leave, and Martin had almost let out a sigh of relief when the man’s feet stopped. 

No, no! Martin thought, Go! You can’t see me like this! I bet I’m the ugliest monster, all fangs and talons and hair all over the place! 

A scarred hand appeared in Martin’s imperfect vision, scooping up the fallen book that was to blame for Martin’s plight. A new fear sprang up in Martin’s mind then – what if Jon read the book too? 

He had to do it. He had to save him! Even if it meant Jon would see Martin’s disgusting new form, he had to keep Jon safe! 

He lunged with a power that Martin hadn’t ever known before. A screeching roar – or a miaow, really – pierced the air, and Martin all but bodyslammed Jon’s hands, knocking the book firmly from his grip. It span across the room and slid under the bookshelf out of sight. 

Now he’d done it. Now Jon would see Martin in all his revolting glory – witness what that awful Leitner book had turned him into. If he didn’t recognise Martin, as surely he wouldn’t, he’d no doubt call security, and then what would happen? Would Martin be taken down? Locked away in the tunnels for examination and research? Worse, what if Jon did recognise him? He’d know that Martin had messed up in a spectacular fashion, and he’d be so disappointed in him. Would he be the one to tell Martin nothing could be done, that the effects of a Leitner were irreversible and that they’d have to–

“Good Lord! Oh…oh, now, where did you come from, little one?” 

Jon’s voice took on a bizarrely soft tone that Martin had never heard before. He couldn’t respond, however, as thin hands had latched gently around his torso and lifted him from the ground, a startled purr rumbling from Martin’s chest. 

All of a sudden, Jon’s face filled Martin’s entire view. And for once, no scowl darkened his features. In fact, Jon almost looked…delighted? 

Martin blinked. 

“Mrrow?” 

Not once in over a year of working for Jonathan Sims had Martin managed to coax a smile from the other man. All his best attempts, his best teas, his ridiculous amount of overtime to finish his reports to a standard Jon would accept, all his own smiles and attempts to cheer the man up, not one of these gargantuan efforts had been rewarded with a smile. 

And now, with one confused miaow, Martin had unlocked a smile from Jon. 

“How did you get in here? Did you get lost? Did Martin leave the door open again? Oh, I bet he did. I bet he did!” Jon repeated, descending into a cooing baby voice that would have had Martin howling with laughter if he could still laugh. Jon shifted the perplexed Martin to sit over his shoulder more comfortably, the book all but forgotten. “But you’re such a handsome boy! And no collar? Poor little man, have you been wandering around looking for some food and shelter? We’ll get you sorted, don’t you worry, little champion.” 

What…the hell…is happening? Martin wondered, even as a big, goofy smile curled his lips. 

Jon was carrying him. Out of the office. Stroking his back. Calling him a little champion and handsome. 

“How about a saucer of warm milk, hmm? Does that sound good? Would that set you right, hmm?” 

It was only then that Martin’s mind dragged itself out of the dazed, happy fog to piece together what Jon was saying. Why he was saying it. 

Martin had not been transformed into some vicious beast from the eldritch corners of reality. 

As they passed by Jon’s office, Martin caught a glimpse of his reflection in the glass pane of the door. 

A large cat with white and orange fur blinked back at him from over Jon’s shoulder. 

──── •✧• ────

Martin was, of course, the talk of the town after everyone returned from their lunch break. Funny, then, that not one person actually mentioned Martin. 

“So you’re gonna take him to the vets, right, boss?” Tim asked, rolling another roll of Sellotape towards Martin, apparently expecting him to play with it. Martin, on principle, refused, turning his nose up and huffing. 

Tim, come on! You’re back, Sasha’s back, who isn’t back yet? Ask where Martin is! he thought. 

“He seems healthy enough to me,” Jon replied, not looking up from the paperwork he was pouring over. “Why?” 

“To get his microchip checked? Get him back to his owners?” 

That made Jon look up, a flash of shock and upset clear in his widened eyes and slightly parted lips. “His ow— No, no, he hasn’t even got a collar on. No owners.”

“Right, but by law, cats have to be microchipped. Maybe his collar fell off or something?” A hint of amusement danced in Tim’s questions; Martin could tell that Tim was toying with Jon. Jon, however, hadn’t picked up on that. 

“M-maybe,” he replied stiffly. “Right, yes, fine. Vets after work. But he can stay here for now. Till the end of the shift.” 

Martin wandered over to Jon, sitting himself down by the leg of his chair and craning his neck up, tail swishing behind him. 

Right, now that’s sorted, onto the next obvious issue in the office, Jon, he thought. Which is…the obvious and mysterious disappearance of—

“Martin’s late back off his lunch,” Jon noted, checking the office clock with a critical glance. “Could you check the archival assistants’ office please, Tim? Maybe drop him a text. Probably got himself distracted by some…particularly interesting bollards or something…”

Sure, there’d been an insult mixed in there, but Jon had noticed! He’d noticed Martin’s disappearance, and that meant Martin had to repay his kindness! 

Fuelled with delight, the cat sprang up onto Jon’s lap, earning him a surprised chuckle. “Ah! Well, hello! Y-yes, you can sit there while I work, Champion. That’s fine.” 

Tim snorted as he headed out of Jon’s office, arching an eyebrow at the pair of them. “Champion? Are you kidding me? He’s a classic Fluffy or Ginger or Marshmallow or something.”

“Nonsense. He’s brimming with regal strength. A Champion if I ever saw one,” Jon retorted with a sniff, deeming the argument not worth his attention beyond that and turning back to his work. “Let me know if Martin gets back to you. And if he shows up, send him in here.” 

The newly named Champion stretched out lazily on Jon’s lap, settling down for a cheeky nap on company time. 

Already here, Jon. 

──── •✧• ────

[dalishious]

Dragon Age: Origins is still great today, and you should give it a try

I want to preface this post with an important disclaimer: I am not about gatekeeping, and I think that ultimately, you should play or skip whatever Dragon Age games you want. If even after this post you feel like Dragon Age: Origins just isn’t for you, that’s fine! That doesn’t mean you can’t still enjoy the Dragon Age media you do want to consume, and it certainly doesn’t mean you’re any less valid a fan. But I personally adore Dragon Age: Origins to this day, and I would love to see more modern gamers give it a chance, despite it being from 2009.

It’s a great introduction to the world of Thedas

Dragon Age: Origins had the tall order of being the first in a potential franchise, yet it climbed those heights and beyond. It perfectly balances the need to explain the world setting and tell a story within that world at the same time, by organizing the plot into puzzle pieces. You, the protagonist, have to recruit different factions into your cause to save the kingdom of Ferelden, so each piece of the game has a different focus on those factions. It spoon-feeds the player information at an easy to understand and absorb pace.

Dragon Age: Origins also makes good use of codex entries for those of you who are big lore buffs and want even more information. Yet at the same time, it does not overly rely on the codex; all the most crucial parts of the lore that you need to know are included in your interactions with characters and plot.

The player gets to shape the story

The nature of those puzzle pieces also means that you have huge control over the story from start to finish, because the puzzle itself is shaped by you! The outcomes of each piece form the blueprint of the climax. The end of the game is reactive to the choices you make in the story throughout. (Mind you, a lot of those choices have been retconned in later games, but still, within the confines of Dragon Age: Origins itself, it’s still fun to see the outcomes of your decisions.)

The story itself is great

I would consider Dragon Age: Origins to have the most straightforward premise of all the Dragon Age games released thus far, with a strong identity linking the different main quests all together. You are a newly recruited Grey Warden, left to unite Ferelden against the big bad Blight after 99% of the Order within the nation is wiped out in a catastrophic battle. You may get caught up in dwarven politics, ancient curses, demonic possession, and plenty more along the way, but no matter where you find yourself, your motivation always falls back to that ultimate responsibility.

The characters are also great

Almost all the companions you’re able to collect along the way are very easy to love, or at least appreciate them for what they are.

Alistair is also a new grey warden. He is struggling with grief over the loss of his mentor, and the weight of having no control over his identity his whole life.

Morrigan is a witch who grew up isolated in the woods with no one but her abusive mother for company. Now she must learn to interact with others, and dependant on the player, perhaps even make a friend, lover… or enemy.

Leliana is a bard from Orlais, whose faith told her to assist the grey warden plight. But beneath the demure outward appearance, she has a much darker past she’s running away from.

Sten is a Qunari warrior who was taught that outside his culture, everything is backwards and nonsense, but he cannot return home until he has restored his soul by recovering his lost sword. Along the way, he may learn to appreciate or despise Ferelden.

Zevran was enslaved by the Antivan Crows as a child and made into an assassin. If the player can chip away at his nonchalant mask, they will find his past has left a lot more scars on him than he thought it safe to admit.

Wynne is a mage from the Circle who is struggling to deal with the nature of age, death, and life purpose.

Shale is a golem who was once under complete and total control by her former master, now learning what it’s like to be free, and wanting to uncover her forgotten past before losing that freedom.

Oghren is there too, unfortunately.

And the player character really feels like they are of your own creation. The choices you make, little and small, offer a lot to shape whatever kind of protagonist you want. Additionally, the benefit of starting the game with a different origin, and playing out that origin before getting recruited into the grey wardens, offers a lot of prompting to get into the roleplay!

The datedness can be easily upgraded with modding anyway

Do you find the combat clunky? There’s mods for that. Do you find the graphics too bland? There’s mods for that. Do you wish you could kiss Alistair as a man or Morrigan as a woman? There’s mods for that, too. Dragon Age: Origins is very easy to mod; most of them you just drop the files into your override folder and start playing. Otherwise, you use the DA Modder app for DAZIP files, which is also not that complicated.

A lot of people consider Skyrim to be dated without mods, too. I personally don’t think there’s anything wrong with appreciating the ability to mod a game, as a positive point.

If you want to play, make sure you use LAA though!

Large Address Aware is a must-have on PC for Dragon Age: Origins.

For GoG or EA App/Origin users: You can just run LAA like normal!

For Steam users: You need THIS first

[pedropascallme]

☆Kinktober 2024☆

Day 10: Period sex

Pairing: Cooper Howard/The Ghoul x f!Reader

Warnings: SMUT (18+ MINORS DNI!!!!) oral (f receiving), fingering, some dirty talk, allusions to cannibalism, mentions of period cramps, it's hard having a uterus during the apocalypse, Cooper is a cannibal and he's obsessed with getting a taste of you, if I missed anything please let me know!!

You’d bled through most of your clothing.

Which, you figured, was a better alternative than bleeding out through most of your clothing—but the stains made your pants feel stiff, chafing at your inner thighs and leaving you with flaky, almost gummy marks that clung to your skin.

Every month was a losing battle.

The only times you found yourself missing the comfort of life underground were when you remembered the soothing burn of a heating pad, and the reliable cotton products that lined bathroom shelves.

But you made do with what you could find.

In a pinch, excess fabric could be folded into something pad-like. But it always sat uncomfortably on your crotch, threatening to inch down your pant leg and leave you with more of a mess than you’d started with.

Mostly you found yourself free bleeding.

The world had already ended, nobody cared if you walked around covered in your own blood—they didn’t care if you walked around covered in someone else’s blood, either.

Cooper had found humor in your plight.

“Give it a few more months out’ere,” he laughed when you showed him the stains, “It’ll go’way.”

But he did feel bad when you stooped over, cramping, unable to bite back at his unsavory wit as you white-knuckled your own knee through the pain.

And it was around that time he’d suggested a method of alternative relief.

“Can’t stop th’blood, but…” He’d explained, your head on his chest while you traced his scars beneath your fingers. You’d been complaining to him about the warnings your body sent you about the week to come. The usual smarminess in his tone was replaced with an almost sheepish lilt, “Could help.”

You had told Cooper it felt too taboo, too messy for whatever the outcome may be, and he’d laughed.

“Y’already fuckin’ a ghoul, sweetheart,” he’d kissed at your neck, “Ain’t much can be more taboo than’at. ‘Nd when’ve ya ever seen me balk at a mess?” Another kiss to your neck, more heated now, his teeth pressing into your jugular, “Always clean up, don’ I?”

So, you had conceded, happily letting him undress you and spread you out on the creaky bed when your period arrived.

But he still made an effort to go slow, to make you comfortable with his actions.

Cooper situated himself between your legs, turned on his side ever so slightly to comfortably rest his head on your thigh.

Your hands roamed over his scalp; fleeting touches, your nails grazing his scar-marked skin. You let out husky breaths every time he trailed his hand down over your stomach, stopping just above where you needed him most before he repeated the dragging motion.

You let your hand fall lower, squeezing his shoulder.

It was in an effort to get him to move, to do something to quell the ache in your core, the desire that burned ever brighter with every breath he took, the position of his head ensuring that his long exhales fanned your naked cunt.

But you also just enjoyed the close proximity, the ways he had of making you feel special and putting you on this pedestal so that he could worship you.

He was more excited than you were, and he made no effort to hide his enthusiasm. He pressed his cheek against your pubic mound, closing his eyes and appreciating the smell—the iron that mingled with something so uniquely you.

He growled, pressing his hips into the bed slightly to relieve the building pressure he felt.

“Whenever y’ready, sweetheart,” he continued to breath in the scent, “Gonna eat ya whole.”

Your fingers dug into his shoulder, tender pressure from your palm rather than harsh scrapes of your nail; a signal, a sign that you wanted it.

“Ready when you are, cowboy…” You tried to keep your voice steady when you felt him smirk against you, just barely baring his teeth and letting them stick to your skin.

With that, he was completely unrestrained.

He sat up on his forearms, wrapping them under your thighs to keep you open, and burying his face in your cunt.

Your blood was lubricating, letting him glide his tongue between your folds and press himself into your hole.

And he moaned.

He moaned loudly and animalistically, drenching himself in your blood, chasing your scent and your taste, trying to drown himself in it.

“Cooper—” You felt the blood smear between your legs, his face coated in you, his skin sticking to yours as he searched for more. “Coop…”

He paused, but not before licking a stripe up your slit to collect your blood on his tongue.

When he looked up at you, his eyes were blown out, pupils swallowing whatever color was left and replacing it with pure, unadulterated lust.

He stared, your blood dripping from his chin, smeared over the lower half of his face and threatening to stain his shirt. He breathed heavily, lips parted, and licked his lips absentmindedly.

“Feels good…” Was all you said, reaching out to cup his cheek in your palm and touch the splatter on his skin. “Keep going.”

He turned, almost robotically, to kiss your palm. You dropped your hand, and, wordlessly, he dove back into you.

You could feel the gnashing of his teeth, the effort he put into holding back to ensure your comfort.

Cooper brought two fingers to your hole, gathering the slick and blood that painted your lower half before pushing them into you.

“Oh, fuck,” you panted, one hand flying to grip his wrist, to help him push himself into you and set the fast pace you wanted. Your other hand loosely grasped the tattered sheets under you, twisting them as your body contorted.

He sucked on your clit, flicking over the bud with his tongue to watch you squirm for him.

He was consumed with arousal and adrift in pleasure, desperate to hear you moan, to watch you writhe beneath him, to savor your taste.

His fingers curled, sliding against your walls and forcing your back to arch.

You released your grip on his wrist, leaving him with total control over his ministrations. He watched his hand, his fingers thrusting into you, the blood that dripped over his palm; his ears rang with your sounds, the way your mouth formed the syllables of his name, and the pornographic squelch of your cunt around his fingers.

He bucked his hips into the bed, unable to comprehend whether it was the smell or the feeling that was making him so wild; or whether it was simply because it was you.

He dropped his head down, licking the bloody glaze from his fingers every time he pulled them out of you. He could feel you pulse around him, hear your moans turning into breathy, unformed whimpers that barely escaped your throat, and he wanted, now more than ever, for you to cum on his hand.

He wanted you to bleed on him, for him.

“Always been sweet, darlin’,” he grunted against you, “But I think this is th’best y’ever tasted.”

You whined, pushing your hips into his face and fingers.

“Y’know how long I been wantin’ this?” Cooper flicked his tongue over your clit, and you flinched, “Every time y’start bleedin’ I wanna push my face between these thighs ‘n’fuck ya with my mouth. Wanna smell it—taste the fuckin’ life in you.”

He began punching his fingers up into you, rough strokes and curled digits, making you gasp out for him.

“C’mon,” his voice was gruff, almost impatient, delirious from the scene before him, “C’mon, sweetheart, gimme somethin’.”

He wrapped his lips around your clit, sucking on you hard and pushing his fingertips directly into the most tender spot on your walls.

You came with a cry, hips moving on their own accord in sync with his movements as you rode out the pleasure.

When you looked up, Cooper removed his fingers from you, bringing them to his mouth and sucking. The action made you moan, letting your head fall back against the pillows.

“You’re…” You began, searching for words.

“Amazin’? A great fuck?” Cooper removed his fingers from his mouth, resting his hand on your leg, “Jaw-droppin’ly handsome?” He shot you a lopsided grin.

“A freak,” you smiled, and he swatted your thigh.

You reached down to pull at his arms, encouraging him to lie with you.

“Y’feel alright?” He questioned, coming up to lay beside you and wiping your blood from his face with the back of his hand. “Any better’n before?”

“Much,” you curled into him. Rubbing your legs together, you felt the remnants of smeared blood and pleasure, thick on your skin in a much more satisfactory way than the stains. “Told you it’d be messy.”

“No—well, hey,” He turned his face to you, grinning, “I’ma jus’ have t’clean ya up, then.”

[tima7fa]

Eyes Are The Gates To The Soul

Tf!Sukuna Ryomen x Concubine!Reader

Contents:some heavy themes, sukuna being an asshole, not really romantic, blood kiss?, slightly suggestive, sukuna calls reader "sweet lotus" and "darling", reader has a scar across the face, slight showing of obsession (sukuna), no use of y/n, I don't like this, character study but I'm really bad at it, sukuna kinda doesn't act like sukuna so forgive me folks, sukuna ryomen is his own warning tbh

___________________________________________

Hideous

That's the term that always accompanied your presence, due to the disfiguring scar that marred your mouth and cheek. The individual in question, Ryomen Sukuna, was well acquainted with your plight. The villagers had offered you as a sacrificial lamb, nothing more than a disposable offering.

He had the option to decline.

Yet, he chose not to.

The reasons behind his decision remain uncertain to him. You appeared delicate, a fragile woman, dwarfed in comparison to his own formidable stature. He understood that even the slightest touch from him could shatter your fragile bones to pieces. The evidence of constant mistreatment was evident in the way your skin clung to your skeletal frame. The garment you wore could hardly be classified as a kimono; it was a mere tattered cloth. Additionally, half of your face was obscured by a lotus-embroidered fabric secured by an upper lace, fashioned into a dainty bow behind your head.

You were a far cry from conventionally attractive.

That was the consensus among the villagers. He had the option to refuse and exact revenge on them for daring to disrespect him through this hideous creature. Yet, he did not. He should have. Perhaps it was those eyes that captivated him. They were the sole aspect he could focus on when he gazed at you. Your eyes were the only discernible feature.

Designating you as his concubine seemed not suitable, and many would agree. How could such a lowly being attain the position of the king's concubine? It was an outright display of disrespect. After all, he was not just anyone; he was the king of curses, the all-powerful Ryomen Sukuna. In comparison, you were insignificant, an unsightly and hideous entity. Some might have overlooked your ascension to concubine if you were not such an eyesore.

You did not desire to be sacrificed to protect those wretched individuals, the ones who had mistreated you since birth. Vague memories of your mother being burned alive haunted you. The stench of charred flesh and witnessing your mother's agonized screams were unbearable. Yet, not a single person showed her an ounce of compassion. You despised them. The way they treated you as if you were a bastard child, a product of adultery. You vividly recalled the torment inflicted upon you by your father, who began to yearn for your mother again after being the cause of her demise.

As your body gradually matured, your father's gaze transformed into a repugnant predatory glare. The scar he inflicted upon your face mimicked the one your mother bore. Every time he laid his hands on you, you felt an overwhelming urge to puke. His comments about your resemblance to your mother made you contemplate self-annihilation. Each time you bathed, you vigorously scrubbed your skin until it turned a burning red, even drawing blood in some areas. The revulsion you felt toward your own body was indescribable. The day that man perished brought a sense of liberation, and beneath the cloth concealing half your face, a hidden smile emerged.

Now, your fervent hope is that this village, filled with detestable inhabitants, meets the same fiery fate as your mother. They do not deserve to live, nor do they deserve the privilege of breathing and leading peaceful lives, devoid of care in the world.

___________________________________________

"Make her more presentable."

With that command, you were abruptly handed over to the maids who bowed anxiously, displaying their respect for their king. Yet, he paid them no heed, his four eyes locked onto your gaze. Remarkably, you refused to avert your eyes. Normally, in the presence of this man, one's gaze should naturally shift downward. However, you held your ground, never once diverting your gaze.

He huffed dismissively before turning away and striding off. Your eyes followed him, fixated on his receding figure as he grew smaller and smaller. The maids beside you sighed audibly, relieved that they no longer had to prostrate themselves. Their expressions twisted with disdain as they regarded you, a sight they were accustomed to. "Let's start by bathing her." one of them suggested.

The bath itself could accommodate twenty people, a testament to the luxuries of the wealthy. As you undressed, you gingerly dipped your feet into the water, mentally preparing for the expected chill. To your surprise, the water was warm, enveloping you in comfort. It felt almost inviting, coaxing you to drift off to sleep. The maids recoiled in horror when you removed the cloth concealing your face, for it was a scar that not even makeup could conceal. Nevertheless, they attended to you diligently, beginning with your unusually long hair, a result of never having the means to afford a pair of scissors. They proceeded to scrub your body, a canvas adorned with blue and purple bruises. Strangely, it did not elicit pain. At least, that's what you convinced yourself.

After the bath, the scent of roses clung to your skin, an aromatic residue from the bathwater. They applied oils to your body and hair, meticulously attending to every detail. They trimmed your nails and tidied your hair, leaving it neatly styled. You pondered why they didn't cut it shorter, but you didn't bother questioning them. Subsequently, they dressed you in a kimono, meticulously fastening the obi and obijime. Truly, the affluent are coddled. They need not lift a finger, as everything is handed to them on a silver platter. Not that you were complaining; it was a novel experience to enjoy such privileges.

As the maids styled your hair, you hummed contentedly, fixating your gaze on a spot on the wall, conjuring faces in your imagination. Once they finished, they presented you with a feast, a veritable abundance of food. It could easily satiate thirty people. Did Sukuna intend to fatten you up to savor a more substantial meal? You wondered as you began to eat, only to have the maids promptly correct your eating mannerisms. How infuriating. Why should you learn the "proper" way to consume food? For heaven's sake, it's simply nourishment, and you certainly weren't dining like an animal. Although, in their eyes, you were likely no more than a beast. They even went so far as to correct your sitting posture, deeming it unladylike.

Tonight, you drifted off to sleep on a plush futon, relishing the comfort afforded by the opulent surroundings. You had glimpsed a taste of the opulence enjoyed by the rich, and you were content. The thought of tomorrow, whether you would become his next meal, briefly crossed your mind. However, you swiftly dismissed it. After all, your wrists remained slender; Sukuna likely preferred his victims with a bit more flesh, not mere bones.

___________________________________________

Months elapsed, and your health steadily improved, resulting in a much more favorable appearance. However, you had yet to catch a glimpse of the man responsible for your newfound opulent lifestyle.

Today, you made the decision to venture outside into the garden for the first time. Until now, you had remained sequestered within the confines of your chamber. After all, there was little incentive to venture out when the maids attended to your every need and little was demanded of you—simply staying silent and breathing was sufficient. Nevertheless, today you yearned for a breath of fresh air. Even you could grow weary of the sight of the same chamber, furniture, and faces adorning the walls and ceiling.

The garden was a sight to behold, meticulously maintained, as one would expect. You pondered whether Sukuna had an appreciation for the beauty of nature. However, you found it difficult to imagine such a scenario—a rather amusing thought, nonetheless.

"The mouse has finally emerged from her hole?"

A familiar voice sounded beside you. You glanced to your side to find him standing there, arms crossed over his chest, while the other pair dangled loosely at his sides. His approach had gone unnoticed, highlighting just how vulnerable you must appear in his eyes. He wasn't looking directly at you; instead, his gaze remained fixed straight ahead. His voice had been a rarity in recent months, but it possessed a distinctive quality that had been etched into your memory. Raising one hand, you pulled up the sleeves of your kimono and began kneading the flesh on your wrist. This action seemed to pique his interest, as his lower pair of eyes fixated on your movement. "What are you doing?" he inquired.

From the beginning, you should have realized that the maids were preparing you as the next course for the King of Curses. It became apparent once they applied a different oil to your skin. Did he prefer the taste of flesh seasoned with rose oil? You had discreetly sampled it when the maids weren't looking, and it tasted awful. The only redeeming qualities were its color and scent. "Do you enjoy consuming women who lack substantial flesh?" you replied, countering his question with one of your own. "What?" His face now turned towards you, all four eyes focusing intently. "I possess very little flesh, so I doubt you would derive pleasure from devouring me," you added with a sigh. Everyone has their preferences. Well, at least the lavish life had been enjoyable while it lasted.

"What kind of consumption are we discussing here?" he huffed, appearing somewhat amused. You noticed a slight curl at the corner of his mouth. Did he find this situation entertaining? "Are there different types?" you inquired, furrowing your brows. He seemed to tense as he averted his gaze, fixing his attention straight ahead once more. "Forget it." he dismissed. "I am not here to consume anyone. I was not even aware that you would step out of your chamber." He scoffed, yet he seemed to take notice when you took a step away from him. "I said I'm not here to consume anyone."

"I am simply being cautious. You might change your mind." you replied, tugging at your sleeve to occupy yourself. You heard him sigh, perhaps out of annoyance, who knows. "I did not bring you here to devour you."

"Nevertheless, you might still change your mind." you argued, unwilling to take any risks. "I believe I might change my mind if you continue to be this irritating." he declared, his grip on his biceps tightening. It was becoming apparent that provoking the King of Curses was not a wise course of action. "You've just proven my point..." you groaned softly, realizing the futility of continuing the conversation.

For a while, silence hung between the two of you, initially carrying a certain tension that gradually dissipated over time. "Why do you keep me around? I had assumed you would dispose of me once you had your fill." you broke the silence, but he offered no response. He himself lacked an answer to that question, a rather absurd realization. He simply walked away, leaving you to ponder the matter on your own. You decided it was time to return indoors; you had experienced your share of fresh air, and that was enough.

___________________________________________

You found yourself inexplicably seated on the ground, hands planted firmly to support your upper body. Tilting your head upward, you locked eyes with the figure before you—Sukuna. He cast a fleeting glance your way before resuming his heavy, enraged strides. A shiver coursed down your spine, regret flooding over you. You should have remained hidden away in your room.

Sukuna was no ordinary individual. Known for his merciless killings, he was not one to simply "forgive and forget." How could you forget such a fact just because you had a seemingly harmless conversation in the garden? This man had the power to slice you into countless pieces, showing no mercy to anyone. And you, in truth, held no special significance. Your right arm throbbed from the impact of the accidental collision with him. You couldn't help but wonder how it would have felt if it had been intentional, rather than a mere accident.

Dusting off your kimono, you rose from the ground. If you wished to avoid a premature demise, you knew you should confine yourself to your room, remaining silent and simply breathing. Otherwise, you would be cutting short your insignificant, pitiful existence. Returning to your chamber, you berated yourself for getting ahead of your station. You were nothing more than a nobody, and if Sukuna decided to end your life, you would perish. No one would come to your defense. In the past year, you hadn't even bothered to establish connections, not even with the maids. Perhaps you should have, as it might prove beneficial in the future.

You had recently begun forming connections with the staff, finally making an effort to remember their names. Previously, you had dismissed such endeavors as futile, convinced that death was inevitable. However, you had recently come to the realization that you didn't want to die. You weren't ready to surrender just yet. It might seem foolish, but you were only human after all. Humans clung to life until the bitter end. Staying alive had become your primary mission. Be compliant, follow the rules, behave like a lady, stay silent, and speak only when spoken to. One thing you had learned about this cruel world was that women were merely objects of pleasure and vessels for bearing children.

Therefore, you mustn't overstep your boundaries. Remain silent and endure whatever comes your way. Despite bearing the title of a concubine, you were still a nobody. A year had passed since your arrival, and Sukuna had not once visited your chamber. You were nothing more than a useless, pitiable excuse for a person. Not a single day went by without the memory of his enraged expression haunting your thoughts. You had been fortunate once, but becoming arrogant would surely seal your fate. The next encounter would likely be your last.

___________________________________________

You were overcome with a profound sense of dread upon receiving the summons. The shattered remnants of the delicate teacup, from which you had been sipping moments ago, now lay scattered at your feet like a shattered mirror of your own fractured composure. Why had the formidable Lord Sukuna requested your presence to dine with him? For this was no mere request - Sukuna's words carried the inescapable weight of absolute command, regardless of how they were phrased.

For the past two years, you had carefully cultivated a life of deliberate obscurity, purposefully making yourself scarce and unnoticeable to all, even earning the unenviable title of "the forgotten concubine." Sukuna's other consorts did not even view you as a challenge, granting you the blessing of fading entirely from his consciousness. And yet, here you were, called to his presence once more after such a prolonged absence.

The temptation to take your own life crossed your mind, but you swiftly dismissed such a cowardly act as unworthy. "I understand. I shall attend His Grace forthwith." you replied solemnly to the servant, who swiftly departed to relay the message.

'His Grace' - how the honorific now dripped with ironic bitterness. There was a time, you recalled, when you had addressed Sukuna with the casual familiarity of a friend, narrowly escaping punishment for your irreverence. Taking a deep, steadying breath, you smoothed the delicate fabric, adorned with the embroidered lotuses, tying its lace into a small bow that got covered with your hair and made your way to the grand dining hall.

Sukuna was already present, elbow propped upon the table, chin resting contemplatively in his palm, exuding an air of bored indifference. The sumptuous feast laid out before him remained largely untouched. You bowed low in deferential obeisance. "Greetings, Your Grace." A muted hum of acknowledgment was his only response, granting you tacit permission to take your seat at the opposite end of the grand table. Your gaze studiously avoided meeting his, focused instead on the ornate tableware arranged before you.

"Your Grace, huh?" he muttered, a note of curiosity laced through his words. "I don't recall you ever addressing me so formally before. What changed?" Indeed, a great many things had shifted within you. You steeled yourself, replying. "My apologies for my previous rudeness and lack of proper decorum."

I am now more acutely aware of my station and position within these hallowed halls.

Your response, however, did not seem to satisfy him, for he scoffed dismissively before turning his attention to the sumptuous feast laid out before him. You wondered what it was he truly sought to hear from you, for he appeared decidedly unsettled by your courteous words.

"Why aren't you eating?" he questioned, an edge of impatience coloring his tone.

"I did not wish to presume to partake without your express permission, Your Grace." you replied demurely.

In truth, the very prospect of consuming food in his imposing presence filled you with a sense of profound unease, as if your stomach might rebel at any moment. Yet, you dared not voice such trepidation aloud.

"Don't wait for my permission to eat," he grumbled, his irritation palpable. "Begin when I do."

"As you wish, Your Grace." You grasped your chopsticks, your eyes falling upon the delicate rolls of futomaki. Raising the morsel to your lips, you hesitated, your ever-present veil of concealment still in place.

"The hell are you doing?" he growled, his brow furrowed in annoyance. "Just take that damn cloth off and eat like a normal person."

You swallowed thickly, your gaze averted. "The scar upon my face is rather unsightly, and I did not wish to disturb your meal with its unsightly presence."

His response caught you off guard, for he scoffed dismissively. "I've consumed human flesh thousands of times. A little scar is nothing I haven't seen before."

Was that his attempt at providing some semblance of comfort? If so, it had been a rather shitty effort. Yet, you dared not voice such an assessment, for you knew all too well the perilous consequences that could arise from such irreverence. Slowly, you removed the delicate cloth, placing it within easy reach upon the table, and resumed your meal, acutely aware of his unrelenting gaze upon you.

The sudden summons had taken you by surprise, leaving you to wonder at his motives. Had your chance encounter in the past provoked this unexpected audience? Yet, the passage of time since that incident made such a reaction seem oddly delayed. A myriad of questions threatened to spill forth, but you dared not give voice to them, fearful of overstepping the bounds of propriety.

Remaining silent and obedient, you knew, could risk boring the capricious Ryomen Sukuna, for he demanded constant entertainment. However, you were uncertain whether drawing his interest would be a prudent course of action. A life of peaceful obscurity was your fervent wish, though you harbored doubts as to whether such a fate was truly attainable.

To your astonishment, Sukuna seemed unbothered by the scar that marred your countenance. In truth, for a man, such a blemish was often viewed as a mark of honor and bravery – a notion that, in your current circumstance, seemed utterly incongruous. Yet, you dare not dwell upon such fanciful musings, for his very presence filled you with a profound sense of unease.

You continued your meal in silence, offering only the briefest of responses when he posed questions, effectively stifling any attempt at meaningful discourse. Sukuna, you sensed, grew increasingly vexed by your reserved demeanor, a stark contrast to the spirited disposition he had once witnessed.

Your repeated apologies, too, seemed to grate upon his nerves, and you had somehow managed to strike the delicate balance between captivating his interest and avoiding his wrath.

___________________________________________

You had inadvertently piqued the interest of Ryomen Sukuna himself.

You were not the only one to have discerned this fact, as his other concubines had also become acutely aware of the shift in his attention. At first, your increased frequency of shared meals with him had not seemed to elicit any particular reaction from the others. However, when Sukuna began to visit your personal quarters more often than before, the jealousy and resentment of his other companions began to simmer.

Soon, the insults and petty acts of harassment commenced, as the other concubines sought to undermine and humiliate you. Yet, you remained steadfast in your composure, recognizing that their outbursts were rooted in the delusion of a genuine, romantic connection with the capricious daimyo. In truth, you all were trapped in this gilded cage, bereft of familial or social ties that might offer the prospect of escape.

The lack of reaction from you seemed to gradually extinguish the interest of your tormentors, and you were able to return to the semblance of a peaceful existence, though the frequent visits from Sukuna himself continued to weigh heavily upon your mind.

Seeking refuge, you resorted to the ruse of claiming illness, sequestering yourself within the confines of your quarters. As you sat upon the zabuton, contemplating the best means of avoiding his unwanted attention, you carefully dried your damp hair, your thoughts consumed by the need to devise a plausible excuse to keep Sukuna at bay.

At that moment, the door suddenly slid open, and Sukuna himself stepped through the threshold. In the wake of his imposing presence, his attendants carried boxes tightly wrapped in intricate Furoshiki cloth.

"Ah, my sweet lotus has finally awoken. I was beginning to worry I might have to summon the imperial physician once more." he remarked, his voice laced with a palpable undercurrent of sarcasm. Advancing closer, his massive form cast a looming shadow over you, a vivid reminder of your chance encounter in the hallway.

"Your grace, you're here.." you murmured, your tone flat and devoid of any discernible emotion. A cursory glance at the boxes carried by the servants quickly dissipated your interest, as your eyes returned to meet his penetrating gaze.

"What? Not happy to see me, my sweet lotus?" Sukuna said, his voice tinged with amusement. He observed you in silence, his eyes intently fixed upon your every movement. "Perhaps you'd like to be carried back to bed?" He chuckled softly, his hand reaching up to gently brush a stray, damp lock of hair from your face. "I would hate for you to overexert yourself."

"I'm fine, thank you for your concern, my lord." you swiftly dismissed the suggestion, your hands continuing their work as you dried your hair. "I'm grateful for your visit."

Sukuna raised a single, skeptical eyebrow, his mouth curling into a sardonic smirk. "Are you? It seems to me that you have been actively avoiding my presence of late." His tone had grown low and serious, his eyes scanning your countenance with an intensity that belied his true intentions.

"Is there something amiss? Perhaps if you were to obtain a bit more rest, you would find yourself in a more amiable mood to converse." he mused, his voice tinged with a hint of feigned concern.

"I assure you, I am not avoiding you, my lord. I would never dream of such an act." you responded, your tone resolute.

"You're not?" Sukuna remarked, a subtle note of disbelief coloring his words. "Then why is it that you so often shrink away from my presence? I cannot help but suspect that this supposed illness of yours is nothing more than a convenient excuse to elude me." He took a measured step closer, his towering figure casting a looming shadow over your seated form.

"You would do well to be more forthright and transparent with me, my lotus," he said, his eyes filled with a palpable disdain. "I have little tolerance for liars, especially those who lack the decency to even fabricate their falsehoods to my face."

You knew he had seen through your deception. Lying to Sukuna was a perilous endeavor, yet you steeled your resolve. "I assure you, my lord, I am not being untruthful."

"Oh? So you're telling me that you are not, in fact, avoiding me, yet your actions suggest my very presence is unwelcome," he said, his gaze darkening as he reached out to cup your cheek, running a calloused thumb along the contours of your lips.

"You may well be able to deceive others with your falsehoods," he whispered, his voice laced with a palpable undercurrent of danger. "But when it comes to me, I see through your every attempt at obfuscation. I know when you are hiding something from me, my lotus."

"I merely required a respite," you sighed, resigning yourself to a degree of honesty. "Spending time in your company has incited jealousy among your other concubines, and they have taken to tormenting me. I sought refuge in my chambers to avoid such unpleasantness." It was not a complete lie, but rather a carefully constructed excuse that sounded plausible.

Sukuna's eyes narrowed perceptibly at the mention of the other concubines' actions. He fell silent for a moment, his gaze intently fixed upon you.

"Those concubines should know better than to provoke you," he said, his voice cold and unyielding. "And you, my lotus," he added with a scoff, "you should have come to me directly. Hiding away in your chambers is not the solution." Reaching out, he gently took hold of your chin, compelling you to meet his unwavering gaze. "This matter could have been resolved swiftly had you confided in me, instead of resorting to avoidance."

"Please, do not kill them," you requested, "but rather punish them accordingly." You did not wish for their lives to be forfeit, only for them to face appropriate consequences for their actions.

Sukuna's lips curled into a sardonic smirk, a gleam of dark amusement sparking in his eyes. "Oh? Are they truly worth the exertion of my time and energy to be punished?" he mused, his tone tinged with a hint of derision.

"Very well," he conceded, the corner of his mouth twisting into a cold, cruel smile. "Consider it done. I shall personally see to it that they are dealt with in a manner befitting their transgressions." Turning his gaze back to you, he added, "And as for you, you will accompany me for the remainder of the day."

___________________________________________

You found yourself the recipient of an increasing number of gifts, though you were unsure how to truly feel about this development. Silently, you accepted these offerings, allowing them to accumulate untouched within your chambers, left to rot without ever being utilized.

This apparent disregard for his generosity seemed to have caught Sukuna's attention. How dare you not make use of the gifts he had bestowed upon you? Your seeming ingratitude clearly annoyed him, stirring a rage within that threatened to consume his composure.

"My sweet lotus," he began, his words seemingly benign, yet his tone spoke of a simmering fury lurking beneath the surface. That familiar endearment, so often used to address you, now carried a palpable undercurrent of menace. "Are the gifts not to your liking?" he asked, stepping closer until his looming figure cast a shadow over your seated form.

You sat upon a zabuton, positioned atop the tatami floor, your hand pausing in the act of combing your hair as you caught his reflection in the mirror before you. "My lord, I assure you, I appreciate all that you have gifted me. They are truly lovely." you responded, your words ringing hollow even to your own ears. No matter the quality of the offerings, you could not bring yourself to feel genuine gratitude for them.

"Do you now?" he scoffed mockingly, leaning down until his breath caressed the shell of your ear, his eyes meeting yours through the mirror's surface. "Or are you merely saying what you believe I wish to hear?" A shiver ran down your spine at his words.

"My lord—" you began, only for him to cut you off. "Enough with the obedient act, my sweet lotus."

"I despise the vile creatures called humans," he trailed off, one of his hands reaching out to pluck the comb from your grasp, "but I loathe liars even more than I hate mankind, and i have a already made it clear before." The comb glided smoothly through your hair as you maintained unwavering eye contact with him through the mirror, your silence becoming a tacit acknowledgment of his accusation.

"If you value your life, I would advise you to speak the truth." Sukuna warned, his grip on your chin tightening, causing you to wince. Your gaze lowered reflexively, but he quickly rectified that, roughly guiding your eyes back to meet his through the mirror.

"Keep those pretty eyes focused on me, darling." he commanded, a grin replacing the frown that had previously marred his features.

Your hand reached up to grasp his wrist, your nails digging into his flesh as you felt the tightening of his fingers on your chin. His gaze fell to where your nails pierced his skin, and his grin widened with amusement. "Make me bleed. Go on." he chuckled, and you complied, watching as his blood tainted your nails and dripped down to stain your kimono. The metallic scent of the blood hit your nostrils.

"You've made a mess. Why don't you clean it up, darling?" he mused, releasing your chin and raising his arm slightly, positioning the bleeding wound before your mouth. You moved your head back, causing it to press against his chest. "Why are you so afraid? I can assure you, my blood tastes amazing." he said, pushing your head forward until your lips connected with his wrist, the crimson liquid staining them.

You kept your lips tightly sealed, and he withdrew his wrist, studying your face. "Red suits you, my sweet lotus." he murmured, his gaze focused on your lips, his thumb gliding across the plump of your lips smearing is blood, before he captured them in a rough, demanding kiss. You tried to pull away, but his hand held the back of your head in place, and his lower pair of hands snaked around your waist, anchoring you to him. His free hand caressed your cheek, a stark contrast to his forceful actions.

His tongue easily slipped past your lips as you opened them in a failed attempt to speak, and his eyes remained locked on yours, which you struggled to keep open amidst the overwhelming situation. Your hands gripped the fabric covering his chest tightly, and you felt tears forming in your eyes as you fought to draw breath.

Finally, he pulled away, but remained close, his breath caressing your skin. A thin strand of saliva connected your lips before it snapped, and you were left breathing heavily, striving to regain your composure. His laughter echoed in the room.

"What? Can't handle a simple kiss?" he taunted, his voice laced with amusement.

"There's a long way to go, darling."

[diejager]

hey! i sent an ask a couple months back now that i don’t believe you’ve responded too. i was just wondering if you a) actually got it because i know tumblr eats a lot of asks. b) just didn’t like the request (which is completely fine!!) or c) just haven’t gotten round to all asks. it was roughly about ghost x reader making soap watch them

A) tumblr devoured the fuck out of this and I never got it 😠

Stay, pup. Cw: smut, voyeurism, threesome, pup/kitten pet names, cockwarming, creampie, bdsm, tell me if I missed any.

For once, Soap cursed his impulsiveness, that irrational need to act towards a goal he stared at when others - Ghost - warned him not to. He cursed his puppy-like enthusiasm for making him eccentric and rash, dashing forward without a second thought when he lost a;; situational awareness. He cursed himself for not listening, that’s how he found himself tied to a chair, knots strung around his body with intricate patterns.

“Fuck please! LT!”

He’s panting, wrists tugging against the rough ropes in an attempt to escape his unfortunate situation, crying out to Ghost for mercy. He squirmed in his seat, swaying the chair left and right as he pulled on his restraints, nipples perked under his shirt and hardened cock trapped under his tight pants.

“Should’ve listened when I told you to stay, pup,” Ghost rumbling voice scolded Soap, his warm hues glaring at Soap coldly.

His eyes left the Scott’s whining figure, darting down to you with a softened grin, your sweating and gasping figure on his lap. With a blink, he ignored Soap’s plight to tighten his hold on your waist, canting his hips upwards to meet your thrusts halfway. You jerked forward, choking back a breath with a small whine, calling out Ghost’s name - Simon - as your knees locked.

You buckled over him, hands clinging to Ghost’s forearms, depending on him to move you up and down, riding his thick cock under his control. Your back arched, pushing your chest forward, breasts bobbing with every sharp thrust. Soap groaned at your perky nipples and swaying tits, your curved body giving him an erotic show, teasing his leaky and throbbing cock stuck in his pants.

“Giving ‘im a show, yeah?” Ghost chuckled, his deep, baritone voice rocking your body to the edge.

You gasped out a mewl, face hiding under his jaw, lips latching on the pale skin of his scarred jaw and sinking your teeth into him. You had an issue with bitting, littering his skin and Soap’s with red and purple marks, little signs of possession like Ghost looming and protective figure and Soap’s need to touch you at all times - which was part of the reason he was being punished.

Ghost’s chest rumbled, a low, drawn out grunt at your deep bites, driving his hips skyward in a sudden and erratic cant, shallowly thrusting in your clenching heat. His shaft throbbed, slick dripping down his balls and thighs tensing. His hand wandered down your waist to hold your knees open, showing Soap - with full intention of wringing out the most pitiful end for his pup - the white ring at the base of his cock, the slick-soaked pubes around the veins and your tight, little snatch swallowing all of him, cock, cum and all.

”Look at her, Johnny,” he growled, giving a few jerky push, riding out his orgasm and yours, painting your walls with his load, salty and musky cum. “At least she listens to orders.”

Soap exhaled shakily, his briefs soaked from coming, cock pressed down uncomfortably by how tight and damp it felt. He squirmed, he felt edged and still bothered, just the sight of your sweaty and panting figure had his cock jumping back up. He couldn’t help it, your limp body over Ghost’s, cockwarming him even while he leered at Soap, a pleased and sadistic gleam in his eyes.

“She behaves so well,” he turned to you, cupping your cheeks in his hand, lips puckered at him. “Don’t you, kitten?”

Taglist: @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @tallmanlover @distracteddragoness @vxnilla-hxrddrugs

[erisawrites]

How Windbreaker Men would be if they dated women like them

Context: A refresher from the generic trope of grumpy guy x sunshine girl where their lovers share the same traits and personalities as them, causing to bring out something besides their usual behaviour

Pairing: WB men x f!reader

Hajun/Joker

M A S T E R L I S T

The average mind would fail to comprehend Joker and romance in the same sentence, but people who thrive in a completely different world from the darkness the Sabbath cyclist hails from would of course be strict in their ideas of relationships.

Which is why everyone surrounding the two was stupefied upon the hard-launch of Joker and Y/N's relationship (“hard launch” because the two cared little to make their relationship everyone's business, with people finding out about them by spotting them holding hands once.)

They say opposites attract, but Joker and Y/N's relationship is a perfect contender to the notion, for if it weren't for her feminine stature and slightly ambivert personality, no outsider could distinguish from the two.

Of course, this doesn't mean they didn't bring out the best in each other, supported in times of roughness, looked after each other and all the customary acts of love. But of course, this came as a shocker to the average man. Though Hajun wondered how astonished they'd feel once they heard how his beloved could trigger even the exact opposite of his emotions. Opposite of his nonchalance, indifference and emotionlessness.

“Why didn't you call me?”

Her limbs froze in the doorway, the suffocating hoodie oddly feeling cold as chills raced down her spine.

“Y/N,”,Hajun climbed down the stairs, his light blue locks tousled from sleep and eyes bleary as they frowned, “Are you okay?”

Her frightened eyes narrowed to slits, realization sinking in her mind. Her gaze hardened with annoyance as she shuffled down the hall, clutching her duffel bag close to her hips. The woman passed the man silently, leaving his question hanging and a scowl etched across his face.

“Hey.”,though his face held little discernible emotion, his voice carried a softness he only reserved for the rare nights like these, “Talk to me.”

“Go to bed.”,she slipped into the laundry room hastily, slamming the door shut, only for it to be wedged by his foot, having him intrude her solitary space.

“Don't bother me.”,she snapped before he could open his mouth, but as her hoodie slipped over her shoulders, the battered view itself left his mouth agape.

“Y/N….”,his voice deflated as his eyes stilled over her bandaged limbs and bruised skin, “What happened?”

She didn't reply, simply ripping off the concealed hair ties, finally freeing her scalp from strenuous double braids. Her fingers, littered and reddened with tiny cuts, eagerly dug themselves into her locks to provide some relief, although her injuries called for much more than that.

She didn't bother stripping out of her sports bra and boxers uniform, too disoriented from lack of sleep and food to fuss over hygiene. “Just practice.”,she groaned a clarification, staggering past him with a hunched back and hand cupped atop her stomach. If they both battled in who can conceal their emotions best, she clearly possessed the losing position.

“No.”,a strong arm prevented her path, instantly triggering the woman's fingers to sink into his flesh, prepared to twist away his barricade-

“Let me, Y/N.”,he planted a hand on her shoulder. Warm, scarred hand, more scarred than hers. If his grip was firm, then it was a far cry from his stubborn resolution, a painstaking insistence to have her tended and treated like a baby deer, always camouflaged under his protective wind despite both of them sharing similar hardships. Their plates were too overflown with problems to consider others’ plight. And yet he stood there. And yet he barricaded there.

They stood in silence for several moments, most likely letting the woman even her haggard breathing, whose senses were still locked in high alert from the boxing ring.

When her shoulders drooped gradually, arms hanging limply, and her tense nerves relaxed at last did she allow herself to fall in his grasp, instantly clutched in his solid grip.

“There's we go!”,he groaned, face still hidden from her plane of view, but his relief was expressed even in his hands as he unwrapped her arm bands, and swept her greasy hair over her shoulder.

For a couple so deeply entwined with each other, little was spoken amongst them as he propped her against the dryer and cured every injury with the deftest care, as if she were precious porcelain. Annoyingly enough, he'd probably agree before valuing her at a higher category. The woman suppressed a snort, to think such a brute could be a beauty.

“Hm?”, his voice was gentle and soft, like dandelions skirting over her skin, “Is something funny?”

“You look so stupid.”,she jeered dryly, shoulders shaking with a chuckle, causing him to grunt.

“You're never grateful, are you?”,his speech was interrupted with her hiss upon contacting the medicinal cloth.

“I meant you look so stupid when you're in love.”,she grinned, a faint dash of pink dusting her cheeks, “It makes me wanna puke.”

“Good thing the washing machine's open for you.”,he scoffed, swiping her forehead.

The woman smirked, lifting her chin, “But that stupidness of yours also makes me fall harder for you.”

“Then good thing my arms are open for you.”,he grinned, eyes squinting with faint, but genuine comfort.

Though nobody could understand the bond the two fighters shared for each other, one longing, silent gaze deep into each other's eyes found themselves surrounded in more love than anyone could comprehend.

[kingkatsuki]

More Dragon King Bakugou, I’m sorry.

I couldn’t decide whether I wanted reader to be a villager who’s just watched everything she loves burn to dust, or a Naiad seeking revenge on the men who sully her waters.

The path of destruction that Dragon King Bakugou leaves in his wake is infamous amongst the realms. A ruthless King apathetic to the plight of other Kingdoms, or the creatures that reside within them. The molten inferno that rages within his Dragons and turns villages to dust is known to the nation, and feared by those who reside within it. Because those who battle with the ruthless King rarely make it out alive.

Blood cascades down his body in crimson tides, enough red to fool you into thinking it’s his own. The sickening scent of metal blends with the scorch of burning flesh and death. It permeates the land, drowning it in the pungent aroma of destruction. It has you slipping deeper down beneath the flowing river, pushing your nose beneath the water to avoid breathing in the rancid air.

The blond man, the so called King, begins to disrobe. Letting the soaked layers of fur and leather drop to the floor as he bares himself to the world, unbothered that anyone could see him now— not that there are many people left to witness the sight. His army leave no prisoners, everyone fed to the blazing fire and brimstone.

You can’t stop the throb that settles between your thighs as he bares his all, muscular chest littered with scars and hair as he scratches a bloodied hand against a pectoral. Your eyes follow the map of his sternum towards the prominent V that leads lower, meeting his heavy cock that hangs down from the sheer weight as it pulses. Clearly excited by the bloodshed as he steps a foot into the cool depths, illuminated by the embers that continue to burn behind him. Sullying the once pure with the blood of others, tainting the liquid with the same putrid scent of death.

The soft groan that rumbles in his chest vibrates through the calm water, causing you to shudder as you wade back. Eyes still focused intently on his form as he cleans the blood of others from his scarred skin, soothing the fierce inferno that boils inside his heart— if he even has one. You shouldn’t be so intrigued by a man so dangerous, or so allured. The heat boils inside you, and you’re certain it’s not from the blaze that still lashes at the decimated village.

A sudden splash has vermilion eyes focused and intent, nose furrowed as he stands in the shallow river. Arms poised and ready to battle, even when he’s completely exposed. And the fear that you’d tried so hard to keep at bay now permeates your very being, as you try to decide whether to wade deeper or stand your ground.

You raise to match his stance, the river wades around your thighs as you reveal yourself to the ruthless King. He lowers his arms and relaxes his stance, as though he’s already decided that you’re not a threat to him. But he should be more cautious, especially when you have nothing to lose.

[arisveah]

thought about life series scott, and how infuriating yet so relatable his character can be (especially in relation to double life), and ended up using his and pearls relationship as a metaphor for chronic pain, which not even i know how happened. anyway its below the cut if you want 6 paragraphs of character study :)

life series scott is honestly such an intriguing and infuriating character. he is honorable, but in the same way he is petty and bitter. he pushes aside his wants and values for the better, more agreeable thing so much that he often ends up pushing the burden of emotional health onto his allies, and makes their choices for them. he's so parentified older sibling that becomes over controlling and emotionally repressed coded, yk?

in his never-ending attempts to do good, he saves the short term pain and leaves longer lasting scars and aftershocks. and scott does this a lot with his characters- think season 1 empires scott and his comparison to elsa. when something bad happens, he scrambles to take it on himself and inevitably creates rifts between himself and others in his plight to be a "hero". hes not evil, or even self centered- he cares so deeply about keeping his friends safe that he smothers them with jagged shards of glass, and when it hurts them he tries to deflect the blame. every person he sees is another he feels responsible for.

as a double life pearl apologist, it was kinda hard for me to see scott in a positive light. but if you think about it, all his decisions make sense for his character. in the last life finale, scotts final move is to kill ren as revenge for him killing pearl. they had been close the whole season, and scott lived to the end BECAUSE pearl was there for him to fall back on. for the first time on screen, scott relied on someone else- and then he saw her die and leave him alone. in the next season, its revealed that he will be tied to someone else again, and they'll need to share EVERYTHING if they want to win. and in this position, scott is most comfortable being the breadwinner. but it starts to seem like his soulmate doesn't need him, and he starts to panic, because the death of pearl (the last person who didnt need him) hit him hard and she might’ve lived if she wasnt giving him lives. he worries he will be a leech in their partnership, but he cant quite bring himself to terms with that. so when pearl and martyn step back into the overworld and take initiative on finding the soulmates at last, scott worries. he's never alone, never been alone, so he subconsciously goes to the closest source of non-painful comfort he can: cleo, his long(er)-dead ally from a previous life. he starts making allies, because scott is nothing if not diplomatic. and then he finds out that he is tied to pearl by life and death, again. that every time he dies, she will also lose a life, again. its a scathing reminder of the previous season, so scott pulls away. he cant do that to her, not again, and maybe if he pulls back she won't pity him when he fails to protect her. hell, maybe he wont even need to protect her.

but then pearl starts getting upset. and scott feels like he owes her, deep down, but he also feels like he's paying his debt and she just keeps hurting them, and he can't handle the blame from both sides anymore. he gets bitter, and decides that pearls death mustve been her own fault, that she's too emotional and that will get them BOTH killed- and he thinks of cleo and how much they need an ally and he cant just leave her- he needs to control the situation.

this whole post was inspired by the interaction during pearls video where hes digging at her tendency to hold grudges, and has her make the team diamond swords. it felt awful to watch, and kinda instilled a dread in me about how they are going to interact for the rest of the season. but i'm going to make a crazy analogy here so buckle up. as someone with chronic pain and joint issues in the american health/school system, the best metaphor i can come up with is when you go to a trusted adult for advisory, health interventions, or pain meds, but the system doesn't allow for them to help you. and its not their fault, but it starts to feel less and less like you should be saying thank you for trying and more like they just dont care. and you start to get bitter, and you start to pretend that you dont even care if they can or cant help you anymore, but you do. scott and pearls relationship feels a lot like putting your trust in someone for the first time, but they fall through by external means, and when they show back up you feel bitter and unwilling to let your walls back down. your fine, you can and have handled it alone your whole life. but everyone keeps offering to take responsibility and it just makes you sick that it took so long and now you dont even want their help.

basically, what im saying is pearl and scott could be besties again if they just talked over what they feel they owe eachother. but ALSO what im saying is yeah, life series scott kinda sucks- but he sucks because he tries so to be honorable that it circles back around to unfair and prejudiced. he just needs a bit of therapy and some anti anxiety meds <3 this somehow became a whole thing about disability and child neglect but like whatever

[ryoalouette]

Brain demands a dp x dc prompt.

So I shall answer.

Just recently there has been an urban legend. Every single night, without fail, in the same time down to the dot- there will be a specific radio channel that will transmit a bone-chilling message.

Help. SOS. Help. S C R E A M- NO N O- (And then a series of numbers, shakily said) (a sob)

This has started since about one month or two ago.

Tim has been notified by one Bernard, and searching through the Batcomputer yielded little results. Jason happened to be behind him when Tim was researching, and between them, there were several things to be noted. Speaker sounded young, like in the middle of puberty. 13 years old is probably the youngest estimation, 19 being the oldest. Male. Doesn’t seem like acting, the message sounds too real. Amongst other things, prolly, since. Detectives.

Time passes, and they got a pinpoint of location that was oddly blacked out by the government itself. Hm. Suspicious.

So Jason, the one who’s still legally dead, no one would look for him (aside from Batfam and some), no one has expectation on his image considering he’s legally dead, took off, maybe with his team of Outlaws or nah, to get to the location.

What they found was a ghost town with many scars in Midwest, and a shade (ghost??) of a young man wearing glasses and beret who would appear in the radio station of this small town to air his (town’s) plight.

[angelwings-crossbowstrings]

Series Masterlist

Chapter 13

Warnings: Typical TWD violence and gore; Night terrors; Mild illness; Minor sexual themes; Allusions to abuse; Mention of scars

A/N: I somehow banged this out with a migraine and a horrible bout of depression, so it may receive further editing. If I change anything major, I’ll highlight it and make it known that there is new content. I’m never confident about my work but even less so this time. This slow-burn is really burning slow because our two damaged, adorable idiots. But they’re making progress! Thanks for sticking with me anyway. 💙

Carol was able to pull Daryl aside early the following morning. When she stopped just below the top step, she could see you were sound asleep on the mattress, curled in on yourself in a way she hadn’t seen for a while. Her heart ached with the knowledge that your trust in her had been damaged, if not destroyed, by two loathsome snakes. 

Beside you, atop a sleeping bag on the floor, Daryl was awake with one arm behind his head while the other hand was busy twirling a bolt between his fingers. He already knew she was there, that came as no surprise. He held a finger to his lips that moved to make a shooing motion as he quietly got to his still booted feet. Carol descended and waited on the bottom step. 

His hand came to rest on the small of her back to guide her to the main door and outside. No way he’d risk anyone overhearing this conversation. 

“What’s up, Pookie?” She grinned at him when he scowled and grumbled under his breath. Why she insisted on calling him that was beyond him. It didn’t make him uncomfortable. Maybe it had just settled into their own form of banter and he didn’t really mind at all. That’s not why he was here though!

Focus, dumbass. “Need ta talk ‘bout Y/N.” He felt his cheeks begin to warm, finding himself pleading with any deity that it was too early and there was too little light for her to see. 

“So I gathered after that hug I saw.” His gaze snapped up to hers, more surprised than angry. She was immediately holding up her hands to bid him pause. “I wasn’t snooping! I had just come inside and you apparently were so wrapped up— literally —that you didn’t notice me.”

He held his intensity briefly before he deflated. “Th’fuck am I doin’, Carol?” He valued her opinion. She hardly ever steered him wrong, fearing he’d be hurt either emotionally or physically and that was not something she was willing to risk. He knew that. 

“I told you before. I think you like her. Here, sit down.” He huffed a breath through his nose but obliged nonetheless, climbing on top of a table with his boots on the bench. Carol took her place beside him. “I think you’re feeling connected with her somehow. Maybe like you and me.”

“Nah. Well…maybe.” He growled and propped his elbows on his knees, his fingers tugging at his hair in frustration. “I know I want ‘er ta be safe, wanna protect ‘er. Feel responsible fer ‘er.”

“If you’re asking my honest opinion, and I think you are or I wouldn’t be out here right now, I don’t think this is a question of responsibility, Daryl.” He let his left hand drop and tipped his head to face her, fingers of his right hand still in his hair. “You want to be her friend and even though she’s scared, she wants that too.”

The archer opened his mouth, only to snap it shut with a clicking of teeth. He suddenly felt self conscious, worried that his best friend, of all people, would judge him for the explicit thoughts he was having about you. He decided quickly that he wouldn’t divulge that portion of his plight. It made most of the conversation asinine but why did he ever think he could fess up to something so perverse? 

“I don’t think spending a little more time with her would be such a bad thing. If anything, maybe you could help her feel safe again.” Carol looked down at her hands, picking idly at her nails. 

“Ya gon’ try n’ patch things up with ‘er?” Truthfully, he was grateful to take the focus off of himself for even a moment. 

Carol nodded, looking out over the trees at the first light of the morning that began to stretch across the sky. “Yeah, I will. Maybe when she’s in a better headspace.” 

Daryl tipped his chin down in a nod, unable to manage any words of support before the prison door burst open. Maggie called out, most likely for him, but he was already moving at the sound of your screams, passing over the threshold in only a few large strides. He cleared two steps at a time on his way up, no hesitation before kneeling beside the mattress. 

Nightmares were a part of trauma with which he was intimately familiar. 

“Hey, hey, hey. Y/N. Wake up, girl.” He made sure not to touch you. The presence of hands on you when caught between awake and asleep after a night terror would result in nothing good. He knew from experience. Your head rolled back and forth, tears cascading down your temples, your face red from screaming though you had quieted to moans and whimpers. 

“She woke up the whole prison.” Carl muttered from beside Rick on the steps, clearly annoyed. 

Distantly, Judith had begun to wail; several voices were raised. Daryl turned toward the audience gathered in his space, the discontentment in his glare enough to send them scattering to do damage control. Carol stayed behind, her presence acting as an anchor when he seemed to falter. 

He blocked out everything else, his entire focus on you. He usually woke from his nightmares on his own and retreated, but watching you struggle— watching you suffer —wasn’t something he could sit idly by and do nothing to at least try and help you. It was a long shot, but he carefully leaned across to where you laid, as close to your ear as he could get without touching, and whispered so low that Carol could only watch his mouth move. 

“Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul n’ sings the tune without the words n’ never stops at all.” 

He felt ridiculous once the first word fell from his lips, but when you began to settle, he blinked and watched you for any indication that you would wake or fall back into your terror. You did neither. He was worrying his bottom lip between his teeth when he stood, careful not to disturb the mattress. 

Carol appeared just as surprised. “What’d you say to her?”

It was a reflex to become defensive but the sharp words died on his tongue. Had it been anyone else, surely he wouldn’t have held back. He never meant to be cold or cruel to anyone. It was in his hardwiring, and he had been actively attempting to alter the circuitry since finding a place within the group. 

“Was a, uh…a thing I read once in school. Kinda stuck with me. Ain’t important.” He was scratching the back of his head absentmindedly, more concerned with the flush he knew had assumed residence on his cheeks. 

Carol leaned around him to see you snoring softly. She smirked and patted his cheek, leaving him there to go help with the calamity in the cells. He was chewing his thumbnail seconds after her departure, watching you from the top of the stairs. 

He removed his boots there, afraid the noise would disrupt your newfound peace. A sudden exhaustion settled over him, his sleeping bag feeling like the plushest mattress at the fanciest hotel— not that he knew what that felt like anyway. He assumed it would probably be more of a distraction than a comfort. He’d rather have a cot or the hard ground deep in the wilderness any day. 

Daryl stared at the high ceilings, barely visible in the darkness that had consumed the space without the flashlights and candles of the perturbed residents. Try as he might to focus on the most trivial things, his thoughts continued to circle back to you. 

There was a rustling of fabric and he let his head roll toward the mattress. You had turned toward him, face still relaxed in peaceful slumber. His blue eyes narrowed, the pinched expression he always had when trying to piece something together. Rolling over, he turned his back to you and scrubbed a hand over his face. 

He was beyond fucked. 

Over the span of the next week, you could take apart a gun, clean it, and put it back together. You struggled with remembering the order of reassembling at first but, to your pleasant surprise, Daryl was alarmingly patient. His jaw would tick once in a while, obviously holding back the urge to rush you. You had smiled gratefully, stifling a giggle at his mumbled curse. 

You still hadn’t spoken, aside from the first day in Daryl’s perch. No, not even to him. He didn’t seem to mind but you caught the few times he’d speak and look at you from the corner of his eye, almost like he was hopeful that what he’d said would merit a verbal response. 

Regardless, it was as if your voice had just locked itself away somewhere dark in the fissures scattered across your mind. You were even more damaged, more broken than before. 

When Daryl was leaving to hunt, you tried to follow. It was one of the few times in this new dynamic between the two of you that he seemed to lose the composure he had gradually been building around you. 

“Hell nah! Ain’t takin’ ya out there and babysittin’ ya when ya don’ know shit ‘bout wha’ yer doin’ in here! Get on back inside!” 

You flinched away with your lip quivering. He didn’t apologize. With a growl of annoyance, he yelled for the gate to be opened and stomped into the forest. His demeanor was different when he returned, a few rabbits in hand. After prepping and dropping off his kills with Carol, he approached you and said it was time for you to become familiar with a gun. 

You thought that pointing and firing was the jist of it. You couldn’t have been more wrong. Just like the ‘stab and pull’ at the fence, you would now ‘disassemble and reassemble’. It wasn’t clear to you why learning this step was important but if Daryl was uncompromising in teaching you, then you would learn. 

You worked hard to familiarize yourself with the weapons, scrutinizing each surface, weighing them in your hands, meticulously examining the parts to see how they fit together. You’d catch the archer watching you while he busied himself with other projects; sharpening his knives, carving bolts, tending to his crossbow. There were a few times that you could have sworn you’d seen him smile. 

The man had become a steady presence, allowing you to follow him and learn the more hands-on aspects of protecting the prison. Once you had healed and felt like accompanying him outside, he had trained you for another day with your knife before allowing you to start helping him clear the fences daily. The meals he didn’t skip were spent eating silently beside you, disappearing long before you had finished. He showered daily, sometimes twice. You overheard Maggie and Carol make mention of how they’d never seen him so adamant to remain clean. At the end of the day, sometimes he’d join you in the perch. Other times, you fell asleep alone.

Those nights were when the men that had hurt you would penetrate your dreams, painting them thickly with a suffocating shroud of black and gray. They would corner you, reach out with their filthy fingers like claws, and you’d cower in anticipation of the pain. Always before a single inch of your skin could be marred, a wall erected itself in front of you, protecting you. A warmth would seep from the structure, enveloping you in a safety that forced the darkness from your dreams. You would wake up feeling rested but always still alone. 

Daryl, on the other hand, always looked tired. The days he appeared haggard and sluggish were when his patience flagged. He would raise his voice before he would seemingly think better of it, walk a short distance away for a cigarette, and return with that kindness again present in his exhausted gaze. 

Today was one of those days. 

You hadn’t done anything to set him off, simply cleaning the .22 pistol he’d given you while he sat on the other end of the picnic bench hunched over the table. He didn’t look at you or even check your progress, simply sitting with his elbows on the table and a hand on each side of his head. It was likely better to leave him be, just continue with your task. Attempting to engage him would most certainly lead to nothing good. 

Then he coughed. 

You made quick work of the reassembling, placed the weapon down on the cloth, and folded your hands on your lap, eyeing the archer for several minutes before he noticed no sound coming from your side of the table. Daryl dropped a hand to the flat surface and squinted red-rimmed eyes at you. He was quite pale compared to just that morning when you’d found him outside. He didn’t seem like he was sick very often. Maybe battered, bruised, and bloody but not sick. 

You pursed your lips and slid down the bench, stopping across from him to lean forward with your arms folded on the table. 

“Wha’re ya doin’?” His voice was more raspy than usual, a rougher edge that sounded uncomfortable. Your head tilted even though he seemed less than thrilled to be under your scrutiny. “G’on. Work on the gun.” He rubbed his eyes with a thumb and forefinger, a deep sigh shifting into another cough. Daryl turned his face into his elbow and waved you toward the other side. 

You refused to budge. 

“S’wrong with ya? Got a hearin’ prob—” You could see the moment he caught himself and reined in the hostility. “Jus’ take the day. Ya done good. Work on handlin’ the thing tomorrow.” The hunter didn’t wait for you to move. Probably just assumed you would. With his arms now folded similarly to your own, he laid his forehead on top of them with a groan. 

Your concern only grew when he didn’t sense you were still present. With a deep breath, you slid back over to grab the cloth and gun, tucking the weapon into the waistband of your jeans and the cloth into your back pocket. You would be lying if you didn’t admit to feeling a small amount of anxiety while approaching him. You needed to repeatedly remind yourself that it was Daryl and he would never hurt you. 

When close enough, you placed a hesitant palm against the back of his head. The archer flinched and quickly bolted upright, startling you in the process. 

“Th’fuck, Y/N?” He barked hoarsely. Your smaller hand wrapped around his wrist, fingers loose on the too warm skin in case he pulled away. You motioned for him to follow you with the slightest tug of his arm. He was definitely confused but without knowing what you needed, he followed obediently. Your hand remained around his wrist. 

The gloom inside the prison only made Daryl look worse. He was clearly exhausted and battling what seemed to be a cold. Hopefully nothing more than that. He said nothing as you guided him up the stairs and stepped out of his way upon reaching the top. Brow knitted, he pressed the heel of his left hand against his forehead. 

“Gon’ explain or ‘m I gettin’ three guesses?” His voice strained at the end when he tried and failed to subdue a cough. Ducking your head to catch his eye after the spell, you pointed to the mattress. “Huh?”

You deadpanned. Daryl was anything but dense. He had to be sick if he wasn’t understanding what you were trying to accomplish. You realized that your hand still held his wrist and walked backwards to urge him along, stepping up onto the mattress with what you hoped was an encouraging smile. 

Daryl did not appear to be encouraged. Wide blue eyes vibrated as he attempted to look between your own. “Y/N.” He was gentle when he extricated his arm, stepping backward with a shake of his head. 

It was your turn to be confused. You simply wanted to get him to lie down on the— oh. It started as a giggle but soon you were actually laughing, damn near startling yourself. The befuddled alarm he was wearing so exposedly gradually recast to a warm focus. You placed your palms flat together and positioned the back of a hand against your cheek with a tilt of your head, closing your eyes. 

The archer’s mouth formed a silent ‘o’, his face taking on a pink hue that you definitely noticed before he ducked his head and knelt to pull the laces on his boots. It was possibly the first time you would attach the word adorable to any description of the man in front of you. Daryl was quick to redirect your regard with a finger toward your own boots on the mattress. Biting your bottom lip to stifle a grin, you hopped off, removed the gun from your waistband, and plopped onto the sleeping bag. 

“Yer stayin’?” 

You stared, incredulous. Of course you were staying. He was sick, no matter how mild. He had stayed with you while you recovered. Why wouldn’t you return the favor? You nodded and patted the mattress. 

There was an obvious uncertainty in his approach, movements hesitant, deliberate, as if you would spook and bolt. You wished you could find it in you to speak, to reassure him you were okay and you wanted to stay. 

Your confusion regarding the archer was slowly resolving into a confident trust. You were still plagued with doubt and sometimes overwhelmed with questioning curiosity that would result in a reluctance to be near him. It was that gentle luster that would appear in those pretty eyes, subtle and carefully concealed behind an opacity but easily discernible by someone who had been shown nothing by cold cruelty continually for so long, that would coerce you to stay. There was so much more to Daryl than he allowed the world to see. 

He sighed when he finally allowed the side of his face to sink into the pillow, turning his head to cough into the softness. You’d have to wash it once he was feeling better. Quick work was made to settle the blanket over him before his shoulders had stilled from the minor fit, his eyes appearing heavy when he rolled his head back toward you. 

“Don’ hafta stay.”

Your smile and gentle tilt of your head said where else would I go? Daryl hummed quietly, eyes slipping shut. He was asleep within moments. Maybe his lack of rest was responsible for the cold. As far as you were concerned, he could sleep until he could physically sleep no longer. Maybe you could persuade others to let him rest. 

Your knees pulled to your chest, one arm around them so you could rest your cheek there. The other hand ghosted across the fringe that had fallen over the side of his face. His skin was warm but not enough to frighten you. Maybe you could ask Carol for some tea and broth, if there was any available. You needed to speak with her anyway. Well, not really speak. Regardless, you wanted things to go back to how they were.

Dainty fingers continued to stroke across the archer’s forehead, finding an odd sense of comfort in the ability to touch him without inhibition. His demeanor while in your company was in constant fluctuation but rarely relaxed. He appeared younger in sleep, face slack without creases or pinched skin at the corners of his eyes. 

You wanted now more than ever to find your voice. You wanted to tell him how hard you would try to learn quickly. How dependable you would be once you could take care of yourself. How valuable you’d make sure you would become. You wanted to thank him. Others in the prison had done so much for you, but none more than Daryl. 

Daryl was the reason you were no longer under Big Jazz’s thumb. He was the reason you were there at the prison at all. He was training you to protect yourself and to protect others. He made you feel safe. Even with the sporadic apprehension, there was the constant blanket of safety when Daryl was near. If he hadn’t looked for you that day not too long ago… You pulled your knees impossibly closer to your body, a dull ache inside at the reminder. 

Daryl coughed beside you but didn’t wake, even with your fingers now carding through his hair. In the quietness of the moment, you allowed yourself to appreciate how handsome the archer actually was. You had seen the first day, when he had bargained for you. Rugged, rough around the edges, but handsome. For the first time in a very, very long time, you pondered intimacy that didn’t involve subjugation and pain. You wondered how it would have felt if Daryl had taken your offer that first night. Would he have been gentle? Would he have tasted you? 

Those potentially pleasant thoughts couldn’t last once your mind pulled forth the images of him under the spray of water in the showers. Regardless of your name groaned from his lips, you could only see the raised ridges and puckered flesh littered across his back. What had he been through? Had it happened after the fall of the world? Who had hurt him and why? Carol had told you nothing and it was not something you felt you could ever ask him about. It wasn’t your business. 

Still… the thought of someone hurting him, it made you feel something you weren’t sure you remembered how to feel. 

Anger. 

You had spent so much time being conditioned to submit, remain quiet, please, you had forgotten the burn of bitter hostility toward another person. Someone you didn’t even know. You were more than justified in your hatred of the men that had taken you, tortured and defiled and humiliated you. Justified but felt so strange. Finding resentment toward an unknown person for a wrong against a man you barely knew was stranger still. 

Yet, that’s exactly what it was. You wouldn’t hesitate a single second to drive your knife home into their skull, living or dead. You’d stab them over and over, one for each raised mark on Daryl’s flesh. 

A sound from downstairs startled you from your thoughts, a simple day to day chore of some sort that was not meant to raise alarm. Still, it frightened you. Most things did, but it was getting easier to control your reactions. You realized moments later that your face was damp, the hand hovering just over Daryl’s forehead was trembling. More than that, you suddenly felt drained with an exhaustion that left you dizzy. 

Needed nowhere around the prison— your only focus meant to be training with Daryl —you decided it wouldn’t be frowned upon if you were to rest while the archer did. Most knew that wherever he was, he would be instructing you, and would only seek him in the event of an emergency. In that case, the hunter would want to be disturbed. 

Sliding down the sleeping bag, you reclined onto your side and faced Daryl, worrying your lips against one another before you reached onto the mattress and placed your palm on this forearm. He didn’t stir but inhaled deeply, seemingly settling deeper into slumber. The contact was comforting and hopefully a level of noninvasive that he wouldn’t mind. Either way, it was enough to allow you to easily follow him into a restful, dreamless sleep. 

** What Daryl whispers to reader is an excerpt from “Hope is the Thing with Feathers” by Emily Dickinson

Taglist:

@royaltysuite @thegeorgiahuntsman @livingdeadblondequeen @deansapplepie @feral4daryl @walker-bait-1973 @lazyneonrabbitt @bizquake @littlelovingideas @ririi-3 @ankhmutes @blackvelveteen1339 @sokkasimp101 @lehhos @1ivinqdeadqir1main @loganlostitall @callmeyn @lilyevanstan1325 @the-lonely-abyss @gutsby @eljaynosine_triphosphate @abbyreedus @wifeof-barnes @bananafire11 @hutchersonsgurl @the-milk-is-rotten @she-could-never @Kenzimae67 @nessa-mayfield @ilovedilfs4eversthings @richardsamboramylove55 @annhells @abi67sblog @nessieart @imgeorgeclooney @brinteylovesaliens @eduardast4rgirl @daryldixmedown @willowaftxn83-87 @atyourmomshouse01 @bultamer @mia051 @memphiscity69 @flowerspetalsthorns @riya12044 @ariacraigggg @morgan556 @carley12041 @timeladyrikaofgallifrey @twdislifee @bae-live-0 @elbellmam @aleemendoza2425-blog @ramdomhoe @ren9sstuff

[vigilskeep]

Does nennaia actually like… respect keir does she think it’s sweet what are her thoughts

nennaia has just met keir so i’m still getting a read on this but

first of all, nennaia knows very little about what went down in kirkwall, except whatever vague commentary she’s picked up from cassandra and varric, plus her advisors’ best attempts at explaining it. she’s trying, but a couple of months ago she wasn’t even really very aware that the circle’s human mages and its templars were separate political entities. it’s taking a lot for her to keep up, so the finer details of hawke’s involvement and anders’ actions are a little murky, especially when the full truth is far from freely available. she keeps falling asleep trying to read the tale of the champion. the point is, she has a lot fewer preconceptions about him than basically anyone else at skyhold would

her first impressions: the man she meets seems like a fine warrior. he also seems tired, and she feels an odd kind of grief when she looks at him, his scars, his battered armour, the mangled remnants of one of his slightly pointed ears. i don’t think the plight of people of his heritage has ever really occurred to her. is this what the shems’ world does to them? but he doesn’t seem broken by it, even if a little exhausted, a little too quick to anger. he speaks with purpose and with pride, both of his work in the mage rebellion, and his determination to bring corypheus down for good this time. she approves that his first concerns are for righting his mistakes and for the safety of his husband and his sister while he does so; these are sensible and good things for a man to concern himself with. he does his best, bluntly and awkwardly, to show respect to her—it feels like a long time since someone trying to do that called her hahren instead of herald—and while his pronunciations aren’t perfect, it’s obvious that he has spent a considerable amount of time listening carefully to someone dalish. he’s honest (perhaps a little too honest, with what strikes her as an appallingly fereldan bluntness when it comes to his opinions about some of her colleagues) and he’s terrible at hiding that he wants her to like him. it’s hard not to find at least the latter endearing

[bestworstcase]

the only purpose of the shock collar was to subjugate, enforce cinder’s status as an object the madame owned. she neither chose it nor wanted it—and in the end, it was just a necklace. cinder breaks it with ease, with one hand. anyone might have set her free at any time with, literally, no more effort than it would take to lift a finger.

(do not try the bullshit nonsense about cinder’s enslavement being legal with me. slavery was abolished after the great war, and when the madame is displeased she brings cinder into the kitchen to torture her behind closed doors. adopting an impoverished orphan from a foreign country and using a collar made to look like a pretty necklace is how she gets away with it, enabled by the complete indifference of her wealthy patrons to the plight of the "adopted child."

the thematic point of rhodes is that he enforces the law only when it’s convenient for him to do so: he knows cinder is being abused, but he’s a regular patron of the hotel and he chooses not to say or do anything to intervene until he recognizes cinder as a threat to the madame. “hurting them won’t make your life any easier.”

we see this pattern reoccur again and again in atlas, that those who hold political or economic power flout the law without consequence or contort it to work for them while those beneath are subjected to strict, unforgiving enforcement. everything robyn does before the election is legal and above-board but the ace-ops openly treat her like a criminal and hound her about obeying the law, while ironwood misappropriates construction materials earmarked for mantle. this is the idea that rhodes embodies.)

so the greatest injustice of the collar is that it had no real power, by itself, over cinder. she could take it off whenever she wanted, except that she was not allowed to; no one willing to help her, no safe haven where she could find refuge after, and when she becomes desperate enough to resort to violence to free herself she is immediately prevented from doing so by a huntsmen—exemplars of moral virtue as they are intended to be—who tells her that in order to be good she must endure seven more years before she is allowed to leave without her guardian’s permission.

as an instrument of control, the collar can exist only through the willingness of the hotel’s patrons to participate in the fiction that cinder, having been lifted out of poverty by the madame’s generosity (look, she even gave the girl a lovely necklace!), is now earning her keep, learning the value of hard work. pay the scars no mind. rhodes intervenes to keep protect the madame, and his fondness for cinder is circumscribed by that motive.

the first time he leaves after he begins to train her, rhodes says goodbye by placing his hand on top of her head; cinder flinches—

—and the scene cuts right to the collar:

in the same mode, the madame electrocutes cinder in a panic as cinder strangles her, and rhodes’ final act is to place his hand on cinder’s head, scaring her—

—after which she cuts him down and stands upright to remove her collar:

the collar and the gentle (unwanted) hand are one and the same, two faces of a single instrument. carrot, stick. neither figures cinder as a human being. rhodes is only gentle until she disobeys him, whereupon the covert violence of their first meeting is reified: he enters her only ‘safe’ place to catch her in an unlawful act; his first action is to pass judgment; his second, to draw his weapons.

now, that’s not yours, is it?—huntsmen are called to embody a heroic ideal, to protect others who cannot protect themselves. rhodes places his own weapons into cinder’s hands and declares that he will train her as a huntress on the condition that she agrees not to protect herself; he releases himself from his duty to protect her by moving her into the category of people who do not need to be protected, and thereby makes her both guardian and grimm: as a child who will become a huntress it falls to her to protect her family from the monster of herself.

thus she’s forced to become an active participant in her own abuse; before she can break free of the collar, she has to bite the hand that held it in place.

now to the grimm. during the montage of cinder’s training-and-abuse, there is a particular sequence that goes like this: rhodes and cinder spar with wasters late one night, he disengages and gives her an approving nod; we cut to cinder kneeling before the madame in the empty lobby, dusting a glass statuette of a sabyr for inspection. her work is found inadequate, and the madame finds quiet satisfaction in reminding cinder of the power she has over cinder:

then the madame walks away, and although cinder strives to maintain the performance of being unaffected—indifferent—she can’t:

in contrast to the scenes preceding cinder’s bargain with rhodes—wherein the larger-than-life glass statues looming over the lobby alternate between prominently visible or just protruding into frame and cinder’s face is an open book of angry resentment—this is the only instance of a grimm figurine being clearly visible and in focus during the montage, and also the one time cinder’s mask slips to reveal her anger.

similarly, in the time-skip at the end of the montage, the glass sphinx sitting on the coffee table in the mid-left is removed to signal the passage of time, with no other changes made to the decor:

but guess who’s back as soon as the situation reaches critical mass?

glass wolf. glass dragon. glass shoes.

the point is, throughout the flashback midnight leverages these glass-grimm to symbolize cinder’s true self, her anger which protects her and which the gentle hand demands she extinguish. the fantastical gilded opulence of the glass unicorn depends on cinder staying quietly in her cage. no, it isn’t fair—the gentle hand admits this—but it is her moral imperative to serve others. in this distorted unreality the defenseless and the indefensible become commingled. a huntress, as salem would have it, is a defender who lives and dies to protect a lifestyle. or she is, as ozpin defines it, one who guards the peace by killing monsters.

cinder’s instinctive understanding that this is not fair—that she is not nothing—that she has been wronged—is the monster she must slay to become the hero of this story, the story of the glass unicorn and madame and rhodes and all of atlas. and in the end she can’t.

rwby has never been precious about depicting blood, but there is no blood in this scene: not not on the floor, not on the bodies, not on her weapons, not a single drop upon her white shirt. her hands are clean. in shadow, the monster snaps the chain around her throat and turns to looks up at the moon—and its light reveals what is true. her tears, her scars. a child who deserved better than she was given. a child who did nothing wrong.

ahem.

Keeping [grimm] in captivity has proved to be an understandably difficult task, as the creatures tend to either die, or kill those who imprisoned them in the first place.

hm! anyway. the narrative function of this flashback is to provide context and contrast with the scenes that follow.

to review:

the collar’s power is enforced by communal indifference and complicity.

the madame, though unaware of him, depends on rhodes to keep cinder under her control; rhodes intervenes to protect the madame from cinder.

the gentle hand is an equal to the collar, a mechanism of control by which cinder is made to participate in her own abuse, and when she disobeys, it turns to iron and inflicts violent punishment. even when he is gentle, cinder flinches under his touch.

by training cinder to fight but forbidding her to defend herself, rhodes casts her into the role of both guardian and grimm: she is expected to protect the madame by slaying her anger and turning the other cheek.

the glass grimm figurines symbolize cinder’s anger, which protects her. when she defends herself, cinder metaphorically becomes grimm: the monster of the glass unicorn is destined to be hated and hunted for the rest of her life, and the monster of the glass unicorn is a blameless child who refused to let herself be hurt. grimm, in this story, are good.

also note

the similar framing here.

now!—from the moment cinder wakes up, it is abundantly clear that she expects to be met with brutal punishment for her failure. “you—you brought me back here… we failed.” she’s horror-stricken at finding herself in this place and that hardens into terror as the reality sinks in that she is within salem’s reach.

later, on the bridge, she affects calm until salem pauses in front of her; her eyes snap open. she shrinks into herself at the sound of salem’s voice but hangs on every word. when salem mentions the winter maiden, cinder grits her teeth and braces herself.

cinder associates salem with the madame: that is why without you, i am nothing falls out of her mouth so easily when salem tears her down in 8.1 and again when salem threatens her in 8.4—those are the words to make the pain stop, to appease, to demonstrate that she is contrite and repentant and grateful. she believes that this is what salem wants to hear when cinder has displeased her. and she is, at the top of the bridge scene, waiting for the torture to begin so that she can choke it out again and survive this humiliating ordeal.

except that is not what salem wants to hear.

by now salem knows beyond any doubt that “without you, i am nothing” is what cinder believes she wants to hear, and it is obvious to anyone with eyes that cinder expects to be tortured. whether salem knows cinder’s history or not—i don’t think she does, not in any great detail—she knows people well enough to put two and two together. salem knows, then, that cinder expects to be tortured into groveling self-denigration.

she doesn’t want cinder to expect that from her. there’s no other reason for salem to be so thorough in dismantling the expectation.

if she wanted to make cinder afraid, the more effective way is to decline to torture her at all: cinder is so certain that salem will hurt her that withholding punishment entirely will only convince her that salem intends to wait until the moment she lets her guard down, or some other form of deferred retribution all the worse for being delayed.

whereas the most efficient way to puncture cinder’s terror of being tortured is—somewhat perversely—to actually torture her a little bit. because cinder does not BELIEVE there is any possible outcome in which salem spares her, if salem wants to introduce the possibility of mercy she first needs to enter cinder’s reality, where mercy doesn’t exist, by proving she can and will inflict pain to answer both defiance (“you chose to disobey my specific instructions”) and failure (“just to fail again…”)

a brief burst of pain to express displeasure instead of holding cinder under torture until she breaks isn’t really merciful, but it’s the lower bound of what cinder will be able to trust and it eases her into the idea that salem is lenient.

then, “and i’ve realized it’s all my fault. you’ve fought your whole life unwaveringly for what you want, and here i am holding you back, instead of lifting you up; you deserve so much more than i’ve given you.”

aside from being a straightforward subversion of cinder’s clear expectation—cinder thinks she will be abused without mercy until she breaks, salem stops and absolves cinder by reframing cinder’s disobedience as a natural consequence of her own failures—salem has a few specific things in mind here.

the most obvious is the reversal of what she said to cinder in 4.11: “i thought you were the girl who wanted power. did you lie to me? then stop holding back.” and she’s also pointedly walking back things she said yesterday, in 8.1 and 8.4: “all you need concern yourself with is your ability to act when i tell you to” and the “she thinks; she wants…” bit are here flipped into implicit praise for cinder’s tenacity in pursuing what she wants and implicit apology for standing in her way.

but the most interesting angle to consider is that this is salem’s response to “without you, i am nothing.” salem does not verbally respond either of the times cinder says that to her in 8.1 and 8.4; the first time, she dismisses everyone with a gesture, and the second time she just walks away. both reactions are in line with what cinder expects—after all, the point is to remind cinder that she is nothing.

however, cinder has—from what we’ve seen—never spoken to salem this way before, and given she seems genuinely taken aback when salem shuts her down in 8.1 i do think it’s likelier than not that salem has never demeaned her like this before, and that together with having been in atlas for months is what surfaces the trauma association with the madame and thence the appeasing behavior.

so consider how this looks to salem.

the last time she spoke to cinder, she said “you’re free to speak your mind,” and cinder whipped around from the window without hesitation, outraged: “i don’t understand! working with bandits? leaving ruby alive? what’s the point? we’re strong enough to take what we want by force!”—not even a ma’am in there. cinder addressed her like she saw herself and salem as equals, notwithstanding that salem had final say, and salem clearly didn’t have a problem with that.

several months pass. salem is displeased about the loss at haven but trusts that cinder will make an effort to recover the lamp; she is also worried enough for cinder to toss her plans and divert nearly everything to atlas, not that she’s willing to admit that’s why.

cinder walks onto the bridge and the first words out of her mouth are “my queen.” a few minutes in salem curtly informs her that no she will not go rampaging after the winter maiden and cinder’s answer is a demure, “of course; without you, i am nothing.” and then a few hours later they quarrel about it and cinder repeats those exact words in exactly the same tone again.

unless salem knows cinder’s history in far more granular detail than i believe cinder would be willing to divulge, that’s… a really strange shift in behavior with no clear reason; yes, she had to make up the loss at haven (and she did), and yes, salem was unusually mean to her, but neither of those things add up to this plainly well-practiced self-abasement from the girl who only a few months ago did not appear to have a humble bone in her body. once might have been sarcasm; but twice within a few hours?

whereafter cinder ran off to attack the winter maiden and almost died again and salem had six hours to pick all of this apart in her head while cinder lay unconscious.

why didn’t she respond to cinder saying “without you, i am nothing,” if that is not what she wants from cinder? well,

“you disobeyed my specific instructions, just to fail again, and i’ve realized it’s all my fault.” both times cinder said that, it was in response to the specific instructions that cinder disobeyed when she went after penny: you will act when i tell you to, and you will remain here. six hours, salem had to think about this. “you’ve fought your whole life unwaveringly for what you want, and here i am holding you back, instead of lifting you up; you deserve so much more than i’ve given you.”

salem does not think of cinder as nothing. even when she is deliberately being mean, she makes a point to say that she values cinder (“just because you’re more valuable to me than a pawn–”). cinder holds the key to her victory and cinder is also important to her in ways she cannot bring herself to admit except that she keeps bending her plans further and further for cinder’s sake. the first time cinder says “without you, i am nothing” to her, she seems bemused (brows up) and then wry. the second time, she doesn’t react at all.

then because she left it there, cinder nearly dies and is unconscious for hours. and once she wakes up salem hits her with:

this is my fault

what you want matters

i should be lifting you up

you deserve better

i will help you

IN A CLASSIC SALEM MOVE she does not actually say what she means, which is “you are not nothing,” but she finds an impressive number of ways to say it without saying it in just a handful of lines. and:

she doesn’t touch cinder, but instead she offers, gives cinder a choice to take her hand or not, and this matters because no other character has ever given cinder that.

in 2.1 cinder touches roman’s face to assert her power over him; she does the same to pyrrha in 3.12 right before killing her; she slaps emerald in 3.7.

in 5.9, cinder reacts to watts grabbing her wrist like this—

—and then sets his hand on fire. in 8.1, emerald starts to run over to embrace her, cinder snaps her head around and snarls “quiet.,” stopping her in her tracks. and after she wakes up in midnight, when emerald rushes into the room and grabs her, cinder tenses and verbally lashes out before jerking her hand away.

cinder really does not like to be touched and that all traces back to:

rhodes patting her head. which is what he’s reaching down for when cinder kills him, because this time she senses him moving to touch her and can’t take it.

cinder bristles and retaliates whenever anyone touches her, and outside of grappling during fights the only times cinder ever touches other people is to hurt them or to remind them of her power to hurt them, because that is what touch means to her; it’s something those with power do to those beneath them, and something the weak must endure.

for salem to offer her hand to help cinder up is strange and unsettling; it breaks the rules. and cinder is very hesitant to take it—her fingers shake—but she does, and it isn’t a trick, salem pulls her to her feet without hurting her.

whereupon cinder’s whole demeanor transforms from terrified incredulity to calculation. she doesn’t understand what just happened, but she knows touch is an instrument of coercion and a way to inflict pain. if salem were like the madame, she would not have done any of that; if salem didn’t touch her with the intent to harm her, then there are only two possibilities:

one, that salem’s resemblance to the madame is superficial and she is actually much more like rhodes; or two, that salem is the weak one and cinder holds some unknown degree of power over her.

the instant this thought enters cinder’s head, it becomes urgently important to figure out which it is, hence the murdering of colleagues and stepsisters and lying to salem’s face that cinder gets up to immediately afterward. BUT THAT IS NOT WHAT THIS POST IS ABOUT THIS IS A POST ABOUT THE GRIMM ARM. AND THEMES.

wheeze. okay

in the glass unicorn, cinder has two parental figures—the madame and rhodes—who act in synchronicity to keep her in her place. shock collar, pat on the head. stick, carrot. she is tortured and made to refract this violence inwards, against herself, by turning the other cheek. within this narrative, the symbolic purpose of the grimm is to protect cinder and cinder herself is symbolically identified as grimm; just as black glass is her signature in in the present, the white glass of the hotel’s grimm figurines reflects cinder’s starkly white-and-grey uniform.

glass, cinder. glass grimm, glass shoes.

unicorns, classically, are said to be ferociously wild and dangerous beasts tamable only by the touch of a maiden. those who hunt unicorns, then, should solicit a maiden’s assistance. she goes out into the woods alone; the unicorn finds her and docilely, fearlessly lays its head upon her lap and goes to sleep; and thus the hunters take it. this manner of hunting unicorns is called entrapment, and among medieval and renaissance depictions of unicorns it is by far the most common motif.

in the world of remnant, if unicorns are real then they are undoubtedly a kind of grimm.

gestures at cinder, the fall maiden, who can tame the grimm. who feels for them. maiden. unicorn. maiden. unicorn.

the story of the glass unicorn is a story about a maiden-monster whom a huntsman instructs to tame herself lest she be hunted forever; an entrapment of the self; in the end she hears the baying of hunting dogs in the distance and awakens to the truth that she too will be killed, in spirit if not in body, if she obeys the huntsman. the unicorn is not to blame, and the maiden is right to protect it, and the unicorn is, has always been, grimm.

bearing all of this in mind,

is the grimm arm another collar?

i don’t think it…is, actually, in any sense except that cinder forms an association between the madame and salem in 8.1—the collar and the arm are diametric opposites, mirror-images of each other:

where the collar was fragile and easily removed, the grimm arm is part of cinder’s body. where the collar derived all its power from pretense (it’s only a pretty necklace!), the grimm arm is impossible to mistake for something other than what it is. where the collar’s sole purpose was to inflict pain and remind cinder of her place, the foremost purpose of the arm is to replace cinder’s missing limb. where the collar was forced upon her and she hated it, cinder trained hard to master her new arm and has grown more comfortable with it in every new volume.

paired with the way grimm function symbolically within the glass unicorn narrative, as representations of cinder’s justified anger and desire to protect herself… well. maiden, unicorn. lol

is it then an iteration of the gentle hand? that’s a more interesting question, because salem’s abuse of cinder is really quite a lot more like rhodes than the madame, but then there’s also… the reversal. rhodes’ affection for cinder is restricted by his interest in protecting the madame, and when cinder disobeys him he attacks her presumably with the intent to arrest her for murder. whereas salem has repeatedly and increasingly rearranged her plans for cinder’s benefit, and when cinder disobeys her, she reconsiders her treatment of cinder and offers an apology.

and obviously—

—we have the way rhodes touches cinder’s head, which at best makes her tense up in discomfort and at worst scares her so much she kills him to make him stop, mirrored in the same episode by salem offering her hand and cinder choosing to take it.

salem is not by any stretch of the imagination good to cinder, but midnight places her in juxtaposition with the madame and rhodes in order to clarify the difference between salem and the parent-figures of cinder’s childhood. it’s salem who tells cinder that she isn’t nothing, that she deserves better, that she was right to become defiant when salem was cruel to her. it’s salem who gives cinder a choice to let salem touch her or not.

everyone who gets where the wind is blowing with cinder understands, because it is obvious, that her turnaround is going to be incited by someone showing her mercy, which will shatter her view of the world and open a door for her to change. but… that “someone” is salem. it is literally already happening.

the first crack is salem telling her you deserve so much more than i’ve given you, as she pulls cinder to her feet.

and cinder doesn’t know how to parse that, she has no frame of reference except the madame and rhodes and she’s superimposed them both onto salem; the discrepancies, the pieces that don’t fit, are small right now. they will get larger, and the cracks will keep widening until the looking glass breaks.

which is why the grimm arm is related to the collar in the specific way that it is, with cinder flashing back to her childhood and the pain salem inflicts ending when cinder shifts emotionally from helpless fear to defiance and salem then explicitly affirming the rightness of cinder’s anger. the moral of the glass unicorn narrative according to rhodes is that what cinder did is unforgivable, and she will never escape it; the moral according to salem is that cinder did the right thing, and deserves better. the symbolic function of the grimm figurines in the glass unicorn narrative is to represent cinder’s self-protective anger. salem, grimm, uses cinder’s grimm arm to make a point that cinder should get angry when salem mistreats her, and then rewards her for being defiant.

is that a really fucked up way for salem to make that point YES OBVIOUSLY but no one else is even trying. lol

little steps.

(whispers into a cup) the grimm arm is also a metaphor for learning to be vulnerable and trust others not to harm you

cinder feels its pain. when it’s severed, it hurts, but also grows back. it’s both powerful (superbly strong, inhuman flexibility) and vulnerable (aura can’t protect it). salem can use it to hurt her; it connects them both together, so salem knows she’s alive and cinder knows when she’s back. it refused to bond with cinder until she let go of her fear and welcomed it.

the shattering trauma that made her what she is now was rhodes telling her that defending herself made her an irredeemable monster. the grimm figurines in her childhood story symbolize cinder’s desire to defend herself. the grimm arm is part of her body that connects her to salem in a way that salem can abuse to hurt her, but salem is also the first character to look cinder in the eye and tell her that she is right to defend herself. both cinder and salem are in the early stages of developing villain -> hero arcs.

your newfound strength brings with it a crippling weakness, salem says. remember that it comes with a cost. take care to protect yourself; there is only so much i can do to aid you. cinder wants to be strong, but she is terrified of weakness, and it is the terror of weakness that drives her, that must be faced, that must be resolved before she can find peace. her story isn’t about “learning to be satisfied with the power she already has” it’s about learning to be okay with being vulnerable. with having weaknesses.

like an arm she can’t shield with aura, that grows back when it’s severed, which she feared and then hid in discomfort and now accepts as a part of herself. just because salem can hurt her doesn’t mean that salem is incapable of choosing not to. salem could also, like, smash cinder into a gory pancake with a snap of her fingers.

it’s a story. about trust.