#and the rise in actual misogyny

[junkartie]

the internet has genuinely rotted peoples brains. Yeah bitch some things are problematic if you view it under 7 different lenses and dissect them with a specific idea in mind but a lot of the time its literally not that deep. Everything is problematic if you try hard enough and it devalues actual real life issues

[musical-chick-13]

Yes, capitalism is bad. Yes, we should dismantle capitalism. No, capitalism is not the Sole Thing Responsible for every single bad thing that has ever historically happened to anyone.

[autisticsupervillain]

I'll take "posts that Lily Orchard would write" for 500, Alex.

what is this "as someone who escaped the alt right pipeline" failpost I've seen so many people vague about

[fucktoyfelix]

This is actually a useful thing to understand how to spell out. What exactly is wrong with puritanical attitudes towards sexuality? TW: Discusses body image issues, suicide, STIs, sexual assault etc

1. It fosters fear, disgust and loathing of our bodies. By hiding the human body as soon as we are born, and treating it as an object of inherent shame: THAT creates trauma. Shame is one of the primary sources of trauma, its the fuel and lets trauma burn. Those raised in nudist societies, and children raised in households where nudity is treated in a neutral and non-sexual tend to have a much more positive relationship with their bodies as adults. This makes complete sense when you think about it. Going through puberty not knowing if your body is "normal" terrifies children in ways that stick with them for life. In fact, most cultures outside of the Unites States aren't as strange about non-sexual nudity actually...and are healthier for it. We can't have body positivity as long as we are literally criminalized for having an uncovered body. 2. It creates fear, shame and disgust about sex. Most people have sex at some point in their lives. No one would be here at all without it. Most people have sexual desires which lie outside their control. When people are ashamed of those desires, it leads to self hatred, and depression and anxiety. This shame is just as traumatic as bodily shame. When sex is normalized, and treated with the same candor as any other hobby: it becomes less apt to traumatize people.

3. Puritanical attitudes towards sex limit sex education. When people are too ashamed to talk about sex, people don't learn about pregnancy, stis, or consent. All of these things can and do kill people when they aren't addressed with an open dialogue.

Sexual shame leads to people too ashamed to buy condoms, to talk to their doctor about birth control, to ask their partner to use protection, to get tested...the negative health impacts of sexual puritanism have a massive negative effect on society.

4. Sexual shame leads to poorer communication in relationships. Ohh if I had a dime for every person i knew who ruined their relationship because they felt too guilty to talk to their partner about their sexual feelings...Not just that, but the general body shame that comes with puritanism blocks people from connecting to one another too. Have you ever avoided getting close to someone because you were ashamed of your body? If not, I guarantee you know someone who has.

5. Misogyny! Puritanical sexual believes hold that women are not capable of sexual agency. That only men should initiate sex. That women should only ever want babies and not pleasure from sex. All of this rolls right into the next one:

6. Victim blaming in sexual assault. When women are the gatekeepers of sex, its easy to blame them when they 'fail' to protect their chastity when someone violates their trust. This isn't something that just effects women: as the same attitudes hold that men are not capable of experiencing sexual assault. The lack of education and discussion about sex in a sex-negative world inherently prevent the open dialogues necessary for creating and maintaining consent culture.

7. Suppression and marginalization of the queer community. If we're too ashamed to talk about sex, we'll be too ashamed to talk about sexuality. Puritans can't accept any deviation from gender norms either. Anything other than sex between a cis man and a cis woman for the purpose of making a baby is a deviant kink, a mental illness, and needs to be wiped out. Its important to point out that many queer people hold puritanical values about sex: believing that they can achieve sex negativity and queer liberation at the same time. However, sex negative movements always rise with censorship and discrimination of queer people...because queer people are inherently considered deviant by the vast majority of sex negative "allies". It's very dangerous to forget this.

8. Censorship of art. Who decides what is sexual and what is not? Its easy to agree that sex needs to be hidden...but it never takes long before the definition of what is "sexual" expands. Even women's breasts are considered sexual in the United States. Its so normal for Americans to think of them that way that women can't feed their children in public. Drag queens face violence for reading at libraries. Books get taken off the shelves. Artists are bullied offline.

9. Censorship of scientific exploration. Scientific research into reproductive health, sexual behavior, gender identity and more are often hindered due to the "moral objections" of puritans, delaying progress and understanding. That's just off the top of my head. I think its time for people to take how problematic 'puritanism' is more seriously. As we see fascism rear its ugly head all over the world, we're going to see a lot more talk about 'degenerates'...and we know where that kind of talk leads.

[solbaby7]

En Cognito

pairing: azriel x reader

warnings: swearing, misogyny, best friends that wanna fuck, sexual tension, possible violence, jealous!az, slowly shifting into slight darker content 👀 hope no one notices

summary: Going undercover alters your appearance more than your friends ever anticipated—now Azriel can’t tear his eyes away.

—

“Stop touching and just relax.”

“I can’t,” You squirm under Mor’s touch. Two hours spent around the city spending obscene amounts of money on a dress and heels that you were only going to wear once. Nimble fingers part through your hair, undoing paper curls and oiled fingers run through the ends of silky strands. Everything is too tight—too exposed. “I am deeply uncomfortable.” Your arms cross behind your back, fingers awkwardly intertwining to create some sort of barrier between your ass and the possibility of peering eyes.

The High Lords cousin doesn’t take it personally, quickly finishing final touches on your makeup and the person you see in the mirror is so far off from what you were used to that it makes your breath catch. “It’s perfect. You’re going to be perfect—they won’t be able to keep their eyes off of you.”

Your hand shakes at the thought, painted fingers curling around the glass of champagne and knocking the whole thing back in one go.

“You’re going to ruin your lipstick.”

“If I don’t have at least two more of those, I’m going to ruin this whole night.” It felt weird having your hair down like this and your fingers twitch to tuck it back into your usual bun but Mor keeps throwing looks over her shoulder while she refills both glasses. Just daring you to fuck up her work.

After the second glass your brain finally stops hyper-fixating on the fact that you can actually feel the bare skin of your thighs touching with each step, an annoying change from the leathers that usually prevented things like this. “It’s just a few dances. Bat your lashes and smile pretty and the intel will come to you, I’m sure of it.”

“I don’t think one dress will get me all of that.”

“It’s not about the dress.” She’s rubbing oil into your skin that makes it shine when the light touches, the sweet smell lingering long after you’ve left the room and the whole walk downstairs is filled with gentle reminders on everything she’d been teaching you all week. “It’s you in it. Seriously, where have you been hiding all of this ass?” You swat her hands away, grateful that the others had left far earlier. You could just hear Az and Cass now, eyes rolling at the very thought of their relentless teasing—this would be the topic of many jokes for weeks to come.

Slight sway of your hips, soften the length of your spine, shoulders back and head high. Confident steps even though the heels were fucking killer; five inches of added height and you’d still feel small in a room crawling with fully grown men. The champagne glass is finished and refilled once more before you’re tugged away to the balcony and past the wards.

Usually, winnowing was calming but for some reason, this time it had the hairs on the back of your neck prickling at attention from all the eyes that slid in your direction. “That was subtle.”

“We’re late,” Mor mutters through her teeth, flashing a less than sweet smile to the males undressing her with their eyes. Typical for Hewn City but still fucking disgusting. “I figured a flashy entrance would distract from that. Now, be nice.”

Easier said than done with anxiety beginning to ebb forth, fingers flexing and nails running over the details of your dress. The words from earlier repeat in your mind and instantly your spine straightens, chin raising and the added swish to your hips is enough to attract the attention of any male within a five mile radius.

It’s customary to greet the High Lord and Lady, your heels clicking and face aloof when swiftly curtsying into a respectful bow. “Rise,” Feyre commands, voice strong and filled with unquestionable power but you could see that look in her eye—familial fondness creeping at the edges of blue irises and you’re quick to appear anxious. Less comfortable when surrounded by people you’d known longer than you could put into words. “Join the others, there’s plenty of food and drink for everyone.”

Better judgement screams in your mind not to look just a little to the right; your peripheral catching onto the faint glow of cobalt blue but your eyes slide over without permission.

Azriel looks godly standing guard near his High Lord and Lady. He’s handsomely dressed in one of his fancier pairs of fighting leathers, lethally strapped to the nines with daggers at his thighs, switchblades tucked in pockets or strapped to his ankles and swords that cross at his back, right between his wings.

Like an angel of death; just as tempting as he was deadly.

You look away before he can catch you admiring the tailored cut of sturdy, dark tactical gear stretching across his muscles. Too quickly for you to notice the way he double takes, eyes widening a fraction and stance stiffening ever so slightly when he recognizes the slope of your nose and shape of your mouth glistening in gloss. He nearly chokes on his breath at the accentuation of your figure, curves on full display in a complete juxtaposition to your usual attire and his stare follows as you disappear into the crowd of bodies.

He can’t leave his spot but it doesn’t stop him from sending out his own personal surveillance to keep tabs on the way you shift about the room.

Everywhere you move, eyes follow.

Males halt their conversation, sipping on whiskey so expensive that it probably equates to a months worth of rent but judging by their tailored suits and gold cuff-links—money was the least of their problems.

“A drink, miss?”

Relief works its way into your form when you accept, thanking the waitstaff politely while acting your ass off with the fluttery lashes and doe eyes. It paints a perfect little picture—entrapping susceptible males with overly inflated egos and misogynistic thought processes. You’re almost a little too deep in the facade, aimlessly wandering through the sea of bodies with ears specially attuned to every conversation; sifting through the meaninglessness in order to catch little pieces of a bigger picture that had yet to be deciphered.

“And who might you be?”

“Nobody.” The response is instinctive, a second nature that’s easily smoothed over with a demure smile.

Even you could admit the male was handsome, all solid muscle and alluringly ragged edges. His suit is immaculate, fitting the strong line of his shoulders to perfection as the halfway unbuttoned tunic beneath broadcasts the tawny tones of his chest loitered with inky tattoos. Dark hair frames his face, a silver scar cutting through the thick of one brow and yet its completely overshadowed when in the midst of such beauty. “You certainly don’t look like ‘nobody’ to me.”

Warmth spreads at the nape of your neck, your body affected by the soulful bass of his voice and for a fleeting moment you have to remind yourself of the task at hand.

The male doesn’t give time for you to come up with another one of your carefully curated lies. A hand is extended your way, the faelight above catching on the masculine rings adorning his pinky and pointer fingers when your hand is taken in his own.

It’s almost embarrassing—the spectacle he makes in spinning you slow, taking in every detail with his bottom lip tucked between his teeth.

Thank the Mother for Mor and her attention to detail, picking out the perfect dress and glimmering diamonds that distracted from the true soldier that burned in your soul, a characteristic that had been exercised for decades enduring Cassian and Azriel’s relentless training regiment.

“Whoever you’ve come with will never recover from the loss he’s about to take,” The males eyes are ravenous, that previously bored darkness finally flickering with life beneath the surface.

The surprised laugh you let out is genuine, a shocked bark of a thing that’s anything but ladylike but he doesn’t seem to mind. “You have a very high sense of self in assuming I’d go anywhere with you considering I don’t have the slightest clue on who you are.”

Another lie added to the steadily growing web. You’d been briefed on every single person in this room, memorized their faces and obsessively studying their lives and known connections until the only thing left was to figure out who possessed the most valuable information. “Who better to trust than Stewards right hand?” Feminine wonder masks the satisfaction of such an easily attained lead and suspicion begins to grow in your gut. Maybe it’s not as well concealed as you’d assumed because the cockiness is dialed down multiple levels and the smile he wears is far more flattering than that entitled smirk. “Call me Atlas.”

Music filters throughout the space and steadily the sea of bodies becomes more uniform, paired up couples shifting about the room with a hardened grace that allowed their movements to appear elegant, even if their faces were stripped of any semblance of emotion. “Atlas,” The name is foreign on your tongue but not entirely unpleasant. “Have any clue where they keep their stash?”

A cheshire grin accompanies the muscular bicep he holds out in offering. “Allow me to lead the way.”

Everything goes as planned, a knowing nod to Mor, a giddy smile when the Stewards second hand tugs you down a hallway, bypassing stationed guards and passing over a small pouch of silver coins to the scrawny soldier standing in front of a thick set of double doors. “Where are we going?”

“You wanted the good stuff. Kier keeps them in his office.” High heels click against the polished floors, taking in the layered colors of obsidian, onyx and oblivion. It’s typical for a male, simple, with just enough overindulgence to make your eyes roll.

“Are we supposed to be in here?”

Atlas moves across the space with ease, unlatching the lock on the liquor cabinet and collecting two glasses and a thick crystal decanter filled halfway with a deep amber liquid. “Are you going to tell on me?”

Every movement you make hold more grace than you’ve mustered up in a century. Femininity oozes from every pore and it’s intoxicating—this males reaction to the slightest graze of your nails against his fingers. It plants a terrifying seed, one eager to learn exactly how far you could take it. How many other people would react the same way?

Your mind takes a turn, sliding a key into a door you’d long since boarded up.

And you can’t help but wonder if the simple seduction would work on Azriel too.

“I can be convinced to keep a secret,” Magic must be used to keep the liquor chilled because the crystal is cold to the touch. “If you show me the balcony too.”

Atlas nods slowly, taking your words entirely different than intended but you don’t bother correcting it. Not when he strides over to the doors with such ease, pulling out a personal set of keys and unlocking them as if he’d done so a million times before.

You supposed Hewn was a sight to behold from this angle, high heels click against the concrete, bracelets clinging against the iron railings as you peer over. In its own, hauntingly beautiful way; a darker part of you could find the appeal if you overlooked the horrors that took place there.

“Now, I’ve snuck you out here, breaking all kinds of rules and jeopardizing my job for you.” If it’s the truth, Atlas has a hell of a way of making it seem nonchalant—every word laced in an amusement you can’t quite place but it’d be lying to say you didn’t find it slightly charming. “Will you finally tell me your name?”

There’s a mischievous sparkle in your eye, a taunting elongation of one leg, the shiny curve of your high heel dragging gently against his ankle. You almost answer when your eyes catch on the shadows in the corner, their color just a little too dark, their ebb just a little too sentient. Of course, Azriel would follow you out there when he believed you were taking too long, playing the perfect position of Night Court security when urging guests away from restricted areas but jealously slips its way into his tone when he finds you and Atlas on the balcony standing a little too close to be considered friendly. “You aren’t supposed to be out here.”

The male with you doesn’t seem the slightest bit deterred, cockily tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear while the other hand fishes out a small pouch full of gold coins from his suit pocket and rudely stuffs it into Azriel’s chest without even looking. “How about you go back inside and give us a few uninterrupted moments to get to know each other?”

Azriel’s brow raises, wings bristling when tracking the two fingers Atlas has grazing down your cheekbone and his tone is eerily even when responding. “Did you come alone tonight?”

“Yes,” Atlas retorts none the wiser, a smirk curving at the corners of his mouth. “Though, I have no intentions on leaving how I came.”

“Is that so?” It happens so quickly. Azriel snatching the male away from you, his fist darting out and connecting with Atlas’ jaw with such precision that the impact sends the Steward’s second in command unconscious on the cobblestone. “Mission’s over,” Azriel all but growls, his grip possessive when pulling you in. “We’re leaving.”

“Azriel,” Your eyes widen, glass slipping from your grasp as your brain moves like molasses when trying to comprehend what you’d witnessed. It doesn't bother Az though, his hand a firm weight at the dip of your back, pinky finger just grazing the curve of your ass with every step. “I wasn’t even close to being finished—he was about to give me everything.”

“Oh, I’m more than aware of what he was about to give you.”

He looks like he’s readying himself to winnow the two of you out of there, thick clouds of shadows materializing around his threatening frame but something forces him to decide against it. His jaw clenches, stance rigid and voice clipped when telling you to 'come this way', taking a sharp left turn before shoving your body inside. “Azriel, what the hell?”

“Funny, I was about to ask you the same thing.” The door slams behind him, lock twisting with a resounding click but none of that distracts from the downright murder-strut Azriel adopts when stalking towards you. Your heart hammers against your chest, heels scraping against the polished floors in your attempts to create space but the male before you eats it all up. “Do you have any idea what you’ve been doing to me?”

The laugh that pushes free is breathless; taken aback. “What?"

A war wages in Azriel's mind as he strains to contain the small semblance of control he's ever been able to gather in your presence. You make him crazy; shove him out of his comfort zone and force him to take risks that his skillful training strictly rejects. You're an enigma, a flame that burns but also provides warmth to those who handle you with care. “I thought you in your leathers was sin.”

You swallow thickly as your body responds to the drop in his voice; the gravel that positively rattles his tone and morphs that strong soldier boy into a predator of a man with ravenous wants and needs. Rapturous desires that plagues his thoughts, tainting his actions and lingering in the void of his shadows with intent to kill.

Shock blends into need as Azriel backs you against the desk, the rigid line of his cock straining against the stitching of his leathers. It digs against your belly; teasing, taunting you with the possibilities. “But then you come waltzing in wearing this dress—cauldron boil me—are you even wearing any underwear?”

"I couldn't," A blush burns at your cheeks, every inch of you sparking to life under his stare. "Mor said panty lines are tacky."

"Then it'd be best you refrain from telling her what happens in here because I'm about to make you sound fucking garish." Hips buck involuntarily, a helpless rut whittling away at whatever self-control Azriel has left. It’s clearly not much because soon his lips are too preoccupied with learning yours and strong hands are busy familiarizing themselves with the curves you usually kept so carefully concealed. Eager fingers run over the tight fabric around your waist, gliding over the length of your stomach and cupping the weight of your breasts, thumbs grazing over peaked nipples. Mapping the canvas of your body like a man starved.

Denying his touch is out of the question; at least that’s what your body decides as it leans into the heavy drag of his weight. For once, you lean into the girlish nature of allowing the male to lead—to comply as Azriel guides your face to his own. Indulging in feverish kisses because he started it and it was only fair for you to finish it.

The lines of friendship blur with his tongue in your mouth and you’re too drunk on the scent of his cologne to question what any of this could mean afterwards. What chaos could ensue from helping him hike the hem of your dress up, up, up with a needy groan. “Can’t believe you hid all of this from me,” Azriel all but whines, golden irises gobbling up the fullness of your thighs. Pupils dilate at your lack of undergarments; the thin leather thigh holsters strapped tight against the muscle of your legs and inky shadows swipe at the weapon secured there—stealing it as a prize.

“Can you blame me?” The words come out breathy, palms dragging along rigid muscle hidden beneath his clothes, nails seconds away from slicing through the offending fabric for more of his warmth, for more of him in general because this male was a thing of dreams. Of carefully curated fantasies that females with far more time on their hands wrote about in their journals. “How would I get any work done with everyone staring at my ass?”

His touch is bold, two fingers sliding between your thighs to slide along the slick that collects between lower lips. "That won't be an issue for you anymore." A gasp forces your lips to part when he circles around your clit, feeling the area around it without actually giving what you want. Azriel likes it more that way; enjoys the ways your legs tremble and chest heaves. "You'll find that people don't stare much at the things that belong to me."

"I'm not yours," You struggle to verbalize the thought fully when he finally applies the right amount of pressure to your neglected bundle of nerves. Quick little circles under the calloused drag of two fingers works a strangled moan free. "I don't belong to anyone," You try to speak it aloud so the point comes across but all that's leaving your lips is pathetic pants of yesyesyes and pretty pleas for moremoremore.

He’s cruel in his torture, pulling his hands away seconds before release can wash over you and a cocky smirk etches in the corner of his mouth. It’s knowing; cognizant of the fact that your orgasm lies in the palm of his hands, rests under the willful press of his fingertips.

“Please?” You whisper, voice cracked; broken, ruined from nothing but his hands alone and you still hadn’t cum yet. Every nerve burns, toes curling, stomach clenching and pussy pulsing around nothing as your hips careen forward—searching for the sweet friction that Azriel just knows how to provide.

You thank the Mother for his lack of revolve, for it had to be her mercy that allows his stubborn defenses to crumble so quickly. To give in and offer everything you’d been begging for . He’s not kind about it; doesn’t coax the orgasm forward but yanks at it like a dog on a leash. It’s claiming the way he watches you through your high, drinking up your sounds and committing the slick sight of you to memory.

He doesn’t even give you enough time to catch your breath before he’s tugging his leathers down his hips, thick fabric bunching at his thighs. “Save your pretty pleas for soft pricks like Aaron.”

“Atlas.”

Azriel’s brow raises, a subtle twitch of muscle that shouldn’t be as threatening as it is. Or at least it wouldn’t be if it wasn’t followed by the ominous drag of his cock through your folds, the heavy weight of him coating itself in your slick.

You know he wants to say something. It’s hanging off the tip of his tongue; some venomous comment fueled by raw, unbridled jealousy. Some sick part of you wants him to say it—maybe then he’ll admit to his feelings; confessing to the tension that permeates when the two of you enter a room or share a joke or brush arms or get a little too heated during training.

“I believe your role tonight is soft and demure,” His voice is deceptively even considering the rough jolt of his hips that bullies the blunt head of his cock deep inside of you. “So don’t use that mouth of yours unless it’s to tell me how good I fucking feel.”

Az holds true to his word because every time your lips part to make some stupid comment for him to slow down or loosen his grip on your hips because you’re sure bruises are forming—Azriel just fucks you harder. Presses the palm of his hand against your mouth to muffle the moans, to seize the symphony of sighs that gasp free when he treats sensitive spots with such aggression.

He can feel your legs shaking, tuts his tongue in hushed amusement when he catches you trying to inch away; searching for a spare second to catch your breath. “Where d’you think you’re going?”

No mercy is shown for your choked breaths when Azriel’s focused on the ripple of your ass with each thrust. “It’s so fucking deep,” The words come out garbled against his palm and it’s only then that he pulls it away, fingers ghosting over the swollen plush of your lips in silent appreciation.

“Filthy pussy’s just sucking me right in,” Your cheeks burn, lids fluttering closed as you try not to acknowledge the fact that his voice and those syllables strung together is just enough to have you clenching around him; slick gushing down the length of him and dripping from the heavy weight of his balls.

A sharp smack of his hand against the fat of your ass; the perfect pinch of pain to accompany the mind-numbing pleasure that wracks through every nerve. “Azriel!”

“Now you remember my name?” His tone is pure venom, every rational part of his brain clouded with envy, leaking with a bitterness that scrunches up the perfect lines of his face. “Can’t believe you were about to give this up to that fucking ingrate.” Cool air breezes against your sex as your ass is lewdly pried open enough for Azriel to stare at the sopping wet mess you make. “Not after I’ve been waiting so godsdammed long for this—for you.” A creamy ring of your cum catches at the base of his cock; cunt clenching over and over and over as he works you through orgasm after orgasm.

Mumbled praises and keening moans are your only reply, knees bending for better leverage as you lean back into the pace he sets. Screw the mission—fuck the objective. Damn anything that wasn’t Azriel and his cock and those perfect hands that claims sweat-slicked skin. You don’t even fight it, succumbing to the pleasure and the male administering it. “Right there!” You barely recognize the sound of your own voice, ears focused on Azriel’s grunts and whispered praises. “So good. So good—fuck!”

“This is mine?” It’s not really a question. That much you know when you feel the pressure of his thumb rubbing circles along your clit. “Say it so I can hear you.”

“Yes!” Eyes roll. Words slur. Fists clutch at polished wood; manicured nails leaving indents in mahogany. “Belongs to you.”

Azriel’s too good—too precise; too determined. Forces him to rut deep and carve out a place inside of you with his name branded on it. Thick ropes of his seed paints quivering walls; claiming with a kind of possessiveness that has your toes permanently curled in your heels.

There’s barely enough time to catch a proper breath or situate your dress when thick wad of papers are smacked before you like a godsdammed gift, all neatly stacked and basically tied with a fucking shadowy bow. All the intel you’d bitched at Az for compromising—written right there in plain sight. “Those are the—you…thank you.”

“Don’t get all sweet for me now,” Azriel muses darkly, affectionately patting at your cheek as if you were some drowsy pup, his head nodding in gesture to the neat stack of stolen papers on the table while swiftly tucking himself away and redoing the ties on his breeches. “I’m only covering for your pretty ass so I can ruin it later.”

[beifong-brainrot]

People will go on about how "Katara's story is a tragedy" because she... ended up marrying the guy she loves, having children and grandchildren which she was always excited about and literally becoming a master waterbender and rising to the top of her field as a healer.

Yes, Katara's story has tragic aspects to it. And there are certainly flaws in how she is written in tlok (Though I will argue that there are actually more issues with how Toph and Zuko are just plopped in there for no reason in later seasons). And her storylines aren't perfect, for example her resolving her trauma around the murder of her mother being more used to prop up Zuko than her own internal turmoil. (Most of TSR is from Zuko's perspective and I hate that actually)

"Katara's story is a tragedy" Why do you have such a hard on for this woman's misery? Let her be happy, man.

You know what gaang girlie's life is an actual onscreen tragedy?

Toph's!

People will fucking downplay Toph's childhood abuse because she wasn't physically hurt, but her childhood was a never ending carousel of abelism, misogyny, neglect and isolation. The way Toph describes her parent's treatment of her as "pressure and pain" is heartbreaking.

Toph's only escape was Earth Rumble and earthbending, but despite her skills, she remained the perfect little lady her parents always wanted her to be. She's never known a different life, and she was only able to be her real self in secret.

And when Toph finally opens up to her parents, when she finally lays her real self bare in front of the people who are supposed to love and care for her?

She is met with what may be, in my opinion, the cruellest rejection in the show.

Despite this, even when Toph runs away, she still cares for her parents' approval. Hell, she's even lured into a trap due to her getting a forged letter from her mom and getting excited because it looked like her mom was finally accepting her.

It's also important to note how determined to be self sufficient and to prove herself Toph is. We can especially see this right after she joins the Gaang, where she refuses to participate in splitting with the rest of the group, insisting on "pulling her own weight". This isn't Toph being a brat, or spoilt, this is her wanting to prove that she can handle herself because people have handled and understimated her her entire life.

Eventually, Toph starts to learn to trust the members of the Gaang and this is a step in the right direction. She's literally making friends for the first time in her life I'm so proud of her.

However, I was genuinely upset when Toph's life changing field trip with Zuko didn't work out. When Toph was trying to connect with Zuko and he blew her off (I'm not blaming him tho they had shit to do), I couldn't help but remember the rejection Toph suffered from Lao.

Post canon, Toph continues to try and prove herself, starting a metalbending school and training new metalbenders.

She also reconciles with her father. Not before Lao disowns he rmultiple times and calls her a rude, ungrateful thing. And while he eventually comes to understand Toph and cherish her, that type of trauma sticks with you.

So it's no wonder really that Toph, someone who went her entire childhood seemingly without even speaking to someone her age, would have trouble forming connections. She has children with two different men, neither of which seem to stick around.

Toph tries to do right by her daughters and gives them the freedom she never got. Sadly, the pendulum swung too far to the other side, since it seems that she started to neglect her daughters, which led to them developing a sleugh of issues of their own.

Toph becomes the cheif of police, which kind of makes sense. Republic City was only slowly emerging as an actual metropolis. Toph took on a role as a protector, and probably as a way to prove herself. But as Republic City grew, Toph probably realised that she became something she hated. A cog in the machine, and started to despise her job.

Searching for a semblance of the freedom and happiness her travels afforded her in her childhood, Toph leaves the city and takes up the life of a hermit in a swamp. She managed to fix her relationship with Suyin to some extent, but still seems reluctant or simply unable to connect with her daughter or grandchildren. Since she apparently hasn't seen Opal, a grown 20 year old woman since she was a little girl.

On the surface old Toph doesn't seem terribly dissimilar to young Toph, still tough and spunky. But she is more jaded, depressed and pessimistic. She comes out to save Suyin from immediate harm and manages to somewhat reconcile with Lin, but then she fucks right back off to the swamp where she seems to literally hide until Wu and Korra straight up force her to come with them.

Toph's story began with her alone and it seems to end with her alone as well. It's a story of a girl who grew up isolated and handled by others, and was woefully unprepared for the real world, which only jaded her further. She lives with the guilt of fucking up her daughters' lives and a belief in the pointlessness of life.

Toph started off longing to experience the world and ended up willingly isolating herself from it.

If that isn't a tragedy, I'm not sure what is.

Mind you, this is not the trauma olympics. I'm not saying that Toph has suffered more than Katara or that Katara's trauma is not as valid as Toph's. Katara and Toph's experiences are completely different, Katara being a victim of genocide and war, Toph being a victim of child abuse. I'm just saying that, objectively, Katara had a happier 'ending' than Toph.

[atthebell]

i say recent because ive seen, in the last 24 hours, no less than three posts along the lines of "fuck caring about female characters, only talk about men because fujoshis exist" and it's making me feel fucking crazy

this recent trend of arguing that actually focusing entirely on m/m ships is feminism because women like yaoi is so fucking stupid please get help

[lilacsandlillies]

I was going through the anti Jason Todd tag because I hate myself and want to understand where people who dislike him are coming from and one thing I kept seeing was annoyance at Jason fans who claim that Jason is female coded and realized that the term “female coded” might not be the best term to describe what we mean.

A female coded character in literature and media typically means a character that has no specified gender or otherwise does not have a gender but is obviously meant to be a stand in for a woman or female. Kind of like how Starfire has no specified race (due to being an alien) but is still obviously black coded based on the way she’s drawn and treated by the narrative.

This is slightly different than what we mean when saying that Jason is female coded. It’s not that Jason is literally supposed to be a stand in for a female character, it’s that the way a lot of characters treat him and a lot of the tropes used on him are things that usually saved for female characters, not big buff men like Jason.

To start with, being Robin is narratively (or at least was) very similar to being a woman in a story. Robin is a role made to complement Batman (who we all know is basically the ultimate male power fantasy). Robin’s role is to be an accessory to Batman. Robin can be smart, but not smarter than Batman. Robin can be strong, but not stronger than Batman. Hell, Robin is often kidnapped and used as a literal damsel in distress, a role often regulated for women as a whole.

What sets Jason apart from the other robins (except for Steph) in this regard is that they were allowed to be characters outside of Batman. Dick might not have been the “man” of the story when he’s with Bruce, but when he’s with the teen titans suddenly he’s the smart one who has all the answers. Jason’s Robin was never really allowed this.

Then we get to the most, controversial, part of Jason’s female coding. The fact the he was effectively fridged. Fridging is usually only referred to as frigding if it’s a female character, but Jason’s death checks pretty much all the other boxes needed. An incredibly brutal death that was more about Bruce’s feelings on it than Jason himself.

This is especially apparent when compared to the other Bat characters. For all the female coding, the only other Robin to actually be fridged was Steph (and we all know about the misogyny surrounding her death). Barbara was also kind of fridged during the killing Joke. The only female character to escape this is Cass (to my knowledge). When you look at it through this lens, the fact that the only other characters to be permanently damaged like this for Bruce’s story are female, it’s not hard to see where the idea that Jason is female coded comes from.

You can even find this in Jason’s origin story. Poor little orphan is saved by benevolent billionaire is a role usually saved for little girls, like in Annie.

Despite what you might think, this even continues after Jason’s revival. Jason is still used less as a character and more as a motivation for Bruce. He’s regularly called emotional and hysterical (terms usually used to refer to women).

Jason is first and foremost a victim. A role performed by women in most media. Men are expected to be stoic and “rise above” the things done to them as to not be victims, as continuously shown by the way characters like Nightwing are not allowed to be effected by the horrific things they go through. The fact that Jason is shown the be angry, and sad, and emotional, constantly, and the fact that he’s punished and vilified for it puts him in a place much more similar to a female character.

There’s a reason that so many Jason fans (that like him for a reason past “antihero with guns”) are female. For most characters, when you swap their genders there would be a pretty clear and big difference in the way their story takes place. If you swap Jason’s gender, the story takes place identically.

A lot of this is best shown in men’s reactions to Arkham Knight’s version of Jason. In that game, Jason is similarly angry and emotional, albeit for slightly different reasons. He is also still unmistakably a victim. You’d think the men playing would like him. After all he’s a big cool angsty guy with a lot of guns and muscles. Instead, a lot of men’s thought that he was whiny. That his feelings were annoying.

There’s also something to be said about how his autonomy is regularly undermined by Bruce (specifically in Gotham war) and how his decisions and feeling are constantly treated as if they’re worth less than Bruce’s, but that’s a discussion for another day.

[pennyellee]

𝐀𝐍𝐔𝐁𝐈𝐒 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐞𝐰

title: ANUBIS pairings: yandere mafia namjoon x barmaid f!reader genre: dark romance, smut, porn with plot, 90s word count: 19,7K release date: december - january

beta read by one and only @chaoticpuff17

prompt 1: “You are something I can sin for” prompt 2: An anchor amidst the stormy seas of life — that’s what Namjoon is for you. But it wasn’t always like that. There was a time where you’ve resented Namjoon with every fibre of your being and every word that came out of his plump lips after what he had done to prove his power. Unfortunately, you will never know what life could be if Kim Namjoon was not in it.

warnings: minors dni 18+ | sexual tension, emotional distress, teasing, yandere behaviour, obsessive behaviour, manipulation, reader meets namjoon young but nothing happens until she's 21, forced engagement, kidnapping, graphic violence, death, murder, blood, explicit language, misogyny, mentions of feminism, alcohol usage, mentions of religion and God, church smut, oral (f receiving), fingering, oppa-kink and so on (i'll add some if i'll forget)

author's note: so here we are! this is the story i've been thrilled to push out as it is happening in the universe and almost simultaneously with CHAMPAGNE CONFETTI. Y/N alias Peaches here, is my baby, and I cannot wait to write more for her and Namjoon after champagne confetti side B goes out. I have drafts for another fics that are happening in the same universe as champagne confetti and now anubis but step by step my faries ♥ I hope you will enjoy reading this piece I was keeping for myself for a looong time. The best thing about writing is that I get to build this world of imagination and live in it for months before it gets to you. Sooo I'm very nervous and excited to push Anubis out as a second fic within champagne confetti universe - which i still didn't name coz all the fics just have different titles so let's just call it like that for now. Without further ado, enjoy fairies! ♥ let's go back to 1996. omfg, let's call it thatttt, back to 1996!

disclaimer: this story is purely fictional, it does not depict real-life events or involve any actual members of BTS. This story will contain depictions of violence, blood shed, death, mentions of abuse, smoking, alcohol drinking, illegal activities, old social norms and traditions, which we do not condone. main masterlist 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐧𝐞

1996

"Did you sleep well?" Namjoon asked, his voice softer now, as if he was trying to breach the walls that had begun to rise between you.

You nursed your coffee in the black ceramic mug while you shrugged, keeping the answer with spice in it for yourself just yet. His brow furrowed, and for a moment, you could see the cracks in his façade when you didn't answer.

"I see... silent treatment," he gulped down, a hint of frustration creeping into his voice. Pouring himself a cup of coffee too, he leaned on the counter right in front of you. You took his appearance in. He got a buzz cut, creamy satin shirt tucked in leather pants. A few of the buttons were undone, giving you a perfect view of his toned chest.

"Is that really how you want to start the day?" he provoked. You set the mug down, the clink of ceramic against marble echoing in the tension-filled kitchen.

"Did you ask yourself the same question when you threatened me?" you shot back, your voice rising slightly as the memories flooded back. The anger surged within you, igniting a fire that had been smoldering since the moment you woke up in his penthouse.

Namjoon's expression shifted, the warmth in his eyes replaced by a flicker of defensiveness.

"Well, you for some reason seemed too adamant that you needed to patrol the streets of Bronx by running away from me. I know you too damn well, Peaches; I know where you were headed."

The words stung, each syllable laced with accusation and an unsettling truth. Your heart raced, the anger bubbling just below the surface.

"You know fucking shit, Namjoon—"

"Oppa," he jumped in, his voice firm, yet tinged with a note of caution.

You inhaled sharply, the familiar term slicing through the tension like a knife. It reminded you of the intimate moments you once shared. "You've lost that honorific the moment you decided to threaten me and kill that man right in front of my eyes!"

Namjoon's jaw clenched, and you could see the conflict brewing beneath his composed exterior.

"You don't understand the kind of world I'm in. We protect ours."

"Protect?" you spat, feeling the heat of betrayal wash over you.

"I'm a person who deserves to make her own choices—" He stepped closer, his eyes narrowing.

"What choices are you making? Running off into the night like it's some kind of adventure? You think that's brave? I refuse to let you get hurt because you're unhappy with my decisions."

"Oh yeah, like something would happen to me—"

"You are my woman, and people know that you are, Peaches!" he declared, his voice rising with intensity, as if the weight of his words was meant to command respect from the universe itself.

Your heart raced at his proclamation, a mix of anger and something softer twisting in your gut.

"The fuck you're talking about, Namjoon?" You snapped, your voice echoing off the sleek kitchen walls. Anger surged within you, fueled by the sheer audacity of his claim.

"Not fucking once did you say that we ought to be official one day—" you shot back, your voice dripping with disbelief.

"You act like I'm some sort of possession, something you can just claim without any conversation or commitment!" Namjoon's expression hardened, a flicker of frustration flashing in his eyes.

"You need to stop pretending like we don't have a future because you're scared of the past," he said, smashing the mug down on the counter. Namjoon's jaw tightened, and the conflict in his eyes was palpable.

"Since we met, not fucking once have you made your intentions strictly clear, Namjoon! The fuck am I doing here then?!" The words burst from your lips, raw and unfiltered, echoing in the tense space between you.

He ran a hand over his face, visibly struggling to keep his composure.

"I thought you knew. I thought you felt it too," he replied, his voice softer now, almost pleading. "I thought it was understood that it was a matter of time."

"Understood?" you scoffed, incredulity seeping into your tone. "You think that just because you've made me a part of your life, I should automatically know my place? That's not how it works!"

"I was waiting till you'll—"

"Age of consent is eighteen in this state, Namjoon, keep that bullshit to yourself." Namjoon's expression darkened at your words, and you could see the frustration simmering beneath the surface.

"So you would rather be wifed and knocked up as soon as we met, am I right?"

.

.

.

.

.

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐧𝐞

©pennyellee. please do not repost

tag list: if you want to be notified once the full story will be up for reading, you can write in the comments and i'll create a taglist!

Don't be a silent reader, let's be friends chummers! ♥

lots of love, p.

[yanderenightmare]

TW: NSFW, noncon/dubcon, subjugation, Daddy-kink, chauvinism/misogyny, captive reader

fem reader

Board meetings and endless hours in his office, going from meeting to meeting, working over crappy proposals from other firms meanwhile surrounded by incompetent interns who’re only useful for making coffee runs. 

Only one pretty thing on his heavy mind…

He wishes he could keep you under his desk – no words, just your hot mouth wrapped around him – letting him spill all his frustrations down your throat.

He groans and quirks a brow at his watch.

It’s late. You’re probably at home with your hands between your thighs, waiting for him. Dressed up in pastel pinks – only frilly lingerie he’ll so easily tear only to buy more. 

Not that you need to wear anything at all when you’re not allowed to leave his house. 

But he likes the way it looks on you – next to nude, his little sex-kitten – all soft edges and warm plush flesh he can drown his burdened head in – soft fat he can card his ringed fingers into and squeeze tight – wrap you around him and just sink inside the comfort.

“Fuck.” He mutters under his breath, cracks his knuckles, and downs the last two fingers of bourbon from his glass before standing up and rebuttoning his suit. 

There’s no point sitting here with a throbbing tent ruining the seams of his tailored suit. 

Might as well go home and take care of business there…

He saunters in after locking the door behind him, another heavy sigh leaving him as he loosens his tie with a mildly frustrated tug. 

“Baby.” He curtly calls for you, sitting himself down in his armchair while waiting for you to come padding over from wherever.

You’re dolled up in a new set of sheer pink.

“There you are, my baby~” He croons ruggedly and pats his thigh, gently pulling at your hips once you’re close enough, dragging you up to straddle his lap.

“Welcome home, Daddy~” You say meekly, planting a chaste kiss on his cheek before relaxing against him.

It’s all you can do to keep from whining.

He makes you feel like a pet project. Something only kept and done at home meant to take his mind off things. 

Otherwise, he makes you feel like an actual pet – greeting him when he comes home with your head bowed and your tail between your legs, seating yourself on his lap while listening pliantly as he grumbles on about how shitty his day was.

You answer by doing what you’ve learned keeps him happy, bringing your hands up to undo his buttons as his head falls to rest on your shoulder – rubbing the stubble of his chin into the dip of your collar with halfhearted kisses – leaving your skin wet.

His hands round your back, twiddling the lace of your panties, playing with it while lightly lolling you against him – making your hips roll over him oh-so-sweetly.

You know he’s pent up and prone to take it out on you – often harshly, with his tie wound tightly around your neck – so you do your best to help him relax before it happens – smoothly carding your fingers through his finely kempt hair, dislodging it from its strict slick back.

He groans gratefully in return, with goosebumps rising throughout him, coming apart at the seams and falling even further into your warm touch with another squeeze of your smaller body – and gruff words coming from his throat.

“Have you missed me, baby?”

You run your hands softly over the rigid muscles beneath his shirt, gently gliding over the fine silken fabric until all buttons are undone. Replying, “All day, Daddy~” with your lips cascading from placing small pecks on his cheekbone down his Adam's apple to his collarbones while continuing to help him out of his clothes.

“Already so needy… Won’t let a man rest a single minute first before begging to get your pussy fucked, hm? Such a shameless little thing…” He chides with a sigh – despite his hips jostling somewhat impatiently – pushing his crotch suggestively against your hands where you work to open his belt.

He encourages you by licking your neck with another moan, followed by a soft click of his tongue, giving your hair another tug while you release the button and slide his zipper down.

“Do you think you deserve it?” He hisses. “I haven't heard you ask nicely even once.”

“Please, Daddy~ please give me your big cock~” You kiss his neck with the pretty words, cupping the growing bulge before gently messaging him through his boxer, and he – somewhat begrudgingly, as though not entirely impressed – gives a heavy sigh while leaning his head back against the cushion behind him.

“Such a horny little girl... with such a filthy little mouth on you, I ought to rinse it out with soap…”

His hand rests on the plump of your ass – grinding you forward until the heat of your cunt kisses his stiffness with only the fine mix of cotton and lace separating the two of you.

He strokes your lip with the pad of his thumb before pushing two of his fingers past them to play with your tongue – making you lick his fingers clean of the gritty taste of salt and tobacco.

He hums at you, “That’s the taste of money, baby.” Pinching your cheeks together with a jaded look darkening his expression – kissing the pout of your plump lips with a tut. “All the hard work I do for you...”

You hold yourself steady on his shoulders and lift your hips as he tugs your panties to the side and slides the spit-slicked digits over your folds softly before splitting the lips and sinking them both inside you.

You bite your lip at the stretch it makes.

“Have you been touching yourself all day, hm?” He tsks at you with a shake of his head but pets your hair while at it, looking down at you with that silent subjugating gaze, bringing you to heel before giving you a kiss on the forehead. “Such a mindless little slut you are, only one thing in that ditzy little head...”

You bite the inside of your cheek, feeling the sting of tears threatening to fall – you don't want to be pushed down and pinned beneath his strength – not with his fist riddled within your hair, forcing your face against the pillow – and rammed from behind like you’re nothing but a fuckdoll for convenience. 

So, you bribe him with sweet nothings you know he wants to hear. 

“It’s all you, Daddy. Only you~”

He leaves his fingers in your cunt, curling them into the sponge and smiling at the wet that trickles down over his rings and knuckles, pooling in his hand as he pulls himself out from his boxers with the other – telling you, “Show me.”

You wrap your hands around the base neatly, one stacked atop the other, working the shaft while sticky precum spills down your fingers.

“Such a needy girl, always making Daddy work, never letting him rest…” He shakes his head, jerking his hips up into your touch.

He pulls his fingers from your cunt and brings them back up to your mouth – waiting for you to suck them off – groaning at the sight as his other hand takes his cock out of your smaller ones, giving himself harder tugs.

“This what you wanted, baby? This what you’ve been thinking ‘bout all day?” He babies while tapping his head against your mound, waiting for you to beg a little more.

“Yes, Daddy, please~ I need it so bad, please, Daddy~” You whine between licking his digits clean.

“Okay, Baby, don’t worry, Daddy’s got you.” He soothes before lining the sturdy shaft with your puffiness.

His tip glides between the lips, licking the slit before settling at the mouth – pressing in with a groan as he lowers you slowly – squeezing inside your taunt velvety walls until you’ve swallowed him down to his balls. 

“There we go, Baby~ time to give this needy pussy what she’s been crying for, hm~” 

You pout as he begins his tempo. It’s slow and deep as he unclasps your bralette and starts sucking your titties. Both hands grope each mound roughly, tweaking and pinching the nipple his mouth isn’t nomming.

It makes you buck your hips. And his hand finds your hair again, tugging it back as he sucks bites up your neck until licking your ear.

“Is Baby so impatient to come on Daddy’s cock she can’t control herself?” He croons condescendingly – as if he was talking down to a toddler about getting ice cream before dinner.

And though you despise it with every fiber of your being – feeling like the tone itself was gasoline to a raging fire – you do your best to swallow the smoke, knowing it would get you nowhere to spit it back in his face.

“Yes, Daddy. Pretty please.”

He hums at the way you beg, shifting in his seat to sink deeper until he’s properly kneading your womb. “Behave yourself, and we’ll see if you deserve it.”

That’s right. He just wants you to sit there and take it – cum when he tells you to. And if you defy those wishes, he’ll sooner have you bent over his lap with his handprint singed upon your ass than be done with you.

“Yes, I’m sorry, Daddy~ I’ve just missed you so much~ It’s so lonely here without you~”

He chuckles darkly. “Aw~ you sound like a little puppy – wagging your tail when your owner comes home.”

It’s humiliating, and the chagrin burns hot in your cheeks – enough to make your eyes water.

“I should get you a pretty collar.” He muses, cupping your ass in both hands, with blunt nails digging smiles into the fat as he lifts you up and down his shaft slowly – fucking you deep – his words still at your ear in hot gruffs. “Maybe a little tail, too, hm? Would you like that?”

You moan and nod your head. “Anything you want, Daddy~”

He likes that.

“You’ve become so good for me, baby. Only a couple weeks ago, I had to rope you up and muzzle you like a rabid dog, but now look at you…” He praises with a curled smile. “Begging to have your pussy fucked the moment I come home, all but jumping and humping my leg like a lovesick pup.” 

He clicked his tongue, locking his arms around your thighs in a tighter grip, with hands holding your ass steady – picking up the pace with a huff. 

“Are you my little housebroken cock-pet, hm?”

“Yes – yes, Daddy,” Your words shuddered as he jerked his hips sharply, hitting you deep and hard enough to make you choke on your moans. “I’m your little – ah- housebroken cock-pet~”

He groaned. “Cum for me, baby – cum while I fill you up – show me what a good and grateful cock-pet you are-” He spluttered while holding you tight, sinking deep as he spilled his worth inside your womb while you faked it for his pleasure – shaking on his lap with your head thrown back in a squeal, milking him while pretending to ride it out.

“Thank you, Daddy!”

He spanked your ass, grabbing greedily into you as he continued to empty himself. “Such a slutty little pet – cumming all over Daddy’s cock – moaning like a filthy little whore.”

“I’m sorry – but you feel so good.” You whine like he’s right.

And he eats it up – every drop of it – kissing you with need. “Yeah, you’re my pet – Daddy’s dirty little cock-pet.” He moans against your lips with tongue and teeth, sucking more sloppy hickies down your neck until falling to rest on your tits.

You both pant in unison while he hugs you tight – waiting for his cock to soften before sloppily slugging it out.

He breaks the silence after a while with a click of his tongue. 

“Such a mess…” He huffs with a slight shake of his head – but then smiles with a chuckle when kissing your cheek. “Why don’t you make dinner while I go shower, hm?”

BNHA – Kirishima, Enji, Bakugou, Deku

JJK – Nanami, Sukuna, Geto, Naoya, Toji, Higuruma

[choslut]

˖ ࣪ ، ◞ せ⌇ SURVIVAL. featuring sniper mask.

↻ sniper mask is a good man… right?

tags : outdoor sex, misogyny, manipulation, creampie, spanking, fucking to survive (not really but he says it is), wall sex, orgasm delay, slight mask kink, god complex!sniper mask, implied dubcon // wc. 0.9k

author’s note : sighs and screams and sobs all over the place. i didn’t actually get down to watching high rise invasion until recently and now i suddenly need sniper mask everywhere and anywhere all at once. poor guy is SURROUNDED by women who he can’t have (and i could change that :p) i know we aren’t quite done with this event yet but i want to thank everyone for all the support i’ve received!! follower numbers have soared and i feel more motivation than ever <3 keep liking n reblogging to help a girl out, and enjoy this one !! i love you all and here’s to almost 800 followers !!

this work is NSFW. minors and ageless blogs DO NOT INTERACT.

ever heard of the saying ‘boys will be boys’? it’s massively toxic, and mostly used to excuse the inappropriate actions of boys (or more predominantly, men), especially in situations where said boy (or man) is deemed respectable for the most part. 

for the most part, SNIPER MASK is a respectable man. of all the girls he’s come across in this realm, he has made it his duty to protect them because he knows that as a man, it is up to him to ensure women’s safety. he may even call himself a feminist, but that may be a step too far. 

that’s because what sniper mask is doing now is very very far from what anyone would call feminism. in fact, he’s acting in accordance to the famed statement, ‘boys will be boys’, except he considers himself a man. and as a man, he has a right to feel manly urges. 

lying to a vulnerable girl such as yourself isn’t very respectable of him, but it’s been ages since he’s had a good fuck, and he can’t deny himself after everything he’s done for all the other ditzs in this realm. he’ll apologise after, he promises, but for now, he can only focus on the way your cunt has him in a death grip. 

“m-mr. mask…” you’re pathetic. he told you that you needed to do this to practise building stamina for future disputes, knowing full well that his stamina is fine, and you won’t be getting involved in combat if he had anything to do with it. you’re just such an airhead, so dainty and fragile and easily scared by the stupidest things, and it would pain him to leave you all alone by yourself. 

“i know, sweetheart, but we need to do this. it’s necessary to ensure your and my survival.” it absolutely isn’t, but he’s telling you that to keep himself warm and snug inside your cunt. he has you pressed up against the wall of one of the abandoned high rises, far away enough from the rest of the players to make sure he doesn’t get caught. 

your eyes flicker into the back of your head as your hands brace against the wall, bare nipples pressed into the brick through your torn shirt. “s-shit, ‘m gonna cum—“

sniper’s hands grip onto your hips hard, gloved fingers staining your flesh with fresh bruises as he pulls you back on his length repeatedly. “can’t have you cummin’ yet, angel. you have to hold it. stamina, remember?”

your eyes widen as you remember what he said. you have to hold out for as long as possible. do as he says because he’s a mask and you’re just a human, and a weak one at that. his experience surpasses yours tenfold, so he knows what’s best for your survival, right? 

so you hold it for him, cunt clenching down tightly and hands forming into fists as you squeeze your eyes shut. he isn’t making it very easy for you; his blunt cockhead hits your cervix head on with every thrust, and his hands periodically crawl around your torso to play with your nipples. to add on to the sensations, it’s beginning to get a little windy out, and the cool breeze brushes against your agitated clit, causing small streams of wetness to spurt from your depths with every thrust. 

you want to give up. you wish you could just give up on this whole stamina building exercise and let the masks kill you, but sniper’s cock feels so good, and if he doesn’t let you cum soon, you might lose what little brain cells you have left. 

“i know you want it, doll, but y’gonna have to be patient, okay?” his deep voice rattles through his mask. “gotta hold out f’me. gonna make you a great fighter, okay?”

“y-yes sir,” you whimper, gasping when his gloved hand comes down on your ass with a slap! 

“good girl. turn around f’me.” he unsheathes his cock and watches you struggle to turn around on shaky legs, back now pressed to the wall and thighs slightly parted as your tits spill out of your shirt. you look like a mess, eyelids drooping and lips parted gently, and he wonders why oh why you haven’t caught onto his scheme yet. 

you, on the other hand, are confused for different reasons. you can’t even see his face, for crying out loud, so why do you want him to keep fucking you so bad? thoughts of stamina building or whatever fly right out of the window as he presses your waist back up against the wall, pulling your leg around his waist before lining his tip up with your hole. 

“you can cum for me this time, doll. i think it’s about time you felt some real pleasure.” there he goes again, helping out poor little girls like you down on their luck. 

he even has the audacity to smile to himself under his mask as he watches you convulse from orgasm, your tiny hands squeezing his biceps and eyes rolling into the back of your head lewdly. he follows not too long after, his grunts as shallow as his thrusts as he spurts rope after rope into your twitching cunt. 

does he feel bad for cumming inside? not really. girls like you are only good for one thing in a place like this; to be good, compliant little cumdumps for respectable, hardworking men like himself. 

PREVIOUS : LUCKY GIRL ft. daichi sawamura NEXT : SWEET TALK ft. choso

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© choslut 2024 — do not copy, repost or translate my works without permission.

[musical-chick-13]

I think. I think there's still a lot of "Well I don't want to be like THOSE girls," even among plenty of adults who truly do genuinely care about feminism. And I just want to say that trying to assure someone who is attempting to parse all of that out with "Oh, don't worry, YOU'RE not like One Of THOSE™️ Girls" does not........actually help.

[ronanlynchdefender]

The political stances of The Raven Cycle characters are so fascinating to me. You got Blue over here who is very much a progressive activist in the making. She recognizes things like misogyny and is not afraid to call those things out even when it concerns her closest friends. Because of that, I definitely see her as the type of activist who would be in the front lines at protests whether that be at the Capitol, college campuses, at the border, or as is the case in the dreamer trilogy, tied to a tree. She is the type of person who demands change in our current system and would demand it loudly and through acts of protest or civil disobedience.

Then you have Adam who displays no strong desire to change the system and whose only desire is to rise up in that system. He wants to climb the social ladder and assimilate to those of higher social status which is partially why he envies Gansey so much in the beginning because Gansey was born into it. Adam still tries to do this in the dreamer trilogy by essentially pretending to be a Gansey-like figure while at Harvard despite hating it. Eventually, Adam gives up on trying to belong within this higher social class and "climbing the ladder" but then strangely enough becomes a fed, which means just integrating into another form of hierarchy and power structure. And I feel like a more interesting arc would've been rejecting being a part of these societal systems altogether.

Which I suppose now leads us to Ronan who is a literal anarchist. He actually rejects all societal systems and rules and it permeates every aspect of his life. But actually, I shouldn't say all because there is one societal institution which he does enjoy partaking in: religion. With the exception of his catholicism, he does not engage in any other societal institution: education, law, politics. He hates it, in fact, It is antithetical to his being which is what makes his characterization so perfect because of course a gay farmer god would hate oppressive rules and structures (except for religion). That's not even mentioning that he is a canonical ecoterrorist that cost the US government a billion dollars. But what is really interesting about his character (and where his and Blue's political stances differ) is that because he rejects these systems he has no interest or stake in changing them. He'd sooner tear down the system than try to reform it.

And then there’s Gansey who doesn't seem to engage in politics and would rather spend his days reading his little Welsh books and going on his fun adventures. Of course, he is able to do this largely because he has the privilege to not worry about politics or social class. It seems that Blue's influence changes this as they are both chaining themselves to trees in protest during the dreamer trilogy. Other than that, I don't really have a lot to say about Gansey and his politics. But I find it very interesting that Maggie has created this close-knit group of characters with such varying relationships to how they view politics and social structures. I tried to draw out a 2-axis grid to show their differences, but I don't know if it really works because I feel like Gansey kinda screws it up but nevertheless I like how they each represent different ends of a spectrum sort of.

[genderkoolaid]

you seem thoroughly uninformed about misogyny in south korea, so much that you think south korean feminists are creating a divide when said divide already clearly exists and is the cause of the rise of a feminist movement

“I would hate for this interest in 4B outside of South Korea to somehow feed and revive the most regressive part of 4B,” Ju Hui Judy Han, an assistant professor of Gender Studies at UCLA, tells Them. “I would actually hate for the interest in 4B in the US to then somehow make this TERF [movement] grow in South Korea.” [...] But the conversation about 4B in the U.S. is rife with misconceptions about the movement, including false assertions that 4B accounts for the majority of feminist thought in South Korea. It’s important to note that despite the global attention, 4B is a fringe movement in South Korea, and Han says the vast majority of South Korean feminists do not abide by it. “I just want to make sure that people understand that 4B does not speak for Korean feminism,” Han tells Them. “4B is not representative of Korean feminist politics. A lot of us see something a lot more diverse and a lot more intersectional than what 4B calls for.” [...] Han says that they hope this blip in interest about 4B fades into the next news cycle, as there are so many other forms of intersectional South Korean feminism that do include queer and trans people. Ultimately, many of the current discussions about 4B are coming from a place of privilege that queer people don’t have the luxury of accessing.

which South Korean feminists my friend

[deluluass]

Time cast a spell on you

Content warnings: rape/noncon; graphic depictions of violence; major character death; self-harm; implied suicide; name-calling; degradation; misogyny Other tags: heavy angst; yakuza AU; multiverse; reincarnation; actually just an old lady's excuse to finally write a silver springs angstfic

*SUMMARY*

There are two things about his life that Sukuna knows to be true.

One—

He was born to rise above all men.

And, two—

This is not the first time.

**

It's like picking a flower when he takes you on his lap. "Wanna hear about the little shit from earlier?" he groans into your ear, squeezing your ass.

"Sir, the blade."

You're keeping yourself from landing where he's got his thighs spread apart— prude bitch, but he is who he is. And you're just not strong enough.

"All good, doll," Sukuna reassures you.

The straight razor in your hand could cut his throat. You're not being stupid for keeping it at arm's length. It's old— the kind of thing brown-nosers would call vintage, collected and well-cared for with a gold handle— but it sure as hell can nick and make a caught fish out of a grown man. He knows because he’s since developed an eye for these things. That’s why when it was gifted to him a few years back, he had done nothing more but make the guy lick the toe of his shoe for being so thoughtful towards poor, fatherless Sukuna.

He offers his throat to you and juts out his chin, stubble lathered with cream.

“Just be careful,” he teases.

You go to work without a word. The blade is a kiss against the barely-there hair. You glide your hand sure as can be, fingers resting over the shank, until half of his face is as smooth as a baby’s bum. Water drips from the faucet and clinks into the wide porcelain tub behind him.

The silence could tick off even a monk.

“Anyway, this man, right?” Sukuna begins to mutter, curling his lips in once you shave over his mouth. “Drove me up the wall today, kitten, you wouldn’t even believe it. Water boarded, tased, had his balls cut off, still, not talking. But just as I thought he would— ‘Don’t fuck with people who got nothin’ left to lose,’ he tells me.”

You are soft under his palm. “So, I’m like, fuck does that even mean?” Sukuna continues, bending his neck to the side to give you more room to work with. “And that’s when I just about lost it. I was hungry. It was hot and I was getting tired. We’ve been at it for five fucking hours and I had to end it somehow. What’s a guy to do, huh?”

You don’t answer, but he keeps going. “I had his bitch taken out of the car.”

The blade over his jaw halts. Sukuna grins. Open his mouth some more and that thing could kill him right now. But would it? Would you? He feels his cock, stiff as a motherfucker and balls heavy in his boxers.

“Pretty, young thing. My boys said she was tight too.” The bit of skin where his lips meet stings when you stroke over there. “And that’s when he started singing.”

His laugh rumbles off his chest, before pulling you closer. “Like a bird,” he sighs to your ear.

Don’t fuck with people who got nothing left to lose, my ass.

Your heart is a battering ram, and he feels every weak, desperate blow. There’s no longer a trace of cream to be found on his face.

“Hm? What’s wrong?” Sukuna coos as he tips your chin up. “Something I said?”

As always, you do not speak, that gaze of yours gone off to someplace else. He clicks his tongue. The blade sinks down, down, down over his throat. Your hands tremble as tears come rushing down your face.

There she is, he thinks with a satisfied groan.

“Go,” he commands. “Kill me.”

He waits, watching you as his thumbs caress the swell of your tits, then mouthing your nipples over the loose cotton of your top. Your nipples harden over his sweeping tongue. He bites and takes the fabric between his teeth.

The blade nips in time, but he doesn’t take his eyes off of you. Blood trickles to his bare chest. It blends seamlessly with the cherry blossoms and dragons tattooed on the pectorals, although old Emma-ō on his stomach looks like he gashed his eye out.

This is his favorite part. And it never gets old no matter how many times he sees it: your face falling apart, searching for a way out only to come to terms with the fact that this is it.

There’s nowhere to go. You’ve reached a dead end.

It was raining that day he first caught sight of this. On your knees before him, a blade hung over your neck— a simple, crude, mundane blade—held by a lowly servant. That was all that you amounted to. You didn’t even deserve a death dealt by any of his four arms.

And that’s all that you amount to now. You take the razor off his neck and bring it to yours.

“You’re gonna kill yourself? Some big plan you have there.” He scoffs, pushing your ass down to grind into you. “Do it, little girl.”

Your panties are pushed to the side, but nothing comes out of you. Not a single gasp or moan. Just those tears and that never ending vacuousness before you. His fingers twitch. He should just kill you right now. Get this all over with.

“Worthless cunt,” Sukuna growls, before grabbing your neck. The razor clatters off your grip. And soon enough you’re on the floor beneath him, throwing scratches and kicks that almost hit him. So, so close.

The blotched scar on your left palm peeks through his clutch.

“That’s more like it,” he barks out, laughing as he pins your wrists to the pearl tiles. Your thighs are forced apart, hanging limply over his. “Now, say it.”

“You’re a monster!”

His laughter rings sharply in his ears. “How nostalgic.”

He takes his cock out of his boxers, heavy in his hand and already leaking, before smacking the tip over your clit.

“What’re you hoping to achieve this time, hm?” It doesn’t take long before he’s aching to have your cunt gripping around him. His cock is slick enough for the both of you anyway. “Take it, you’re a good girl, you can take it, good girl, just like that, yeah.”

You whimper breathlessly, releasing that cute little whistle of a cry every time his thrusts brush the cushy, spongy lump way, way deep inside you. Sukuna feels his eyes roll to the back of his head, and he just can’t help it.

“You look so pathetic,” he jeers. Pathetic and even prettier when he gives your face a slap or two. “Were you hoping I’d take pity on you? Show remorse, that it? And what d’you think’s gonna happen after you bleed to death? I’ll tell you, it’s okay, I’ll tell you—”

He leans down, your lips almost touching, as he tells you, gently, “I’ll call for room service, have your body in a bag, give the cleaning guy a tip for his time, and then— then that would be it. That is it. You have nothing. No one would say anything, no one would cry, no one would go searching. Your story ends at a dump. Just some pussy to sell.”

Tears wet his cheeks, tracking like a stream, and his cock throbs inside you. If heaven were real, it exists right here. “Then, once that’s over, I’d get another piece of ass that won’t fuck me over the way you did.”

You’re a hyperventilating, hiccupping mess, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. He pulls out, then drags you down by the leg so that your face is at the receiving end of his cock.

All it takes are some nice, firm tugs at his shaft and he’s shooting his load all over that pathetic, pretty little face. A creamy splatter over the bridge of your nose, dripping down your cheek and mingling with drying tears. Sukuna doesn’t bother wiping when he’s got you for it.

“Clean it up, baby,” he whispers.

And you do.

You suck at the tip where he’s still leaking, tongue lapping up what’s left of cum.

He then gets up to pat his face with a towel and a shaving lotion, gelling his hair back afterwards. You hobble towards the other side of the bathroom. Your lone figure, sitting naked inside the tub, is reflected and scattered into a hundred different you’s by the floor-to-ceiling mirrors caging you on all sides.

The hot water spills over the wide tub and into the floor. Sukuna sighs, before approaching you to grip the back of your head, leaving a loud kiss on your lips. You bite back, and his cock twitches again.

He forces his tongue in, keeping his eyes open. So do you.

You part with both of your spit tied loosely together, until it melts and disappears into the water.

“Please lock the door on your way out,” you croak.

After all that, any man would feel compelled enough to move mountains, so he indulges you.

The lights in the walk-in closet are bright when he dons his button-up and slacks. He sits on the chair that faces the skyline. Under his feet, the city waits, half-asleep. A whiskey later, and he still hears water rushing.

And rushing.

And rushing.

Sukuna throws the decanter into the carpet, then strides to the bathroom. But he finds, with a sneer, that he cannot get in.

“Open,” he growls as he twists the handle and bangs the door. “Don’t fuck with me, open the door.”

Like most things, it eventually breaks under his hands, and once it does, the door crashes with a thunderous clap, alerting the men posted outside.

They wait behind him, no one dares to move until he does.

It takes Sukuna a second before he’s stepping inside the bathroom. The water on the floor is bright red, spreading like ink, and the closer he gets, the darker it becomes. You are lying in the tub, hand splayed over the rim. Your fingers are slack around the straight razor. You are a cold, plucked flower in his arms. 

And the water does not stop rushing.

--

“FOR COLLUDING WITH THE SORCERERS OF THE NORTH, FOR THIS TERRIBLE ACT OF TREACHERY AGAINST LORD SUKUNA, AND FOR UPSETTING THE GODS WHO WE BESEECH TO GRANT US MERCY IN THE COMING HARVEST—”

They are no better than ants as they bustle towards the courtyard. Commoners and nobility alike jab their way to get the best view even when there are dark clouds overhead, while handmaids trail behind the highborn ladies with bright silk robes, parasols popping open one after the other. Ants and dogs, the lot of them.

The air is humid, and it brings with it a stench of iron that makes Sukuna’s mouth water. The spectacle of bloodshed has not been done in a long, long time, and anyone with a pulse clamor for it, regardless of where they stand in this insignificant, unimpressive kingdom.

Seated on the dais, he yawns and thinks, in hindsight, that he could just end this all himself. But he does not. By his side, Sukuna can feel Uraume’s shame like hail against the earth.

It was him, after all, that brought you to Sukuna as a gift.

To while away the quiet hours, he said.

A poor villager whose meagre value lies in what’s trapped inside her skull. Washed up ashore. No family. Not even a single thing to call her own.

“— IS HEREBY SENTENCED TO DEATH!”

The priest pauses. The audience catches its breath.

“DO YOU HAVE ANY LAST WORDS?”

You make no sound, head down and on your knees: the center of the attention of a hundred gluttonous eyes.

To everyone’s delight, it is Sukuna that breaks the silence.

“I want to see her,” he orders. They make you turn away from the people.

And you do not disappoint Sukuna. You never have.

The emotions of the lowest animal flutter across your face— a predictable end to be sure, but even then, your gaze does not falter.

You look at him as the priests chant a prayer. You look at him as the executioner lifts the sword. You look at him and, in that heartbeat where the blade just about grazes your nape, it seems to Sukuna like you’re witnessing this entire execution from high up above.

All twenty of his fingers itch. “Arrogant wench,” he mutters.

The sword sings at the taste of your blood as your head tumbles off into the mud.

Rain, soon enough, begins to fall like arrows on the capital.

After the crowd has dispersed, sated, Sukuna dismisses Uraume. And then he is left alone.

He steps out into the rain, stopping only to where they held you down. The rain has already washed out the blood, but right where he’s standing there are two dents on the ground the size of pebbles.

That must’ve been where you’d dug your knees.

He crouches down. The tips of his fingers sink into the hollow soil.

He feels rain drops break on his skin, tungsten and diamond, and the fire that has forged him grows bigger, deeper inside him. It feels like it’ll lay waste to his own body, but it doesn’t. Instead, it eats the whole world. The fire chews through wood, metal, and mineral, until screams and cries create a symphony just for his ears.

Yet, it only feels colder, somewhat— and the only warmth comes from where he’s got his fingers buried.

The rain does not stop. Fire reduces to ash. Water reduces to smoke.

And in his mouth, there is a child’s curse, tumbling off his lips.

How does it go again?

Rush, rush, rivers, oceans, rush into a steam…

“Whish, whoosh,” Sukuna drones. “Whish, whoosh, go and form daydreams.”

--

There are two things about his life that Sukuna knows to be true.

One—

He was born to rise above all men.

And, two—

This is not the first time.

He understands the factual nature of these two things because he recalls, in vivid detail, two of the times that he’s been alive. He had four arms that he still misses to this day like phantom limbs. This is what he knows the moment he gets old enough to pick pockets.

In each one of them, Sukuna remembers the sensation of power.

Raw, soaring power unlike anything that has ever existed before. In the first life, Sukuna was a sorcerer, a demon, and— more accurately, he was a god.

The second one is a bit different. Stranger, too, funny enough, than the first. He was not any of those things, but close to it, in a way. The memories come to him inside a cell after a fight. In that life, Sukuna conquered galaxies, and the stars and the suns and the moons yielded to him. Planets gave under his feet. That ancient future called him emperor, and there was not a corner of that vast universe that did not tremble at his name.

The first one has got to be his favorite, while this one… took some getting used to.

Sukuna only has two arms to begin with. The standard affair. He doesn’t have a curse to wield or a galactic army to lead. Nevertheless, it starts where it always does: at the bottom of the fucking barrel.

Little Ryomen Sukuna grew up in the dingiest alley of Kabuki-cho and had a crack whore for a mother. Power was something that he had to grab by the throat with nothing but his own two, regular hands, but— power was power.

And no matter where he was, in what lifetime, in what form, power was something that would eventually come to him.

It couldn’t be more evident tonight.

A year in the game and Sukuna’s already made a hostess out of Kamo’s first lieutenant— an ugly, garlic-breathed hostess pouring him a drink.

The old man pushes more women to his lap, to which they titter and giggle in response. Sukuna lets them hang onto him, fat cigar in his mouth, while the old man makes a jester of himself trying to get on his good side. To his credit, he does everything that might put a smile on Sukuna’s face, even going as far as to make a scene with another waitress.

Drinks shatter and the women surrounding them yelp out of the couch. Even the ashtray has turned to shards. Another gimmick and this old man’s done. Sukuna wouldn’t even mind if a war comes out of it. Maybe it’s just what he needs.

“Do you know who you’re serving, you dumb slut?” He’s slurring his words as he jabs his thumb in Sukuna’s direction. “You can’t even give us some quality fish?! What kinda dump are you runnin’, huh?! This tastes like soap!”

As the woman bows in apology, he grabs his glass to splash its contents at her— maybe he thought this would amuse Sukuna.

“We’re sorry for the food, sir,” she announces in a clipped tone, head still down and her uniform damp with sake. Sukuna couldn’t see the entirety of her face, but it’s visible enough for him to know that she’s just a waitress, if the shapeless pants and long sleeves didn’t already make it obvious. There to put food down as silently as possible, not pretty enough to be taken out. “I’ll inform our manager about this situation right now.”

“No, no, no, missy, y’cmere, look— y’don’t gotta call anyone— could get you into trouble! I’m forgiving enough, hm! We can jus settle this ourselves, w’dyou say?”

The old man grabs her by the shoulder, pushes her down to her knees, and turns her towards Sukuna. Her eyes are still trained to the floor.

“This fine, young man over here, well, you just broke his ashtray, and now his cigar’s makin’ a mess— see that? Ash every fuckin’ where!  Now—”

He snatches her left wrist as if she’s some marionette and extends it, palm open all beggar-like, to where ash falls. “—All you gotta do’s improvise! Ladies! The night’s still young! Let’s all have fun!”

The party returns, business as usual. Sukuna only watches.

He watches the women and men— each and every one a whore, drink and sing and dance until the whole room looks like it’s about to throw up.

He watches the old man bend over backwards and just about present his asshole for fucking.

And he watches her as he flicks his cigar clean.

The ashes on her palm have accumulated into a hill. She doesn’t make a noise, wouldn’t be heard in the cacophony anyway, but Sukuna sees her flinch when ember hits her skin. The women beside him aren’t subtle. They peck and lick his neck and fondle his cock to keep his cigar away from her palm, but—

He wonders, keeping his eyes on her, what would happen if—

Sukuna flicks the cigar onto her palm, then pulls it away as he peels a manicured hand off his crotch, and even with her head down she must have already guessed because before he could even stick the glowing stub to the bit of flesh he’d intended—

She catches it.

The waitress, still on her knees, rises to seize the cigar in her palm. It burns through her skin and the sizzling invades his nostrils like grease. The women beside him cry out with the waitress, but nobody stops him as he presses it down to her palm.

“S-stop- stop it…!” Sukuna hears.

She remains on her knees, a guttural scream clamped between her teeth. Her palm does not budge, and when she finally raises that stubborn head to look at him, what he sees in there is louder than what any scream, any curse could ever be.

In her eyes are the thousand different ways that she wants him dead, along with a million other lives, and a million more universes, imploding together like a great storm.

Sukuna laughs— a sharp, incredulous thing that was stolen from right under his nose.

“It’s you,” he gasps lowly. “It is you.”

---

“—I, OF THE FEW AND HUMBLE BA-A-AYLAN, CONDEMN THIS DOMITOR’S CLAWS OVER OUR MAM-A-NA GALAXIAS…!”

The assembly is in an uproar. Guards from hovering balconies land on the steps below him. Their rifles, however, remain suspended as soon as he lifts a finger, his chin resting on the opposite hand. Remnants of the fiery rocks that used to decorate the aisle are now scattered across the polished, onyx floor, crimson pocks among the swirling cosmos around your feet.

“Y-YOU WOUND OUR LANDS- RAPE...! AND PILLAGE...!”

The beaded halo perched on your head is askew— like a gale had gone through a garden. Gold and silver coins hang from your two earlobes and on the frayed ends of your vestment. They clink together like rain as you collapse on your knees. Sweat tarnishes some of the coloring painted on your face, revealing streaks of tender, quivering skin. Although the red dot on the right side is intact, the other one is being nursed behind a bleeding hand— scorched, like the rest of your face.

A courtier points at the slaver groveling on all fours a few paces behind you. “Death to the human pirate! You dare bring this- this impertinent witch before the Emperor Du-o Dech-Im Nihil! Death!”

“P-please, my lords…! Sp-spare me…! She speaks in tongues— e-exactly what one would expect from an exotic creature—”

“Silence!”

“She is a virgin, my lords! Untouched!”

“The witch has burned half its face! It is now sullied and no longer fit for He Who Brings to Heel!”

A single glance from him is all it takes to silence the rabble.

Sukuna descends the steps.

He wraps one hand around your waist and picks you up with it. Your toes dangle over the strewn rocks. A talon lifts your chin to meet his eyes.

The unburnt side of your face winces in pain, feeble arms grappling out of his hold.

Millennia have passed since he has laid eyes upon your kind. After complete subjugation, there has been nothing much more for this lot other than labor— creatures to trade with and make trade of. There may be squabbles on that side of the universe that would-be lords and conquerors can make a feast of, but it no longer interests him.

Extinction dawns with a dimmer star besides.

Very few things can occupy his mind and even stay there. Sukuna has forgotten what the last human being he’s encountered looked like. Even the pirate, with its familiar weaponry and slaver’s garments are alien to him now, but— curious, isn’t it?

It is as if he has seen you before.

Just you.

Somewhere, in one of the corners of this endless universe.

--

He could’ve done this quicker, without all the melodrama, but the people at the bar called themselves your family. Sukuna heard it with his own ears when he followed you back to the kitchen after that night.

“We know you’re on your own,” they told you as they dabbed medicine on your palm. “But you’ve got a family here.”

And so, Sukuna watches your face as these same people that had called you their little sister take the case from his accountant.

You refuse to sit on his lap, something that he’ll allow for now. On the opposite side of the car, you can clearly see the woman who runs the establishment count the bills, each piece of paper thwip-thwipping in her hands, then stacking them together into thick towers.

One million yen.

Two.

Three.

Relentlessly, you slam your injured hand against the window.

Four.

“Mama-san!”

Five.

Six.

That is all you are worth.

“Mama-san..!” you screech, jamming the door handle that does not budge.  “I’m here, mama-san! I’m right here! Please- help me! I’m right here please don’t leave me! Mama!”

It’s not until when the woman leaves with the case that you break into sobs, your head in your hands. He’s leaning against the window on his side, arm over the headrest, as he counts down, mentally, towards the inevitable.

You lunge at him.

“What do you want from me?!” you cry, face wet with tears and snot. “What the fuck do you want from me?! Who do you think you are?!”

His driver says nothing, and Sukuna only tilts his head when you grip his collar.

He wipes your cheek as he says, more to him than you, “You really don’t remember.”

--

You have resigned yourself to death. That much Sukuna knows.

You are a pet. Nothing more. That is the way of nature: you cannot even hope to outlive him, even if he willed it so. Weak, negligible little creature.

The reptile that's got a dagger to your throat is under the misconception that you are more than that. Your palanquin and guards lie on the ground. Its mask does not conceal the fact that it’s about to piss itself, its green scales distorting into a sallow shell as he approaches the wreck.

Sukuna’s army watches. The war ministers and envoys in the ships flying above him are waiting for his next move. He’s heard the whispers.

Domitor Ryomen Sukuna, He Who Brings to Heel, Noro-I no Oh, Emperor Du-o Dech-Im Nihil— has been conquered by a human slave.

How charming, he thinks with a smile.

He does not bother to address you. He knows how you look at him.

In the same breath as a white dwarf hurtles through the sky, Sukuna has ripped the hearts of both slave and assassin in his hands.

His army ululates.

“EH-NI AH DAH-YUS!” they roar.

The ships blare their horns, groaning like a deep-sea behemoth.

Sukuna decimates the Holy Seat of Desh-Ih in a matter of two rotations. It is a battle-hardened planet, and he loses a quarter of his soldiers by the end of the last siege. There is a sensation in his chest that makes him halt as he slices their general in half.

They had put up a good fight. For that, Sukuna would remember them. And— something else.

Something he cannot put a name to. It would be irritating if it were not so…peculiar.

It rains on his way back to his ship. The planet’s neighboring galaxy, Setus, is visible despite, bloodied vessels that set flames over the graveyard of severed and incinerated Desh-Ih warriors.

And in his lips is an old song— rushing like children playing tag near a stream.

Rush, rush, rivers, oceans, rush into a steam…

Where did he hear this? Sukuna does not remember. Perhaps from a dead, primordial planet.

Whish, whoosh, whish, whoosh, go and form daydreams…

“Pitter, patter,” he drones. “Pitter, patter, please fall back to me.”

--

Your fingers are wilted stems in his grasp, and your pulse is sluggish, off-beat.

He brings them to his lips, keeping them there, pinky brushing his chin. The metal armrests are cold against his elbows and the room smells like mint. There’s a knock that takes his focus away from you. He’ll shoot the next person that tells him he needs to rest, he decides.

But it is only the rain, hitting the window pane one at a time, then coming to a downpour. Sukuna blows air out through his nose, shutting his eyes as he takes your hand with both hands and props his forehead against them. He brushes the singed mark of your left palm.

“Rush, rush, rivers, oceans, rush into a steam,” he hums, not bothering with the words, the sound a low thunder from him. “Whish, whoosh, whish, whoosh, go and form daydreams.”

The rain does not stop. “Pitter, patter, pitter, patter, please fall back to me.”

He repeats the tune, whistling this time. It echoes through the hallway.

Sukuna lifts his head, the song refusing to die in his lips, and when he does, he finds you staring right back at him. The tune crashes like a ship.

Your eyes are open, and he does not recall them being this bright, like you’d just woken up from a long and hazy dream.

“Can you speak?” he drawls.

You can. He knows you can.

But you do not.

“Speak,” he repeats.

You take your fingers from his hand and brings them to his cheek, wiping it. He doesn’t let go— refuses to let go, feeling your pulse.

It peters out, slowly.

Acid perforates his muscles, spreading from the tips of his fingers to his chest, climbing up the veins and filling them with magma, burning him from the inside, until he's all spittle and heat—

“Speak—" His voices shakes the walls. "Speak, damn you!”

You keep your eyes open, as impenetrable as they’ve always been, and for a moment there, right before they close again, the corner of your mouth lifts— a smirk— like it’s you who’s sitting on this chair, and it is him that lies there on the bed, breathing his last.

--

Your laureled horse jumps atop his incense chariot. It is promptly removed from his side and kept in yours. Sukuna tempers the urge to fling the board across the mat. Uraume sits outside, waiting.

“I’m going to die soon,” he says unprovoked, legs crossed, before moving his gold general away.

You freeze, then you slide your silver general beside your foot soldier. “I see.”

“Not gonna cry?” he simpers.

“Not in front of you, my lord.”

His incense chariot lances for your silver general. Your gold general captures it.

Cherry blossoms peer through the shoji. It was you that had drawn them open earlier, as was your habit before setting the board. ‘Flushed and efflorescent,’ you’d whispered as their petals landed softly on the grass.

He raises all of his fingers. “Keep my soul here, die for a while, then—” He grins. “Live forever.”

You do not move, legs folded primly beneath you, staring at Sukuna.

“You’re a monster,” you utter.

That makes him laugh. He grabs your neck. A foot soldier stumbles off your fingers, and you swiftly place it back on the board. With it, you’ve captured his gold general.

Sukuna drags the blunt end of his nail over your throat, but stops when he remembers that the game isn’t over yet. He can do that after he’s finally won over you. He lets you go wheezing lightly.

“And yet you love me.” He pounces your foot soldier with his.

Your silver general infiltrates his territory, turning it to gold. “I do.”

“You’re a fool,” he scoffs.

“I know, my lord.”

Your tears fall on the board. Sukuna looks up, but you wipe them before he could see them on your face.

 A fool. A weak, powerless, dispensable fool.

Like picking at a scab, “Why?” he asks.

“I hardly know, my lord.”

“You can be my mistress,” he says noncommittally. “I could use one more to warm my bed.”

He picks at the silver general in his midst, taking another foot soldier with him. He could force you down now. Sukuna had even thought about it in passing before. Although, with Sukuna having yet to win a single board against you, he had not seen the pleasure in it.

This is the only battle he has yet to win.

And the one that only you can.

“Then, if I do, would you cry for me, my lord? Afterwards, would you stay by my bed when I am weak?”

“You must have taken a blow to the head, fool,” he chuckles. “Proclaim me dead and lost if I’ve come to that disgrace.”

With your western region barren, he easily devours through generals, incense chariots, and a laureled horse. You meet him piece by piece, but he has, at last, cornered you at your most vulnerable. His jade general conquers your invading gold generals.

Victory is close and you say nothing more, apart from a song.

“Rush, rush, rivers oceans,” you hum like a wind chime, putting a foot soldier forward in your eastern region that he is now making a wasteland of. “Rush into a steam.”

He smirks. “A child’s curse.”

“Whish, whoosh,” you continue, nodding with a timid smile as you discard his laureled horse. “Whish, woosh, go and form daydreams.”

It is hardly a revelation to Sukuna that you hold these infantile beliefs. Brats— bunch of human waste, are wont to sing this tune, convinced that if they do, then time, like water, would return anew— different and yet the same, so that they can keep  playing without having to hear their mothers’ reprimands.

Water to steam to clouds to rain. Then back again. Over and over, making a game of time.

“Pitter, patter, pitter, patter—” That foot soldier crosses the border. You turn it over and it transforms into a gold general. No matter. One more loss and it would be your only piece. “Please fall back to me.”

He makes quick work of the last laureled horse on your side. Your jade general sits, untouched, farther behind it.

“What’s this?” Sukuna holds out a hand to brush your cheek. “Are you cursing me so that we can keep playing?”

The suggestion cannot be lost on you. Sukuna makes sure of that. He drops his fingers to the bare skin above where your robe meets together.

You nod, humming again. “Yes, my lord.”

Your gold general moves forward to his eastern region.

“But, my lord, my curse is much simpler.”

Sukuna glances back to the board.

And there it is— that gold general, once a foot soldier, with a wordless sort of aplomb, capturing his jade general—

His king.

"Even for one last time," you tell him, levelling at Sukuna with your gaze. "My only wish is to see you lose.”