#i do not condone their actions obviously

[mindisinmars]

watching zero day and holy shit!!! gender envy is real!!

[dennisboobs]

plain and simple i am not going to be able to remain in this fandom long-term if i have to keep putting disclaimers on every single one of my posts that say i don't condone dennis' bad, bad actions and that i am in fact aware he's got a history of sexual assault and dubious/nonconsent. the entire gang has done heinous shit. why is dennis the only one who needs to be treated like this? if some rando wants to post about how dennis is pookie pie that doesn't automatically mean they're blind to his crimes. every single member of the gang is a piece of shit. that's kind of the point.

draw dennis with cat ears who give a shit

[schrodingers-romy]

I realized some of you probably don't even KNOW I have a poly selfship with akito and shigure from fruits basket...

[monochromemoomin]

i’m sorry but kilgrave’s mother is way stronger than me. if i had my david tennant shaped son sobbing in my arms i would not be able to then stab him. i just couldn’t do it.

[vampyresonata]

irt tags on last post

[edenfenixblogs]

2 am rant cuz I can’t sleep:

I’ve stated repeatedly that I’m pro-Palestine and pro-peace, so I obviously want a two sided, negotiated ceasefire and permanent peace for all. I’ve repeatedly stated that I do not condone the degree of heavy bombing taking place in Gaza.

But it’s currently 2:15 in the morning and I am haunted. I’m haunted by the fact that the world saw the brutal attack on Jews and celebrated. I’m haunted by the number of high l-profile celebrities who felt moved to speak out for Palestine — wearing flags and pins and signing demands for Israel to stop bombing, but who said nothing about the dead and tortured and kidnapped Jews.

Yes, what is happening in Palestine is and continues to be a tragedy.

But apparently what happened and is happening to Jews worldwide and Israelis of all religions simply isn’t. At least not enough of one. Not enough of one to move these high-profile folks to speak out for us. Not enough of a tragedy to say the names of the hostages, including one forced to give birth while kidnapped by terrorists. Not enough of a tragedy to condemn the violence happening against Jews. Not enough to speak out on behalf of a 20-year-old singer made to fear for her life because she dared to be from Israel and sing about her own trauma instead of, idk, bursting into flame or shutting up or whatever the mob wanted her to do.

No. What happens to us isn’t a tragedy. It’s a nuisance. It’s a nuisance to have to care about Jews. It gets in the way of everyone else feeling good about their “radical activism” and self-aggrandizing bravery. People of all levels and types of fame. All of whom say they only want peace and an end to pain. Yet when they mention pain, it’s always and only the Palestinian flag. When they want a ceasefire, it’s always an only in reference to Palestine. But they wouldn’t be caught dead asking for an end to Hamas or Hezbollah bombs or even acknowledging that they exist. All calls for peace involve asking Israel to lay down arms but no call for anyone attack Israel, Israelis, or Jews worldwide to do the same.

From large creators to small creators to people in day to day life, non-Jews around the world have made clear that it would be more convenient for them if we Jews just died. If we stopped ever defending ourselves or speaking up or being sad in public.

The vast majority of people speaking out would or will view this post as a justification of violence. But it’s not. It’s a condemnation of complicity from people who claim to care about peace. It is a condemnation of those who claim to be against antisemitism yet refuse to listen when Jews point out how they are contributing to and spreading more antisemitism. People and institutions worldwide have failed Jews everywhere.

Cats Blanchett

Mark Ruffalo

Billie Eilish

Viola Davis

Lena Heady

Susan Sarandon

Ava DuVernay

Hozier

Sara Ramirez

Annie Lennox

Cynthia Nixon

Angelina Jolie

Multiple UN groups and resolutions

College students and professors across the world

Friends I’ve had for 8 years who don’t even respond to messages that I have moved out of state or even spoken to me in at least five months

So many people who are so eager to read every bit of pro-Palestine news that exists and condemn every action from Israel.

And yet…

Before the bombings. Before the reprisals. Before all the violence from Israel: where were they? All these people who so desperately beg for peace (as defined by the end of Israeli aggression only): where were they when it was just dead Jews? Where were the Instagram posts and educational content and in depth analyses of Israeli trauma and history? Where were the condemnations of Hamas? Where were those who are moved to speak for anyone and everyone but Jews?

Are we really supposed to believe any of you actually want peace? When you chant for the globalization of terror tactics that traumatized a generation of Israeli Jews? When you fail to acknowledge Jewish history in any way except to minimize it?

Before the bombing campaign, where were the red carpet statement pins and gowns featuring Jewish stars?

How are we Jews anywhere in the world literally ever supposed to believe that you’re not actively cheering for our deaths? Maybe not in front of our faces, but certainly behind our backs. We know. We know you’re afraid to be less than tactful in front of us, but that you describe our rapes and murders and social exclusion and kidnappings as “unfortunate but necessary.”

I’m reminded of when Israel was first created. At a time where every Jew on earth was traumatized directly because the Holocaust firsthand, Britain left the territory of mandatory Palestine and the UN allowed for the creation of a Jewish state. And then proceeded to heckle the traumatized survivors for handling its creation poorly. The Nakba is a tragedy and an outrage and I’ll never deny that.

But…y’all are no different from the people who stood on the sidelines as Israel was first created. Why was it up to an actively traumatized people who had very recently (and after a continuous 2,000 year period of expulsions and pogroms and murders) been slaughtered on an industrial scale to somehow create a perfect and stable government in a land where people despised them?

The world needs to own up to the fact that everything that ever went wrong in Israel’s creation is a direct result of the continuous and still ongoing contempt for Jews by all the other countries that could have stepped in to help and provide Jews with a guarantee of safety at any time in the last 2,000 years in general but also since 1934 specifically. And you didn’t. Your great grandparents and grandparents and parents all didn’t do jack shit. And you are following in their footsteps. You are all doing just as they did: standing on the sidelines and heckling the Jews you don’t like for fighting back too aggressively.

But what exactly have you or anyone else done to help Jews in your communities or in Israel to not feel like caged animals forced to fight for survival? Like wild beasts you let loose for slaughter in a coliseum for your own enjoyment? At what point have you worked to provide Jews with other options? How have you made the Jews in your life feel safe or seen during this time? How have you started to deconstruct the harmful anti-Jewish bias you inherited from the people you love?

Is it ok that Netanyahu and the Likud government is bombing Palestine to the extent it is currently doing? Of course not. And I’ll never say otherwise.

But aside from yelling “hey stop it!” at Israel or “you’re complicit!” at Jews who fail to join your chanting, what exactly have you done at any point since this started to make the world safer for any of us?

Because from what I can see, the vast majority of you have done nothing. And every Jew I’ve spoken to in the last half a year has seen the exact same nothing.

Too many of you are too concerned with being on the right side of history. Most of you aren’t famous actors or musicians or whatever. Most of you are just people. History won’t remember you individually. Who knows what history will say about the movements of which you were a part? My guess is that you’ll be called passionate and outraged and sympathetic, but ultimately disorganized and misguided.

But you know who will remember you? Every Jew you’ve encountered since 10/7. We will remember each individual we saw who celebrated our death or ghosted us or made us feel unwelcome in our own lives.

We will remember you forever. And not fondly.

[dreamwritesimagines]

The Eye of the Hurricane [37] - Crown

A.N: Last two chapters! ❤️I hope you’ll like this chapter as well, and please don’t forget to tell me what you think! ❤️

Summary: Live by the sword, die by the sword.

Word Count: 2700

Pairing: MobBoss!Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader

Warnings: Violence, violence, I'M SERIOUS THERE IS VIOLENCE IN THIS ONE, guns, crime, blood, explicit language, dysfunctional relationship, mentions of sex. This is an AU, friendly reminder that I don’t condone any of the actions depicted on this story and please read with care.

Series Masterlist

If anything, it started out as a normal day.

“You are so pretty!” you told Alpine as you fixed the ribbon around her neck, then held up the feathery pen so that she could jump at it while you sat on the floor. “Yes you are! The prettiest princess in the entire world!”

“Charm?”

“Over here!” you called out and heard Bucky come downstairs, then he filled himself a cup of coffee before looking over his shoulder.

“You want some babe?”

“Nope,” you said, stroking Alpine’s fur. “Bucky, what are the chances that we got the prettiest and nicest cat in the entire world?”

“Zero, she’s an asshole.”

You gasped. “Hey!”

“I love her, but it doesn’t mean she’s not an asshole,” Bucky said. “She never comes when I call.”

“Because she’s a cat, not a dog,” you said. “If we have a child one day, we’re so calling them Alpine Two.”

“We’re not going to do that.”

“Alpine Two and Alpine Three.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Don’t listen to him, they’ll be Alpine Two and Three,” you told Alpine as Bucky sipped his coffee.

“Do you wanna grab lunch today?”

“I can’t,” you said. “I promised Ethan.”

He blinked a couple of times. “You cannot be serious.”

“I am not having this argument with you again when we’re in love and fucking each other’s brains out every night,” you pointed out, making him grin. “Relax with the jealousy dumbass, you already know I’m in love with you.”

He heaved a sigh, then held up his hands.

“Fine,” he muttered. “Go meet the puppy.”

“Bucky.”

“Is he not a puppy around you?”

“He’s my friend,” you said. “My friend whom I haven’t met in a while.”

“Yeah yeah…”

You scratched at Alpine’s head when she head bumped your knee while Bucky tilted his head.

“Are you okay?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve been weird since we had dinner at your father’s place.”

“Sure,” you said after a beat and he raised his brows.

“Charm.”

“No I’m fine,” you said. “I’m fine, I’ve just been thinking.”

“About?”

“Business,” you said. “My father’s business, to be specific.”

He sipped his coffee. “Are you having second thoughts?”

“God no,” you said. “Of course not. I’m thinking about the consequences of it, that’s all. What it will mean for me.”

“It means the crown for you.”

You pursed your lips together. “And for Ian?”

He scoffed. “Who cares? You hate Ian.”

“Obviously I hate him,” you said. “But I’ll have to kill him, you do know that.”

“He signed his own death warrant the moment he accepted that heir position at the expense of you,” Bucky said. “I’ll kill him for you if you want.”

You rolled your eyes at him. “How fucked up is it that I find this romantic?”

“That’s because I am romantic,” he said with a smirk. “Seriously. If you want me to—”

“I’ll just cross that bridge when I come to it,” you pointed out. “I appreciate the offer though.”

Bucky checked his wristwatch, then came closer to you to kiss you on the top of your head, and scratched at Alpine’s head.

“Gotta go,” he said. “I’ll see you tonight?”

“Sure!” you said and watched him walk out of the apartment, then heaved a sigh and looked down at Alpine.

“Alright,” you said. “Come on, let’s get you some treats.”

                                             *

The café Ethan had suggested was in your father’s territory, so it was a short car drive. Seeing that the weather was slowly getting cold nowadays, it didn’t surprise you to see Ethan already inside the nearly empty café as you walked in, and waved at him before making your way to him.

“Hey!” you said and he stood up to hug you.

“Hey stranger,” he said. “It’s been a while.”

“It really has,” you said, motioning for a cup of coffee at the waitress who forced a smile, then disappeared into the kitchen. You frowned slightly, but then turned to look at Ethan when he cleared his throat.

“So what’s been up with you lately?”

“Absolute chaos,” you pointed out, making him smile. “No seriously, things are just now starting to calm down.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah there was this business thing,” you muttered. “Never mind. How about you? What have you been doing lately?”

“I’m actually…” he paused for a moment. “I’m actually moving back to my hometown.”

Your eyes widened, your jaw dropping.

“What?” you asked. “Why?”

“I don’t think New York is for me,” he said as you heard the wind bells chime by the door. “Or any big city for that matter.”

You opened your mouth to ask why, but a strange shiver went down your spine, the hair at the back of your neck rising up as his eyes went over your shoulder. You didn’t even have the time to think, your body seemed to have responded on instinct as the result of many years of training, so you kicked the table in his direction and jumped to your feet, but before you could turn around, two men had already grabbed you by the arms. You managed to kick one of them, turning around to punch the other, but another man caught your fist and turned you around, his friend punching you right on the nose so hard that you knew from the crack that he broke it before the blinding pain shot through your face. You stumbled back as two of them held you by the arms again and another one grabbed his gun, flipped it and slammed it on your head.

Then everything went black.

                                              *

You couldn’t tell which one woke you up, the cold or the burning pain starting from your nose and spreading through your whole head. Your vision was blurry when you forced yourself to open your eyes, now realizing your hands were bound and a groan left your lips as you blinked as fast as you could to see better.

Ah.

Two of Ian’s men were waiting by the door along while Ethan sat across from you, his eyes fixed on the floor. You could feel your heart dropping to your stomach but you forced yourself to focus, there had to be a way out of this—

You just needed to find it.

The room you were in appeared to be a butcher’s freezer, which made you think you were at the edge of your father’s territory. The pain in your head was so heavy that you could barely just hold your head up, let alone moving your body so you gritted your teeth, taking a deep breath through your mouth.

“I’m sorry,” you heard Ethan’s voice and you turned your head to see him looking down at the gun in his lap, your hands shooting up to wipe the blood on your face before touching your forehead.

Okay, that needed stitches.

“You’re sorry?” you repeated with a dry laugh. “How long have you been working for him?”

He shook his head fervently, rubbing his thumb over the gun.

“I don’t—I didn’t—” he stammered. “He contacted me couple of months ago.”

You raised your brows. “Let me guess, he’s paying you a shit load of money?”

He shook his head again.

“He said…he said he’d kill me if I didn’t...” he muttered. “For God’s sake I never wanted this whole bullshit, I don’t even know how to use—” he pushed at the tiny button beside the gun, the magazine dropping to the floor and a couple of bullets scattering around as one of Ian’s men came closer.

“What the fuck?” he asked him, snatching the gun out of his hand and picking up the magazine before walking to the other side of the room to continue his conversation with the other man. You gritted his teeth, anger pulsing through you.

“I’m sorry,” Ethan repeated and you shook your head.

“You know you’re going to die right?” you asked him. “You’ve just signed your own death warrant by pulling this shit.”

“Civilians aren’t harmed, that’s what the truce—”

“Civilians aren’t harmed as long as they remain civilians,” you corrected him, pulling at the rope around your wrists to loosen it a little. “You’ve just thrown your hat in the ring, buddy. And trust me; if Ian doesn’t kill me, I’ll kill you and if he does manage to kill me, Bucky will hunt you down, and kill you. Torture you first probably too. So regardless of if I die or not, you definitely will Ethan.”

“I’ll move out of the city.”

“There’s no city we can’t reach.”

“That’s not true,” he argued with you. “Everyone is saying Chicago is its own city.”

A small smile curled your lips despite fear churning your stomach, a small spark of satisfaction rushing through you.

“Right,” you said. “Sure. Move to Chicago.”

He swallowed thickly, then turned his head when the door opened and Ian walked in with Ryan. Ryan stopped dead in his tracks as soon as his eyes fell on your face, but then he gritted his teeth, snapping something at the men by the door under his breath. It was impossible to hear what he had said, but judging by the way it made them step back, it couldn’t be anything nice.

“Hi there cousin,” Ian had the audacity to smile at you as Ethan stood up from his chair.

“I can go right?” he said. “You promised.”

“Sure, some of our boys will accompany you to the border of the city, then you’re on your own,” Ian said. “Thank you for this. New York will owe you.”

You clenched your jaw, glaring up at Ian as Ethan walked out of the room and Ian tut tutted.

“You just couldn’t help it, could you?” he asked you. “All you had to do was just marry Barnes and give him an heir, and then you could spend money and do nothing for the rest of your life, but you just couldn’t do it.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

He rolled his eyes at you.

“Those are some big words for someone who’s about to die.”

No.

You couldn’t let panic take over your mind, you just couldn’t.

The safest option was to cling to anger.

“You don’t get to kill me and stay alive, Ian.”

“Oh I won’t be the one who killed you,” he said. “Your ex-boyfriend did. Everyone saw him meet you at that café after all.”

“And you think my dad will buy that bullshit?”

“I’ll make him buy it.”

“You think Bucky will buy that?” you spat and he shrugged his shoulders.

“No, he will come after me,” Ian said. “And that’ll start a war. Too bad.”

You gritted your teeth. “You don’t have the means to survive a war, dickhead.”

“You have no reason to worry about that,” Ian said. “You’re not walking out of here alive after all.”

You licked your lips, the metallic taste of blood reaching your throat as Ian nodded at his men.

“Untie her.”

One of his men came to cut the rope around your wrist and helped you up while the other one pointed his gun at you just in case. The whole room was spinning around you, your heart beating in your throat but you tried to fix your breathing.

It was fine.

It was going to be fine.

“Ryan, my gun,” Ian ordered and Ryan stared at you, then pulled out the gun from his waistband, quickly taking out the magazine to check the bullets before sliding it in again.

“Leave us,” Ian said and Ryan licked his lips, stealing a look at you before he walked outside with the rest of Ian’s men following him. He slammed the heavy door behind them and you clenched your fists, still glaring at Ian.

“Can’t say I didn’t warn you,” Ian said, pointing the gun at your face. “I did, numerous times. Get on your knees.”

“No,” you said. “If you’re going to kill me, you’re going to kill me standing.”

Ian took a deep breath, then swallowed thickly.

“As you wish,” he said and raised the gun a little to aim for your forehead, the fear making your eyes burn but you quickly blinked the tears back, forcing yourself to focus on—

Bucky.

It was strange, how it worked. Everyone talked about how this business was dangerous, but no one talked about what one would think when there was a gun about to blow their head off.

There was fear yes, but the memory of happiness shed a small ray of sunlight on it. Knowing Bucky would stop at nothing to take your revenge almost soothed the pain of knowing you would never see him again, at least—

At least in this life.

But you knew you loved him. He knew you loved him.

That was enough, somehow. Even with a gun pointing at your head.

“Live by the sword, die by the sword,” Ian recited. “Goodbye, cousin.”

You closed your eyes, holding your breath and bracing yourself for the deafening gunshot but the only thing that echoed through the room was the empty click, making your eyes snap open while Ian gawked at the gun in his hand, fear flashing over his face as he froze.

…Ryan.

Ryan had taken out the bullets.

The adrenaline that roared through you was powerful enough to overcome the fog in your brain or the pain on your face as you lunged at him to knock the gun out of his hand, slamming him back to the heavy door, the unmistakable sound of gunshots echoing outside. Ian shoved you back as hard as he could and tried to swing a punch at you but you quickly dodged it, elbowing him on the nose.

“Welcome to your cage fight, Ian,” you spat as he wiped at his nose.

“You dumb bitch…” he muttered, then swung at you again but you quickly stepped back, grabbed his wrist and turned it with all your strength until you heard the pop, and his yell of pain. He kicked you on the knee hard, making you scream out of pain as you stumbled back, and he tried to grab at you with his other hand but you had already punch him right in the neck, making him gasp and fall on his knees, clutching at his neck.

“You know,” you said, breathing hard as you grabbed the gun off the floor and picked up one of the bullets Ethan had dropped earlier. “I should thank you for this. I was having second thoughts earlier, but now…”

He was still gasping for air as you slid the magazine out, put the bullet inside and slid it back again, making him drag himself back on his palms until his back hit the wall.

“Exile me,” he managed to say, and you tilted your head. “Exile me somewhere else.”

You shook your head, adrenaline making your head spin.

“You know how this shit goes,” you said through clenched teeth. “You tried to kill me. Exiling you isn’t enough.”  

“I’ll forfeit the title!” he said, still breathless and you shook your head again, then pointed the gun at him with a sigh.

“I'm sorry Ian,” you said. “Live by the sword, die by the sword.”

With that, you pulled the trigger and heard the loud bang before the blood splattered over your face, making you grimace as his body slipped on the floor. You wiped at your face, then slammed open the door to point the gun at whoever was outside, but the only thing you could see was Ian’s men bleeding on the ground while Ryan stood by the door, his back straight as if he was waiting for your order.

“Ma’am,” he said with his hands clasped behind him, and he bowed his head a little as you smiled at him.

“Thank you,” you rasped out, raising your head to stare up at the dark sky before turning to him. “Ryan, is there any chance you’re looking for a new job?”

The corners of his mouth twitched and he nodded.

“Working for your father’s heir would be an honor, ma’am,” he said softly and you let out a small laugh.

“Good,” you said as you limped to the car parked right outside the back alley with Ryan following you. “You’re hired.”

Chapter 38

[chelledoggo]

it just really occurred to me:

"loving your enemies" and "praying for those who persecute you" are things that take IMMENSE spiritual discipline. especially in this day and age. it's a discipline i haven't even mastered. i don't think i'm even close, and it's probably going to take a long time for me to get there.

it's so easy to just hate bigots and wish death on them, and that's kind of the trendy thing to do. and it really does seem like a lot of people deserve it. like, they're not sorry for being bigots, so our natural reaction is not to forgive them. they do and say horrible shit, so an eye for an eye just seems like the natural mindset to have, right?

being compassionate even when you don't condone the person's action exerts a LOT more emotional and spiritual energy. it's understandable why a lot of people would prefer not to do that. they're tired from all the abuse and oppression.

but it's said that one of the biggest reasons to forgive is for your own inner peace. if you're holding onto anger, you're not at peace.

the same can be said for bigots. regardless of how smug and satisfied and "not mad" they seem, they're absolutely not at peace. if they were, they wouldn't be bigots. they wouldn't give a shit about the fact that people exist who aren't like them. they'd be able to just go on with their own life.

that's why we're called to "pray for those who persecute us." we're not just praying for them to change, we're praying for them to find peace. real peace. not the fake "peace" they claim to have with themselves while spouting hateful tirades.

and obviously "loving your enemies" DOESN'T mean you excuse their actions. hell no. if someone is a bigot, the right thing to do is to call them on it while defending the oppressed.

it means you have to make an effort to keep your anger, rightful as it may be, in check. it's something you do just as much for yourself as you do for the other.

[southern-fried-simpin]

We Belong Dead| Alastor x Dead Wife!Reader

A/n: Hey everyone I know it’s been a LONG time since I’ve written something and I’m sorry it’s not DC related but I finished Hazbin with my fiancée MONTHS AGO and I’ve been wanting to write Alastor soooo bad! With all of that being said, let it be known that I do NOT condone or agree with any of the questionable actions and opinions of Vivienne Medrano, but I DO enjoy this show and a lot of the characters.

Warning(s): Floofy but suggestive, Alastor “using” reader and reader just kind of going along with it, mentions of murder, sad at first, human Alastor and reader mentioned, temporary unrequited love, Demi romantic Alastor, Alastor because he’s…Alastor, mentions of marriage, canon divergence, suicide, death, loooooong introduction and plot h🫠

“Mama, we’re gonna get married!”

Alastor had decided that you were both ready for marriage in the middle of the school yard and decided to announce this as his mother came to pick him up.

His mother feigned shock as she started to playfully chide him.

“You can’t just marry some girl you met on the first day of school!”

Alastor kept his arms around you as you both giggled and showed his mother the ribbon he had tied around your finger.

“Oh my!” She exclaimed.

“Obviously you two are very serious about this! How about we have your fiancée over for dinner after school one day so I can get to know her better, hm?”

Despite Alastor never having that wedding ceremony with you on the playground, you both remained close all the way up until you graduated high school. After that, you went your separate ways.

Several years later, when Alastor bumped into you as you were leaving the corner store one day, you ended up talking to him for hours. After which, you had started getting together more often. Eating out, going to shows, drinking and having fun together.

Somewhere along the way, however, having fun together turned into going on dates together. Going on dates turned into staying up late talking for hours about anything and everything, and lovely gifts.

One such gift being your engagement ring.

Looking back on it now, you don’t know how or why you thought it was normal for a man to propose after 6 months.

On the outside, Alastor was the husband that every woman dreamed of. He helped you clean and cook, he never raised his voice, and he always bragged about you. On the inside however, something felt stiff. Tense. Off.

Alastor rarely ever initiated kisses, he barely touched you, and he disappeared in the middle of the night rather frequently.

After he was killed, it all made sense. You weren’t his wife so much as you were his alibi. Who would have thought the vicious killer that buried his victims on a hunting ground had a wife waiting at home? A wife who, despite what everyone believed, was oblivious to his crimes. It didn’t matter, though. In a matter of days, you lost your job, your friends, and your peace of mind. In the weeks that came to pass, you slowly lost your mind and your will to live as well.

You died in your sleep after taking a cocktail of pills with a glass of brandy. The police found you in bed wearing your most expensive nightgown, your hair neatly styled, and makeup done perfectly.

Just like before, time had gone on, and your time in hell had been quite interesting. Maybe even a bit enjoyable if you were being honest. The old saying rang true: Hell truly had no fury like a woman scorned. Your arrival in Hell was a testament to that.

Armed with your broken heart and raw, stinging rage, you made a home for yourself and began your own business. Anyone who got in your way was sliced open with the very weapons you sold. You were very aware of Alastor’s presence, but made no effort to contact him. He had no idea you were here, either.

That changed a few days ago.

Who should you see while on an outing in Cannibal Town but your darling husband. He looked different, but you recognized him almost immediately. He offered to walk with you and followed you even after you declined. Every day after that, he miraculously ran into you everywhere you went. He was relentless in trying to get your attention. He would try to talk to you and when you ignored him, he would carry on speaking like it was nothing. Today you finally cracked when he invited you to come to a hotel. The Hazbin Hotel, specifically.

“Why?”

“Well, I thought I might show you this little…business venture…I’ve been working on recently! After all, it’s been awhile since I’ve seen my lovely wi-“

“Don’t call me that.” You spat.

His smile never faltered, but his eyes held a look of momentary discomfort.

“Ah, and here we are!” Alastor pointed his staff towards the building in front of you. It looked like some place from when you were alive, except old and decrepit.

Ever the gentleman, Alastor held the door for you as you walked in before he followed suit. Not 5 minutes passed before a woman with long silver hair angrily stomped in your direction.

“Alastor! Where have y-,” she paused when she noticed you by his side, “who…who the fuck is this?” A blonde was following close behind her.

“I’m glad you asked!” Alastor’s smile broadened. He proceeded to introduce you as his beloved wife to everyone in the room, and then introduced them to you, completely ignoring the looks of shock and awe on their faces. Before anyone else in the room could speak, Alastor hastily took your hand.

“Now, if you excuse us, we have some things to discuss.” With that, you and Alastor promptly dissolved into a shadowy mist.

The lobby was silent then as everyone stared at where Alastor and you once stood.

“Ssso…that was weird for everyone elsse too…right?”

Meanwhile, upstairs, Alastor turned after carefully locking the door to his room.

“Now, I suppose I owe you an explana—“, he was cut off by a resounding smack when your hand connected with his cheek. Alastor’s head turned with a sharp snap. He stood completely still there for a moment, eyes wide and smile looking painfully forced. If it had been anyone else, they would’ve been dead by now, but you? Well…he always liked how feisty you were. Alastor cleared his throat before speaking again.

“Alright…”, he said while turning to face you. “I probably deserved that…”

“You deserve a lot worse than that actually, but go on.”

“I know, and I can’t…” Alastor suddenly felt unsure of what to say. Granted, The Radio Demon was not one for heartfelt apologies (or any apologies for that matter) but if anyone deserved one from him, it was you. Yet, there he stood: the feared Radio Demon, lost for words at your mere presence.

There was a long and uncomfortable silence.

“Do you have any idea what you did to me?” You finally said. “What I suffered because of you?!”

Alastor offered no response.

“What FUCKING-“ you paused as tears began to well in your eyes. Your face red and splotchy and your lips quivering as you started to sob.

“You lied to me-“

“I did.”

“You used me!”

“I did.”

“You told me you loved me!”

“I do.”

And that gave you pause. Had he loved you? Really loved you? No. It had to be a lie. He couldn’t possibly-

“I know I can’t make up for everything I did and everything that happened…” Alastor said while walking towards you. When he stopped, just a few inches from you, you had to look up at him. Alastor was taller than you in life, but now he towered over you. He gently took your hand in his. “But I’ll spend the rest of eternity trying…for you.”

You watched as he gently kissed your fingers. With tears in your eyes and an uneven breath, you laid your head on his chest.

You missed him. You tried not to miss him, but you did and there was no use in denying it anymore.

“One chance,” you finally said. “That’s all you get.”

“That’s all I’m asking.”

You looked up at Alastor and locked eyes with him briefly. The feared Radio Demon wanted nothing more right now than a chance to have you back. His eyes flitted between your lips and your eyes before he dipped you low. To anyone else, it would be an over-the-top gesture, but to you? Oh, how his theatrics made you blush and swoon.

“So…what do you say, darling?” He leaned in closer, almost touching his forehead to yours.

“Do we have a deal?~”

You raised a brow at his words.

He chuckled then.

“Ah, I apologize for my poor choice of words. What I meant was: May I have the honor of courting you, my dear?”

Your eyes softened and you smiled up at him.

“Yes, darling.”

[depravitycentral]

Yandere! Douma General Profile

Yandere! Douma x fem! reader

Tw: kidnapping, mentions of non/dub-con, stalking, gore, breaking and entering, allusions to cannibalism/unknowing cannibalism, semi-graphic descriptions of an innocent animal being killed so fuck you Douma, mentions of physical and sexual harassment, physical violence towards reader, choking, fem reader, MDNI

I do not condone any of the actions described in this post - this is fiction and should be treated as such. If you or a loved one is in a similar situation to anything contained in this post or my blog in general, please seek help. You're in charge of your internet consumption; please make responsible choices. With that, enjoy!

WC: 11K

DARLING PROFILE:

Stubborn

In general, Douma needs a darling who isn’t a pushover. He’s used to his followers blindly following his orders, nodding eagerly at his words and allowing him to do whatever he pleases with them. He’s used to lesser demons being petrified of his power, either entirely avoiding him or pleading for him to spare them, something that admittedly strokes his ego but grows boring at a certain point.

And so, while Douma is pleased that the people and creatures surrounding him so obviously understand his superiority, he yearns for something different – for something new, exciting, challenging. A darling that’s more stubborn and doesn’t blindly obey him would pique his interest, his mind reeling with all the possible ways he can get them to submit to him.

He’s giddy at the prospect of breaking down his darling, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet because oh, they’re just so very contrary to what he’s used to. He likes the idea of a darling who’s easy to fluster and embarrass, and a darling that will cling onto their beliefs and opinions presents Douma with an irresistible opportunity to slowly mold his darling into the perfect, responsive, sweet little human that he can tease and study, someone he can keep by his side like some sort of loyal pet.

(Though, as Douma’s obsession festers and only grows stronger and harder to control, he finds that he no longer thinks of his darling as some sort of glorified pet – they’re his, a possession, someone he feels strangely connected to, the barest hint of emotions dancing at the edge of his subconscious. The feeling is addictive, and with every denial of his charms and scoffed, irritated roll of their eyes, he only finds himself growing more desperate to be around them, fascination and intrigue and desire in more than a carnal way spurring him to spend every waking moment with them.)

Opinionated

Similarly, Douma enjoys a darling who has strong feelings. He understands the allure of a meeker woman – they’re easy to control and even easier to manipulate, making them the perfect follower and food supply. But for his darling, the woman he thinks he feels some sort of love for, they need to be someone with a little more backbone.

It excites him when his darling stands up to him – the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, his shoulders tensing up and his breathing getting a bit heavy because yes, tell him again why he’s wrong – tell him again, now that he’s merely a foot away from you, close enough that you can feel his breath against the shell of your ear and his body – much stronger than you remember – is mere inches from yours.

He finds his darling to be an endless source of entertainment, and so they need to have strong opinions covering a wide variety of topics.

He likes surprising his darling with random questions: what are their thoughts on the afterlife and death? Should the weak have any sort of rights, and do they believe in nature’s power structure that puts demons unequivocally at the top?

Do they enjoy traditional human romantic customs, like kissing or holding hands?

Or do they prefer more intense displays of passion and devotion – would his darling enjoy it if he returned to them with the severed head of a man who’d spared them a passing glance, just as a show of how much he cares for them?

He wants to know the answers to each and every question, and one of the biggest aspects of him obsessing over his darling is the non-stop talking – always prompting them with a new question that’s almost as insane as the last, his eyes glittering and sparkling as he asks them what they think the most painful way to die is.

(If they were to answer being eaten alive, Douma would merely cock his head, blinking widely at them, before bursting into laughter, his eyes holding a glimmer of something that makes his darling freeze up in fear, a primitive instinct in them screaming to run away from this monster. Ah yes, I’d imagine it would be quite painful indeed, he’ll tell them, curling a sharp fingernail around their chin.)

Paranoid

This trait is less of a necessity and more of a perk – in general, Douma will absolutely destroy his darling. He cares for them in some twisted, strange way, but he’s not afraid to completely break his darling before rebuilding them just as he so desires.

Of course, he still wants the basic bones of their personality to remain intact, but having a darling with a propensity for anxiety and paranoia would make that job much, much simpler. He can instead divert his time and attention towards effectively corrupting them and slowly breaking them down rather than bothering with the initial stages of forcing them to doubt themselves.

The combination of his darling’s kidnapping and being held captive by a man-eating demon would force this character trait to become even more heightened, putting them in a position intensifying Douma’s poking and prodding and overwhelming them. And so, he can spend his time carefully choosing how he wants to approach them – which new insecurity should he prod at today?

He knows they’re a bit sensitive about their weight – something he doesn’t understand, really, because he absolutely loves their figure.

 He’ll lightly comment about their weight, making some remark with sugar-coated words and watching as his darling tenses up, their face twisting into that wonderful expression of hurt and sadness, the mere sight of their face changing because of him making a small, high sigh slip past his lips.

Once he thinks his darling has had enough, he’ll end the conversation with a small compliment, telling them that they’re too sensitive, we’re just having a bit of fun, aren’t we?

And really, watching the way his darling just shakily nods and tries to compose themselves leaves him feeling vindictive, satisfied, seen.

It’s selfish and horrible, but Douma is a selfish and horrible creature – so really, a paranoid darling would be absolutely perfect.

Talkative

However, despite Douma’s hobby of irritating his darling and embarrassing them, he still wants a darling who will actively engage with him. Of course, it’s very easy to force his darling into speaking with him, as just a flash of those nails, fangs, or a dismembered limb will often get them blubbering and frantically rambling and doing absolutely anything Douma requests of them.

But it’s different when his darling actively chooses to speak with him – perhaps it’s still out of fear, but at least this way Douma can indulge himself in the idea that they want to speak with him.

He can pretend that they actually enjoy hearing his voice, that they like the long, drawn-out conversations he frequently holds with them, that they actually like him – a concept that simultaneously displeases him and leaves something warm and scratchy and good settle in his chest.

Because really, while Douma’s feelings for his darling are questionable at best, he really does truly want them to like him – he craves a kind of connection that isn’t superficial and one-sided, and although it’s entirely new territory he wants them to fulfill this desire.

And so, while he annoys his darling and forces them into conversations because he likes to interact with them and study their reactions, there’s a deeper sense of desperation and neediness underlying his words and actions. A darling that is naturally more talkative will give him this desired connection, making it easier for him to feel wanted, needed, liked in a way that’s entirely foreign to him.

It’s just attractive, really, because while shy, quiet humans have their purposes, a life partner (as Douma thinks of his darling) needs to be someone who won’t shy away from his words, who will retain their voice around him. It’s just attractive, really – so please keep talking to him.

GENERAL YANDERE TRAITS:

Clingy

In general, Douma is overwhelming. He’s chatty, touchy, and has absolutely no respect for your boundaries.

You’re his sweet little human – weak and naïve and perfect to play with, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t enjoy having you around. And enjoying you means teasing you, pushing your buttons, irritating you until your face twists up into that scowl or grimace that he absolutely loves to see.

He’s always doing things just to see your reaction – he’ll place things on shelves you can’t reach just to watch you bite your lip and contemplate whether you want to ask him for help, internally swooning because aw, aren’t you just the cutest when you’re embarrassed?

He’ll make you say ‘please’ in order to eat the food he’s offering you, a smirk sitting on his lips as he tells that he didn’t quite hear that, could you say that again please?

(Of course, the food isn’t the food you think it is – it’s edible, sure, and it’s high quality, but as time passes Douma finds himself toying with the idea of turning you into a demon, knowing he could probably persuade Muzan into doing this because it makes the Upper Rank Two more productive. And so, while he’d fed you mostly animal meat when he’d initially stolen you away, he very slowly begins integrating less common meats, opting to mix the smallest amount of human flesh in with the beef he serves you, just a hair of a finger or a small bit of thigh. Just to get you familiar with the taste – and to watch your face freeze up and hear you gag as he tells that you’d just eaten the man who brought you afternoon tea yesterday. He loves the way you look at him with your eyes wide and your jaw dropped, shock and disgust and fear swimming in those pretty eyes of yours and making shivers erupt over his whole body, the sight absolutely delicious.)

He’ll lay his hand on your shoulder at random times, seeing your whole body jerk and jump as you whip your head back, surprise written all over your face because you hadn’t heard him enter the room.

(Silently, he’ll marvel at the warmth of your skin through your clothing – you feel soft, too, and Douma idly wonders if the rest of you is this warm and soft. If everything is this lovely, or if certain parts of you are warmer, more sensitive, wetter -)

His favorite way to bug you, however, is to fluster you. Douma is aware that by human standards he’s very attractive – perfectly clear skin, wavy and thick hair, a sharp jawline and a smile that makes most human women – and men – crumble instantly. And while you seem to be largely immune to his charms (much to his delight and chagrin), Douma makes it his mission to get you flustered at nearly every opportunity he can. There’s something about the way your face crinkles up, your brows growing taut and your eyes looking everywhere except him that makes him only want to push further, to say more provocative things, to get closer, to hear your sharp intake of breath again and again.

He’ll have you sit near him, your thighs just barely brushing, his inhuman hearing able to pick up your slightly increased heartbeat, his own heart racing in his chest as it does every time you get so close to him. He’ll be telling you something inconsequential, narrating what he’d done that day, and nonchalantly let his hand rest on the expanse of your thigh, not even pausing his words to acknowledge his action.

And hearing your heart begin beating even faster and smell the distinct smell of fear and even just the slightest, smallest twinge of arousal gets his nostrils flaring, excitement bleeding into his voice because oh, you like this, do you?

And he’ll capitalize on your well-hidden attraction – scotting closer to you so that you can smell him better (he’d tried a new cologne that morning – one he’d seen you eyeing in a shop many months before), increasing the pressure of his fingers so that he’s gripping your thigh (and trying not to lose his composure at just how squishy you are, your human flesh so pliable and pretty and the perfect thing to feel under the pads of his fingers), and asking you with the same tease in his voice (though it’s just a tad huskier, not even intentionally) if you’re enjoying yourself, hmm? If you tell me you like this I can give you more, you know.

He��ll lean in closely to your ear, tongue lolling out to lick up the shell while he finishes with a whispered I’m no stranger to the human female body…

He’ll listen for your breath to hitch, feeling your muscles tense underneath his grip, the audible rush of blood through your veins, letting the tension build and build before laughing and leaning back. He’ll take his hand off your thigh and shoot you that same smile that his followers gush over, telling you that you’re so cute when you’re flustered, bunny, you should’ve seen your face! He likes how you try to hide your face, your fists clenched as embarrassment eats you alive because god, he’s infuriating, and god, you hate that you’d almost wanted to take him up on his offer.

And really, that’s the way Douma will slowly break you down – he’s fascinated with you, like you’re some sort of pet project of his that he wants to study and understand, and as a result he needs to spend as much time around you as possible. You’ll hardly ever get a moment to yourself as his darling – he’s always lurking, invading your personal space and inserting himself into situations where he’s not wanted.

He’ll slip under the covers of the futon right beside you, those strangely colored eyes wide and bright as he tells you that you just looked too cute for him to not want to join you – and of course he has to be laying close enough to be sharing breaths. The futon’s not that big, so what did you expect? He’ll trail behind you as you walk into the restroom, smiling brightly at you as you ask him to leave so you can bathe in peace. He has the audacity to tilt his head to the side, that same smile on his face but seeming a little wider now as he asks you why should I do that? You can shower just fine with me right here, can’t you?

(He often joins you on your trips to relieve yourself, too, standing beside you and holding full conversations with you as you hesitantly seat yourself onto the toilet, trying to avoid the eye contact he’s very, very eager to maintain. It’s quality time, he says when you bring up how uncomfortable it makes you, and you’re really just too weak and irresponsible to be trusted alone in the bathroom – what if you slip and fall? What if you accidentally rub your skin raw with your towel? Douma wouldn’t want you to be hurt, now would he? The condescending tone of his voice will often leave you angry enough to not further the conversation, making Douma smug and giddy because oh, aren’t you adorable when you’re angry!)

He’s just needy, really, because the sick, twisted version of love that he feels for you is rooted in fascination, in wanting to see how you react to the things he does to you. He wants to see every emotion you’re capable of, and he wants to be the reason for all of them. Really, he just wants you to be looking at him, paying him attention, reacting to him and the things he does – just keep your eyes on him, and let him bother you every moment of every day.

Eventually you’ll grow to tolerate the sound of his voice, the feel of his hands on your body, the embarrassment that eats you alive nearly every time you interact with him. It’ll get easier, really – or perhaps you’ll just grow more complacent, and Douma will seem less like a thorn in your side and more like the only other person you ever interact with.

Just how he wants it.

Dependent

Douma is a creature that has lived for a very long time and has known only total and utter control – serving Muzan and letting everyone else serve him. He’s used to being the one in control, needing to feel the power and sense of total dominance over others in order to function correctly, to feel good.

And in most ways this applies to his obsession with you, too – he’s very aware that he’s stronger than you. He’s both physically and mentally stronger, smarter, faster, more capable, more powerful, just generally more. And in the beginning of his obsession, noticing this obvious difference in your strength and having you blatantly ignore it was enough to pique his interest.

Too many decades had passed by with humans cowering in fear and kneeling before him (as it should be), but it’s left him bored, aching for more, wanting something new and entertaining. And so once he meets you and sees that you aren’t one to submit quite as easily, Douma is immediately hooked, wanting to push you as far as he can just to see how much you can take before you crack.

And really, this is how the majority of his infatuation is presented to you – he’s an annoying, terrifying creature who metaphorically clings onto your every word and action, those colorful eyes of his always watching and staring and wanting.

You think he wants to kill you, really, and you’ll be left constantly on edge around him, terrified that he’ll hurt you or your loved ones for even a single step out of line. And in the beginning, Douma does nothing to dissolve this perception you have of him simply because it’s true. He doesn’t know if he wants to hurt you or not, if he wants to kill you, what he wants with you. You’re an enigma to him, and he’d kept you around because you intrigued him.

With every passing day, this interest and intrigue only seems to grow deeper, stronger, more difficult to disentangle himself out of. But his pride and staunch view that he’s better than all humans bars him from really realizing this early into his infatuation, firmly telling himself that it’s just curiosity that compels him to not sink his teeth into the fleshy expanse of your thigh. It’s just innocent fun that’s stopping him from ripping you apart limb by limb, feasting on what he’s absolutely sure is soft, supple flesh that would have the sweetest taste.

Though, as time passes, even Douma must admit that his feelings for his darling begin venturing into unknown, dangerous territory – no longer is it simply amusement, entertainment, and mild physical attraction that draws him to you. Instead, there’s something more – he’s desperate to see you at all times, growing addicted to having your attention, his body yearning for you in a way that simply fucking another female follower can’t satisfy.

He needs you – he’s grown too charmed by your stubbornness, your continued resistance to simply appeasing him making him more desperate to crush you and have you under his thumb. No longer is his obsession simply a desire to have you around to mess with and satisfy his boredom – no, now it’s about you and your place at his side. You’re certainly not his equal, but he sees you as a companion, a partner not in equalness but in terms of needing you.

Because really, as soon as Douma realizes that he’s toeing the line between mild interest and honest desperation, he panics a bit. This is totally new – something unknown and scary and something he can’t control, so he tries to pull back, forcing himself to give you distance because he simply can’t be allowing you to have such control over him.

You plague his every thought – when you’re apart, he’s imagining what you’re doing. Are you relaxing, enjoying the serenity that being away from your kidnapper brings you?

Are you lonely, wishing he was there to keep you company, even if the way he touches you makes your skin crawl?

Are you sleeping, hopefully dreaming about people with his face and eyes and hair?

Or perhaps you’re eating, maybe even finding yourself wishing that Douma was there to sit beside you, that sick grin on his face while he lifts the chopsticks, tells you to say ‘ah’ and places the sushi delicately on your tongue, something dark in his expression as he tells you to chew and swallow, don’t let it go to waste.

He’d only fed you once, and you’d fought it the whole time, trying to squirm away from him and being thoroughly difficult. It’d entertained Douma in the moment, the way you were so desperate to get away from him, but now, thinking back on it as he patiently waits for Gyokko to get to the meeting site for the joint mission Muzan had assigned them, he’s starting to wonder if perhaps the experience would be even more enjoyable if you obediently let him feed you, looking at him with those pretty eyes of yours and even thanking him, telling him how delicious the food is, how nice his company is, how you’re so very glad that he’s returned to you…

It’s sappy and stupid and ridiculous, and it makes Douma scowl to know that you’ve managed to snag such a hold on him, but every time he considers killing you, something sharp wedges its way into his heart and he finds himself dismissing the thought.

Because really, as pathetic as being obsessed with a weak human female like you is, the alternative is worse – returning to a life of monotony and apathy, seeking his thrills through the momentary high of a slaughter, desperately chasing after more power and more entertainment, trying to fill in the empty void in his chest where his heart should be.

You fix all of that – and so he decides to embrace these new feelings, deciding that if he feels so strongly for you, then he must keep you by his side. You aren’t allowed to ever leave – he would be a shell of a demon if you did, every ounce of joy and happiness stolen from him, and he’s simply too selfish to allow that to happen.

So you’d better prepare for Douma’s constant attention, the frantic way he looks to you, the way his fingers always grip onto you, his voice ringing in your ears over and over and over. He’s overwhelming you, his presence and the constant demands of your attention draining you and leaving you attached to him in a way that makes him sick, but Douma frankly doesn’t care.

How can he? Every moment he spends with you not only quells the constant ache to be around you and feel your eyes on him, but it also deepens your dependence on him, too. Because really, Douma is the only person you ever see with any real consistency – he’s incredibly strict on allowing his followers to come into contact with you, only allowing a small handful of his most devoted servants to drop off meals or change your bath water when he can’t be there to do it himself.

(Both of these activities he loathes missing, if only because you’re so cute when you’re eating, and bathing you? God, Douma likes to think he has decent self-control, but the way he pounces at you and bares his teeth, his eyes darkening and his voice getting noticeably deeper makes it obvious that his hold on himself is slipping, the sight of your nude body with water only barely covering your nipples and below your torso making him genuinely feral.)

 It’s in moments like these that Douma can only laugh at himself, embarrassed for having allowed himself to fall so strongly for a weak, pathetic thing like you. And yet, as time passes he finds himself not caring – after all, when he forces you to turn into a demon, some of that self-loathing will disappear, and then he can be as rough as he wants with you – an idea that makes him literally tremble with anticipation.

Possessive

Unlike his fellow demons, Douma is actually a bit sneaky with this aspect of his obsession – at least, in the beginning.

He’s not obviously possessive or territorial of you, or at least not more so than you’d expect. Frankly, if it weren’t for the fact that he’s kidnapped you and flirts with you just to fluster you, you’d have no idea that Douma is interested in you romantically. He’s touchy and pushy, sure, but he never showcases any traits of the traditional jealous partner. He doesn’t rant and rave about how you’re his, nor does he leave possessive bites or marks along your body to physically mark you as his.

He’s not that uncivilized – at least, he likes to think so. He’s not that terribly obsessed with you, he likes to believe, and by not being verbally territorial over your time, space, and attention, he feels that he’s maintaining this boundary between you where you can’t see just how truly dependent on you he’s become.

But the issue, really, is that while Douma thinks he isn’t easily jealous or possessive over you, it couldn’t be further from the truth. Really, he absolutely needs you to be looking at him and only him – he’s used to being revered and worshipped, both by his followers and many of his fellow demons, but there’s just something different about your attention.

There’s something warmer, something better, something that makes his fingers twitch and his neck feel hot because god, you look good when you’re looking at him, and when you say his name with that slight tremble of fear in your voice he wants to press you so tightly against him that you can’t breath.

You’re just different, really, and so Douma struggles with this internal dilemma. Particularly in the beginning of his obsession and your captivity, he doesn’t allow any signs of his true feelings to be seen – sure he’s flirting with you and teasing you just to see you squirm and get all embarrassed, but it’s just for fun. It’s all a big game, of course – you’re just so weak and endearing and strangely cute that Douma can’t help but belittle you and see that flustered, embarrassed expression on that pretty face of yours.

But then he notices you smiling and laughing at something else one day – something small, something stupid.

A small squirrel had managed to weasel its through the high window into the room he keeps you locked away in, the little brown animal curiously staring at you. On its hind legs, dark, beady eyes fixed on you while you lightly giggle and marvel at the bushiness of its tail, the liveliness of its presence – suddenly not feeling so horribly, horribly lonely.

And Douma’s immediately seeing red – your pretty face is all twisted up in a smile and your eyes are fucking sparkling – why the hell don’t you look like that when he’s talking to you? You’ve never looked this happy with him even once – you flustered and embarrassed is great, but this?

His hands are shaking, an ugly snarl ripping across his face, blond hair bristling as he sprints to grab the squirrel. Everything happens too fast for you to really comprehend – the squirrel is a few feet away from you one second, squeezed between his pale finger the next, something maniacal and scary and horrifying flicking through those rainbow eyes of his as he stares down at the small creature.

You’re immediately scrambling to your feet, begging him to not hurt the animal, and his head snaps to yours almost robotically, that look morphing into some deranged excuse of a smile as he tells you that you’re not allowed to be making friends, remember? I told you what would happen if you did. Do you remember what I told you?

And as you start sobbing, begging him to not kill the animal, Douma will only sigh wistfully, deciding that although he wants to see you smiling and laughing and loving him like the way you loved this squirrel, this is nice too. You, with tears streaming down your cheeks, snot dribbling from your nose, your eyes all glassy and red – you’re cute like this, really, and it makes him smile gleefully, squeezing at the squirrel just a hair tighter and oh god –

You’re still crying when he has the follower on their hands and knees scrubbing the blood from the pretty white flooring, your body wrapped in Douma’s arms while he coos at you and plays with your hair.

It’s only then that you’ll really begin to see just how truly devoted Douma is to you – his hands are all over you, those eyes staring holes through you, arms tugging you closer and closer to him, not leaving an inch of space between your bodies. He’ll grab your chin and force you to look at him, that same sick smile on his face while he tells you that you’re very pretty, you know, I like when you look like this. Now won’t you smile for me? C’mon, I deserve a smile, don’t I?

If you don’t, his grip tightens, surely leaving bruises against your dainty skin, pressing tighter until you shakily quirk up your lips, the smile pained and strained and absolutely divine in his eyes. It’s then that the possessiveness will start to rear its ugly head – he’s telling you in that same sing-song, fake voice that you’re so much better when you’re smiling… Hey, you know to only smile at me, right? You know what’ll happen to anyone or anything else you smile at and talk to. I’m the only one you need to look at – I’ll slaughter anything that dares to steal your attention from me, do you understand?

Meanwhile, he’s stroking your cheek, unblinking as he stares, his breath ice cold and making you shiver. After that incident, Douma doesn’t hold back on making it absolutely clear that you are not to speak with anyone else in the compound – you’d already been studiously avoided by all his followers, only coming into contact with someone when they were forced to bring you food or attend to your washroom needs. But now, everyone was actively afraid of you – running at the sight of you, one poor girl even shaking and breathing so heavily as she heated your bathwater that it hurt just to look at her.

And you know it’s all Douma’s doing, too – you’ve heard him telling his followers that you’re strictly off-limits, that you’re something that isn’t to be touched or looked at, that you’re a sin, that to interact with you without just cause would be an irrevocable offense worthy of death. And there’s something about his voice when he says it that makes you bite your lip, fear dancing through your chest because you’ve never heard him be so serious before, the rumble of his words and the way you can practically see the dead-eyed, apathetic face making something in your gut twist.

From then on, he’s even more clingy – constantly demanding your attention, touching you seemingly without restraint, his voice constantly ringing in your head as he bothers you day and night, never letting you go more than a few minutes without his presence at your side and rudely commanding your attention and time.

Really, he’s just awfully needy – you’re his. His favorite human, toy, thing, and he'll be damned if he lets anyone – or any thing – take that away from him. He’s a powerful demon, and you’re nothing compared to him. So just accept your place as his personal whore, really – because there’s nothing you can do about it. He’s needy and jealous and will become the only person you’ll see with any sort of remote consistency, and it’s all by design.

You’re not to speak with, look at, or think of anyone else – you really, really wouldn’t to see anyone get hurt over that rule, now would you?

Because as much as he likes your positive attention, seeing you scream and cry and hate him is almost as good – delicious in a way that makes him lick his teeth and giggle because ah, you’re just so adorable.

DEALING WITH RIVALS:

Quite honestly, despite Douma’s more possessive feelings over you, he doesn’t get jealous that often.

This is mostly due to the fact that he severely limits who he allows to interact with you – all your attendants must be female, and ideally rather weak-willed and soft-spoken. He wants you to be interacting with the most mild people he can, just so that you don’t grow too attached to anyone.

He’ll keep the attendants rotating, just so that you don’t develop any sort of comradery with anyone, and so that no one becomes hopelessly enthralled by you or becomes inspired to set you free from your obvious captivity. It’s all selfish and very, very purposefully orchestrated, because while Douma may be occasionally relaxed and not as rigid with his followers, anything involving you is meticulously thought out, planned with such a degree of obsessiveness that it nearly drives him crazy.

And so, you hardly ever get the chance to interact with a man, much less glance at him – which is very, very good news for the people of the compound, because otherwise all of their blood would be spilled and he’d  be touching your sweet body over their corpses.

Douma simply doesn’t get the opportunity to become jealous often – and even before all of his obsession has fully festered and established itself, this stands true. He kidnaps you very early on, and fully with the intention of killing you once his interest in you dries up.

As a result, there’s simply not much time between the formation of his obsession and your eventual relocation to his temple, seriously limiting his opportunities to grow jealous over you. And this pleases Douma – once he decides that he wants to keep you, the thought of you being unable to interact with anyone significant aside from himself is calming, a sense of possessiveness and ownership over you swimming through him that makes his smile almost real.

And so, for the first few weeks of your captivity, you’ll genuinely think that Douma won’t grow jealous over you, simply because the very, very few people you meet are nearly silent, only interacting with you when absolutely necessary and practically running out of the room before you even finish talking.

 But of course, not everything goes to plan – it only takes a single encounter for you to realize that your previous assumptions about him not growing jealous were painfully mistaken.

The new attendant is more talkative than the previous one. The last one had been mousy, a quiet little creature of a girl who couldn’t be older than fourteen, setting down your meal tray and immediately darting out of the room, the lock clicking loudly behind her. You hadn’t gotten much of a chance to speak with her, let alone ask her name or details about your location.

But this newer girl was a little bolder. Her gaze, while still averted, would occasionally dart back to you. And while the pity in her eyes made something ugly simmer in your chest, the acknowledgement of your poor situation by anyone other than him was still welcome.

She was still rather quiet, but you noticed that she stayed just a hair longer, and would even manage to crack the smallest of smiles in your presence.

But during one sunny afternoon, while Douma longues on your bed with an arm propped under his head and those eyes of his stuck on your figure, she comes by to drop off the food.

It’s a familiar knock at your door, and you perk up at the sound, something that Douma notices with a slight twitch of his eyebrow.

Come in, you call, watching as the locks click and the wooden door creaks open. The girl is there, and you watch as her eyes meet yours and she gives you a small nod of recognition. You smile ever so slightly back, on edge with Douma’s hawk eyes monitoring the entire interaction.

The girl sets the tray onto the ground before shuffling away, glancing up one more time only to suddenly notice Douma’s presence on the bed. She gasps, eyes blowing wide, before bowing her head against the ground, stuttering out a M-Master Douma!

He’s quiet, his gaze narrowing ever so slightly, before an easy smile settles onto his lips. Slowly he gets up, steps light and airy as he approaches the doorway. You’re still standing on the other side of the room, watching the interaction with every hair on your body standing at attention. There’s something about the way he feels, the predatory sense of dread hanging in the air that makes your every muscle desperate to run away, to get out before something terrible happens.

He squats down to her kneeling height once he reaches her, his eyes closing as he keeps up that smile. Do you know her?

The girl shakes her head quickly, her voice merely a whisper as she tells him no, I only serve her meals occasionally.

He nods, humming. So why are you looking at her then?

The girl parts her lips slightly, gaze wide as she stares at him. I – um, I don’t what you mean, Master. I’m sorry.

His eyes open, lids closing half-way and pupils fixed on her. Why are you staring at her so familiarly? Did I not explicitly tell you to avoid looking at what’s mine?

She gulps, her hands starting to shake. I – I’m  terribly sorry, I did not mean to –

Douma sighs, but his shoulders stay tight and tensed, the muscles in his arm visibly flexing underneath his shirt as he clenches his fist. Ah-ah-ah, don’t you know? I don’t care what you have to say. No one is to look at or speak to her. You knew this. And yet you went and did it anyways. Do you know what that makes you?

She’s crying now, tears slipping down her cheeks and her lip wobbling. You’re too frozen with fear to move, but you can hardly breath.

Douma smiles, tilting her chin up ever so slightly. He leans in closer, bunch hunched in a way that doesn’t look human.

Dead. He breathes out.

It happens too quickly for you to follow – his fist is plunging into her chest, her scream cut short by him ripping his hand back out, something red and wet and moving clutched in his palm. The sight makes you sick, bile rising up in the back of your throat and making you heave, forcing you to the ground.

Her body goes limp and slumps to the side, blood pouring around her body and leaving the pretty, wooden floors stained red.

Douma’s giggling, you hear, as he squeezes at her dismembered heart, clutching down tighter and tighter and tighter – until it explodes in a spray of red, getting all over his face and chest, staining the floor even more and making a fresh wave of nausea pass through you.

Your entire body is shaking, gaze unable to stop staring at her lifeless body, terror coursing through you and making it impossible to breath, to move, to think.

All too soon Douma’s standing up, wiping the blood staining his hand onto the already ruined white fabric of his pants, gaze settling on you and sighing once more. What a mess, he laments, but your gaze is still stuck on the girl.

He pouts at that, moving forward and physically blocking your view, getting close enough to you that you can smell the blood on him, see the little bits of tissue and muscle decorating the tight fabric of his shirt.

He’s smiling again, and you flinch as he clasps a strand of your hair between two fingers, rubbing it between them and smearing red all over.

Did you like that? His question makes your lips part, your gaze slowly moving to meet his, something in your gut screaming at you to hurt him, to hurt this creature that so cruelly ruins and steals the lives of others.

But as Douma presses in further, his Adam’s Apple bobbing as his eyes get wider, his voice a bit higher, excitement oozing off of him in waves, he only asks again did you like seeing that? Doesn’t it feel good to see her get what she deserves?

You have nothing to say to that, so you only stare, your own tears pooling down your cheeks.

Douma’s eyes sparkle at that, and he leans forward, tongue lolling out and licking a long strike up your cheek, the salty taste making him shiver.

He rests his forehead against yours, licking his lips and pressing wet, bloody hands against your arms. Hey, let’s go to bed. You’ll be good for me, right? You wouldn’t want to anger me, you know.

And really, what other choice do you have but to say yes, to let him drag you to the mattress and hold you, all the while you stare at the girl’s body? There’s blood staining every inch of your skin and smearing across the sheets, but you try to ignore the now cold, viscous feeling.

And does it make you a bad person for being grateful that it’s not you laying lifeless on the cold, hard ground?

TAKING HIS DARLING AWAY:

It’s inevitable, and it happens fast. Douma is simply a stranger to you at first – a friend of yours had been converted into the Paradise Cult, and at Douma’s urging, each follower had been required to drag in a new member.

You weren’t especially receptive to the idea, but your friend had tricked you into visiting the compound by telling you it was simply an alternative living community, leaving you unsure and suspicious but not wanting to doubt the friend who’d suddenly re-emerged into your life.

And after stepping foot into the compound, you immediately had a sense of what was happening – something was very, very wrong, and your friend seemed entirely dismissive and unaware of it. You’d stayed out of politeness (and your friend’s very thinly veiled threats of what would happen if you were to run), promising to meet the Master as your friend had begged, and upon meeting Douma (alongside a large group of people who seemed to be in varying states of fear and confusion, like yourself), you’d immediately wanted to turn-tail and leave.

He’d gone through each individual recruit, shaking their hand and whispering sweet words to them, and when he’d approached you, expecting the same kindness and reverence that all the other recruits were told to exhibit, he was sorely mistaken. After grabbing your hands (his hands were ice cold, freezing, and perfectly smooth), you’d smiled at him, trying to mirror the expression on his face.

Welcome to Paradise, won’t you join us? His voice had been smooth, calming, and layered with a sense of confidence that had your smile turning sour.

No, thank you, I’ll be leaving now. You’d ripped your hands out of his grasp and promptly turned on your heel, not sparing Douma a glance as he gaped at you, genuinely too stunned to make a move and follow you.

He’d meant to follow after you, anger at your disrespect making his eye twitch, but the other recruits had to be brought in before he could bother with a single disgruntled woman. You’d managed to leave the compound, ignoring your friend’s hysteria and desperate pleas to apologize to the Master, instead storming all the way back to your own home and vowing to never set foot on that property again. There was just something unnerving about the place, and that man – he’d made some primal sense of fear edge up into your throat, your body feeling feather light and your reflexes heightened.

But as you tried to adjust back into your life and essentially mourn the loss of your friend, Douma hadn’t forgotten about you. He’d tried to – you were inconsequential, a dirty, lowly human woman, utterly nothing. And yet, the days began to blend together, images of your naively brave face dancing behind his eyelids, thinking of the absolute gall you had to blatantly disrespect what your body could clearly sense was an apex predator.

(He’d been able to smell the fear wafting off of you in waves, hear the rapid pounding of your heart, see the tremor of your hands. You’d been petrified, truly, and yet you’d still been stupid enough to run away. It would be impressive, if it didn’t leave such a sour taste in his mouth.)

The anger prompted him to call in your friend, asking with a sickly sweet smile what your name was, where you lived, and to tell him a bit about you. Your friend was more than happy to oblige his request, apologizing profusely on your behalf and spilling every detail about you that they could. Douma had nodded at the end, flashing them one last smile before slicing their head off, licking a bloody finger afterwards and humming.

Immediately heading off towards the location of your home, Douma ran through all the possible ways he could punish you for your blatant disrespect – perhaps rip your toes and fingers off one by one, then devour you, or maybe even slice open your belly and let you suffer before death?

Deeply pondering, he’d stopped outside your home, staring into the windows and feeling his eyes brighten at the sight of you simply seated in your living area, reading out of a book. You were nothing special, truly – no particularly beautiful features, nothing that would catch his eye out of the hundreds of humans he’s met and devoured. You were utterly unremarkable, and weak, too; unable to fight, unable to defend yourself, just utterly, utterly pathetic.

And as he slips into your home, internally scoffing at how you don’t even notice his presence, Douma suddenly stops. You’re looking at him now, panic eating away at your features as you cling to the wall behind you, your voice shaking and rather thin as you scream at him that you’ll hurt you, don’t – don’t come any closer!

And really, it almost makes him laugh when you grab at the candlestick on the nearby table, pointing the stubby, wax bar at him with eyes wide enough to make him giggle.

It’s quiet for a long moment, before Douma’s lips quirk up into something vaguely resembling a smile, something in his eyes growing brighter as he realizes that oh, you might be a bit of fun.

And as he moves forward and has a hand striking against the pressure point in your neck before you can even blink, Douma finds himself nonchalantly leaning down to smell along the curve of your jaw.

You’re not wholly unappealing, now that he looks at you up close. You smell nice enough – a bit floral, a bit earthy, and he can hear the beating of your heart from this close. That same twisted smile sits on his lips as he brings you back to the compound, rainbow eyes dull as he unceremoniously drops you onto the rackety, spare mattress of a fellow cult member, ignoring their questions as he slices at their throat and hums.

You could be entertaining enough, at least for a day or two – it’s not often that people resist him, and he wants to know how long it’ll take before you break.

Despite Douma’s rather spontaneous kidnapping of you, it doesn’t take him long to fall into a rhythm with you. What he feels for you at first is slow-going and barely even there, but it’s something – and as time passes and he becomes aware that you’re inspiring an unknown emotion – any emotion, aside from a dull pleasure in seeing others suffering - inside of his chest, he becomes more and more attached.

And this is obvious in the way that he treats you – he’s absolutely suffocating, choosing to take up your every moment of the day because absolutely nothing compares to the sight of you scowling at him, or the way you flinch and scramble to get away from him every time he reaches out to touch you. It’s cute, even, the way you ardently try to escape him when you’re both painfully aware that it isn’t possible. It’s endearing, but even with your stubborn nature, you’ll eventually grow complacent in the lifestyle he’s forced upon you.

You’re kept in a set of bedchambers that very clearly belonged to another person before you – the bed is larger than you’d expected, with crisp white sheets and red silks hanging from the frame on all sides. The dark, mahogany wood is engraved with all sorts of geometric and floral patterns, and during the rare stretches of solitude that you’re afforded, you find yourself running your fingers over the shapes and committing them to memory.

The bed had actually not belonged to the room’s previous occupant – instead, the bed had been the one Douma designated as his own, before your arrival. It’d been the bed he’d lounge about in during the day, bedding nearly every woman and man in the compound between those very sheets. He’d had it moved into the room he keeps you in a week or so after your arrival, deciding that if he was to spend so much time in your space, he might as well be comfortable while doing so.

(And though it hadn’t been his intention, there’s something oddly pleasing about seeing the way you visibly sink into the mattress most evenings, your constant fearful expression and scowl slowly melting away at the sheer luxury of the bed. Pleasing, and satisfying, really, because something that almost resembles pride eats away at him when he thinks of how he’s the one providing you with such comforts, and is thus the reason for your joy.)

The room itself is rather small, with four plain white walls and a few decorations and trinkets left behind by the previous occupant. A select few photographs and letters had been left behind, and you’d placed them all in a small corner of the room, taking care to not damage them but unable to look at them without feeling ill.

You hardly ever leave the room – Douma doesn’t allow you to freely roam the compound, and you are strictly forbidden from having any visitors aside from himself and a select few trust cultists that he keeps very, very careful tabs on.

(There’s the small, ever-present sense of worry that you’ll find comradery or friendship among one of the attendees, so he’s careful to keep them uncomfortably aware of their purpose, of how they aren’t to speak to you unless absolutely necessary, how they aren’t to spend any time at all in your space unless ordered by Douma himself, how your life is much, much more precious than theirs.)

But truth be told, you’ll be grateful for any and every attendant that spends even a few seconds with you – because Douma will be an always present, unwavering presence in your life once you’re stolen away. He finds you fascinating, and there’s something addicting about the responses you give to him. It’s addictive enough that he finds himself by your side every moment he can spare, always staring at you with that odd, small smile that never seems to reach his eyes, his voice always chipper and cheery even as he tells you the most gut-wrenching, revolting things.

And as time passes, Douma becomes not only clingy, but touchy. His hands are freezing cold when they touch you, skin like ice as he cups your cheek or grasps your wrist or places his hand on the small of your back.

He has no concept of personal space; his breath (cold just like his fingers) fans against your skin as he stands behind you, your back pressed snugly against his chest as he murmurs in your ear that you’re shaking, are you afraid? Probably a good choice, considering how weak you are.

He’s making you sit in his lap as he forces you to tell him about your old life, listening to the shaky intake and exhale of your breath and tut-tutting at you, telling you to stop lying, pretty thing, I can hear your heartbeat soaring. We wouldn’t want poor Mimiko outside to pay for your deceptions, would we?

And once he begins getting truly needy for your time and attention, Douma is absolutely not afraid to escalate your relationship to something more physical, something more intimate. He absolutely will force himself onto you, that same devoid smile on his lips while his eyes shine with something that you can’t – and won’t – put a finger on.

He views you as his personal play thing, his personal human, and his clinginess and inability to leave you alone for more than an hour at a time is proof of it. And as he grows more and more attached, the desperation to be around you starting to cloud his mind and make him angry, irritable, enraged when something keeps him away from you, he’ll only become more suffocating, more desperate for your every thought, look, and feeling to revolve solely around him him him.

It’s the least you could do, really, considering he’s been kind enough to spare you.

(Though there’s always the lingering question of how sweet your blood tastes, if you’re as soft and tender as he expects, if when he sinks those teeth of his down into the sensitive flesh of your thigh you’d squeal his name like he hopes you would…)

PUNISHMENTS:

If you don’t count his constant, overwhelming presence, Douma doesn’t really punish you. He’s actually fairly lenient – he certainly doesn’t allow you to roam around the compound on your own, nor does he allow you to speak with anyone aside from himself, but you’re allowed to choose what clothing you wear, how you style your hair, when you wake up and when you go to bed.

And really, Douma likes to point out just how much freedom he gives you – when you’ve got an attitude, anger and irritation welling up in your chest and bubbling over, Douma will simply pout at you, telling you that you don’t get to be mean, you got breakfast this morning. And while he doesn’t explicitly say it, the tone of his voice and the way he’s looking at you are reminders that yes, he’s keeping you here against your wall, but he’s oh so generous and feeding you well. He’s giving you food, shelter, and attention from a being much superior to yourself – and frankly, you’re a spoiled little brat for not realizing exactly what a gift he’s giving you.

He’s not the biggest fan of actually saying those words to you though, if only because he likes to keep up the charade of being a happy-go-lucky man, wanting you to feel and acknowledge that yes, he's powerful, but he also treats you with kindness and a level of care and adoration that you should really be beyond grateful to be receiving.

It’s a matter of pride, more than anything else – and your ‘punishments’ are also a matter of pride. It takes quite a bit to anger Douma. This is because he lives for your responses – he’s teasing you and pushing you right to the edge on a constant basis, loving the way you grit your teeth or yell at him or try to ignore him. Though, he admittedly likes that last option significantly less. It’s entertaining for the first few minutes watching you clench your jaw and pretend like he’s not poking your stomach or kissing over the shell of your ear or threatening your family members, but if you hold out and remain silent and unresponsive, he’ll eventually just pout and give up, sighing dramatically and telling you fine, have it your way.

You won’t ever actually get your way, of course, but Douma will manage to finagle some variation of your request with his own touch to it.

You’re asking for your freedom? Absolutely not, but he will get you a pretty pair of binoculars so you can see outside the laughably small, iron-barred window in your room!

You want supplies for your hobbies because you’re going insane with boredom? A bit harsh considering he’s always keeping you company, but he’ll buy you whatever your little heart desires, no matter how expensive or difficult to find. You just have to teach him how to use them, okay? You’ll do your little hobbies with him, or not at all.

And so, Douma doesn’t automatically see you lashing out or being rude as a negative. Instead, it often only endears him more to you, enjoying the way you’re so very human in your inability to control your emotions.

But while he doesn’t respond negatively to your bad behavior, there are two things which truly do upset him.

The first upset is predictable – your attempts at escape. You talking about running away is one thing; lofty plans and ideals you talk about in front of him while he nods along and coos at you, pointing out each and every flaw in your thinking and explaining in detail the many ways he could stop you.

It’s mildly amusing when you’re just putting on a face and acting like you want to leave, but the moment you actually attempt it, that amusement is shifting to irritation, his eye twitching slightly because oh, how stupid could you really be? You obviously don’t realize that you’re stuck square in the center of a rather large compound filled with people who would absolutely kill for Douma, and would do anything he so desired even if it meant ignoring your screams and cries to return you back to their leader.

It’s frustrating to him, if only because it’s a mess he has to clean up, and there’s always the repercussions of having to figure out who helped you orchestrate the whole endeavor, because he knows you can’t escape out of this room on your own. And while killing the sympathizer is fun and leaves him stained in blood and shivering in delight, it’s precious time that he could be spending with you.

But really, the one thing that truly upsets him is when you hurt yourself. He can hurt you – he can drag his nails down your pretty skin and leave beads of blood in their wake. He can pull at your hair until you’re tearing up, the look on your face pained and sending blood directly between his legs, your expression delicious and oh so arousing. He can even bend you over and smack his hand against the smell of your ass over and over and over until your bruised, welts decorating the pretty skin and your eyes barely open.

He can do all that, but why the fuck do you think you can? You’re his toy – his. You aren’t your own person anymore; you’re his plaything, and as a result your body belongs to him. Injuring yourself is equivalent to damaging his personal property, and if there’s one thing Douma can’t stand, it’s others taking what’s his.

And so, to truly see him mad, you must purposefully injure yourself in some capacity – though you have to get creative, considering how little time you have for yourself.

It's late at night when you decide to do it. It’s one of the rare evenings where Douma isn’t caging you in his arms while he commands you to sleep, eyes wide open and staring straight at you as he patiently waits for you to fall into unconsciousness. He’d said he had business to attend to tonight – whatever that meant, though you had a good feeling you’d rather not know.

It’s strange without him, even as loathed as you are to admit it. The room – not your room, never your room – is oddly quiet without him, missing the ominous, overwhelming presence that he brings with him with every visit. Some part of you almost finds it lonely, though you can’t exactly say that you miss him. Just the contact with another person – if you can even call him that.

Shaking your head from the thoughts, you stand up and slowly pad your way over to the window. It’s high, too high for you to reach just on your own. Grabbing the chair sitting at the small, never-used desk in the corner of the room, you’re quick to place it under the window and climb up.

The view isn’t anything particularly special – just looking out onto the courtyard in what you’re guessing is the center of the complex, the array of traditional style houses sitting in even, neat rows along the sides. It’s pretty, in a suburban, monotonous way, and it makes you frown. This place feels like death, and the sight only resolves your desire to escape.

Sitting outside the hole cut into the wall as the window are iron bars, surely placed there to limit anything from coming inside. And, of course, to limit anything from going outside, too. With a small breath, you reached up and carefully clasped your fingers around the bar second from the right.

You’d noticed the last time you’d done this that the metal was incredibly loose – wiggling in its joint easily, and likely unsecure enough to complete pull off of its hinges. Biting your lip, you slowly increased shaking the metal, trying to dislodge it and create a space large enough for you to squeeze through.

You paused every so often, worried that the slight clanging noise would draw attention to your room and alert anyone outside of what you were doing. That wouldn’t do – this escape plan hinged entirely on your ability to get out undetected, as you had no doubts every follower would immediately report to Douma and you could kiss your chances of escape goodbye.

It’s difficult to hold back the small exclamation of relief when you finally feel the iron break free, the weight of it in your hand making you swallow thickly. Okay, now to just push myself through…

The opening looked just big enough, but it would still be a tight fit.

Pushing off with one leg, you manage to get your knee on the sill. Scrunching your brows, you shift your weight to push off the back leg, wobbling slightly as you find your balance on both knees. Now, for the difficult part.

Come on, you murmur as you inch forward, gingerly pushing your head through the opening and glancing around, eyes squinting in the darkness but not seeing anyone outside. With a deep breath, you pushed further, one hand coming up to reach through the railing, managing to get your shoulder outside, pushing yourself forward and letting the smallest smile grace your lips because oh god, you might actually make it-

You barely feel the cold hand wrapping around your ankle until it’s yanking you back. Harshly.

You fly backwards with a small scream, the iron of the next bar over scratching at your arm and warm, wet blood immediately trickling down your forearm. Your back hits the mattress and knocks the air out of you, making your vision dizzy for a moment before you see it. Him.

Normally Douma sports a small, rather nonchalant smile around you. It’s chilling because there’s so little emotion in his eyes, almost looking like two pretty voids in the center of his face. It’s disturbing, but if you don’t look at it it’s not too terrible.

This, though? The way he’s looking at you right now? It’s enough to have you scrambling to the back of the mattress, your lips parting and closing like a fish, fear and adrenaline coursing through your veins so quickly that it hurts.

He’s not smiling. No, instead his lips are completely, utterly flat – a straight line that has tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. He doesn’t even look angry, really – just utterly emotionless, not a shred of anything on his face for you to read.

What are you doing? Even his voice is eerily neutral, completely monotone.

I-I was just – I – um, you can’t even think of a plausible excuse, the situation and Douma’s reaction leaving you too fried and afraid to form a coherent thought.

He’s not having that, though. He walks closer to the bed, each step sounding like a clap of thunder. His expression is still that same flat line, even as he crawls onto the bed, that hand once again wrapping around your ankle.

What are you doing? Say it, or I’ll slit your throat.

And you believe him – enough to start stuttering out apologies and slurred, panicked admissions of trying to escape. Your voice is raising an octave, fear palpable in the air, but it doesn’t slow Douma down as he drags your body closer to him by the ankle, seeming to have absolutely no difficult even as you claw at the sheets and writhe in his grasp.

Please, ‘m sorry, I just want to go home, I can’t – You’re scaring me Douma, please stop – You’re babbling, and apparently he’s decided he’s had enough as his grip moves from your ankle to your neck faster than you can see.

You’re pressed against the wall before you know it, strong, cold fingers pressing against your windpipe as he stares at you. He’s uncomfortably close, his body only an inch or so away from yours, those damn eyes of his the only thing you can see. He’s still expressionless, even as you gasp for air and claw at his fingers. He doesn’t budge though, seeming to not even notice your attempts at escape.

You must think I’m stupid, he starts, those eyes never looking away from yours. They don’t even seem to blink, even as you wheeze out his name.

You must think I’m an imbecile if you think you can escape me. I’m insulted.

His grip tightens.

You will never escape me. There is nowhere that you can go that I cannot follow.

His grip moves higher up, cutting off even more air.

There is nowhere that you can hide that I cannot find you.

Now the left side of his lip quirks up, ever so slightly.

There is no one who can help you that I cannot kill.

Suddenly he’s leaning in, head traveling down to your right arm, his inhale audible even though you can’t see his face.

Something wet and cold pokes at the still fresh scratch on your arm, and it makes you wince. You can’t feel much of anything now, though, as small dark spots in your vision form, desperation truly starting to take over.

Something akin to a groan fills your ears as Douma’s lips latch onto your skin, tongue poking and prodding at the cut, nudging its way inside and making the last bit of your air rush out of your throat as a scream, the pain starting to register even as the dots fill your entire vision, unconsciousness taking a hold of you as you go limp under his hand.

Douma pauses at the feeling of you passing out, eyes slowly looking up to your face, before removing his hand and letting you fall to the hard floor. Your body hits the ground with a deciding slump, and Douma pokes at your shin with the tip of his shoe.

Humming, he licks the remaining blood off of your lips. You’d been stupid, really, to think that he didn’t know about this escape plan of yours. You’re not nearly as good at pretending as you think you are, nor are you as subtle at glancing at the window as you seem to think. All those nights spent with you on his chest or spooned against him, the smell of your hair filling his nostrils again and again as he rutted against your ass, his breath tickling your neck, and you still thought he couldn’t tell that you kept glancing to the window, obviously wishing to crawl out and never return.

His fists clench, and he kicks, hard. Narrowly avoiding your leg and instead decimating the wooden nightstand next to it.

Stupid human, he growls out, swallowing the last bit of your blood.

And the next morning, when you awake with a splitting headache and bruises blossoming along your neck, Douma will be right there waiting for you. That fake, plastered-on smile sits on his lips again, and the hand he rests of your arm grows tighter.

Good morning, he starts, voice the usual chipper, overly saccharine tone. Thank me for not killing you. Go on.

And as you look towards the window – with fresh, gridlocking bars newly placed on both the inside and outside, you can only feel your eyes water, lips parting into the shape of thank you.

Douma’s smile grows for just a moment, something dancing behind his eyes.

Ah, there you go.

OVERALL DANGER:

9/10

As Douma’s darling, your biggest concern is really to keep Douma entertained and appeased. His obsession hinges on his amusement surrounding you, and although something that resembles the closest thing to love he can manage does form for you, there’s something deeply wrong with him.

He views you as an object – something he can possess and own, and the idea of having you all completely to himself is something that makes him giddy, eyes closing and something settling in the base of his gut because god, he wants you.

Your time with him will be characterized by his constant presence, those eyes of his always locked on you and you only. He can’t be away from you for long periods of time – he grows restless, his knee bouncing and his fingers fidgeting as he idly thinks of seeing you, missing the way you always look so sour when he pulls on your hair, how your eyes get all big and wide when he compliments you, the bashfulness obvious on your face even as you try to hide it. You’re endearing, really, a pet project of his that he slowly begins to feel more for, a creature that he finds himself holding in disturbingly high regard, despite your lowly status as a mere human.

But really, what makes Douma so dangerous is the fact that he is so detached from normal love and affection. This leads to him having no qualms about kidnapping you, isolating you, toying with you, and even hurting you when he sees fit.

Your existence becomes solely dictated by his whims – you’ll be what he wants you to be, and if you don’t, he doesn’t mind pushes and molding you into what he wants. Even if it means breaking a few bones, biting off a few chunks of flesh, or even turning you into a blood-thirsty demon, if he so desires.

Your life is no longer yours – it’s his, and the sooner you learn that, the better. After all, Douma can be almost sweet when he’s trying – so really, just let yourself be deluded into believing that this is what’s best for you.

It’ll be better for you that way, and who knows – maybe one day you’ll even find yourself grateful for his company, just as he so ardently reminds you. Just as he so frequently demands you to be.

[piedinthepiper]

Prima Ballerina ˖ ⊹

Yandere!Jimin x ballerina!reader

Summary: What’s the difference between a great ballerina and the greatest ballerina? The answer is Park Jimin. And he had his eyes on you in more than a professional way.

Warnings: heavy dubcon, Jimin is super cocky and thinks he knows everything (misogyny?), cursing, corruption, Jimin is also a creep, age gap (reader is of legal age), stalking (non descriptive), smut

Wc: 4.3k

A/n: Written for this request. I love black swan and ballet so I had to do this! Hope you enjoy! Don’t be a silent reader! Like, repost and comment!

Disclaimer: This is 100% fiction. I am in no way saying that this is how any member of bts would act. Nor do I condone the actions detailed in the story. This is purely for entertainment purposes only. If any of the warnings trigger you, or you’re under 18 ¡do not read! I’m not your mother, and I don’t take any accountability for what you decide to read online!

Another disclaimer: I know nothing about ballet except for whatever ballet they show in the Barbie movies. Everything is off Google, so some technical terms and such might be incorrect.

You did a final jump before the dramatic music came to an end. His eyes were piercing through you. Watching your every movement, your every step, your every breath. But he watched you all, you thought to yourself. Everybody had to be perfect for the premiere of Swan lake. The hardest and most demanding ballet you had ever danced in your career. The choreography was almost impossible. So Mr. Park had yet again kept you there for hours overtime, and all of you were exhausted.

“Agh, my feet hurt. I hope this was the last round.”

Your friend, Maria, whispered to you. You smiled at her and was about to answer, when a loud clap was heard throughout the room. It silenced everyone.

“Ms. Sanderson, do you have something to tell the company?”

Mr. Park locked eyes with her. Staring her down from across the room like a predator. She looked a bit tongue tied for a second.

“Ehm- no. No, Mr. Park.”

He nodded at her answer.

“I do think I heard complaining back there, are you sure you didn’t say anything?”

She looked down to the floor and carefully shook her head.

“I don’t believe you, you’re pathetic. Out of my studio!”

He yelled at her and pointed a sharp finger towards the exit. Her eyes continued to stay on the floor. Accepting her fate.

“I said it!”

You yelled back and raised your hand. His eyes turned back to you.

“Bold of you, Ms. y/l/n. Thanks to you all the swans have to practice for another hour. The rest are dismissed.”

The room was filled with sighs and groans.

“Ok, let’s make that two.”

No one uttered a single word, afraid that the time would get longer.

“That’s what I thought. You, come with me.”

He briefly pointed at you, before he started to walk out of the practice room.

“The rest of you can take a 10 minute break.”

Maria looked at you with a apologetic look.

“Thank you, y/n.”

She said and grabbed your hand. You gave her a small smile. Of course you would stand up for her. She was your best friend in the company.

“Yeah, thanks a lot y/n.”

One of the other girls said sarcastically. You didn’t pay it any mind, you would also be furious if someone made you stay two hours overtime when you already were on overtime. You grabbed your leg warmers.

“No worries, you know I got you.”

You comforted Maria, before you started walking towards the exit. You knew Mr. Park went to his office. It wasn’t your first time being scolded.

“Sit down.”

He said once you entered. He was already sitting behind his desk. You sat down opposite of him, leaning down to slide into your leg warmers.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Park.”

You started off with. Trying to sound as apologetic as possible. He sighed.

“Do you think I do this for fun, y/n?”

You got up from your crouched position and looked him in the eyes.

“No I don’t.”

He was one of the best ballet teachers and directors in the whole world. It was obviously an honour just to be able to dance for him. But you knew he had a soft spot for you for some reason. That’s why you were comfortable taking Maria’s place.

“I would much rather be at home as well, relaxing and eating a good meal. But there would be no Swan lake, and there would be no good ballerinas without me.”

He pulled his hand through his black hair in stress. It was slicked back like usual, but throughout the day a few strands had loosened.

“If everyone stopped practicing at five o’clock like scheduled, the premiere would be nothing but chaos. Do you understand that, y/n?”

You nodded. He looked you up and down for a second. Taking in your form. He slowly got up and walked towards you. He grabbed your chin harshly, making you look back up at him.

“I’ve been observing you for the last days, you truly are far too beautiful and talented to be just a swan.”

You raised your eyebrows at his sudden compliment.

“You’re prima ballerina material, for sure.”

His hand slid to the side of your face, cupping your jaw.

“Too bad I have to fire you.”

“What?!”

Your eyebrows crossed as you shook your head out of his grip. His hand went into his pocket, making him look surprisingly relaxed.

“The two of us, let alone the entire company, knows that this isn’t your first time being sent to my office.”

You looked at him in shock. You couldn’t believe what he was saying.

“If I don’t give you the consequences, it’s going to look suspicious.”

You shook your head. He was going to fire you just because something as simple as complaining?

“You can’t do that.”

“I’ll do whatever I want with my ballerinas.”

He smirked again, before walking to stand right in front of you. You looked up and down his long body. Before looking back at him with your most innocent, but still sultry eyes.

“Please don’t fire me, Mr. Park. You wouldn’t do that to me would you?”

He cocked his head at your plea. Scanning you up and down yet again. He had a puzzled look on his face.

“Don’t test me.”

You grabbed his hand as you fell down to your knees. You knew he liked it when you begged. And since this was a life or death situation for your career, you didn’t mind being a little extra.

“I’ll do anything. Please just let me continue to dance for you. I’m nothing without you. I can’t- you can’t-”

You knew what buttons to push. His ego was too big to not take the bait.

“You’re right. It would be a shame to waste your potential.”

He lifted your head up again by your chin. A sudden sexual tension hit you, once you saw the outline of his bulge. You knew your actions had an effect on him, but not to that extent.

“It would be a shame to waste such a pretty face.”

You tried your best to look him in the eyes. It was hard to not shy away at a situation like that, even for you.

“Please, Mr. Park.”

He inhaled sharply, before he broke out in a smile.

“I forgive you, y/n. I can’t live with myself if I don’t give you another chance.”

You smiled up at him as well, preceding to get back up on your feet. But his arm found your shoulder and stopped you in your ascend.

“Wait.”

He warned you, and you quickly sat back down on your knees.

“I like seeing you like this, it’s not often you look so- submissive.”

Chills ran down your spine at his words. You definitely did not take that as a compliment. You were quite fiery, yes. And in any normal situation you would never let a man speak to you like he did. But the fear of losing your job, combined with the reverence you felt towards him, made you defy yourself.

“After this season I want you to take private lessons with me. Every Tuesday and Thursday.”

You nodded carefully, not looking up at him.

“Don’t look so down, darling. I’ll make you my next prima ballerina.”

“He said what?”

Maria half whispered in shock.

“Ms. Sanderson.”

Mrs. Petrova, your instructor, who was so old she probably was alive when swan lake was composed, hushed her. Maria looked at her before looking down at her moving feet. The company was warming up, standing in clean lines against the railing, moving to the rhythm of the slow classical music.

“Not only did he not fire you.”

She whispered once Mrs. Petrova was at the other end of the room.

“But he also said he would make you a prima ballerina?”

You nodded.

“Switch to third position!”

The two of you switched.

“Wow, you are so lucky. Mr. Park hasn’t had a prima ballerina in years.”

You smiled at her, and lifted you head higher when Mrs. Petrova walked by. You remained silent until you knew she was far enough away.

“I’m happy of course, it’s just- I don’t know. There’s something weird about him.”

“Yeah he’s like really cocky.”

She answered and held back a laugh.

“That too, but he’s just eerie. Like I don’t know if I want to spend so much time with him alone.”

“Ms. y/l/n! Would you like to share something with the company? Or do I have to send the two of you to Mr. Parks office?”

Mrs. Petrova suddenly bursted out. You locked eyes with Maria. Not knowing what to answer the old hag.

“We were just talking about-“

“Boys, just boys.”

You interrupted Maria. Not wanting her to say anything about you or Mr. Park. Mrs. Petrova gave the two of you a strict look, before the music started playing again.

“Please focus on your movements, not the opposite gender.”

She scolded before walking away from the two of you.

“And fourth position!”

“He just kept looking at me weirdly, and telling me that I’m beautiful and shit.”

You said as the two of you were walking down towards the cafeteria for lunch.

“Oh my god! He probably has a crush on you or something!”

Maria said a little bit too loud. You poked her in her side with your elbow.

“Please, keep it down.”

She started laughing, and you quickly followed. As you turned a corner you crashed into something. Or rather someone. A hand snuck around you waist, keeping you from falling. You looked up, finding the familiar brown eyes.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Park. I didn’t see where I was going.”

He looked at you for a second, before smiling. He didn’t let go of your waist, and when you became aware of that you awkwardly stepped away from him.

“No harm done.”

He simply said and walked away. You looked over at Maria.

“I get it.”

She simply said as you started walking again.

“Right?”

You asked, looking back at her as she tried to keep up with you.

“What ever look he just gave you was not the look you give to someone you have a crush on.”

The season had ended, for a minute you felt relief. Knowing you had time off now to just relax before the next season. But as you read the message on your phone, you felt that relief fade away.

“Studio 5, next Thursday at 07.00 am. Don’t be late.”

You sighed, was this really what you wanted? Of course it was a dream come true to potential become Mr. Parks new prima ballerina. But you couldn’t help but feel weird about that time in his office. It seemed like he had other intentions in mind. Mr. Park was an attractive man yes, but he was way older than you and you didn’t want his attention in that way. He was your teacher, your mentor. Not a potential hook up. You didn’t see him in that way, and you hoped against all odds that he didn’t see you like that either.

What you didn’t know was that in that moment, outside on the dark street. He was there. Looking at you through your window. Watching your puzzled look at his text. He didn’t know his intentions fully yet either. But he did know they were not good.

“Higher.”

He simply said as he watch you dance to the music. It was your fifth lesson together, and everything was going well. You hadn’t seen the side of him that you saw when he proposed this idea. And you were enjoying yourself, getting these private lessons had really helped you improve. In the next second arabesque, you lifted your leg even higher. Showing him that you listened. But he still shut the music off. You stepped down from your tips, looking at him as he walked up to you.

“Turn around.”

He said once he reached you. And you did as instructed. You looked at him through the big mirrors.

“Do your second arabesque.”

You stood back up on your toes, and gracefully bent into a second arabesque.

“Look at yourself in the mirror.”

He said, and you did. You instinctively pushed your leg even further up, once you saw your own reflection.

“Now back to full position.”

You moved your face upwards again, looking away from the mirror. You felt his hands touch your waist. He straightened your back, before one of his hands went to your lifted leg.

“Look back at yourself.”

He almost whispered in your ear, now with one hand on your waist, and the other holding your leg higher than what you were comfortable with. You smiled once you saw yourself. Your arabesque looked different, more sophisticated.

“When you do your second arabesque, or any arabesque for that matter. Remember this. Straight back and high leg.”

He said in a low comforting tone once he saw your smile. You nodded, and stepped down from your tippy toes. He let go of your leg, but moved that hand to the other side of your waist.

“Think of me holding your waist, it’ll help you stabilise.”

He whispered now, you felt his warm breath on the back of your neck. You turned to look at him.

“Thank you.”

You muttered. His eyes immediately fell to your lips, and in a split second his lips were on yours. You were caught off guard, and didn’t respond at first. But once it dawned on you what was happening you quickly moved your face away from his. You felt his hands on your waist tighten.

“Please don’t ever do that again.”

You looked up at the mirror, wanting to see his reaction. He was looking you dead in the eye, with anger written all over his face. He leaned down to kiss your bare shoulder, still maintaining eye contact. Before he deeply whispered.

“I’ll do whatever I want with my ballerinas.”

His hand moved up to your face as he turned to kiss you yet again. You pushed him away, and tried to make a run for it. But he snaked his arm around your chest.

“Let me go!”

You struggled against him, now scared of what would happen if you didn’t get away. Your fight or flight instinct kicked in and you elbowed him as hard as you could in his side. His hand loosened and you ran. But not quick enough. He grabbed you by your arm and threw you into the big mirror. It was pure luck that it didn’t shatter. His body locked you in.

“Hush, I won’t hurt you.”

He said, and for a second you stopped fighting. You were out of breath, but still managed to give him a death glare.

“Let me go!”

You tried once again. He shook his head.

“Do you think I just give away free lessons? Don’t you think you need to repay me?”

You felt something hard against your abdomen. You wanted to cry, you didn’t know what to do. His face shifted once he saw your eyes watering.

“No, no. I’m not a rapist, y/n! God no. But if you want to be my prima ballerina. You have to get your priorities straight.”

You clung onto the little bit of relief you felt from his words.

“I’ve tried my best to stay away, y/n. I really have. But there’s just something about you.”

You felt his hips grind against yours.

“You make me fucking crazy. I can’t wait any longer. I need you.”

He let out a small moan at the friction. A tear fell down your face.

“Please, Mr. Park. Let me go.”

You sobbed. He hushed you again.

“I’ll let you go. Just listen to me.”

You took a deep breath, collecting yourself as much as you could.

“By next Thursday I want an answer. Either you show up or you don’t. Don’t be late.”

He pushed himself off the wall and gave you one last look before slowly walking out the studio. Leaving you alone in the big dance room. What the fuck have you gotten yourself into?

“I don’t know what to do, Maria. This is like a fucking nightmare!”

You said sobbing onto Marias lap as she comforted you. You called her the minute you got home, knowing that she already knew most of the backstory. She immediately came over to your place, wanting to be there for you in a situation like this. You were forever great full for having a friend like her.

“You have to report this. Surely the police could do something about him.”

She said in a calm voice, stroking your hair lightly. You sat up in your bed, wiping your tears away from your swollen face.

“Would they though?”

You asked defeated. Mr. Park was a rich and famous man. You wanted to believe Marias theory, but the hard sad truth was that you didn’t stand a chance against him. Especially with no proof.

“Either I don’t show up and give up my career or-“

You paused, collecting your thoughts.

“Or you give that bastard what he wants.”

Maria finished for you. Knowing exactly what you were thinking.

“Look, being Jimin Parks prima ballerina is huge. It really is, but- I don’t know, is it really worth it? Is it really worth loosing your dignity for a life of fame?”

She asked you with a worried face. You blinked away your tears, not wanting to cry anymore.

“What else would I do? I’ve been dancing my entire life, everything I’ve ever done has lead up to this moment. I can’t-“

You shook your head, not letting the emotions take control over you again.

“I have to show up, I have to talk some sense into him. I can’t give up now. I just can’t.”

You looked down at your hands in your lap as you felt a comforting hand on your shoulder.

“You could go to college, get a degree, get a nine to five. Anything but this, please I can’t watch you go through with this. It’s not safe to see him again.”

You looked up at her again.

“And be a complete failure? Not only to my parents, to you, to the company, but also to myself. This is all I’ve ever dreamed of, Maria.”

“You won’t be a failure! You’re an amazing dancer, you have real talent. But it’s not worth it.”

You shook your head. You had already made up your mind.

“I’m sorry.”

You mumbled. Maria sighed and got up from the bed.

“You do you, girl. But you better not call me crying next Thursday. I won’t feel bad for you.”

She said before walking out your room. You were alone with this now. But like you told her, you couldn’t give up on your dream. No matter the cost.

Thursday. You were sweating. A lump had formed itself inside your stomach, and it was impossible to to ignore it. You took what felt like your last breath before you opened the door to the studio. He stood in the other end, hands crossed over his chest, with a smirk plastered on his lips.

“You’re late.”

His voice rang through the big room, leaving an echo. You stepped into the room, the door shutting behind you. Another echo filling the otherwise dead silent room. You didn’t walk towards him, you stayed by the door. The silence making the lump in your stomach grow even larger.

“What are you doing?”

He asked, still with a slight smirk.

“Come here, we have dancing to do.”

You didn’t know what to do. Your entire body was screaming for you to run out the door and never look back. But your brain didn’t let you move.

“Come over here, y/n. Right now!”

He said in a strict tone, once you didn’t listen. Your own feet moved against your own will, as you slowly started moving forward. You put your bag down on your way.

“Good girl.”

He said, barely audible. But you heard it. All your senses were sharpened. He watched you like a predator, as you can closer and closer. You stopped at a reasonable distance. Close enough to have a conversation with him, but still just out of reach.

“Why so gloomy? You’ve made the biggest decision in your life, baby.”

He stepped closer to you. Every single muscle in your body tensed as his hand met your face in a loving embrace.

“I’m going to make you a star.”

He whispered. You shook your head.

“I don’t want to have sex with you, Mr. Park.”

His smile faded at your words. You straightened your back, trying your best to seem confident and not afraid of the man standing in front of you.

“This is all I’ve ever dreamt of. It’s all I’ve ever worked for. But I refuse to think that this is the only way I can get what I want.”

You said as you tried to conceal the shaky breath escaping your mouth.

“Please, I don’t want to sleep my way to fame. I want to earn it. So tell me, do you see a true and genuine prima ballerina in me. Or am I just a piece of meat?”

He looked at you directly in your eyes. You didn’t break eye contact. You were not giving up, not yet. He broke out in laughter after a few seconds of staring into your soul.

“Oh, y/n. Please.”

He continued laughing, as if this whole thing was a joke. You stayed as serious as ever.

“This is what I like about you. You’re so stubborn, so strong. You don’t see that often around here.”

He turned serious in a split second.

“Why would I be lying to you? Huh? I can sleep with whoever I want. If I wanted just a one night stand I’d pick one of the other girls. Someone easier to manipulate.”

His hand slid around your waist, pulling you close to him.

“I’m a man of my word, y/n. I see potential in you, I wouldn’t just say that to anyone.”

His eyes flickered down to your lips. You instinctively turned your head away, opting to looking at the two of you in the mirror. He looked back at you in the reflection.

“I see my next prima ballerina.”

He said and pointed at the mirror.

“You’re not just beautiful and talented, you have a strong mind. You’re perfect.”

You sighed, looking back at him.

“Why would you waste it all?”

He asked and softly caressed your chin. Your gaze flicked down, wanting to look anywhere but him. He was right, why would you waste the opportunity to have everything you’ve ever wanted?

“It’s honestly a package deal. You get fame and fortune, and good sex. I don’t see what the problem is honestly.”

You looked back up at him again. Trying to conceal the ick you just got.

“Fine. I’ll do it.”

His face turned into a devilish grin.

“Join me in my office.”

He hastily got rid of your bollero, throwing it onto the floor. The second you stepped into his office his lips were on yours. Your fate was sealed, there was no return now. He grabbed at your hips harshly, digging his fingers into you with desperation and lust. He lifted you up, and you instinctively wrapped your legs around his waist. He walked over to his desk, leaving your lips for a moment to push whatever was on it onto the floor. It all hit the floor and made a loud crashing noise. He placed you onto the desk, continuing his heated attack of your lips.

“I’ve been waiting for this for so long, baby.”

He said in between kisses. Working on your wrap around skirt and tights. You lifted yourself off the desk so he could slide your garments off. Leaving you in your underwear and tank top.

“You have no idea how crazy you’ve made me. How many sins I’ve done in your favour.”

His lips crashed back onto yours. You started thinking of your career as you heard him removing his belt. Preparing yourself for what was to come. He pushed your upper body down onto the desk, making your head dip over the edge of the desk. You looked at his office upside down, staring at the expensive painting hanging on the wall. You felt him sliding your underwear to the side.

“What a pretty pussy you have, baby.”

He said before sliding himself into you, making you moan as you felt yourself being filled up.

“Better than I ever imagined.”

He groaned as he started to slowly move. You continued to look at the painting of the ballerina with a bouquet in her hands bowing down in a gracious pose. Your hands found his forearms, digging your nails into his skin. Your breath got heavy as you felt his speed increase.

But still you focused on the ballerina. You imagined it was you. Maybe that would be you after this. Bowing deeply to the applause of hundreds, maybe even thousands of people in the audience. They all applauding you. You moaned loudly once he hit a good spot.

“You like that? You want it, huh?”

“Yes.”

You said in a shaky voice. You wanted this, you wanted this more than anything. This was all worth it in the end. You would be a star, a prima ballerina. Someone little girls looked up to, and adults wanted to be. You would be like that ballerina in the painting. Gracious and beautiful in every way. Everything you ever aspired to be. Everything you were meant to be.

“God, I’m gonna-“

You belonged here. On that desk. In that studio. Alone on a stage, bowing to the audience after the greatest performance of their lives. You were Mr. Park’s new prima ballerina.

——————————————————————————

Thank you for reading! Do you want to read more?

Masterlist

[yuridovewing]

these people will say frecklewish did nothing wrong and you just hate trauma victims if you criticize her and then two seconds later, not even flinch as they say that mapleshade is a stupid bitch who deserved every bit of suffering because “she was too irrational and selfish to cross a bridge because she’s just a dumbass entitled woman who broke the sacred rules”

always makes me uncomfortable when wc fans genuinely seem to think mapleshade is an entitled cunt for being in a halfclan relationship and wanting her children to grow up in thunderclan without issue

[jjkamochoso]

Obviously Oblivious

Fluff

Soshiro Hoshina x gn!reader

Request from Wattpad: "Reader and Hoshina are being so oblivious that they both like each other to the point where this absolutely annoys Mina and Okonogi because they are ITCHING to see both of them together."

Warnings: none

Another mission done, another celebration was happening at Third Division’s base. Though her subordinates were known for their high success rate, Captain Ashiro was pleasantly surprised by just how smoothly the last kaiju disposal went, opting to treat her soldiers with a special catered feast. Thanks to Izumo’s family connections, the chef served sizzling plates of A6 beef and endless amounts of accoutrements for the standard price, making Mina’s soldiers happy and the military budget even happier. Mina captured a piece of meat between her chopsticks, quietly observing the rowdy group in front of her. Konomi Okonogi sat to her right, a steaming bowl of soup fogging up her glasses. Mina stifled a giggle as she watched the girl wipe her lenses with her sleeve, heavily squinting. Satisfied with her work, Okonogi placed the glasses back on her face and blinked a few times, looking around the room. All of a sudden, her eyes went wide.

“You alright?” Mina asked her, noticing her change in expression.

Okonogi nodded, sputtering slightly. “Huh? O-oh, yeah, I’m fine.”

Mina wasn’t convinced, raising her eyebrows at the bespectacled woman expectantly.

“Well, I…” she hesitated before finishing her thought. “Hoshina and L/n are sitting awfully close together.”

“Does that bother you?”

“Yes!” Okonogi exclaimed, Mina surprised by her outburst. Her face turned beet red as she hurriedly explained herself.

“I didn’t mean it like that, Captain! It’s just that their behavior together is strange. Quite frankly, they’ve been getting on my nerves.”

The operations leader took a sip of her drink and Mina’s curiosity was piqued. Having had her own thoughts surrounding the actions of a certain vice captain and officer, Mina was wondering if she finally found someone she could vent her frustrations to.

“They seem to like each other,” she mused, treading lightly in case she misread the situation.

“Like each other?! Total understatement. Those two are hopelessly in love but won’t do a thing about it!” Okonogi complained, irritated.

“I thought I was the only one that noticed!” Mina replied, excited that the woman beside her was the perfect confidant she’d been yearning for. “They drive me crazy with their cluelessness!”

“Exactly! I don’t know how they don’t see their feelings for each other! I mean, they’re blinder than I am without my glasses! It’s ridiculous!”

“I don’t usually condone relationships in the workplace but those two really are perfect for each other,” said Mina, eyeing you and Soshiro as you giggled over something he had whispered to you. It made Mina’s heart soar in her chest seeing people experience happiness in these moments, when the death and destruction you all faced almost every day could be forgotten for a short time.

“Oh my god, Captain.” Okonogi tugged at Mina’s sleeve. “I think Soshiro’s gonna put his arm around y/n’s shoulder!”

“No way,” Mina breathed out, anxiously watching as Soshiro scooted closer to you, if that were even possible. He looked fidgety.

Probably nervous, Mina thought, staring down the lovebirds. Soshiro was ready to make his move. He brought his hand over his mouth—

He wasn’t going to do that. Was he?

“OH MY GOD!” Mina practically yelled as Soshiro faked a yawn, stretching his muscular arm behind you and resting it comfortably on your chair. The room went silent almost immediately, soldiers turning to see what was going on with their captain.

“That food was really hot,” Mina lied, trying to hide her embarrassment behind a napkin. “I’m fine. Everyone, back to what you were doing.”

In an instant it was like nothing happened, rambunctious chatter filling the space once more. You and Soshiro weren’t phased either, easing back into what Mina figured was your previous conversation. Soshiro’s arm was still around you and Mina was relieved that she didn’t jeopardize this huge stride in your non-relationship.

“What a classic move,” Okonogi said, resting her chin in her palm. “If that wasn’t enough to make them realize their feelings, I don’t know what will.”

“Don’t underestimate their ability to be emotionally unaware,” warned Mina, shaking her head. “I wouldn’t be surprised if y/n read that as a friendly gesture. They’re both oblivious to romance.”

“They’ve made that quite clear,” griped Okonogi, observing you holding up a spoon to Soshiro’s lips as he took a bite of whatever you offered him. You were laughing with each other again and Okonogi was confused at how any of that behavior could be so deeply misconstrued as anything other than flirtatious.

“Should we do something about this? I don’t know how much more I can take,” Okonogi said.

“I worry it may be unprofessional to get involved, however helpful our interference might be,” replied Mina.

Okonogi sighed. “You’re right. Besides, it is pretty fun to watch this play out. It’s like a soap opera.”

Later that night, Mina and Okonogi were about to say goodbye to one another after making sure no soldier was left passed out at the dining tables. With dinner cleaned up and everybody walking or stumbling back to their rooms, they closed the door and made their way down the abandoned hallway.

Actually, they made their way down what they thought to be an abandoned hallway.

The two women shared a knowing look when they heard stifled giggles echoing from around the corner.

“You’re always so funny, Soshiro,” your voice rang out, and Mina and Okonogi could only imagine the sickly sweet smile you were giving the man.

“Gotta stay on top of my game to keep ya around,” he teased, and they could only image the lovesick grin he was sending your way.

“It’s getting late. I should get going,” you told him.

“Yeah, you’re probably right. I’ll see ya tomorrow?”

Mina and Okonogi didn’t miss the hopeful lilt coating his voice.

“Of course,” you had replied. “I’d miss you too much if I didn’t see you.”

It took everything within themselves to not slam their heads against the wall. How were you two so… so…

Dumb?!

“That’s it. I’ve heard enough,” Okonogi said, marching down the corridor. Mina had no idea what was about to happen, she just knew she couldn’t miss it. She hurried behind Okonogi, rounding the corner at the perfect time.

“Both of you! You’re driving me insane! Kiss already, dammit!” Okonogi demanded, startling you and Soshiro. She left as quick as she came in, leaving Mina dumbfounded.

“Have a good night,” she told you, hands awkwardly clasped behind her back as she nodded before hurrying away. Recovering from the unexpected chewing out, you glanced at Soshiro, a mischievous gleam in your eye.

“Okonogi’s never given us a bad command, has she?” you asked, hoping he understood what you were getting at.

“Our impeccable Operations Leader has never led us astray, you’re correct,” he responded, his fangs glinting in the dim light. His hands found purchase on your hips while yours rested on the back of his neck, the distance slowly lessening between your bodies. As your lips began to touch his, you realized you owed Okonogi big time for her help.

[kimbapchan]

It's kinda funny because while SVSSS is certainly not for everyone, in the grand scheme of things, it's not really problematic. Especially if you consider the satirical nature of it, and don't just take things at face value. Erha is absolutely problematic in certain aspects (those aspects being Taxian-Jun), but I don't think works should be condemned just because they're "problematic". Sometimes the POINT is that they're problematic, because life isn't always fun and 100% morally correct all the time. So long as the author isn't genuinely endorsing things like SA (which, obviously, MXTX, Meatbun, etc., do not actually endorse SA, and it's even condemned within those works, even if certain characters do...engage in it, for lack of a better term), then the inclusion of them isn't "problematic". Again, no hate to anyone who chooses not to read works like these, to each their own, but I've often seen people condemn readers of these works (even of danmei as a genre) and just...don't do that. That wasn't exactly the tone of the message you screenshot, but I still think it's kind of ridiculous to throw this at you for simply creating content for something that they, personally, don't like.

YES OMG THANKYOU. You have perfectly explained this and I definitely agree with you.

I also acknowledge erha especially is a difficult book to get into due to its problematic nature. I also dont want to freely recommend it without warning them and telling ppl to look up the trigger warnings.

For SVSSS it’s a parody of the genre. It was intended to be what it is. It will forever be my favorite book series of all time. It’s not at all perfect but it’s near and dear to my heart hehe 🤗 people can love imperfect or problematic books without it reflecting on their morals. Just like how people can love a problematic and downright cancel-able villain without condoning their actions. Well written villains are always beloved by many, not because of their actions but because they are interesting characters.

[snailsgoingdowntown]

Dion Agriche x fem! Reader.

Arranged marriage. Reader is reincarnated. Part of "Help, I Reincarnated as the Female Lead's Sister-in-Law!" Universe

Out of character Dion, Maria being weird and lowkey a creep, implied yandere/slight yandere themes, toxic relationship/marriage, Dion is so fucking out of character here lmao, implied obsession and forming possessive thoughts, implied stalking, implied jealousy from Dion, thoughts of murder, the Reader is lowkey enjoying Dion's physical appearance.

Suggestive, sexual fantasies, implied creampie(?), literally everything that's sexual is just a fantasy, sexually frustrated Dion.

Disclaimer: I do NOT condone any of the harmful and dangerous behaviors and actions that may take place in this piece of FICTION. Such actions should not be romanticized nor normalized as they are both extremely toxic and dangerous.

MINORS/BLANK BLOGS/BLOGS THAT DO NOT REBLOG FANFICTION/FAN ART DNI. DO NOT SPAM LIKE MY POSTS OR YOU WILL BE BLOCKED.

No tag list.

I had to edit the dni hahahaha

---

I think Dion is the type of person who prefers affection over fear.

Yes, he's a sadist. Yes, he's a horrible person and maybe even a monster. Any and all types of relationship he may have - be it platonic, familial or romantic, will absolutely be toxic due to how he is as a person. He's traumatized which explains his actions and psyche but doesn't justify it. He doesn't even attempt to.

He's fine with it. He's used to it. It was how he was raised and what he had to become in order to survive in this family. Eventually it just became the norm before he stopped caring about nearly everything, sadistic tendencies that formed as maybe a means to cope.

To be honest, he's not sure how he would have turned out if he had a loving and healthy family. He doesn't even ponder it. After all, why mull over it when he doesn't even know how families are supposed to work?

So, he cut himself off mentally from anyone and everyone.

But then you showed up.

Granted, it was an arranged marriage. Neither of you wanted it and from your behavior and actions, you dreaded being his wife. Was it because of him? His family? Both?

Dion doesn't question it, at first. He just knows that you hate it and that you fear him. Maybe not hate him, he doesn't sense that from you. Doesn't see it in your eyes whenever he's forced to interact with you or whenever you try to play the part of being a wife.

His wife.

Not a loving wife nor a spiteful one. A fearful one, an act done out of obligation lest his father decides to dispose of you. And you have enough common sense to know it won't be painless, that it'll be inhumane and have you wishing you killed yourself before the engagement party.

But Dion doesn't care. Knowing Lant, he'll just force another wife on him, wanting to shape his favorite son into another him, a younger him. He has the looks, just not the personality.

But he's not as cruel as him and you take notice of this. Of course, it's a very slow process. You stay in his presence for a few seconds longer, especially after dinner. Usually, in the beginning, you would take off immediately, excusing yourself, saying that you needed to tend to one thing or other. Obviously it was a lie but he didn't care.

You just needed to produce an heir.

"Make sure she enjoys it - it'll help with speeding up the process." His mother told him out of the blue one day, a smile on her face as her colorful parasol shields her from the sun.

He doesn't know what to say at first - this was the reason she called him out here, right after he just returned from a mission? To be told, by his own mother, to make sure his wife, you, enjoys sexual intercourse? Does it even matter if you do or don't? It's not like the either of you have a choice in the matter.

It was an obligation. A duty as a husband and a wife. Lant wanted Dion married, to have a child, preferably a son, and as Lant's child, he needed to do so. He was trained to listen and obey his father.

When Maria hears no answer, she looks at him curiously.

"Oh my... I've never seen that look on your face in quite some time..."

"... What do you mean, mother?"

What expression was he wearing?

"Hm... Nothing," she answers, smiling so innocently he could almost forget her fucked up personality. Not that he would comment on it.

"Regardless, make sure she enjoys it - it'll have her seeking you out for more. And the more you do it, the faster you'll have a child. Oh, we already performed a fertility test on the girl. She's... Extremely fertile."

Supposedly, she mentally adds.

Should he thank her? Question her? Get annoyed or feel grateful? He's not sure.

Then, he realized something -

Aside from your wedding night, he's never made a move to sleep with you.

No, rather, the most he would do is sleep in the same bed, with his back turned towards you. Maybe a brush of the shoulders if he ran into you at the hallway. Or a graze of the fingers if you handed him something - never nothing more, nothing less.

The conversation has him thinking.

He's never spared you more than a seconds glance - or at least, he thought so.

When he returns to his - your - room later that night, you're already in your nightgown reading a book. On your side of the bed, the lamp lit, your attention is drawn to him once he shuts the door. Strange. He doesn't even remember walking here.

Actually, everything became a blur after his conversation with Maria.

"Oh," you say, "you're back."

He doesn't reply. Doesn't say anything, really, only taking in the sight of you.

Hair loose, nightgown a pretty pastel pink, you look almost at home. There's still a small look of fear in those eyes of yours. You're still jumpy when instead of talking he walks over to you, stopping just an inch shy of the bed.

He knows he's imposing, a giant compares to you - you remind him of a rabbit. A cute, defenseless rabbit.

But rabbits have sex like there's no tomorrow. You don't even hold his hand.

No.

He doesn't hold your hand.

Hm. A rabbit.

How affectionate are they?

Less then you? More than you?

When his eyes travel downwards to your cleavage that peeks through the collar of your gown, he realizes he's a hungry wolf.

Strange.

He's never lusted after you.

Your skin is too bare - not enough marks. Your neck also looks so easy to strangle. What type of expression would you make if he were to wrap his hands around that neck of yours?

He's heard that some are into it. Are you?

Your lips also look lonely. And cold. Colder than his?

His attention drifts to your hands. So small compared to his. Your wrists, too. He could easily hold both in one hand, while the other could grip your waist. Or maybe your chin, if he was feeling romantic.

No.

This isn't like him.

Dion shakes his head before leaving you, walking towards the closet as he strips himself down, getting ready for bed.

It's only when he lays down does he realize he was unable to meet your eyes.

Maybe he didn't want to see the curiosity. Or the fear. Or maybe he was holding back the urge to make them full of tears, or have them full of lust as you look up at him, chest heaving and hair a mess, lips kiss swollen as he marks up your neck. He didn't finish inside on your wedding night - should he tonight? Would your cunt gape as you catch your breath, his seed leaking out and making a mess on his bed? Would you ask for more? Would he give you more?

When he takes off his shirt, the frabic almost rips from his rough treatment. He refuses to look or talk to you for the rest of the night.

Everything returned to normal after that. You didn't ask questions, rather, you looked relieved he didn't do anything. And there's a small part of him that hates it.

As a matter of fact, he's starting to hate everything about you. Your presence is becoming a thorn in his side, useless and worthless. But he wants you to look his way all the same - he's always looking for you without your knowledge, or anyone else's. He refuses to acknowledge it, at first. It's just a coincidence, it happens by chance. He's a man with no need for affection, companionship, his goal to make Roxanna cry, not to pin after you, a stranger he was forced to marry.

Pinning wasn't in his dictionary.

But he starts to notice things about you that he never did before.

You liked pretty things, even if they were... Dangerous. Roxanna was a perfect example - with golden, soft wavy hair and ruby eyes that held both innocence and contempt, you looked on in awe whenever his sister would appear. But you kept your distance, knowing that no-one in this family could be trusted. Him included.

But it didn't stop you from interacting with her, despite your cautious behavior. Roxanna was never anything but nice to you. Maybe she pitted you and maybe she even planned on freeing you, if the opportunity arises.

The thought makes him upset.

But he also notices how you sneak glances at him, especially whenever his arms are showing. You prefer it when his sleeves are rolled up, showing off the muscle while teasing the rest. He does it to tease you sometimes, a habit that's out of character for him. But the fact you find him attractive eases some of this... Growing obsession with you.

You also liked the garden, spending most of your time in the hidden corners. You would sketch the butterflies, the flowers, research them and anything else they had in the library. That was another of your favorite spots. Also hidden in a corner, you would read romance stories if you weren't interested in a new plant you discovered.

Most of them was happy, fluffly with cliches you could see from miles away - he didn't even know they had those types of books. Someone probably snucked them in behind Lant's back and managed to keep them in the library. Then again, Lant was never one to visit it.

Barely anyone did.

You also liked sweets. The food in general, actually. You weren't a picky eater, and honestly, you only felt somewhat comfortable if it was only Dion or Roxanna in the dining room with you. Roxanna because she was nice to you, didn't threaten you.

And him because he left you alone. But again, you would still sneak a glance here and there and he would too, but was more subtle about it. You never noticed.

But that's all. He didn't speak to you on a regular basis.

But that started to change, without him realizing.

"I've notice your interest in the Foxgloves. It can be used in the medicine field but that doesn't mean you can eat them. " he doesn't know why he attempted to start a conversation, especially so late at night.

He also doesn't know why he can't turn around and face you, undressing himself as well.

He's seen you undress before, even seen you take a bath (in which you hid your chest with your arms the first time, despite the bubbles covering it. But the longer you were married the less guarded you became in terms of nudity - after all, he never made a move. But you didn't try to seduce him either, didn't wear the lingerie you were given by his own mother as a wedding gift. And truthfully, he'd rather you not, the fact that she was the one who had gifted it to you made his skin crawl. No, he'd rather you choose a pair by yourself or even asked him what he would like to see you in).

There's a pause before he resumes.

"However, one of my brothers is working on making an edible version... For what reason, I don't know."

Why is he even talking to you?

His ears perk when you reply and he doesn't know why. It makes him uncomfortable.

"Oh... I see. I mean, I have been wondering how they taste for a while now... Not that I would eat them, of course." You sounded awkward, stiff. Which makes sense, as your husband barely interacts with you. But you don't sound scared.

He's disgusted with himself once he realizes that he feels relieved by it.

Your nights continue on like that.

And he started to become desperate to hear your voice. He lied to himself, of course - this wasn't possible. This had to end. But it never did.

Small conversations he would start, short, brief and straight to the point. But you never ignored them, ignored him. Because you were his wife and as his wife, it was your duty to listen to him. Talk to him if he so wished for it. Or stay in the background if he commanded you to.

Then, one day, you started the conversation first.

"Would you like a bath?"

By now, it was routine to help him undress, taking his jacket or shirt and put it in the hamper. Attempt to carry his heavy sword only to struggle with placing it on its stand. Or bringing him a rag to wipe his face with.

Doing things that a servant should have.

He hates how he likes it. Your attention on him, caring for him, even if it was out of obligation. Fuck, he hates you so much. He should... Kill you.

Yes.

If you were out of the picture, then everything would return to normal. He glances at his sword resting on its stand. But then he focuses on undoing his pants.

"... Have you bathed?"

Of course you did - you're already in your night wear. Your hair was still slightly damp and out of the corner of his eye, he could see your maid look at him with both caution and curiosity.

And you did the same.

You don't react negatively.

"Ah... I did... But..." You meekly looked to the side, weighing whatever you're about to say.

"But what?" He knew what you were going to say before you could get the words out. It was obvious. However, he just hoped his true motive (as idiotic as it was - you were his wife, he didn't need your permission to see you naked be it for sexual reasons or otherwise. But he didn't want to force you and it makes him feel sick - he shouldn't care, in all honesty. He was trained not to, so why did he) wasn't as obvious.

But you weren't stupid. And he liked that about you.

... He should really, really kill you, and soon.

But... He supposes he could think about this later.

"If... If you wish, I could help."

If this was in the beginning of your marriage you would have apologized immediately for assuming he wanted anything to begin with. Instead, you seem meek, shy even. Maybe your cheeks were heating up.

You've seen him naked before, but never touched him. And he's never touched you since the wedding.

"... I'm sore, today."

What a stupid excuse. A stupid sentence. This wasn't like him, it was stupid. What was wrong with him? Was he a school boy? Was he an idiot? He was Dion Agriche, a man with no interest, a -

He can't help but enjoy the way your nails scratch his scalp as you wash his hair. Or how gently you wash his back and he hate it. He hates you. He despises you, especially when you look him like that, especially when you treat him so gently. He doesn't need affection.

There was no use nor need for it.

But when your thumbs dig into a sore spot between his shoulder blades, just this once, he falls into temptation for something so useless.

Yes.

He'll think of a way to kill you tomorrow. Since you've been so nice to him, maybe he'll make it painless, as a thanks.

He doesn't need you in his life.

You make him soft.

[football-in-tuxedos]

On Wednesday, December 4th 2024, an as-yet unknown man shot and killed CEO of United Healthcare, Brian Thompson. Now, many people have been celebrating this, for reasons that don't really bear much parsing out. They're obvious; Even in the field of private healthcare, an arena filled with the kind of corporate ghouls who are comfortable withholding healthcare for profit, United Healthcare stand out as particularly vile. No one is mourning the wicked in this case.

But some among us are admonishing the others for their celebration. Sure they don't like United Healthcare, they say, unshed tears shining in their eyes, but they just can't condone this act of violence. Killing, they remind us sagely, is never justified.

Obviously our society doesn't actually think killing is never justified, 27 states still have capital punishment. What people actually mean when they say "Killing is never justified" in response to a murder people are celebrating is "I don't think it's justified in this case."

Context is, perhaps, everything.

Now, maybe you agree that this murder wasn't justified. Maybe you disagree. But let's not pretend retributive violence is beyond the pale in American society. It is, in fact, a huge part of the American social fabric. Well. Until the powerless enact it on the powerful.

Context, as we've established, is everything.

A little under three miles from where Brian Thompson was shot, Daniel Penny held his arm around Jordan Neely's throat until Neely perished, and many of the people admonishing those celebrating the former are the same people who claim the latter was justified.

Context, it seems, is everything.

The actions of Thompson's company, withholding medicine to those who need it, was violence, a point I'm completely unwilling to budge on. Thompson's company hoarded the resources necessary to provide medical care and did everything in their power to prevent vulnerable people, their customers, from accessing that medical help. That's violence. Constant, unceasing violence perpetuated against innocent people in the name of profit. But that sort of violence is normal. Legal.

Context, it seems, is still everything.

The premise that America is a peaceful nation, a nation where this sort of action is unthinkable, is an elaborate fiction. Even outside of the systemic violence Thompson's company was absolutely guilty of, we permit literal violence, action taken with the intent causing immediate bodily harm, to happen en masse every day. Think of the description of the event, if we do indeed discover the shooter acted out of anger at United Healthcare's actions; A man with a gun saw a threat and he shot him in the back. Would this even be news if the shooter was a cop and the victim not a CEO?

Context, it seems, will always be everything.

You'll perhaps note that I haven't endorsed or condemned the shooting of Brian Thompson, and I won't (although I don't imagine my opinion is hard to parse). I simply want to point out that if you condemn it, you aren't actually condemning violence. We, in this country, endure and participate in violence every day.

You just don't like the context.