#implied child mutilation

[starry-bi-sky]

Rewatching Markiplier play FNAF VR: Help Wanted and I'm on his parts and service video and watching him work on bonnie just reminded me of a thought I had:

and that is how the FUCK did William Afton manage to stuff four 8-11 year old children into those things. Because I had assumed he had done it from the neck, but the head of the endoskeleton gets in the way and there's no way to fit a child around that.

So I assume he had to do it through the stomach hatch. But that brought up another question -- an 8-11 year olds aren't TINY. Certainly big enough that even fitting one into the stomach hatch of an animatronic would be a struggle because of the endoskeleton and all those wires.

(Gregory does not count, Freddy was designed to carry large objects)

And, disclaimer, I do recognize that this is a "suspension of disbelief" moment where it's not something I'm supposed to think about too hard, but thinking too hard about things is fun! And this isn't negatively impacting my view on FNAF, so its fiiiiiine.

So, I'm guessing that in order to get an 8-11 year old child to fit into the stomach hatch of a (presumably, from what I've seen) 6'0 animatronic, William Afton had to severely mutilate the bodies of the children before he could get them to fit. Which is pretty fucking awful, but I wouldn't be surprised from a man who murders children.

Second disclaimer: the only media of Fnaf I have seen is the games up to Fnaf VR (i wasn't interested in SB ngl, and I'm still not). I know there are books, I have not read them, so I don't know if it goes into detail on this matter.

[venusbyline]

Fates ࿐ྂ Kinktober. 22, oct.

(late post)

— pairing: Jacaerys Velaryon x wife!reader

— type: smut, dark, Kinktober (House of the Dragon Edition)

— kink: spit kink

— summary: Jacaerys Velaryon had become the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and you had become his Queen Consort. Grief, sacrifice and pain carried the weight of crowns. The daily tragedies would happen forever until one of you died. This was the true destiny of the Greens and Blacks. There were never victors after the war. The eternal unhappiness was the only conquest.

— word count: 2.3k

— tags/warnings: kinktober 22nd day, Targcest (aunt/nephew), female!reader, queen consort!reader, king!Jacaerys, dark!Jacaerys, DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT, spit kink, rape/non-con, degradation, rough sex, gore, referenced mutilated penis, nipple play, nipple torture, blood and violence, blood kink, vaginal sex, anal sex, hate sex, implied PTSD, biting, hair-pulling, vaginal fingering, anal fingering, VERY DARK CONTENT, hurt no comfort, mild angst, light unconscious sex, ambiguous/open ending (but it would probably be a sad or bittersweet ending), curse words, death threats, sexism, crying, dacryphilia, mild dumbification, referenced permanent injury, mild aftercare (BUT NO REALLY), past genital torture, Jacaerys also lost an eye, fake character death, emotional manipulation, sadism, breast worship, forced orgasm, marriage of convenience, forced marriage, sexual and psychological torture, survivors guilt, male infertility, Jacaerys Velaryon lives, Jaehaera Targaryen lives, Baela Targaryen dies, forced child marriage mentioned, minor Jaehaera Targaryen/Aegon III Targaryen, past Jacaerys Velaryon/Baela Targaryen, past Aemond Targaryen/reader, mild Stockholm syndrome, age gap (older woman/younger man), Jace's 17 during 131 AC and 21 during 135 AC, reader's 21 during 131 AC and 25 during 135 AC, dom!Jacaerys, sub!reader, canon divergence (The Blacks win the Dance of the Dragons), porn with plot. no use of y/n. english is not my first language.

— tagging list: @baybaybear1 @blessedbymoon @p45510n4f4shi0n @lina-lovebug @moonnicole @badger-reads @turdettethefirst

— crossposting: AO3

"The King ordered your presence into his private chambers, Your Grace. Immediately."

The maid's voice brought you out of your almost peaceful sleep. Before the war, you loved having the calm to sleep and get plenty of rest whenever you could, away from the trivial duties of Royalty. Before, you loved going to sleep and waking up with your nephews laughing and playing on your bed, trying to wake you up by the most messy and childish possible ways. Jaehaerys, Jaehaera and Maelor were like your children too, you helped your older sister to take care of them, often more present in their lives than Aegon himself, who was always just focused on fucking whores or harassing the castle's servants.

During the Dance of the Dragons, you almost went crazy, also like Helaena. As if the cruel murder of your nephew Jaehaerys was not enough, you were also forced to marry your twin brother, Aemond, who ended up dying during The Battle Above the Gods Eye along with your uncle Daemon, turning you into widow at just twenty years old in that time. Your half-sister Rhaenyra's death was inevitable, as were the deaths of nearly every member of the Targaryen family. However, Rhaenyra's bloodline continued on the throne after the mysterious poisoning of your older brother Aegon II during 131 AC. When the Blacks took back the Iron Throne, your greatest concern would be not only the fact that your other nephew, Aegon III, son of your half-sister and your uncle Daemon, could ascend as the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms at such a young age, but also the fact of what would happen to you and your little niece Jaehaera, who had the tragic fate of marrying the boy even though they were both children, as a stupid attempt at a peace treaty between the Blacks and Greens.

To your surprise, it was not Aegon III who ascended the Iron Throne, much less little Jaehaera or even you. But Jacaerys Velaryon, Rhaenyra Targaryen's firstborn and her legitimized heir, the one that everyone believed for almost two years that he was dead. On that horrifying afternoon, you were sure that the new king would order your death and the death of your niece. Which never happened. You did not know how Jacaerys had survived after the Battle of the Gullet, but despite the possible cruel fate that awaited you, you were grateful that His Grace was a man of his word and swore to keep Jaehaera alive and safe in King's Landing, not breaking up the marriage between her and his little brother, Aegon III, but also giving his word that the two children only would be able to consummate their marriage years later and did not need to act as a couple while they were still so young. After all, Jacaerys might want revenge on your family at all costs, but that did not mean he was in favor of murder or allowing the rape of a little girl, in a certain way.

Even during 135 AC, four years after the coronation of the current ruler, Jaehaera remained alive and safe, protected by her brother-in-law and cousin. Your nephew and husband. The new King. And for that, your fate was forever sealed as the second wife of King Jacaerys Velaryon, the first of his name.

"Lady Wife!" Jacaerys shouted with exaggerated excitement as he lay on the bed, completely naked but covered by the silk sheets. "I see the maids did not disappoint me again this time."

You took a deep breath, remembering the week before when he yelled at the servants for taking so long to bring you to your shared chambers. It had been unnecessary and agonizing to watch how people cowered in the face of his threats. The once kind and sweet Prince Jacaerys had become such a rude and merciless King since the death of his family. You could not blame him, even if you preferred to be able to.

"They were quick to bathe me and get me ready to see you." Your tone was monotonous, without emotion or affection. It was always like this. A slow death sentence you signed for the sake of your niece Jaehaera. You were used to this exhausting routine. Lying with Jacaerys when he was drunk, angry with the duties of his reign and the weight of the crown, as well as the grief that tormented his mind every night, indulging in wine or pleasure houses to try to avoid insanity which was approaching him little by little.

Both of you never knew each other very well before the marriage of convenience. You had interacted with Jace just a few times before the Dance of the Dragons, the last time being at that disastrous Viserys's supper, when Jace tried to be polite and ask Helena and then you for a dance, but his kindness only ended up making Aegon and Aemond jealous about Hel and you, causing more chaos between your families.

You might not know much about Jacaerys. However, it was obvious that the war had changed his personality. Now, he was colder, far from the soft boy who once made you chuckle dancing with him in an almost clumsy way. Now, Jace just saw you as a prize won due to the war, even if you were his second wife. He had lost everyone, even Baela.

Not that he really loved her, but there was affection and protection there. Political marriages that turned into true affectionate feelings. If only Baela had not died during the labor of their stillborn son... Perhaps he would have truly loved her as time passed. Perhaps he would have heirs now and would not need to sleep with you. Or almost that.

"You are so fucking stand-off right now, My Queen." The King muttered mockingly, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth as he took another sip from the wine cup, motioning for you to approach the bed. With a sigh, you walk in silence, taking off your white nightgown you wore and sitting on his lap carefully, looking at him. Jace had intense marks spread across his body and face, scars that you wanted to caress if only he did not despise you as hell.

This adult version of him reminded you of your brother and ex-husband Aemond. The unexpected parallel between the uncle and the nephew was interesting. Both men missing one of their eyes. Aemond One-Eye, Jacaerys One-Eye. But there was no sapphire inside your current husband's eye socket. After reclaiming what was rightfully his, Jace ordered a black obsidian to be molded to fit there. A sadder version of your brother and ex-husband.

You missed Aemond, even if he was not a good husband and refused to breed you until the end of the war. Jacaerys missed Baela, even if he did not have any romantic feelings for her.

"I wish I could breed you with my heirs." Jace murmured, brushing away the silver hair that was in front of your face, taking in your delicate features for a moment. "I wonder if they would have silky light hairs like yours, or if they would be cursed with my dark hair."

His words made you curl into his lap, biting the lip to ward off a pained whining when he grabbed a handful of your silver strands, as if he wanted to rip them out completely and make you swallow every single one of them later. "I wish I still had my cock, then I would fuck you until your cunt swelled and was sore. I would hear you screaming and crying every night, begging me to stop hurting you while your tight little cunt would be constantly bleeding and milking me. And guess what? I would never stop. I WOULD NEVER STOP! I would be turned on seeing my seed leaking from all your holes and you screaming for my mercy just like the disgusting brothel whores."

The sickly macabre sentences caught you off guard and he pushed you under the bed, climbing on top of you, now without the sheets covering the absence of his cock, just the bad stitches and the almost huge nauseating scar where the Greens had ripped off his big and delightful penis. The length that Jacaerys always boasted about as a teenager. He would probably be the next Realm's Delight, just like his mother had been. But now all he had to content himself with was fucking you with his large fingers or his tongue, kissing you aggressively, always biting your lips or your breasts until they bleed, covered with light scars, just like he did with the whores from the brothels. "You should always be my own brood mare. I should force myself on you and make you carry my children every year until you learned to enjoy it. To enjoy me. TO LOVE ME!"

In that same second, as if he could read your mind, Jacaerys spat in the middle of your breasts and pinched your nipples with both hands between index fingers and thumbs, making you scream as he twisted them hard. "I should rip off your own nipples and make yourself eat them for dinner. I should fuck your nasty cunt with the blade of my sword until your womb tears, being disemboweled from the inside. I should kill you like your damn family killed mine." He shouted angrily, hitting your face once before squeezing your chin, forcing you to part your lips so he could spit the wine-tasting saliva onto your tongue. "SWALLOW IT! THIS IS AN ORDER FROM YOUR TRUE KING!"

He yelled, forcing you to obey after the next three slaps he gave you, without even letting you breathe. You swallowed his spit, your tears flowing in panic and your heart racing from it all. Jace's newly acquired cruelty was no longer a surprise to you, but sometimes your attempt at apathy faded and you let your sad emotions take control. You continued crying as the King spat in your face two more times, not even trying to clean up his disgusting mess on your cheeks and just allowing his hands to hurt your aching cunt, his slender fingers fucking you without any care, probably drawing blood while you bit your lip and closed your eyes, trying hard not to pay attention to anything. Trying hard not feeling anything or thinking about anything. Trying hard not to admire the scars on his handsome face or the dark jewel inside his empty eye.

You needed to keep Jaehaera safe. After the death of your sister Helaena, Jaehaera was no longer just your niece, she was also your daughter now. She was the only good thing in whole your life and you needed to protect her, even if it meant sacrificing your body and mind. You wondered if this was how your Lady Mother Alicent felt everytime your stupid father Viserys fucked her since she was just a teenager girl. In those years ago, did Alicent feel violated? Raped? Disgusted with her husband, with the world and mainly with herself? Did she also feel guilty and think she deserved those so cruel acts? But... did Alicent also feel empathy even about the man who hurt her?

Alicent Hightower was a broodmare for Viserys Targaryen. However, Jacaerys Velaryon could not procreate and get you pregnant with his seed. So you did not know what that made you. Just an object to be used and abused by him? Beaten until one day he finally had enough and murdered you? Until the little Aegon III getting older and inherits the Iron Throne due to his older brother's lack of heirs?

Would this be Jaehaera's fate too? Being just a Queen Consort and a whore inside the private chambers against her own will? Was this the fate of all women?

The hours passed in a blur, despite you being conscious the entire time, you decided to keep your thoughts empty and away from the cruel reality, preferring not to staring Jace. You did not realize how messy and filthy your face was with the King's saliva until you felt Jacaerys's hands caressing your cheeks with panic, trying to clean up the violence he made, his own fingers being full of your cum and the blood that had come out so much from your cunt and from your ass, both tight holes bleeding and hurting like the Seven Hells.

"Gods, I am so sorry." Jace sobbed, keeping to wipe your face. You saw how his eye became even more prettier filled with crystal clear tears, his cheeks red from crying. "I am so sorry, My Queen. I did not mean... I did not mean to be like this. I did not want to be a monster. I just want my family back. I just want to be able to be a good husband, I just want to be a father. I did not want to be that kind of King." Jacaerys hugged your tired and vulnerable form, his naked body shaking from the intense bout of crying as he searched your mouth to kiss you softly, as a way to compensate. The kiss tasted like tears, cum and blood. But you did not care. "Oh, Gods. Please, forgive me. Forgive me, aunt." You let him kiss you with some tenderness while he was apologizing in the midst of despair. You knew everything all too well. All of this would happen again in just a few days.

Jacaerys Velaryon had become the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and you had become his Queen Consort. Grief, sacrifice and pain carried the weight of crowns. The daily tragedies would happen forever until one of you died. This was the true destiny of the Greens and Blacks. There were never victors after the war. The eternal unhappiness was the only conquest.

HOTD Edition - Masterlist

Criminal Minds Edition - Masterlist

Venusbyline's Kinktober 2024 - Masterlist

[sanemisstalker]

NSFW// Douma doing pussy inspections to make sure you didn't fuck any of his servants in his absence.

Saw a post talking about a possessive partner doing pussy inspections to make sure you'd stayed loyal and I 🤭

CW// Fem reffered/ AFAB reader/ Breasted / NTR / Cheating/Cuckholding (questionable) / BDSM dynamics / DUB-CON/NON-CON/ Objectification / Reader is reffered to as a 'sow' / is viewed as akin to an animal / Threats of Genital Mutilation / Gore / 24/7 Submission / Sexual Torture.

For all intents and purposes, you never wanted to cheat on Douma. The impulse was exactly that, an impulse. You would have to be dumb or, even worse, unstable, to actively seek punishment from a demon of his caliber. From a man of his social statute.

But, even if you didn't want it, which you would assure you didn't, that did nothing to sooth the pain of the itch. You weren't entirely sure what possessed you once he left your sight, but the idea was always there. Locked away behind bar after bar in your silly little head...

After your first incident with a fellow sow, found with your pussy rubbing gleefully up and down her thigh, Douma figured you were just odd. A bunch of humans are born that way. Just wrong in the head. He'd had a number of attempts on his life through the years.

He had never implied that there would be a punishment for such petty insolence, because he figured you would never be dumb enough to try. After all, the other sow began sobbing, begging for his forgiveness for her desecration and sin. She must've been right in the head.

You were clearly the predator in the situation, not even bothering to appear shameful, just dissapointed. Douma had been entirely perplexed. He had no real urge to harm the other woman. Maybe it was because she was a woman that he felt no real inclination to do so. And he didn't really want to hurt you, either.

The closest thing Douma could compare the feeling to was the curiosity he once felt when he watched too stray cats mate. How odd, that behavior. The need to fuck. Douma never needed to do anything. Want, yes, but that was always very distinct. Douma had never needed to fuck. He figured it was another one of those human things he never quite got around to doing.

He had told you, in a rather lack luster tone, to keep your hands to yourself. It upset you, he could tell. Likely because you were being reffered to with such child-like verbiage, but he felt it had gotten the point across.

The next incident upset him slightly more. He walked in on you with one of his closer male confidants. His face was buried between your legs, and just as quickly as it'd been there, it was gone. The remnants splattered on your thighs and Douma's palm.

The blood had made your orgasm dry out completely. Douma recalled the little huff you made, unbothered by the warm body at your feet. Douma shifted your lifted robes so they would fall back over your legs, patting the fabric into the mess with a tight smile.

"Is there something you're adverse to telling me, hm?" He'd prod, "Is there a quality you find I'm lacking?" There was a tilt to his voice. An odd tone you couldn't quite read. It wasn't insecurity, nor dissapointment. It was taunting, almost.

"I'm not sure." You answered honestly, and he knew, then and there, you must truly be unstable because what an anger inducing comment. He couldn't grasp why you were so... weird.

The problem wasn't your infidelity. Douma could, quite frankly, care less about whether or not you're loyal to him. The problem sat with the human taboo he knew you knew were comitting. One you should feel shameful for, yet you wore nothing but that pissy little look on your face because an orgasm had been stolen away. Nothing to indicate you even registered such a thing.

You had been the one begging him for months to fuck you. Pleading, sobbing, all but vomiting praise at his feet. Nothing but a desperate sow he had willingly invited into his harem, the only one he even had light willingness to sleep with, and now you were defiling his hole with other blood.

Fine. Douma resigned to simply keeping you with him wherever he went. You were allowed out if his sight only for prayer and the bathroom.

The third incident, Douma was quite certain you'd become more than unstable. To let another man bed you on his throne had to be entirely insane on your part. A complete lack of self preservation. Not only had you snuck away from prayer, but you had brought in an outsider. Some random slayer, at that.

The risk was palpable, each time Douma watched the man's cock slide deeper into you-

The man was lucky he finished before Douma's hand reached around his neck. A final pleasure in this world, found in your cunt. Douma flung his body effortlessly against the wall, the corpse folding in on itself with a sickening crack.

"Ah, Y/N, do I need to sew you shut?" Douma would ask in the same sing song voice he always had. "This is entirely disrespectful of your superiors."

"I-I know-" You huffed, winded from the act, pussy aching for your lord's cock. You knew you wouldn't get it. He'd never bother with a used hole.

You couldn't understand it anymore than he could. Why you craved that look in his eye so bad, that unpleasant lilt in his voice. He seemed almost bothered by the whole thing. Almost.

"Please don't... sew me up." Your pussy tingled at the idea- Maybe such pain would fix your ailment, not having your clit exposed anymore, or your needy hole.

Your hand trailed between you thighs, seeking your gape. As you felt a bit of the dead man's seed slip out, you rushed to finger it back into yourself. You feared what Douma might do should a drop of it land on his cushions-

The desperate display sickened him, willing an emotion to the forefront he hadn't felt in a millenia, at least.

Fine. Fine. Fine fine fine.

You were no longer allowed to leave his sight. At all. A leash now rested firmly on your throat. If not held by Douma, held by someone else who he'd calmly threatened to spay if they even so much as consider your constant pleading.

Douma had to make a remedial, somewhat temperamental announcement to his followers.

You were a temptress, never to be trusted. Something on the brink of succubi. Fucking you would lead to great downfall for anyone who fell woefully victim to your tricks. Their sperm would die before it even formed, bedding you would insure a life of flaccidity. You'd curse any womb you ate-

How kind a leader he was to assure the victory of his people by capturing you. A real, honest to god demon.

He decided he was going to fix you. Sometimes humans needed that kind of thing. Fixing. He decided you were sick. In the head. If your ever so present need for cock continously won out over a need to live, then such an illness had to be cured.

He set you up with a chittering little toy. Firmly tied against your clit with pretty red rope. He didn't bother having your hands tied. You loved it, after all, the constant attention (abuse) to the little bundle of nerves.

You realized what he was trying to do the first time your clit went numb. He was certainly trying to sterilize you, make it so you wouldn't even want to open your legs.

Another rod was always tucked inside your pussy. Keeping you constantly wet and always stretched for the once in a blue moon where Douma would kindly make you warm his cock instead. He was never a fan of the uncomfortable tightness the first few times he entered a sow. This was a far preferable sensation. Warm and just tight enough to nurse his cock.

Another would be in your ass, since he'd once again overheard you begging one of his servants for something so grotesque. Any hole would work to satisfy your bizarre appetite, it seemed.

Any time Douma had to leave for an extended time, he'd come back to greet his people, and then you, who he kept tucked behind a slew of pillows to muffle the constant moaning and sobbing you loosed.

He'd always check your mouth first, gentle claws pulling the orifice open so he could slide his tongue in and assault the crevice, seeking the taste of another human on your lips.

And then he'd turn you over, the first time in weeks you'd be allowed to have that toy taken off your irritated, pulsing clit. He'd carefully slip the other toy from between your lips. Your cunt would contract around nothing.

Douma would spread you open with little regard for how puffy your pyssy had become, how even the dull part of his claws were overstimulating. He'd ignore your yaps and cries in favour of burying two fingers in.

He'd bring them out and up to his lips.

"Oh wow!" He'd sing, overjoyed that his drastic measures had worked. "You did so good, Y/N! I can't smell anyone on you! I'm proud! I'm impressed!"

Something about the words made you sob. Your pussy ached, any and every touch felt like you were going to implode. You could barely remember why you were in this situation at all.

Douma would pop the plug from your backside, loosing an all too pleased noise at the sight on your twitching asshole. A finger would probe the wet hole before slipping in with incredible ease. Your toes curled into the plush of the pillows you'd been rested on.

"So good!" He'd mock cheer, clapping as the tightness persisted with a second finger. It was as tight as when he'd left you.

Douma reached up to your head, managing to lift you up by your hair. With incredibly weak knees, you struggled to steady yourself. Thankfully, Douma pushed you back down into the pillows, only desiring to see the arch of your back.

"Can you spread yourself for me?" He'd request. The word 'spread' didn't sound real, but you could hear the shift of his hands and the clank of his belt.

"L-Lord Douma, I can't- can't possibly-" You cried.

"Oh shush, you can." He laughed. With shaking hands you followed his commands, throat too sore to deny him. Your fingers felt cold against the boiling heat of your lips. You pulled yourself apart, presenting your sopping wet cunt to him.

Douma shuddered slightly. He'd melded humans to his will before, but never so quickly had they snapped. Maybe this sex thing could become a want for him.

You couldn't even feel when he sank into you entirely with his first thrust. You took him so incredibly well, his ego swelled at the sight. You were finally a good loyal hole for him to fuck.

A good, loyal, and stable hole for him to fuck.

[mannequinreligi0n]

Sins - Chapter 3: Penance

wake up priest!vergil nation, let’s get to fuckin’

pairing: priest!vergil/nun!reader

wc: 3.5k

warnings: nsfw! - penetration, body worship, implied self-mutilation/harm

author’s note: thank you for being so patient with me !! sorry for the delay :’) will maybe write another freak nasty chapter bc i have a few unused idea. enjoy !!

links: chapter one , chapter two , ao3

The word ‘late’ rang in your head like a gong. Father Vergil had a strong distaste for tardiness, almost as much as he disliked the lazy and the ignorant. You bowed your head in forgiveness, silently cursing yourself for letting your nerves cause time-blindness.

“Forgive me, Father. Punctuality was never a strength of mine,” you mumble out, preparing for a deserved scolding. Instead, you hear Vergil’s steps stop in front of you, the faintest sigh leaving him.

“It’s alright, y/n. Please.”

He takes a step toward you, lifting your chin with single finger to beckon your eyes to him. The wide nature of your eyes gives away your surprise from the use of your name so casually, the absence of professionalism and humility. Vergil drops his hand from you and offers a tight smile in exchange, his own inhibitions raging war in the back of his mind. He stands there awkwardly under your confused gaze, shifting his weight from left to right and back left before clearing his throat.

“I- uh.”

Christ, Vergil, pull it together. He exhales hard, his clammy hands twitching at his sides.

“…….I fear I have not been honest with you, and with God. Your confession has…rattled me deeply, and I cannot, for the life of me, find a solution that would appease both the trouble in my soul and the will of God. Frankly, I’m…I’m at a loss.”

Your heart falls to your stomach at his words, knowing that your confession was only going to create problems. Your hands fiddle with the rosary around your neck, praying that maybe God could grant you one last word of wisdom in this time of need - you are only greeted with the roar of your heartbeat in your ears. Vergil’s hand returns to his mouth, biting at the frayed skin of his nails, and starts to pace again anxiously. The silence between you two is all-consuming and seems to last an eternity before your shoulders slump, ripping the veil from your head and holding it out to him.

“I shall pack my things and be gone by noon tomorrow. I do not wish to bring any more shame to you or the coven. Plea-“

“What?! N-No! That’s not-!”

Vergil panics and interrupts you immediately, rushing to you and clasping his hands around your veil to push it back towards you. There’s a spark between the two of you at the touch of skin, a small grace in the daunting moment. He loses his train of thought at the sight of your hair pillowing down to complete the picture of your face, his breathing shallow and frantic.

“No,” he stammers out again, blinking hard and squeezing your hand. “You misunderstood me. My issue doesn’t lie with you - it is with myself.”

You blink dumbly at him, brow scrunched with returning confusion. “I…I don’t understand,” you shake your head at him, words barely a whisper.

“Neither do I, my child,” Vergil sighs, his clammy fingers still curled around yours. “I have prayed, and prayed, and prayed to The Lord for answers, and yet he has abandoned me in the dark. I fear that this is a test of my faith, that you are a test of my faith - and I am failing miserably.”

Vergil’s eyes lack their usual hardness, a man frayed to his wits end as he searches your face for the answers he longs for. A single hand lets go of yours and moves to the cross around your neck, his thumb running over the pointed ends of the pendant.

“I have stood before our congregation and preached time and time again of love and purposeful fulfillment,” He murmurs, eyes falling to the crucifix. “I can’t help but wonder when it will be my turn to be blessed with such gifts….But then, when I look at you-“

He pauses, stormy blues tracing the line of your neck up to meet your eyes - eyes that he swore held the light of the morning sun and the grace of the midnight moon all at once.

“-I swear I can see my purpose for living, for breathing, in your face alone.”

You can feel the intensity of his words prick at your heart like thorned rose. It was taking every nerve in your body not to panic and ramble out confused nonsense, uncertain if you’re hearing him correctly. You were almost convinced you were dreaming, but the tight grasp of his hand on yours was keeping you present, if the look in his eye wasn’t convincing enough.

Without a thought in your head, you close the sea of space and press a chaste kiss to his lips, pulling away just as soon. Vergil audibly makes a sound between a gasp and yelp, eyes popping out of his head. There’s a symphony of heavy breathing between you, both staring at each other with fear and desire. You immediately prepare an apology mentally, opening your mouth to verbalize it, but it doesn’t get the chance to come out.

Vergil nearly knocks you off your feet when he dives down to kiss you once more, large hands desperately gripping the side of your head and threading in your hair. Your veil falls to the ground as you scramble to grasp at his garb for stability, lips trying to keep up with the sinful motions of Vergil’s. It’s all-consuming and starving, teeth clinking together and tongues lapping with inexperience. It was everything you had imagined and more, the taste of him alone worth the shame and punishment that was sure to come from such an act.

You’re the first to pull away, gasping for air with swollen lips. Vergil heaves against you, not daring to let go of you for even a second. No words were necessary to convey the lust or longing you shared with him, and with a few passing blinks, Vergil’s hands drop from your face and pry yours from his chasuble. He entwines his fingers in one hand and whips you along behind him, his long legs striding through the courtyard and back into the church. You nearly trip behind him, being pulled like a rag-doll. Words get trapped in your throat as you attempt to ask him where you’re going, but your question is answered as he all but shoves you into one of the small sacristies. The moment the door closes, your lips magnetize to his, his hands guiding you to a shoddy wooden table against the wall. You don’t even have time to process before he’s lifting you onto the table, pushing up your tunic to your hips to stand in between your legs.

It was a mockery to preform such a crude act where they stored the ‘blood and body’ of Christ, the decanter of fortified wine jostling on the table as you clawed at each other’s clothes. The chasuble and tunic fall to the ground, your hands unfastening the buttons of his dress shirt as he trails his mouth along your shoulder with reverent kisses, teeth clamping around the strap of your underdress and sliding it off your shoulder. Freeing his torso from the shirt, your eyes immediately gravitate to the strip of red creeping up his back and over his shoulder.

“Vergil.”

His name pulls him out of his daze and he lifts his head from your shoulder with hooded, hazy eyes. He’s about to question you when your fingers graze over the somewhat fresh scar, making his nose scrunch in a faint wince. Averting his eyes from you, he stares down at your lap, breathing deeply.

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing… Turn around.”

You rest your hand on his arm, beckoning him to turn and he fights against it for a moment, a deep scowl on his face. He finally obeys and slowly 180s to reveal uneven, healing marks scattered on his porcelain skin. Worry morphs your features, hearing Vergil sigh at the wall in front of him.

“Penance, for my depravity…for my thoughts of you,” Vergil whispers, an underlying shame in his tone.

It should’ve clicked sooner that these were the makings of a discipline. Self-flagellation was a dying practice, but of course someone as rigid as Vergil would partake. You’re almost too stunned to move, taken aback by the brushstrokes of red.

‘This is my fault,’ you think to yourself.

Leaning forward, you gently hold his waist and let your mouth brush against the scars, feather-light kisses gracing them. Vergil hisses at first, the raw skin bristling at the contact, but it soon gives way to breathy sighs, relishing in being adorned by your forgiving kisses.

“You’re too hard on yourself,” you murmur into his skin, nose inhaling his sweat and scent.

“Christ would come down and dispute that, if he could.”

He turns back around, looking down over his nose at you with a pensive expression. A calloused thumb traces the shape of your bottom lip, his hand tilting your chin back to let the worn-out bulb in the storage room hit your face better. It’s hard not to notice the tremble of his fingers, the slight shake drumming against your skin.

“This…this is wrong,” Vergil’s eyes are fixated on your mouth, transfixed by the soft, plump skin under his digit. “I am undeserving of you, of your flesh,…your soul.”

“That couldn’t be further from the truth,” you rebuttal, trying to focus on his words and not his thumb pressed against you lip, the muted smell of cologne radiating off of him, the heat of body between your legs. “If anyone is deserving, it’s you. It’s always been you.”

You lean your head forward and take his thumb into your mouth, tongue lassoing around it. Vergil’s own mouth parts with a throaty moan, reigning back the intrusive thought to shove his whole damn hand in your mouth just to have it touched by you. He slides his thumb out and replaces it with his mouth, desperate to quell the thirst in his lonely heart. You reciprocate immediately, scooting slightly off the table to be closer to him. Hands moving to his belt, Vergil groans into your mouth and shoves his tongue inside, deepening the kiss. Your own hand pulls off the other measly strap on your under-gown, letting it pool at your hips and exposing your chest to the dry air. Breaking the kiss, Vergil shifts back and ogles the new skin with hunger and awe, a single finger leaving a wake of goosebumps as he trails it down to a breast.

“‘You are altogether beautiful, my love; there is no flaw in you’.”

The verse falls from Vergil so softly that your brain almost doesn’t register it, hyper-fixated on his hand now cupping your chest, thumb flicking over your nipple.

“Song of Solomon, 4:7,” you manage to get out, swallowing thickly.

“Correct, dove.”

The smile of pride that appears on his face from your answer makes you melt in his touch, heart soaring. Your own fingers linger on his chest before slowly sliding down to the still-fastened clasp of his slack, glancing between the painful tent in them and his face. Vergil gives you a faint nod and you make work of it, undoing the hardware as he crowds over you, mouth returning to your shoulder to kiss up to your neck. His moan that rings in your ear when you finally free his length makes everything worth it alone, the sound making your heat twitch with unbridled need. Vergil’s hands fall to your hips and pull you closer to him, sweaty fingers clinging to the silk of your fallen gown. Cock pressed against your soaked underwear, his hips buck into them. Your head wobbles back from the smallest sensation, your strained whine making Vergil bite back his own groan. He gives a few more tentative rocks of his pelvis, nose pressed into your neck as he savors the newfound stimulation.

“May I…?”

You feel a hand let go of your hip and slip between your legs, tracing the border of your underwear. You nod embarrassingly fast against him, forehead coming forward to rest on his shoulder. Vergil pushes the fabric to the side and then guides his length to rub against the slick folds, his breathing labored on your skin. That alone probably would’ve made him come if he didn’t have years of self-control to hold him back - the warm and delicate skin of your sex making it hard to form coherent thoughts. He backs away from your neck to look down at you, his other hand meeting your face and caressing your cheek. All he can think about is how blessed he is in this moment, to be so close to the most divine creature he’s ever laid eyes upon. It almost brought tears to his eyes. Almost.

He shifts his hips closer to you and you subconsciously wrap your legs around his hips, ankles locking together behind him. His hand on your cheek moves to card through your hair, pushing back strands that dare to obstruct his view of you.

“Do you recall the Act of Contrition?”

You nod softly at him, eyes fluttering with every twitch of his cock against your nerves or brush of fingers in your hair. “I remember,” you murmur back.

“Good,” his hand between you two positions his head at your dripping slit, not yet pushing it in. “Recite it for me, for us. Can you do that, little bird?”

You forget to answer initially, sparks of pleasure firing in every nerve at just the feeling of him being one push away from entering you. You swallow back the pool of saliva in your mouth and nod again, eyes trying to remain locked on his.

There’s that smile again - that proud, adoring smile of his you’d see in your dreams for the rest of your days. He nods in return and looks at you expectantly, waiting for you to begin.

“My god, I am sorry for my sins with all my hea-, heart, oh my-“

Vergil pushes an inch of himself into you and the fullness makes you shudder. Your hands fly to hold his arms, brow knit together as a croaked moan disrupts your prayer. When you stop speaking, he halts his movement, despite his own desperation screaming in his body to sheath himself.

“Keep…keep going,” he breaths out, face flushing a faint red as your walls squeeze around him.

“-w-with all my heart…in choosing to do wrong and failing t-to do good..”

The descent continues, another inch separating your walls to accept him in. Vergil’s hand in your hair cradles the back of your head, holding it steady and preventing it from lolling away from him. His chest heaves above you as the prayer echoes in the sacristy, mingling with the buzz of the light above.

“I have sinned against you, whom I should love above all things. I firmly in-intend, with your help-“

You pause again, eyes rolling back as he finally hits the hilt. It was unlike anything you’ve felt before, so intimate and fulfilling, like the last puzzle piece of your body was finally put into place. Two souls no longer forming but one soul. Vergil, himself, was having a difficult time staying focused, the hug of your body around him sending signals throughout his limbs. He pulled back out, stopping just short of emptying you.

“-to do penance, to sin no more, to a-a-ahh!”

Vergil shoves himself all the way back in, a growl rumbling his chest. Your vision blurs for a second, the full feeling almost too much. He doesn’t wait for you to keep going, starting a steady, uninhibited pace as he frees himself from the shackles of guilt. It doesn’t matter anymore, anyways - he has felt you, smelled you, tasted you. It was all he needed anymore. The table rocks against the wall, glasses clinking together with the motion. A hand in your hair and a hand on your hip, he ruts over and over and over into your hole, face flushed a sunset red as he moans and gasps for air.

He asked you to recite the prayer, and damn it all, you were gonna comply, regardless of how much you only wanted to praise his name instead. Your nails dig into the skin of his arms, staccato whimpers leaving you as you try to regain your train of thought.

“…to avoid…whatever leads m-me to sin. Our savior, Jesus Christ….Christ-…s-s-suffered and died….for us..”

It was too much. There was only one line left of the prayer and you couldn’t even get it out, reduced to a moaning, heated mess as he clambered into you. Vergil was dripping sweat from his hairline, the beads falling to your face as you stared up at him. He looked like an angel - a faint halo of light around his head from the backlighting of the lamp. Your core tightens at the sight, an unfamiliar buzz forming in your heat from the sight and his ministrations. It felt like your whole body was plugged into a live socket, heart about to beat out of your chest.

“In his name,” Vergil mumbles out, eyes squeezing shut as he tries to finish the prayer and not himself. “Oh, my God…my God, have mercy.”

You mewl under him, hands shifting to hold his back. Your nails dig into the skin and Vergil lets out a mix between a growl and a moan, your fingers attacking the already raw marks on his back from the whip. He doesn’t stop, though, slamming into you repeatedly as he chases that glorious high. With a handful of more thrusts, you’re putty on the table, body taut and snapping as your orgasms ripples through you. It feels like the gates of heaven have opened, trumpets blaring and white light invading your vision. Vergil can’t hold himself back once he sees you give out, the sight of you coming around him making up for every godawful, lonely night of his life. He spills his load deep inside you, shuddering with a guttural groan. Pressed as deep as he can into you, his hips jolt uncoordinatedly as he gives you every last drop, forehead falling to press against yours. His hand on your hip leaves to join the other on your head, cupping your face to his, scared he’ll open his eyes and it’ll be a cruel dream. How could you be real? How could that sinful release he just felt be reality? It must’ve been-

“Vergil.”

His name in your mouth opens his eyes for him, making him take in the sight of you flushed and disheveled from his doing. His half-hard length twitches inside you from the image and you wince a little at the overstimulation, ushering a small laugh from him, from disbelief at what just happened and how delightful you look right now. He gingerly unsheathes himself, the wet sound mingling with the heavy breathing. Vergil can’t stop himself from looking down at where you were once connected, watching his seed muddle with your release as it gushes out of your hole. His mouth waters at the sight, the heady scent taunting him. God, he would lick you clean, if there was time, if you two weren’t shoved in a closet for anyone to walk into.

“Apologies…for…defiling you. I couldn’t ah, pull out in time,” he mumbles out, eyes following the trail of come leaking from you.

“None needed.”

You chuckle, sitting up to pull the straps of your silk gown back over yourself, taking the debauched sight from Vergil’s view. He holds still for a moment before following suit, pulling his pants back up and collecting his shirt off the ground silently. There was so much he wanted to say, so much he needed to bear to you, but he didn’t know where to begin. He averted his eyes from you as you hopped off the table, scooping up your tunic and pulling it over your head.

“I’d like to see you again,” you start, breaking the silence with a reserved whisper. “Possibly…tonight, if you’ll have me.”

Vergil’s eyes flit back to yours at the proposal. ‘If you’ll have me’? Lord, you must have no idea what you do to him. He has to refrain from falling to your feet, kissing your hand and begging you to come to his quarters, wanting to show you just how much he worships the ground you walk on. He resigns to a curt nod, buttoning up his shirt, “Tonight, it is.”

“9’o clock?”

“Sharp. No excuses.”

[snowblack-charcoalwhite]

" Aemond is homophobic", "Screw Aemond, he is disrespecting his mother"... Really?

As for the first statement: why does literally everything concerning Alicent have to be about her being deeply in not-so-platonic love with Rhaenyra? Nothing Aemond said implied that it is precisely "not-so-platonic" part he disapproves of.

And here we come to the second one.

For one, there is a war going on/about to begin. The lives of their entire family are at stake, at the very least due to Daemon being involved. As far as Aemond is concerned, the latter is either Rhaenyra's faithful dog who kills for her without second thought (just remember Vaemond's murder) or a mad one who can't be controlled. Either way, bad news - and Alicent still chooses to proceed with caution. To which point must the Greens do so? Till there is no one left of them to get in Rhaenyra's way? Alicent is one of my favourite characters in the saga (at this point "was" might be more suitable) but presently "Alicent holds love for our enemy. That makes her a fool" is basically a statement of fact.

As for the emotional side of the situation, just look at it from Aemond's point of view for a second. To cover her own ass and those of her children, Rhaenyra, an adult, in cold blood demanded for Aemond, a child, to be tortured - for telling the truth and right after Rhaenyra's own son maimed him for life. Alicent defended him then - and Aemond was the one who comforted her with words and with actions when the majority of the people in the room gaped at her as if she was a madwoman. He chased after Lucerys thinking not only of his mutilation having gone unpunished - he also never forgot Alicent being humiliated (hence 'a gift for my mother' line"). But when push really comes to shove Alicent, taking into consideration how high the stakes are, basically turns her back on him and his siblings - because she doesn't want her childhood friend (even if we actually count Rhaenyra as Alicent's friend) to be harmed. What about her children? Grandchildren? Her father? If you look at Aemond's face when he is asking Alicent whether she wants them to prevail, there is hurt in his eyes. And who can blame him for being hurt - and mad - when his own mother is not on his side but on the side of the person who harmed them both before? And if this happens after B&C, he is all the more justified in his feelings.

I might get a lot of hate for what I'm about to say but in the grand scheme of things it looks like as the Dance begins show!Alicent does precisely what Viserys did at Driftmark (and for years before and after) - which is disregarding her children's (in Viserys' case "other children's") best interests for Rhaenyra's sake.

P.S. There is also the fact that Aemond is not one of the most forgiving people in the world (just as book!Rhaenyra by the way). But it doesn't mean that his thoughts and feelings should be disregarded just because they happen to clash with his mother's.

[ang3lfluids]

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐈

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: underage smoking .. implied forms of DV .. mentions of kidnapping .. ED's .. implied child abuse and neglect..

𝐞𝐯𝐞'𝐬 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫: FIRST CHAPTER YAYYYY!!! feedback is greatly appreciated !! :D enjoy my angels!

"What are your relations to Mr. Woods..." Your eyes flicked up, the gears in your brain turning. The courtroom was so quiet you could most certainly hear a pin drop, never mind the fact you were certain the Jury, attorneys and the Judge could hear your rapid sharp intakes of air. A weak attempt to calm yourself.

"Um... he's my, my boyfriend..." You stated, voice warbling as you shifted your gaze to the man sitting across the room from you before shifting your gaze to look at your hands that were settled in your lap.

"Were you two together before or after Mr.Woods abducted you from your home?" The attorney asked as she walked closer to the witness stand. You swallowed and blinked a few times, hot tears filling your eyes. Yes? No... No you weren't. You opened your mouth a few times and shifted in your seat.

"Miss... can you tell me please." The other woman's voice was soft but you could barely form a sentence in your head. Your eyes met his, and they narrowed back at you. Well, as well as they could with his... mutilations.

"We dated back in highschool..." You started looking back down at your lap. "We broke up when... he uh..." You swallowed thickly wiping your face with your hands. The cuffs around your wrists clinking softly.

The loud cheering from the field brought you back, your arms above your head as you shook the red and white pom-poms in the air. Your white teeth glistening under the flood lights settled around the football field. They must have scored, not like you were even really paying attention. You hated football anyways...

You easily fell into step with the other girls beside you, shaking your pom-poms like your life depended on it. Your stomach puckering as your eyes glanced over your mothers figure in the stands, your father next to her engrossed in an animated conversation with your best friend's father.

You also chose to ignore the way your stomach growled and bubbled with hunger. So in a way... your life truly did depend on it.

Your team had won. And after being pushed into a large group "hug", you had pleaded with your parents (more like just your mother) to go with your girls to the local McDonalds to celebrate your teams victory. Rolling your glitter coated eyes as the way her face soured as you mentioned the fast food place.

"Mom please, Julia won't have me out late..." You mumbled crossing your arms over your chest rocking on your heels. Rubbing the bridge of her nose she sighed, deep within her lungs. "Fine. Text me when you get there, and be home by ten-thirty. I don't care if it's a weekend." She smoothed our your hair and pressed a kiss to your forehead. You swallowed a suppressed gag.

You and three other girls all clambered into your best friends cherry red jeep, music blasting from the speakers as the vehicle sped off towards the hovel of choice. Your fingers twitching against your lap as you chewed on the inside of your cheek. A horrible habit that arouse when you hadn't smoked in a prolonged period of time. You had gone all morning, through your 12 periods, cheer practice, and a whole fucking football game without touching a lick of a cigarette.

Maybe it was childish to yearn for the red and white package that was tucked in your front pocket of your backpack, but with everything in your life it was nice having something you could actually control for once.

You tuned out the conversation around you, indulging in the cool fall air washing over your hot skin. Your eyes falling shut as you breathed.

"Can we please eat insideeee" One of the freshmen in the back seat asked leaning forward to meet Julia's gaze in the rearview. She hummed and nodded as she pulled into one of the parking spaces. Everyone going to unbuckle, Julia leaned over the center console and nudged your arm. You opened your eyes, sticky with makeup, and turned your head to look at her.

"You wanna take a sec?" She asked, her gaze flickering between your bag and you. You nod with a grateful smile and stretched out your sore limbs. Clambering from her jeep you dug into your bag and yanked free your lighter and the carton of cigarettes.

You leaned against the side of the jeep, whacking the pack against your hand and fishing one out. You placed the end in your mouth and attempted to flick the lighter to life, brows furrowing and a frosty look overtaking your face as it struggled to light.

"Motherfuckin' piece of shit..." You hissed teeth clamping down on the orange end of the cigarette to keep it in your mouth. Shaking the lighter a few times you began to grow frustrated at the fact that it wouldn't fucking work. So angry that hot tears of frustration began to fill your eyes. Your stomach growling angrily in protest as you swallowed at the lump in your throat.

"Hey." Your gaze shifted up and you flinched back as you met the eyes of another guy, way too close for comfort. You narrowed your eyes at him in a way of asking him what the fuck he wanted. He gestured to the cigarette in your mouth, then the pack in your hands. "Can I bum one off of you?" He held up a lighter and shook it softly, smirking down at you.

You eyed him and pushed yourself off the jeep stepping closer. He flicked the lighter to life and you leaned closer allowing the end to start burning. Batting your lashes up at him as he smirked down at you. You passed the cigarette carton over to him and took a long drag of the one in your mouth.

Blowing the smoke from your mouth you looked him up and down. "Do I know you?" You tilted your head, giving him a frosty look. He cupped a hand over the other as he lit his own cigarette, tucking his lighter into the back pocket of his skinny jeans. You watched as he blew the dark gray smoke from his chapped lips and look down at you.

"English, seventh period." He said. You blinked before flushing in embarrassment. "You're the new kid right? You and your brother?" You asked. He made a noise which sounded like a 'Yeah' as he took another drag.

"Took ya long enough princess." He muttered. Your stomach fluttered and you looked down at your cheer sneakers. "The names Jeffrey, Or Jeff I don't give a shit." He pushed some of his dark brown hair from his face, and you flicked some ash off the end of your cigarette.

"**" You offered your own name and leaned back stubbing out the half burnt cigarette on the heel of your shoe. "S'nice meeting you Jeff" You said brushing past him. "You as well, doll" He muttered pushing off the back of your friends jeep towards the sidewalk. You stole one last glance, suppressing the giddy feeling twirling in your gut.

[sirenalpha]

I'm not gonna get into it on the actual post because I don't want to start shit after how Aang posts have gone down and it's not like I saw it cuz it was tagged wrong or something

but it is wild to see someone say Azula's downfall was well written in atla and then also say what Zuko should have done and implying he was morally obligated to do so was not fight her and instead offer her love and support so he's in the wrong for accepting the agni kai challenge and fighting her

this blatantly ignores that Azula has manipulated and abused Zuko since childhood even though they also admit that Azula tried to kill him twice recently as a defense of Zuko's actions which is definitely some cognitive dissonance, but it's another instance I've seen of someone acting as if Zuko is incorrect or blinded by his father or otherwise mistaken when he says things like 'Azula always lies' despite the show demonstrating that actually Zuko is seeing her extremely clearly as she can even successfully manipulate him using the truth

Zuko does not owe Azula love and support just because they are blood relatives anymore than he owes Ozai especially not any time before the war has ended and she is still a threat to his personal safety and also to his goal of achieving peace seeing as she tried to kill Zuko twice leading up to the finale and she also came up with the plan to raze the Earth Kingdom

Giving her a hug isn't gonna fix that situation exactly the same as it wouldn't with Aang when it comes to Ozai

except this person thought Aang v Ozai was ultimately a triumph of pacifism over imperialism whereas the love and support vs fear and isolation of Zuko vs Azula is only pure tragedy not a victory of one ideology over another and I really have to wonder how this person came to that conclusion

Aang v Ozai is also a man to man battle same as Zuko v Azula and Katara v Azula which is not exactly pacifism

Aang doesn't kill Ozai in the end, and neither does Zuko or Katara kill Azula (instead she nearly kills Zuko) so again no different on the pacifism front

The major differences between these battles are that Zuko and Katara earned their abilities to defeat Azula whereas Aang relies on two deus ex machina and Zuko and Katara leave Azula upset but a pretty physically healthy state whereas Aang spiritually mutilates Ozai by removing his bending

in order for this interpretation to work that Aang v Ozai is a triumph of one ideology over another and Zuko v Azula is not, you have to ignore the massive narrative flaws in the Aang and Ozai fight that do not exist in the Zuko v Azula fight

There is a reason people still argue about whether or not Aang should have killed Ozai but even this person who argues Zuko did the wrong thing by Azula doesn't actually disagree with the text of the show, they still seem to want this agni kai to have happened exactly as it did where Zuko did show that love and support worked better than fear and isolation as he had Katara to tag in to finish the fight as well as other concepts like continuing to improve and learn after failure which eventually gave Zuko stability working better than genius perfectionism which caused Azula to spiral

another major facet this person relied on to argue for this position that Zuko was wrong to accept the agni kai was that Zuko could not see beyond the narrow worldview his father imposed on him through the golden child/scape goat dynamic he put upon Azula and Zuko

but the whole point of the show and having Zuko confront his father and leave to join the Avatar was to show exactly that, Zuko is the one character whose horizons broaden the most over the course of the show and only because Iroh's happens pre-series, it is insane to argue that Zuko cannot see past the abuse he suffered or outside the Fire Nation worldview after he has left the Fire Nation for the gaang

This person also claims that Zuko is so single minded about his goals that he even forgets empathy for others despite in season one somehow managing not to burn off Zhao's face in an agni kai and he even tries to rescue him from the ocean spirit despite fighting him literally the moment before so what character are you talking about because it's not Zuko

and then from this, they claim he cannot understand the tragedy of having to fight his own sister

this part is obviously up to more reader interpretation but you can take Zuko suggesting to Iroh in s2 that he forgive Azula is actually stemming from his genuine desire to not have to fight Azula given how quickly and vehemently Iroh shoots this down and that he does express genuine concern for Azula's fall in the southern raiders before she gets herself to the cliffside

I personally would say between the two of them, Zuko is more aware of the tragedy and genuinely sad about it, he is not portrayed as happy or gleeful when it's over whereas Azula has only been expecting this fight so she can secure her position on the thrown because she's second born and female and outright gloats after she's shot him with lightning

I see Zuko as resigned to this fight and trying to keep Katara safely out of it when he notices that Azula is slipping and takes the agni kai

what is not reader interpretation is to claim Zuko is being unfair and cruel to Azula to accept her agni kai challenge, Azula has always been the aggressor in their relationship and Zuko always the loser until the southern raiders where they have drawn even with each other, and as it has already been pointed out, Azula has recently tried to kill him twice!!

where is Azula's moral obligation to not try to mortally wound or manipulate her older brother? how is she not cruel and unfair for treating him this way and following in the footsteps of their father?

then there's an insane bit where they claim Zuko and Katara have a more simplistic view of morality than Aang who lost his shit on Katara in southern raiders who in the end didn't forgive Yon Rha and also didn't kill him and Zuko was there supporting her for the whole thing for her emotional benefit and closure regarding her mother like he had in his confrontation against Ozai whom he also didn't kill and Aang wasn't involved, Katara even tells him he was wrong

this part is just objectively untrue, Aang has the far more simplistic view on morality 

this person also goes on to a lot of reader interpretation for Azula's motives for bringing Zuko back to the Fire Nation, and I do agree I think that on some level Azula does care for Zuko, where I don't agree is that if the result is still harm for Zuko which is what returning to the Fire Nation was for him as it puts him back under the thumb of their abuser, it's still ultiamtely not good or kind to Zuko

Azula's actions are not made better by presuming she had good intentions born out of care for Zuko

The thing that really got me though was this quote:

"he allows himself to stoop to her level, and in fact only redeems himself through his sacrifice for katara"

again, Azula is the aggressor in their relationship and the one who issues the challenge in this instance

Zuko does not stoop to her level trying to stop her via agni kai because a hug is not gonna work, and it is arguably noble of him to try to protect Katara by accepting the challenge and trying to remove her as a target

But it doesn't work because Azula breaks the agni kai by attacking Katara who is a bystander and not a combatant which is never a level Zuko stoops to, it's a rat move Azula takes when she's put on her back foot and realizes she can't win a fair fight and can't goad Zuko into an emotional outburst

But the worst part is reframing Zuko's sacrifice as redemptive in terms of his relationship to Azula or as if he has done something wrong in accepting the agni kai or while fighting it

He hasn't, the poster argues that Zuko betrayed Azula in leaving the Fire Nation which I think you can argue for, but I do not believe that the show has Azula react as if she has been harmed by this action when she is shown as far more offended by Mai and Ty Lee's betrayal and again seems gleeful to be able to attack Zuko in the boiling rock, southern raiders, and finale and therefore could reasonably be interpreted to have expected this

His redemption isn't towards Azula or anything she represents like Fire Nation imperialism, Ozai's abuse, perfectionism 

It's a heroic sacrifice for Katara as a person he harmed personally in the s2 finale and as a victim of the Fire Nation's war by the Fire Nation's prince 

It's an utter and blatant misread of the show to demonize Zuko to uplift Azula and replace Katara as a victim of Fire Nation imperialism which Azula is straightforwardly not and removes those themes from the Zuko v Azula fight which this person praised in the more flawed Aang v Ozai fight

I am with and agree with anyone claiming Azula is a victim of abuse, she is, it is the direct cause of her breakdown

but it's straight up cognitive dissonance to act as if Zuko has done something grossly wrong in terms of ending the cycle of violence by participating in the agni kai with Azula but Aang v Ozai is a narrative master stroke for pacifism and ending violence when they both use the exact same amount of violence to achieve their ends: man to man combat, and Aang actually delivers the worse punishment to Ozai

and you strip away half of Azula's character if you ignore the real and blatant harm she caused Zuko and the rest of the gaang and try to pretend they are all equally victims of the same man because they are not

[pruneunfair]

What the argument looks like.

Rashta is still a terrible person! Having a sad backstory doesn't make it okay for her to abuse her power! She needs to face consequences for her actions

Agreed 👍

But Heinrey just wants to defend his queens honor.. he's just trying to make sure Navier can feel safe! ☺️"

Wait but... didn't he steal magic from children?

It was just for war, it was necessary-

And didn't Navier benefit from magic stolen from the mages?...

she deserved it after all she went through! Besides Heinrey gave it all back cause he loves Navier so much! 😊

but wouldn't it had been better if Heinrey actually suffered consequences?

Consequences for what? He already got Navier scolding him.

Yeah and she forgave him 5 minutes later, that's not really consequences that's just a woman instantly forgiving her husband without effort on his part.

Your being unreasonable now, you just don't want Navier to have a husband to defend her.

I-.. when did I say that!?

You were implying it.

How does pointing out that Heinrey isn't a good person either implying I don't want Navier to have a husband who defends her!?

He's a emperor! He has to assert his power so no one threatens him or his wife so it's normal.

Okay but he's doing to this to the extremes.. threatening to fire a man when he is rightfully worried about a new queen with no warning, arranging for a child to be put in danger so he can have a reason to torture a man who only insulted Navier, killed innocent servants in a rampage when Duke Zemensias son tried to kill her-

exactly he's just trying to defend his wife!

Your missing the point.. those innocent people were being made victims just for either not agreeing immediately to Navier or just happening to be at the wrong place at the wrong time..

Well that sucks but at least he's still good most of the time 😌

..okay let me put this in a language I know youll understand: Rashta became a concubine for the protection and guarantee for a life she always wanted right?

Yup.

And when she became empress... her goal shifted to maintaining her position so her 2nd child will have a good life..

Yup.

And in doing that, she harmed innocent people to get what she wanted. People who didn't deserve to die and were just in the wrong place at the wrong time..and easy excuse for her is that she was just asserting her power to defend herself..

I know! Trashta just doesn't know when to stop!

okay... so we agree that while Rashta had her circumstances and wanted to protect her child.. that doesn't mean those people needed to be killed or mutilated..

Definitely!

And she suffered consequences for her actions right?

Haha yeah! Finally getting what she deserves for stealing Naviers man!

Alright, so then if we agree she should face consequences for hurting innocent people, then Heinrey shouldn't be rewarded by the narrative for harming innocent people.

Stop defending Trashta!

Im not.. I'm literally doing the opposite of defending Rashta! I'm pointing out that it is extremely unfair that when a villainess does something evil for her child then it's a horrible decision that calls for her head being cut off, but when the male lead does to same thing for his wife, he only gets a slap on the wrist because "he loves his wife so much!" Both are bad people who take their anger out on the one that can give the biggest excuse to explain why did what they they did. Tell me right now that you think it's fair that innocent people's lives deserve to be ruined at the hands of the Emperor if they inconvenience Navier.

...at least he isn't unfaithful 😌

...

[rewrittenwrongs]

Whumptober day 6: Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms / Healed Wrong

Read on Ao3 (registered users only) | day 5 | day 7 coming soon | Whumptober masterpost

Inspired by @brucewaynehater101’s Wingless Wing AU | Chapter 2 of 3 | chapter 1 | chapter 3 coming soon

TW: beginnings of a panic attack, phantom pain, chronic pain, mentioned mutilation and organ trafficking, implied child abuse

Ngl I think I’m pushing it a little with this prompt, but I did my best to fit it in with the plot I have in mind. I actually didn’t add the unhealthy coping mechanisms on purpose, I realised it fit as I uploaded this.

Honestly I think I went a bit far with the hybrid instincts and chirping stuff, but I really liked exploring what the in-world relations between different hybrids might look like, and I’m happy enough with this. Though, if I had the time and energy I might’ve edited the ending to be less awkward…

Tim paced while Jason looked around. The Nest looked surprisingly lived in, at least the area they were in: a cozy living room with a half-made pillow fort in the floor, like a 1970’s conversation pit owned by someone with an affinity for soft things. It reminded Jason of the other nest, the one he’s been in before, that was an actual nest.

He ‘busied’ himself with staring at the TV and subsequent collection of games and DVDs. He wanted Tim to talk but also didn’t want to rush him. How was he supposed to start a conversation like this? It was hard to think conversation starters with the memories replaying in the back of his mind. They were one’s he’d really rather avoid thinking about. One of them, he almost couldn’t wait for Tim to disprove.

Jason accepted he couldn’t take any more around the five minute mark, and cleared his throat pointedly. Tim winced and faltered in his back-and-forth pacing.

Tim swallowed. He was pale and shaking. “Um.”

“You… know, the owner of the wings,” Jason prompted softly, hoping ‘know’ was more accurate than ‘are’.

Tim ducked his head. His fists squeezed a few times, before he quietly whispered the last thing Jason wanted to hear: “They’re mine.”

“No.” He was wrong. He had to be wrong. He couldn’t—Tim was a human, he didn’t even have dormant blood, he was as regular as they come. He certainly wasn’t a flier like the rest of them—he didn’t lose his wings, he never had any! “You’re not—they’re not—no, that’s wrong.”

…Right?

Jason didn’t notice when his legs buckled, but he felt the carpet impacting his knees, and felt his wings hit the floor like dead weight. He could still feel them against his back, flexing below his shoulders, feathers flaring, shivering, but he could’ve sworn he was watching Joker examine them with a twisted smile and a satisfied gleam in his eye. Lifting up one limb and then the other, spreading one manually as blood waterfalled onto the ground, before handing it off to a henchman so he could use them to send Batman a message.

He could hear him laughing as he carved away muscles and feathers, hacking at bone; “It’s not the first time I’ve grounded a flier, but I can admit it’s just as satisfying the second time around. Maybe more!”

Jason shuddered all over. He was going to vomit. He was—he was going to cut off Joker’s legs, and fingers, too, see how he enjoyed being on the receiving end because he deserved it for cutting off Jason’s wings but removing Tim’s too?

Suddenly all the short, longing glances he remembered catching glimpses of when he took to the skies made sense. The odd look of fascination and envy when he explained the Pit grew back his wings somehow. His insistence on styling his new gliders after dragons—because he was one.

If Tim did have wings—how long ago were they taken? How could he survive with the pain? How had he ever worked up the physical strength to swing on grapple lines? Did Bruce know? Dick? His parents?

“How can you even stand?” Jason demanded hoarsely, and noticed for the first time Tim was a whole lot closer than he last remembered. He was crouching in front of him, posture small and non-threatening but his eyes blazing with… something. Jason didn’t recognise that emotion.

Tim’s face flickered to a grimace. “I’ve had a long time to practice.”

Jason’s hyperventilating got worse. He hadn’t even noticed he was struggling to breathe. “How long?”

Tim pressed his lips together.

“How long have you been dealing with this alone?”

Something in his gaze shifted. Like he was surprised, almost. “I… Young Justice helps. But I’ve—they’ve been missing since before I was Robin.”

Tim became Robin when he was thirteen.

“What the fuck,” Jason managed, then choked on his next breath.

Tim reached out and placed a hand on Jason’s shoulder. He understood, now, why he flinched when Jason tried to do the same earlier. There were so many muscles and bones connected to the wings, to have them all hacked off…

Jason whined a low, mournful coo, a whisper of I’m-so-sorry and I-can’t-imagine and I-want-to-make-it-better. He leaned into Tim and he adjusted easily, arms curling tightly around him. Jason wrapped his arms around his lower back and moved to hug with his wings as well, only to freeze. If his wings were cut off any sort of pressure there…

Tim huffed and pressed a hand against Jason’s wing, lightly, gently tugging it closer. “You can touch my back. I’m… better, at that stuff, now. Young Justice helped.”

Jason licked his lips and tried to steady his breathing. “Does it hurt?”

Tim stayed silent. That was telling enough.

Jason pulled back his wings. Tim sighed. “It always hurts,” he said, aggrieved. “Light pressure doesn’t make it worse anymore. It even helps, sometimes.” He sighed again, then started getting to his feet, gently tugging Jason along. “Come on. I’m not having this conversation without hot chocolate.”

To his immense surprise, Tim half-guided-half-dragged him toward the nest-adjacent conversation pit. Did dragon hybrids make nests? Jason’s pretty sure they did. He hesitated at the edge of the sunken arrangement of pillows and blankets and cushions, eyeing it—he had a feeling this nest wasn’t exactly communal.

Tim eyed him. He stayed on the outside edge of the nest. “You can come in. Unless you’d rather chill on the floor?”

Declining a direct invitation into someone’s nest was practically sacrilegious.

Jason slid inside, a wing spreading automatically as he slid down the cushioned sides. He landed half on top of a giant pillow and a fluffy black blanket and immediately froze. Jason… had very little experience being invited into private nests. He really hoped he hadn’t already shifted something important, or stepped in the wrong place. He looked to Tim to gauge his reaction.

His expression was complicated. Tired, mostly, from the nature of this interaction, but also quietly pleased in an anxious way. “You okay if I go make drinks?” he asked softly.

Jason hesitated, then nodded jerkily. His limbs were too large and his wings were in the way—and aching—and his breath was still fast, and he was half convinced he’d spiral into a full blown panic attack if Tim was gone for more than five minutes. But it didn’t take kettles that long to boil, right? Not when you were rich, certainly.

He just hoped he was making it from powder, and not with milk and chocolate over the stove the way Alfred did.

Tim nodded. “Yell if you need me.” Then he slid out of his crouch, and now that he was looking for it Jason could see the subtle movement his shoulders did, like wings trying to counterbalance the shifting of weight, and the almost unnoticeable stumble once he was on his feet. He left the room without looking back, and there wasn’t anything noticeably odd about his gait. Maybe a stiffness in his shoulders. Huh, now his tendency to borrow/steal shirts from people bigger than him made even more sense.

Jason wondered if he was using one of those fabled enchanted objects to disguise himself—if he had wings he almost certainly had a tail, too. And dragons usually had hollow bones; unless he’d managed to convince them to keep quiet, Leslie and Bruce and Alfred would know the first time he broke a bone, or did a blood test. Either way they almost certainly knew, they’d have seen the scars the second Tim got a back injury. Unless the enchantments hid scars too?

It was a nice nest. Carefully arranged, but in an organic way, like things had been shifted over time by people finding the comfiest spots. There were shirts from Dick and Bruce and Steph, all of them, and some that were probably from his Titan’s team, arranged in a seemingly random but carefully chosen pattern. A lot of the blankets were fluffy, but none of the pillows. There was a weighted blanket draped over the far edge. Jason folded his wings and tried to find a comfortable position without moving much. Then he remembered he was still wearing shoes, and hurriedly took them off, placing them on the floor outside the nest. At least he’d already changed into civvies.

It was a struggle to stop himself from counting the seconds. He tracked his breath instead, going through the breathing exercises Bruce taught him, not even summoning much annoyance when he realised where he learned them. They helped him feel less lightheaded. His wings still shook lightly, stayed puffed up in agitation. He let himself lean into the pillow, even press his face into the fluffy blanket for a second, enjoying the texture. If he wasn’t careful he could fall asleep like this.

Tim came back less than five minutes later, thankfully, and carried with him two mugs of hot chocolate. They weren’t quite full to the brim. Jason accepted his, leaning up so Tim didn’t have to bend as far, arranged his wings so any spills would land on them rather than the nest, and gently blew on it before taking a sip. It was nice, that perfect level of warmth that made him unable to take more than a sip at a time, with notes of cinnamon and maybe cloves, and the perfect amount of sweetness. How’d he know he liked his hot chocolates with cinnamon?

Tim set his own drink on the ground before toeing off his shoes and sliding into his nest, about a cushion’s length away. He took a slow sip, eyes closing, before leaning his head back and sighing. He opened one eye and stared at Jason. “So. What do you want to know?”

A lot. So much. Everything.

“Who else knows?”

Tim’s lips twitched. “Cass, Kon, Bart, Cassie, Greta, Cissie and Anita. And my parents knew, obviously. And the person that removed them.”

Jason took another sip to fight how dry his throat felt. “How’d you hide it from Bruce? Or Leslie?”

Tim took another sip. He reached for his neck and slipped a short necklace out from beneath his shirt, the one he always wore, even on patrol: thin gold chain and looping, golden pendant with a ruby and two tiny pink diamonds, which Jason always thought looked like eyes. It felt obvious in retrospect. “I think you’ve heard about these?”

“Ah.” Jason abruptly remembered all the times he got too talky, usually when tired or distracted, and rambled to the others, including Tim, of all the cool things about dragon hybrids. He’d been rambling about dragons to a dragon. Is this how fans feel after embarrassing themselves in front of their celebrity idol?

“It’s an illusion, then?” Jason said, taking another sip like that would hide the blush trying to creep up his cheeks.

“Hm, not really. It’s basically shapeshifting. All my dragon features only show up in one form, can only be seen or felt when I’m not wearing this. When I’m injured I can’t do it, I’m stuck in whatever form I was injured in. Scars carry over, and hair growth and aging and all that.”

Jason nodded slowly. “You—you still have the scars on your back, then…?”

Tim grimaced. “Yep. And the chronic pain, for some reason that always carries over. I’m just glad it doesn’t count as an injury.”

It was a struggle not to stare at his back. “How’d you hide them from Bruce?”

His wince deepened. “Did my best not to get injured on my back, and when I did, I hid it. Sometimes I’d have to put on a mask and pay a nurse to do stitches under the counter. Cass clocked me pretty quickly, she helped with injuries once we chatted about it. And once Young Justice learned I started going to them, too.”

Jason nodded slowly and tried not to feel horrified. He took another slow sip of his drink. He just—he just hid it? Bruce was literally called the world’s greatest detective, surely it was much harder and complicated than Tim made it seem, or he had to have seen something.

“And Bruce just—didn’t notice?” Jason asked, letting his incredulity seep into his voice.

Tim’s expression was wry and somewhat pained. “He was grieving you, Jay. I forced him to make me Robin. He hated me for months, he barely noticed when I broke bones half the time.”

Jason… would be bringing that up again later. Maybe with Bruce, to yell at him, because what the fuck? Seriously? If Tim was trying to ease his anxiety he had a very skewed perception of the world. “…Alfred?”

“He patched me up.” Tim shrugged. Jason wondered how much it hurt. “But like I said, I avoided injuring my back, and when I did get injured I hid it. Unless it’s an area he can treat without seeing the scars, or taking off my shirt, I would say I wasn’t injured. I just hid it.”

“‘Just hid it’? You just hid all your back injuries.”

“Yup.”

“From the world’s greatest detective and a war veteran butler.”

“Yup.”

Jason’s brows pinched in worry, in sympathy and concern. “Your pain tolerance must be through the roof, even more than mine.”

Tim inclined his head and averted his eyes. “Probably.” He took a somewhat surreptitious sip of his chocolate.

Jason took a sip too. It really was delicious. “…Can dragons actually see in the dark?”

Tim grinned. “A lot of us, yes. And we’re fireproof, too.”

Jason tried not to perk up or be too visibly excited. “Really?”

“Yup. Only in my dragon form, though, like this I’m just as flammable as you.”

“Can lead burn you?”

Tim’s expression went purposefully still. “Yes. In my dragon form. That’s what my wings were cut off with.”

“…I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“That too, but mostly I’m sorry I didn’t cut off Joker’s legs when I first had the chance.”

Tim froze, mug halfway to his lips. His eyes bore into Jason’s soul. “…How’d you know it was the Joker?”

Jason winced, looking down at his lap. He had to rest his drink against his wings in fear of spilling any from how hard he was shaking. “You just confirmed it. He… when he did it to mine, he made a comment about this being his second time. I always kind of figured he’d been responsible for severing the dragon wings.”

He heard Tim sigh, then the tiny noise of him setting his mug against the carpet floor.

They stayed silent for a long moment, grief palpable in the air.

“Are… are they still in good shape? Do you know?”

Jason looked up, and tried not to notice how close to tears Tim looked. “Yes. Almost a dozen of my men are tasked with keeping track of them. Um. Actually, there’s an auction for them tomorrow.”

Tim’s head snapped towards him. “What?”

“Someone from the Court of Owls has had them for the last seven or so months, they’re setting up an auction tomorrow night with half the crime lords in Gotham. Even some dudes from Blüdhaven are invited.”

Tim’s whole body started shaking.

Jason swallowed. “Is. Is the myth of dragons reattaching their wings real?”

Tim blinked back to the present, and hesitated, grimacing. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen it happen. Neither has my mother, but she was adamant it happened to her father. They’ve found loads of carvings telling stories of wings being returned after dismemberment. They were… very attached to the idea of finding mine. For the last year or so before mom’s death, hope seriously dwindled, and dad only brought it up twice after he woke up.”

Jason felt his irritation at the Drake’s swell.

Huh. He just realised how on the nose their last name was. That had to be on purpose.

“I.” Tim hesitated, then steeled himself. “I don’t know how much of it was phantom sensations—“ oh god, phantom pain, Jason hadn’t even considered that—“but sometimes I can swear I feel them pulling me somewhere. I… haven’t felt it in a while.”

Jason saw the anxiety seeping into his expression. “They’re both in one piece, I can assure you. I have some of my best men keeping track of them, if there was any hint of an idea of a plan to destroy or alter them, I’d know, and I would’ve stolen them immediately.”

“Why are you so attached to them? You didn’t even know they were mine half an hour ago.”

“I know what it feels like to have them taken away. Sort of, at least. I’ve always had respect for dragon hybrids. I wanted to give them a proper funeral, and. They hadn’t properly surfaced yet, but there were rumours about them when I first set up shop as Red Hood. They were described as belonging to a kid.”

Tim closed his eyes and visibly took a moment to steady himself. Jason let him, remembered his hot chocolate, and took a long drink. Not quite as warm as he’d want anymore.

Tim bowed his head. “I want to get them back.”

“So do I.”

“Even if reattaching them doesn’t work.”

“Okay. We can do that. Or maybe I can do that. I could go in as Red Hood, claim I wanted to take a look at them and see what all the fuss was about, and either before the auction or before they’re sent off I can steal them.”

Tim opened his eyes. “You’ll need backup.”

“I can call in Roy. Or Huntress, she owes me a favour.”

Tim bit his lip. “I probably won’t be in any condition to help.”

“That’s not true, you can be my tech support.”

“Oracle will want to know what we’re doing.”

“We’ll call it reconnaissance.”

A tense, but not wholly unpleasant silence followed, both of them sipping from their drinks.

“Can I stay over for the night?” Jason asked at last. It was about 3 AM when he swung by the cave. He was feeling the aches and pains from patrol now, of both bruises and excursion. He became annoyingly aware of how heavy his eyelids were.

“Sure.” Tim finished off the last of his drink, then blinked at the ceiling like he’d downed a shot rather than hot chocolate. “Do you want to sleep in here?”

“If you’re okay with that, then yes.” It was a very comfortable nest.

Tim nodded.

“Um. Do you have a tail?” Jason asked, after being unable to think up a decent segue. He really wanted to know, okay?

Tim grinned almost wistfully. “Yes. And horns, too.”

Jason exhaled and tried to imagine what that would look like. Would his tail be red and iridescent like the wings? How long was it? Did he have scales anywhere else? What colour were his horns? Did his eyes change? His hair? His teeth? Were his bones hollow in that form?

Tim huffed a laugh. “Your face looks ridiculous right now.”

Jason scrunched up his nose. “Sorry.”

Tim shook his head. “No, no, you’re alright, I’d be curious too.” He put down his mug and reached for his necklace.

Jason startled. “Wait, you don’t have to—“

Tim beat him to the punch. Even before he set it down, as soon as he opened the necklace’s clasp there was something different about him, an afterimage like the leftovers of a light show or the wavering air caused by heat. Then the necklace left his fingers, pooling against the edge of the floor, and all of a sudden he could actually see the differences, and oh boy was he different.

Tim’s nails were sharper and tinted purple, his ears were pointed, his grin showed off fangs, his eyes had slit pupils and were an unnatural, startling blue like the sky was a metal someone had melted white-hot and trapped inside his irises. There were grey horns protruding from either side of his head, near his temples, several inches long with ends almost pointing to the sky. And. There was now a tail curled around him, tip settled in his lap. Between four and five feet long. Small spikes or ridges following his spine. Dark red, crimson, the largest of the scales smaller than the nail of his pinkie, with purple undertones and a subtle, shimmering golden iridescence.

Jason gaped. It took until Tim hunched forward his shoulders for him to notice his expression was now one of pain. “Tim?”

Tim let out a low sound, inhuman, one of pain and fear and sorrow. But instead of his instincts flaring with protectiveness like he expected, Jason felt his entire nervous system light up in FEAR-DANGER-THREAT-PREDATOR-RUN-FLEE-RUN-AWAY.

Jason had already scrambled almost to the other side of the nest before he noticed he was moving. His wings were shaking too much to fly, but all his instincts screamed DANGER! DANGER! RUN FLY HIDE GET AWAY!! It took every ounce of willpower he had not to bolt for the door. He managed to root himself in place, shivering, wings doing their best imitation of puffballs, but couldn’t even contemplate moving closer.

Tim’s head was facing the floor, hands pressing into the cushions either side of him, hair curtaining his face. His shoulders were hunched and quivering. His tail flexed and shifted. His frame shuddered violently.

Jason’s mind ached with concern, while the rest of him yelled RUN NOW GET OUT WHILE HE’S DISTRACTED. He managed to spare a bit of worry for his hot chocolate. He was almost done, but he’d dropped it in his mad dash. Had he stained his brother’s nest?

Tim let out another low sound, this one much more familiar and less predator. A call for family-flock-brother-concern-where?

Jason had to swallow twice before mustering up the courage for an answering call. He tried to go for brother’s-here-safety-will-protect, but it came out more like fear-desperation-please-don’t-eat-me?

Tim paused, then looked up, and as soon as he caught sight of Jason his pupils thinned and the spines on his tail sat up, and his mouth dropped open with lips bared to show off his teeth in a distinctly threatening and hungry way, all of it making Jason yelp and dart another few feet away, pressing into the nest’s walls. But then Tim’s brow furrowed in both confusion and concern. He closed his mouth and curled the tip of his tail around his leg. He made a quiet rumble of safety-family-safe-no-harm-will-come.

It only minutely lessened Jason’s physical fear. Logically, he knew Tim wasn’t purposefully threatening him. Logically, he knew if either of them should be afraid of the other, Tim should be fearing him. Logically, he knew it was an evolutionary response, to what he perceived as a predator and what Tim perceived as prey. Unfortunately his body was not nearly as logical as the rest of him.

Jason managed to squeak out a hesitant, shaky call of mercy?

Tim’s answering call wasn’t quite like anything he’s heard before. It wasn’t much deeper than Tim’s normal voice but it felt like it was, like it took up the whole room. It rolled off his tongue smoothly and almost like a song, but Tim hesitated before making the sounds, mouth forming the vowels before speaking them. It was… almost scratchy? Definitely not the sounds of a bird hybrid, but kind of adjacent. To Jason’s brain it sounded nice, to his body it sounded like a predator. And to think he was usually the threat in equations like this.

It took Jason a second or two to parse what the warbling call meant, but he’s pretty sure it was mercy-mercy-safety-protection-no-threats-not-with-me.

Some of Jason’s tenseness left, but he still wasn’t able to do anything more than lean forward. Tim let out another call: safety-protection-promise-no-threat-no-danger-you-are-safe-with-me.

Finally, that was enough for Jason’s hindbrain to give him a chance. He scooted forward maybe a foot or so, movements jerky and tense. He tried to move further but his body would pull back at the last second.

Another call: please-I-promise-safety-I-will-protect-you-if-you-let-me.

Jason moved forward a cushion and a half, slowing down the closer he got, finally stopping with a whine of please-mercy-are-you-certain-no-harm?

Tim’s answering rumble was distinctly protective. It screamed there-are-no-threats-with-me-around, I-will-never-hurt-you, I-trust-you-in-return. Jason shuddered and some of his tenseness lessened. Tim quietly chirped, may-I-approach?

Jason squeaked. He was not proud of the sound, but he managed to twist it into something affirmative. His eyes snapped shut when Tim started moving, entire body tensing for the attack he knew wasn’t going to come.

He felt the pillows in front of him dip with weight, then a tail was wrapping around his waist and arms were curling around his shoulders. He whimpered instinctively at feeling a threat so close to his weakest point, head ducking as if to protect his neck, but then he heard—felt—a coo-ing rumble nearby and Tim curled all around him, a little strangely, accomodating for wings that weren’t there. The rumble-hum wasn’t quite a purr and wasn’t quite a growl. It felt like a promise of safety, of protection and warmth and love, but a lot of Jason’s instincts were still screaming THREAT!!

Slowly, the contact combined with the noise calmed him down a bit. Enough that he was able to force himself into relaxing, that he allowed Tim to gently manhandle him onto his side, let a soft, warm blanket be pulled over them both. Tim always had at least one arm around his middle, and his tail stayed in contact with him the entire time. It was strangely comforting. A nice weight, grounding.

Then Tim started lying down beside him only to jerk away and let out a bark of pain! the second his shoulder met the pillows.

Jason frowned. It was still a little hard to think with his instincts so in his face. He saw no reason for pain. He forced out a small coo of threat?

Tim started up the rumble sound again, conveying no-threat-only-safety-we-are-safe-this-pain-cannot-be-helped.

Jason let out a questioning noise. Tim kept up his reassuring purr, but when he finally lay down for real it became strained, laced with barely hidden pain-sorrow-fear-agony.

Jason made a confused distressed noise. He mentioned earlier… phantom pain? Shit.

Tim kept laying on his reassurances of no-threat-no-pain-I-will-stay-I-will-stay.

Jason had to swallow a couple times before he managed to make a chirp of I’m-sorry-you’re-hurt-how-can-I-make-it-better?

The purring paused. Tim’s grip on him tightened, punctuated by a low hum of you-can’t-I’m-sorry-thank-you.

Jason tentatively laid a wing, still half puffed in agitation, over Tim’s side. Tim tensed for a split second before leaning into him, mumbling thank-you-appreciation.

Jason relaxed a bit more. He made a coo of warmth-safety-sleep-no-pain rumble through his throat. Tim’s answering purr matched the sentiment.

Jason became abruptly very aware of how many cushions and pillows they were lying on and how soft the blanket over them was, how warm and soft and tired he felt, and promptly passed out.

[spopsalt]

Ik Rick and BoJack are random but I wanted to add on some well written characters :)

context for the character and list of some of their crimes under the cut!

Catra Applesauce Meow Meow

Definitely my most controversial pick for this list! Catra was an abused child soldier and abused her sister Adora, she was redeemed buttt her arc wasn't really...good. Her crimes: War crimes Abuse of power Corruption Reckless endangerment Psychological abuse Assault Terrorism Attempted regicide Attempted mass murder Attempted world domination Attempted cataclysm Conspiracy Mass destruction Abduction & kidnapping Unlawful imprisonment Brainwashing Theft Torture Treason Usurpation Coercion Stalking Mutilation Aiding and abetting Illegal use of weapons Espionage Crimes against peace Crimes against Etheria Altering reality (unintentional)

Next up my personal least favorite out of this list, Stolas!

Awww poor guy, forcing someone into having sex with you with holding what they need for their job over their head, his crimes took me a bit longer considering he's considered just a poor guy buttt here's a list I thought of from the top of my head: Child Neglect, Abuse of power (unsure if that's a crime) harrasment, r*pe

Next up Bojack the Horseman, Bojack the horse don't act like you don't know!

One of the more sympathetic ones, he's still an asshole but he does try to change and he is well written. He's egotistical and has a huge ego, we do get a positive implied outcome in the series finale, but it's still unclear. Here's a list of his crimes: Murder via inaction Assault Attempted murder Theft Drugging Breaking and entering Harassment Stalking Drug dealing and possession Driving under the influence Supplying alcohol to minors Corruption Sabotage Fraud Identity theft Trespassing Child endangerment Bullying Destruction of property Arson Sexual misconduct with a minor Psychological abuse

Next up my favorite, but still an awful person, Rick Sanchez!

Again, he's one of the more sympathetic ones given his past, and he is actively trying to change and does really love his grandson,the rest of his family and friends even sacrificing himself for his grandson but he is still a horrible person with a longgg list of crimes, also disclaimer ripped most of these from the villains wiki so if any info is missing or inaccurate that's why. List of crimes: Unethical experimentation Negligence Mass murder Mass genocide Mass enslavement Mass torture Mass mundicide Mass property damage Mass manslaughter Mass theoricideMass omnicide (heavily implied)Terrorism Treason Theft Trespassing Death threats Hijacking Assault and battery Psychological abuse Human trafficking Vandalism Regicide Arson Deicide Piracy Possession Hacking Kidnapping Blackmail Con artistry Drug dealing Mutilation Brainwashing Smuggling Corruption Defilement Heresy Vigilantism False imprisonment Jailbreak Sabotage Incrimination Reckless endangerment Indecent exposure Impersonation Cannibalism Aiding and abetting Disturbing the peace Child abuse Substance abuse Abuse of power Burglary War crimes Animal cruelty Forced transmutations Corpse desecrations Grand theft DUI Pollution Attempted infanticideIllicit dealings Weapons dealing Graverobbery Usurpation Public intoxication Child endangerment Evading arrest Perjury Illegal weapons development

[babyblu3s-dolly]

Tw// implied SA, blood, Self mutilation. Vent art

A hope this child's body pleased you. I will forever be broken because of you.

I have to go to Florida tomorrow, its going to be awkward just wearing hoodies and sweatpants in 80 degree weather. I hope he isn't there, I'll cry if he is, I don't want to do it.

[mania-sama]

gojo satoru's guide to being a good father: cheating is only tolerable if it happens in monopoly

Before He Cheats - Carrie Underwood

➼ information ❧ Jujutsu Kaisen ❧ Pairing: Fushiguro Megumi & Fushiguro Tsumiki & Gojo Satoru, Fushiguro Megumi & Gojo Satoru ❧ Additional Characters: Itadori Yuuji, Kugisaki Nobara ❧ Tags: implied/referenced cheating, no curses au, guardian-ward relationships, gojo satoru adopted the fushiguros, parental! gojo, protective! gojo, vandalism, threats of violence, father-son bonding via car vandalism: the fic ❧ Summary: In which Tsumiki gets cheated on and, really, Gojo has been waiting to destroy a bitch's Maserati. ❧ Word Count: 4,054 ❧ Cross-posted from Archive of Our Own ❧ Original post date: 1 January 2024 ❧ Now available as a podfic!

Gojo receives a text from Tsumiki saying that she’s coming home to visit for a couple of days, and two seconds later the front door slams open. A loud bang echoes in the house when it hits the wall. Oh, good. Megumi’s home.

“I’m going to kill that bastard,” he hears the boy fume, forcing the door shut with even more vigor. That poor abused door. Maybe Gojo should consider a therapist for it. “I’m going to chop his dick off and feed it to him.”

“Good afternoon to you, too,” Gojo greets cheerfully. Looking up from the living room couch, he sees his irate ward stalk to the kitchen and pilfer through the various sharp knives in the steel-colored knife block. Not good. He’s already picking out his murder weapon before taking off his backpack. “What’s going on?”

Megumi spares a side-eye so full of anger that Gojo doesn’t even have it in him to feel disrespected. “He cheated,” he says simply while drawing out the chef knife from the block. The noise it makes is a sharp shing, a telltale sign of crimes yet to come.

“Who cheat— oh.” That would explain the short, out-of-the-blue text message from Tsumiki. Suddenly Megumi’s fury seems a lot less irrational. Gojo has a short, beautiful vision of beating Tsumiki’s boyfriend to the point where even his mother wouldn’t recognize his face.

“Yeah.” Megumi holds the large blade out for a second, giving it a long, examining look. Apparently, it satisfies his criteria because he drops his arm by his side and starts heading for the door. Oh shit. He’s actually going to go chop his dick off.

Not that Gojo doesn’t want to either, it’s just that, well, he’s not supposed to indulge in body mutilation. Besides, if Megumi gets caught with that knife in his hand, he’ll get arrested, and Gojo really doesn’t want that to go on the boy’s permanent record. Satoru, unfortunately, cannot woo police officers out of prison sentences like he has for teachers to throw out Megumi’s detentions.

“Hey, hey, hold on!” Gojo jumps up and vaults over the couch in one swift movement, carefully sidestepping whenever Megumi carelessly turns around. The knife’s tip swipes where Gojo’s stomach had once been. “You cannot go around castrating people!”

Megumi glares at him with the heated fury of a thousand burning suns. His lips are pulled so far down into a scowl that Gojo’s unsure his facial muscles are ever going to let him smile again. “Oh, you’re going to start disciplining me now?”

Okay, wow, Gojo did not ask for commentary on his lack of proper child anger management.“I’ve disciplined you plenty,” Gojo insists, though Megumi looks unconvinced. “Listen. I know he deserves it. But do you even know where he is or how you’re gonna get there without anybody catching you with that knife?”

Satoru holds out his hand expectantly while Megumi stares at him hard, his nose scrunched up and green eyes alight with unrelenting ire. Eventually, he sighs hard and presses the handle of the chef knife into Gojo’s palm.

“You’re not seriously going to let him get away with this, are you?” Megumi asks, his voice marginally calmer and less accusatory than it was before. Deciding to be responsible, Gojo slides the chef knife back into its proper spot and stands firmly in front of the knife block. Just in case his ward makes another attempt at righteous vengeance.

At the question and Megumi’s impatiently crossed arms, Gojo has to think. Obviously, he isn’t going to let this go unpunished. To imagine that any man could think they could hurt his sweet Tsumiki who has never done anything wrong in her entire life — okay, there was that one time that she thought it was okay to spend three thousand dollars on Robux but she didn’t really mean to do that — and run away scot-free sends a violent shiver down Gojo’s spine. 

He never told Tsumiki this, but he doesn’t think her boyfriend is all that attractive or intelligent, emotionally or scholarly. What he did tell her was that as long as she was happy, he would be happy. Not before a talk with said boyfriend where he promised he would do much worse things to him if he ever dared make Gojo’s ward cry.

So, what could he do to a twenty-one-year-old university student without mutilating any body parts but still following through with his promise?

Gojo smiles at Megumi, whose eyebrows are raised in anticipation. “Megumi, you have a lot to learn about revenge. What is the one thing a self-absorbed, cheating man loves more than anything in the whole world?”

“His dick,” he responds confidently.

“No!” Satoru laughs and points a finger at Megumi’s nose, watching as he goes momentarily cross-eyed. “Good guess. I’d put that at number two. But Megumi, dear, you must understand. There is nothing he is more prideful of than his car.”

Noticing his ward’s skepticism, he brings his index finger upwards. He uses the rest of his fingers to list off with his words. “One: It’s hard to get away with castration. As much as I hate to admit it, no way you’re going to chop off his dick. Two: Cars are feminine. Men like him love to own anything they can call a she. Three: Cars are expensive and he is a broke college student. I imagine his parents paid for the one he owns now, which is a nice Maserati Ghibli. Four: He will be without a vehicle and have to own up to his parents that his car got destroyed, and the only correlating event that would lead up to such a tragedy would be his cheating. Do you understand now, Megumi?”

Truly, he doesn’t think he’s ever seen Megumi comprehend anything so well in his entire seventeen years of life. His ward gives him a short nod.

“Good. Unfortunately, we can’t enact our revenge today. We can’t show up wherever he is and destroy his car. No, we have to first get him to park in a secluded lot, then occupy him for a few hours,”  Gojo informs. Megumi listens intently, and, oh, it’s been so long since he’s gotten this boy to actually pay attention to everything he says. It makes Satoru feel all warm inside. “Got any friends that can help us with this?”

Megumi doesn’t hesitate to pull out his phone. “I bet that bastard likes them younger, too. Kugisaki can help.”

“When you’ve come up with a plan, tell me and we’ll review it.”

His ward nods and sends a text on his phone, presumably to Kugisaki Nobara. Gojo waits for Megumi to leave the kitchen to go to his room before he pries himself away from the counter. He chooses to stay in the living room in preparation for the scenario where Megumi decides that he can’t wait any longer and a castration must be performed. He also wants to be the first person to greet his older ward when she gets home.

—

The next three days are spent comforting Tsumiki while carefully planning the glorious demise of her ex-boyfriend’s car. She is too kind, even in mourning of her year-long relationship. She has barely a bad word to speak of that roach of a man. Instead, she cuddles with Gojo as they watch her favorite movies and comedy specials, eat all sorts of unhealthy food and home-cooked meals, and play various board games that Megumi reluctantly joins them in.

It’s the closest they’ve been since Tsumiki left for her second year at university while Megumi works on graduating high school. Gojo works at a different university about a mile away, so he’s nearby at all times. If he cancels a few classes, nobody says a word to him. It comes with being the most highly acclaimed physics professor in all of Japan.

It would be perfect if it weren’t for the weight of a cheating ex-boyfriend dampening the mood at all times. Gojo is happy to be with his kids — wards, technically. Wards — but one of them isn’t, and the other is too involved in a revenge plot to be fully invested in the time they are spending together. Whatever, he consoles himself. It’s the best he’ll get until summer.

In the midst of watching The Human Centipede 2, which, for the record, is a horrifying franchise and he doesn’t understand why Tsumiki likes it so much, he gets a horrid vision of both of his children away in university. Then them in apartments of their own, and they only get together again once or twice a year for holidays. He isn’t able to hold them close on his living room couch on a mundane Tuesday afternoon to watch a deranged scientist attach humans together via mouths to buttholes.

Gojo pulls Tsumiki a little tighter to his side and places a careful arm around Megumi’s shoulders. His son — ward — stiffens for a moment, then leans his cheek on Satoru’s bicep. While both of their eyes are fixated on the screen, he gives a small glance to both of the kids. He feels their steady breaths against his body.

It takes everything in Satoru to smother his smile.

Then the fated day finally arrives.

The plan consists of five participants, four willing (Gojo, Megumi, Nobara, Yuuji) and one unwilling (Tsumiki’s ex-boyfriend). Megumi and his two friends did all of the planning and arrangements while Gojo bought the necessary equipment: two Louisville sluggers, gloves, hats, brass knuckles, a box cutter, and the special edition Tokyo Monopoly. He also rented a sparkling silver BMW because Gojo refuses to be outclassed by a broke college student.

Oh, and they need it so his actual car won’t be recognized. That’s why everything he bought was either new or could hide their appearance, aside from the brass knuckles and board game; if the police catch them, Megumi will never forgive Gojo for not letting him perform a well-deserved castration.

At precisely two thirty in the afternoon, Megumi and Satoru bid Tsumiki a hasty farewell. Gojo doesn’t trust either of them to lie well enough to her, so they don’t give her enough time to ask where they are going. Her shouted question is left as an unanswered echo behind the closed front door.

It takes them thirty minutes to arrive at the designated location, a hole-in-the-wall bar in the rundown part of Ueno. Predictably, there aren’t many people there on a Wednesday before happy hour. Most people had classes or work at this time, and besides, drinking at three in the afternoon without any good football or baseball games to watch is just sad.

Unless, of course, someone had good company with them. A group of friends or a date with a seventeen-year-old girl who insisted that the only time she could get with him was at three on Wednesday! Really! She’s busy the rest of the week and her parents are oh-so restricting…

Since Satoru is a responsible adult, he made sure that the bartenders were paid off in advance to pretend that they are serving alcohol to young Kugisaki. She will simply act like she is getting drunk off of sparkly orange and pink drinks. Then, when the time is right, the ex-boyfriend will lead her to his car to take her to his apartment with only the most pure of intentions. Obviously. But what he will find instead is a pile of mutilated metal and deflated rubber.

There were only two glaring holes in the plan when Megumi originally proposed it to him, which they patched up by including Yuuji. The first: Gojo knows Nobara can bench twice her weight and take down a man with a hairpin, but he needs to be one hundred percent sure she will be entirely safe. There’s no telling what an enraged pedophile may be able to achieve. Additionally, she needs a quick getaway. The second: A video of the man’s reaction is required, and nobody involved will be in a position to record.

So, Megumi kindly asked Itadori Yuuji to hang out in the parking lot in his car, inherited from his dearly departed grandfather, and be at the ready with both his phone and brass knuckles should the situation escalate so far. Gojo hopes it doesn’t because that would make for a terrible reaction video.

The parking lot is situated at the back of the bar, which has no windows for an unsuspecting cheater to look out of and witness a crime being committed on his prized possession. Gojo parks a couple of spots to the right of the pearly white Maserati, spotting Yuuji’s old red Nissan on the left. The windows are barely tinted, allowing them to make eye contact with each other. Or rather, Itadori looks at Gojo’s shades for a split second before waving enthusiastically to Megumi. His ward returns the gesture with a small wave of his own.

Before Gojo can say something that will undoubtedly embarrass Megumi and spoil the mood, he swings his orange-and-blue slugger over his shoulder and adjusts his black cap with a gloved hand. “I’m feeling generous,” he declares. “You take the first swing.”

Megumi looks up at him, gives him a malicious grin, and steps close to the right wing mirror. Instead of swinging it, he slams the butt of the bat into the glass. It takes one more shove to send the wing mirror crashing to the ground. Glass shatters on the asphalt. Luckily, Gojo made Megumi wear a jacket and a pair of designer shades that would protect him from spray shards.

Laughing at the broken display of vandalism, Gojo pats Megumi on the shoulder. “Hit a home run into his headlights! I’ll work on getting in the car.”

“Destroying the inside?” Megumi asks, already stepping around to the front of the car. He gets into a proper batting stance, just like how Gojo taught him when the boy was playing the sport in middle school. The sun reflects brightly on the black-and-yellow Louisville slugger.

“Can’t leave a job half-finished, can we?” Satoru grins. His ward knocks a clean hole into one headlight at the same time Gojo leaves a spiderweb of cracks in the driver’s window. When the glass shatters inwards, he’s able to reach into the car and press the unlock button. The Maserati Ghibli has a slight off-white leather interior. Gojo takes a second to run his hand over the seat, savoring the beauty he’s about to destroy.

It’s a morbid pleasure to slide open his box cutter and carve jagged lines into the clean interior. White scars are left behind when he pulls the blade from the leather. He takes special care to draw little broken hearts and a cat with a pair of sunglasses on. When he’s done with the front and back seats, he finds that Megumi has already made a full round with the car. Thin streaks were keyed into the car doors, and every inch of the once pristine Maserati is filled with deep dents.

Megumi admires the view with Gojo, his breath coming out in small pants. “Well?”

“It can be better. Go again,” he answers, even though the car is so beautifully destroyed that it makes his heart swell. The teacher who said his kid was destined for failure was sorely mistaken; this is a sign of great things to come.

Megumi nods and lifts his slugger to smash another dent into the back window. It was already shattered, but now the only indication glass was ever there in the first place are the shards lying scattered in the trunk.

Gojo could cry with how proud he is of his son. His ward. Son.

Pushing out the blade of the box cutter again, Gojo crouches and slashes a hole into the first of four tires. He watches in satisfaction as air rushes out to rejoin the natural atmosphere. It has the same impact as releasing a caged, rehabilitated animal back into the wild. Probably. Satoru hasn’t done that before but he figures this is pretty much the same thing.

He moves on to the next tire after golfing the fenders three times with his bat. Megumi meets back up with him on the last tire, and this time there’s sweat dripping from his face. It’s a decently hot day, Gojo can admit. A few straggling wisps of clouds drift lazily across the sky, leaving the sun to bake the creatures on Earth. His own neck is uncomfortably wet and sticky.

“Here,” he hands over the box cutter, a shade duller than it was before. “I’ll leave the final honor to you.”

Megumi holds the box cutter in his hand like it’s the Holy Grail. When he rips into the tire, Gojo hopes he’s imagining a dick being sliced off instead like Gojo is. It’s the closest they’re going to get until one brave woman decides that enough is enough.

They step back to admire their work. It should be displayed in a museum next to Winged Victory of Samothrace or Perseus with the Head of Medusa. The whole world should lay their eyes on the perfect mound of metal and rubber they have molded. It’s barely even recognizable. The dark inside machinery of the car is visible from the parts Megumi tore off with his hands or batted away with the slugger. It sits closer to the ground than before thanks to the tire deflation. Several holes fall open in the cracked windows.

Gojo wraps an arm around Megumi’s shoulder, tugging him to stand closer to his side. His ward doesn’t put up a fight against his guardian and even rests his head against Gojo’s collarbone.

No language has an accurate word to describe the feeling that courses through his body. It’s a concoction of every good and bad thing Gojo has done in his life; every misstep he’s taken in raising the Fushiguro kids, and every moment he’s experienced overwhelming pride, fear, and joy for them. It’s twelve years all at once, tucked away under his arm.

“Your sister is going to kill me when she finds out about this,” he says. Megumi snorts.

“It’ll be worth it.”

Megumi’s voice is low with fondness, the only kind that can be produced after a long rush of adrenaline.

A great amount of strength allows him to open his mouth. “We need to leave before they get out here,” he mutters. Slowly, as if reluctant, Megumi detaches himself from Gojo’s arm. The warmth of his son’s body is lost immediately, replaced by the distant uncaring sun.

They wave Yuuji farewell and hop into the car, blasting the air conditioner and the playlist containing both the perfect, glorious, angel choir songs Gojo likes and the obnoxiously emo songs Megumi listens to. About halfway through the drive, Satoru asks if Megumi’s hungry.

Megumi looks up at him from his phone, his eyes squinted with something mischievous. “Can we have—”

“We are not having KFC,” Gojo says firmly.

Instead of frowning, Megumi’s lips contort into a half-smile of some kind. Like he’s trying to hide the fact that he’s enjoying being in the car with Gojo. And Gojo — Gojo can’t help himself. This is his son. The prickly five-year-old he met in an alley is now seventeen years old, looking down at his lap with his face scrunched up in a failed attempt at keeping his composure. He’s not laughing only to maintain his image. Megumi is happy.

It’s not enough to get Gojo to go through a KFC drive-thru because some wounds will simply never heal, but he does pull into the parking lot of the next best thing: Subway.

“So, I was thinking tonight we’d play Monopoly,” he suggests as they gorge themselves on two foot-long sandwiches and a large bag of Doritos. Megumi tries to scowl, but his full cheeks make him look more like a chipmunk.

“No. You always cheat at Monopoly,” Megumi says after swallowing his food.

“I don’t! I play fair and square.”

“You always have to be a banker so you can steal money and give us incorrect payments,” he deadpans.

Gojo ignores him. It’s not his fault they won’t play by the objectively correct rules of Monopoly. “But it’s Tokyo Monopoly! You can own Shibuya Crossing!”

Megumi’s gaze is unimpressed, but he doesn’t retaliate anymore. Gojo doesn’t bother to hide his shit-eating grin. Another day, another victory for one Gojo Satoru.

—

Tsumiki is waiting for them when they get home. She’s leaning against the wall of the foyer, her gaze stupidly hard for someone who’s supposed to be grieving the end of a relationship. It takes them exactly two point three nanoseconds to see that she has them figured out.

“Where were you two?” She asks them as if she doesn’t know. The air cracks with tension.

Gojo smiles and shoves Megumi forward. “You know, Megumi has been dying to tell you!”

His son glares at him in disgust before fully facing his sister. “We, uh,” he clears his throat. “We vandalized your ex’s car.”

The house is silent for five whole seconds. Megumi stares at his sister with bated breath, waiting for his soul to be wiped out of the mortal plane in the form of an hour-long lecture. But Gojo knows better. He knows because this is his daughter.

She sags forward, a smile ghosting her lips. Her eyes carry heavy eyebags, but they shine with expectation. “Do you at least have a video?”

Of course, she wants to chop his dick off, too. And of course, she recognizes that the next best option is destroying his pearly white Maserati Ghibli. She was raised by Gojo Satoru, after all.

Before Gojo orders her DoorDash Subway, they watch the video Yuuji sent to Megumi’s phone — the contact photo for the young Itadori is hilariously cute in comparison to Nobara’s, making Satoru give his son a knowing shoulder bump — on the big screen.

His reaction is priceless, what with the screams and caressing of the broken angles of the car. He moves to furiously grab Nobara’s shoulders, but she digs her heel straight into his balls before he can lay a finger on her.

Yuuji lowers his phone as she gets in, kicking his car into reverse so they can peel out of there before he gets up off the ground. The video ends with the kids’ glorious laughter and Nobara shouting, “It worked! Go, Itadori! Go!” Tsumiki’s giggle gives Gojo more joy than the actual process of destroying the car.

Well. Okay. Her giggle is almost better than destroying a Maserati Ghibli. What can he say? It was the most fun he’s had since he decided to stop breaking the law to set a good example for his kids.

Later, when they sit down to play Tokyo Monopoly, he may or may not tone down his strict following of the rules. Perhaps he embezzles a little less, and perhaps he switches out Tsumiki’s house for a hotel when his kids aren’t paying attention. He still wins after five hours of playing but that’s beside the point.

The day ends with a hug from Tsumiki. He doesn’t fully hug his kids often. Even when they were young and missing both parental figures who should’ve been giving them hugs three times a day, Gojo didn’t let himself get close enough to them. Realistically, he knows it’d been a product of his own young age and inexperience. Growing up in a cold family didn’t help matters; his only model of parents were his own unfeeling ones and what he’d observed of other families from afar.

That doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt when he hesitates to hold his children, unsure if they would want to be touched by their legal guardian. It’s worse to see them withdraw from touching him, too, like they’re worried he’ll pull away in disgust.

So, this is nice, the hug from his daughter before she goes to bed. She smiles at him from the top of the staircase. She is happy.

Yeah, it’s certainly better than destroying a Maserati Ghibli.

… Well. Maybe not. Maybe nothing will be better than that. But he swears that Tsumiki’s happiness is a very, very close second.

[robbierants]

Black Butler Rant: Alois Trancy, hate, Mental illness, and Gender roles? Spoilers for season two of the show

IM NOT HATING ON ANY OF THE CHARCTHERS

Ive done a rant on Alois b4 but idc

Alois trancy seems to be hated for various reasons, i’ve heard fans talk about what an awful character he is. He’s a whore, he’s selfish, abusive, evil ect. The curious thing is all the Black Butler Characters are immoral, only about two or three aren’t. And Alois isn’t the cruelst, or most hard hearted of any of the characters shown on Black Butler. Madam Red is Jack the Ripper, The Count Druit selling people on the black market, and Agni was a criminal who slaughtered people just becuse he had class issues. Now maybe these characters aren’t that popular, but i know of three very amoral characters who are loved by the fans who can’t stand Alois.

My one and only Love, Grell is a comedic phycopath, who murdered Madam Red, her lover, for refuseing to kill Ciel. But humor aside lets take a look at her personality, She is completly selfish, vain and takes stalking and ignoreing consent to a whole new level. Will sleep with anything that moves demon dogs included, Remember she was ready to help Ciel, becuse he promised to let her do what she wanted to Sebastian. The guy who hates and is repulsed by her. She even says dispite her feelings for Sebastion she’d hack him up and is completly serious when she says it. Grell has never showed remorse regret or compassion for anyone or anything, she has no redeeming qualities, but people still love her (including me)

2) Sebastian- Lets ignore how hot he is, although fan girls and gays do realize he’s a mutilated crow right? Another Amoral character! he is a demon who is preying on a child, seasoning his soul so he can simply have a good meal. Sebastian smirks at Ciel’s suffering and pain constantly. Manipulates and lies when it suits him and enjoys squishing humans who have no chance aginst him like bugs. In season two he violated Ciel’s trust lied to him, and once Ciel was a demon and had no soul Sebastion killed him. Proving the only warm feelings Sebastian has are toward kitties.

Lastly Ciel himself! he’s saddistic, cold, cruel and willing to sacrifice whats left of his family and freinds for revenge to avenge his pride. He has already killed two people and ordered the deaths of many more. Shows no remorse and will let his Demon be abused to suit his purposes or will pimp him out.

All these characters have personality traits Alois has been accused of or warped into by fanfiction. He does in fact share these same traits with other characters so why are they loved for them, while he’s hated? I think it has to do with gender roles and the idea of people being unable to accept, what they do not percieve as normal behavior. People hate what they don’t understand.

It all starts with media, years of watching boys and men in fiction shug off every trauma and abuse, and remain unaffected by it has made viewers forget. In real life Boys who go through half the things they go through in movies, books, and television would end up completly messed up.

Media and society stresses this idea of manly strength boys, don’t get hurt, boys don’t cry! boys can take anything! Any boy who can’t is weak.

Hence, complete contempt for Alois Trancy’s character, who gets hysterical when the lights go off and cries a lot and gets scared.

He’s very emotional, needy and immature in contrast the Ciel, who’s cold detachment, apparent machurity and calm disposition reflects the manly ideal. Ciel goes around ordering Sebastion to kill people and in fiction male characters are judged by their willingness to weild power.

Alois has power but would rather have Claude as an freind then a slave. Plus Alois likes blue bells, wears frilly nightgowns, dresses up as a girl and likes soft girly colors like pink and purple and his disreguard for gender roles and implied sexuality is bound to make anyone who’s homophobic or insercure uncomfortable. He dosen’t care about dignity, money or power like Ciel, he instead wants comfort, safety and love.

Alois is mentally ill so his behaviors and mood swings scare people, and make them feel uncomfortable, much like how people react when confronted with real mental illness. Its easier to judge then to understand.

When people see someone like Alois they feel resentful and feel the need to put them in their place.

They scream "Stop acting like that!” But thats why I love Alois. Throughout the show he was told by everyone, that he was filthy and worthless, crazy and weak, that his emotions were wrong, hell even his demon Butler Claude told him, he was unworthy becuse he loved him.

Everyone around him perfers the cold detached almost inhumane Ciel Phantomhive. Only Hannah Annafellows accepts and loves Alois for who he is, faults and all. She helps Alois triumph in the end and in the end its he who controls the fates of the oh so perfect Ciel, and both demons.

In the end he wins the game becuse he embraces his emotions and turns them into a strength beating the more manly, cold, detached, and more popular characters. Claude is also really detatched cold and calculateing and Sebastian simply uses emotion to manipulate people, underneath the mask he’s also pretty chilly.

This makes some fans angry becuse Alois character not only challanges social and gender roles with his behavior but succeeds even when it seems he’d been crushed like a bug. Grell is aloud to have the same behaviors as Alois and viewers are fine with it, becuse Grell is a trans women.

Women are suposed to be passionate and emotional according the the sterotype.

Or maybe i’m over thinking it and fans just hate Alois becuse he’s going against Ciel and they like Ciel and he put Sebastian out by makeing him unable to eat Ciel’s soul. And maybe people just love Grell because of her big chain saw. I don’t know for sure those were just my thoughts on the matter.

[minteaspoon]

The Tides’ Captain

sad implied lucemond:(

IMPORTANT NOTE: THIS FIC INCLUDES TEEN PREGNANCY!!!! LUKE IS 15 AT THE START OF THIS FIC, SO VERY UNDERAGE!!!! DNI IF YOU ARE SENSITIVE TO THIS TOPIC!!!!

a/n: Luke has a son out of wedlock (it’s definitely Aemond’s), and is thus shamed and exiled by his family (with great hesitation and protest from Rhaenyra and Corlys’ side of the family, but is celebrated by the Greens)

Also, how Luke got pregnant will be up to interpretation (I personally say there’s no explanation for it, it just happened and is a complete surprise to everyone involved, which would bring potentially unhinged shenanigans and that thought is hilarious to me)

•._•._•._•._•._•

It had been six months.

Six months since Luke was found to be with child.

Six months since Luke was found out to have been bedded before marriage.

Six months since Luke had been put in front of the court and shamed.

Six months since Luke had been exiled from Westeros.

It had been six months since he’s bedded him.

The damn bastard didn’t even own up to it! But what should he have expected, with his reputation as a mutilator of kin and a bastard spawn. Tis only fair a bastard birth a bastard - at least, in the eyes of the court, and to the one he gave his maidenhood to.

The brunette even had to abandon Arrax, and was given no dragon egg to gift to his child. Something he knows the Hightowers and their allies celebrated.

Luke had sailed across the sea after hitching a ride with sailors who took pity on the poor lad. They did whatever they could to help accommodate him; fed him, sheltered him, told him stories and taught him song and dance and fishing. And in return, the exiled prince helped in whatever chores he was able.

He grew to care and love his sailor family, and they saw him as one of their own. They had even given him a new name - Prim Carlisle of the Tidefall Ship, Pearl of its crew. Luke’s little one was even given options for names by his found family; Pitt, Ervin, Arwen, Mittie, Eula, Matildah… He was leaning into naming the child either Tidus for a boy, or Joanna for a girl.

The crew had even given him his own weapon, in case he ever needed to fight alongside them - though they promise he needn’t have to, as they’d never let a pregnant fellow do heavy work, and they’ll do whatever it takes to make sure he never has to see, hear or commit any violent act. When Prim saw the dagger, he knew immediately what to name the silver blade melded into a dark hilt with small gems molded onto it - Tidal. His family laughed and teased him for such a corny name, but he stuck by it.

Before he knew it, six months had passed by, then seven, then eight and finally, he was in his last month of pregnancy. And before he knew it, he met his son; Tidus. His hair was of his mother, brown curls that framed his chubby and red face, but his eyes - they were purple.

Got something from his father, hm?

The bitter thought flew in his mind, as he smiled bitterly at his sleeping son. His birth wasn’t easy - it took Prim two days to get him out, and he had to be moved from the ship to land for proper care and assistance, as the sea is no place for anyone to give birth in. The trek to land helped in positioning Tidus correctly, so the last few moments of his birth was a success. And most importantly, Luke…Prim didn’t have to be cut open.

For a solid three months, Prim and his crew stayed on the island to rest from the chaos of birth, and the celebration of a new member of their family. After their rest, they set out yet again, this time, with even more cherished cargo with them - a child and a few girls of the island willing to come aboard and travel with Prim’s family, to help with medicine, organizing and with basic household - shiphold- chores.

Once again, Prim’s family was expanding. A few years evidently pass by, and Tidus was now three, while Prim was now eighteen. It has been three years since he last step foot on Westerosi grounds, since he had last sailed Westerosi waters, since he had last flown on Arrax in Westerosi skies. Prim was a far better sailor than he was three years prior - he was no longer seasick on deck, he knew the ropes, knew how to navigate the seas, knew how to chart and read the weather, knew how to use the stars in his predictions, and he knew how to sail and fish and hunt and lead.

When the captain of the Tidefall Ship fell to a sickness one day while they anchored on a small island, he named Prim the next captain once he hit the bucket. And when he did, his last will and command was effective immediately.

At first, Prim didn’t know if he had the ability to become captain, but with his crew’s help and his son’s encouragement, he became a feared and respected leader of a band of skilled, resourceful and “no-good” sailors under the moniker Prim Carlisle, “The Mermaid”.

It was only another three years later, when Prim and Tidus freshly turned twenty one and six respectively, did Prim decide to finally settle down somewhere cozy and quiet, where it would only be Prim and Little Tidus. When he dropped the news to his crew, they immediately went into hysterics, and immediately said they’ll settle down with him as well - though, with some prodding from Prim, they continued on their voyages, with Prim’s second in command as the new captain.

After a few weeks at sea, mapping out potential places of note good for a single parent and their child, Prim settled on a valley surrounded by wildlife and mountains and cliffs, with a meadow in the middle full of flowers with space large enough for a farm, cabin and animals.

The crew promised to come visit with gifts and trinkets and anything the father-son duo could need, and Prim held them to the promise.

Prim and Tidus lived in relative peace together in their little corner of personalized heaven. They had a cabin full of comfortable crafts by Prim and Tidus, alongside being decorated with presents from their family. They had a farm with two cows, five chickens and three sheep. They had growing crops of all kinds, as they were given many seeds by their crew to start out with. Not only that, but the girls had even given and taught him how to make the most of what little one might have during the weeks leading up to his and Tidus’ settlement.

Life was perfect for the father-son duo.

Until it wasn’t.

It wasn’t long until they hear rumors from travelers about a war brewing in Westeros, a war between family - a dance of dragons. Each side had been looking for dragon seeds to hatch and claim dragons for their side, and their reach had far extended past even the Free Cities. Prim knew better than to get involved - especially with his former family, so he made precautions to barricade both the obvious and inobvious entrances to his valley, and hid him and his child away from the skies. Only his crew knew their whereabouts, and how to get in and out.

However, these measures weren’t enough to keep him safe from someone who was desperate to get him back despite the years, and despite the fact that he never owned up to his part as Tidus’ father.

Above Prim, during a night of chill and snow, as a white and thick blanket of white coats the lands, he hears a roar that brings shivers down his spine. Clutching his crying son to his chest, who was scared for him and his mother in front of the green beast above them, in one hand while on the other, he holds his dagger - Tidal, Prim looks up and gazed past the hulking mass of flesh and scales -

And makes eye contact with a desperate, relieved and grieving violet eye.

[superstarzolar]

FNaF Athazagora AU Ghost Mechanics

CW/TW: Implied/somewhat described death/child death

(Note: even though i’m using cassidy as an example, this is a process all of the ghosts (aside from sammy and charlie) go thru)

Status: Alive. I sure hope nothing bad happens!

Ambience: None.

Appearance: Whatever the person looks like.

Traits: Whatever their personality is.

Extra: Nothing.

Status: Freshly Dead/Newly Possessive

Ambience: Quiet sobbing/whimpering sounds in the person’s voice.

Appearance: A desaturated version of the person they used to be, but with perpetual tear marks (and sometimes even shadows).

Traits: Depressed, no matter what. They do retain most of the personality they had while they were alive, but it is hard to be positive and bubbly when you are dead.

Extra: Depending on the circumstances, the tears can change color. The shadows also reflect how much the person can remember about themselves. The shadows grow longer the more memory they have forgotten, but can be temporarily halted. This memory loss can happen naturally over time, but a deterioration of a vessel speeds up this process. In this stage, the ghost’s form can also change if the information they have about what they look like changes too (which is how the cover-up kid designs tie into the ghosts— these false appearances trick the ghosts into believing that that is what they looked like). Additionally, there is an automatic shadow on the ghost’s form if their body had experienced any sort of mutilation or dismemberment before/during/immediately after their death.

Status: Slipped

Ambience: Noisy gargling, crying, and screaming in voices other than the person’s.

Appearance: Completely shadowed with red tears, takes the form of the person’s silhouette.

Traits: A wanderer. Not passively violent, but is easily provoked.

Extra: If a ghost has reached this stage, it means that they have completely forgotten who they are. They take the form of a silhouette because that is, essentially, what they are; a mere shadow of who they once were. The only way a ghost can be reinstated from this form is if they (somehow) receive all of their memories again.

Status: Vengeful

Ambience: Silence with occasional screaming and/or giggling in the person’s voice.

Appearance: Shadowed and saturated. What is/is not shadowed is up to the ghost; they show their victim(s) only what they want them to see.

Traits: This form of the ghost has been broken down to their worst traits and desires. Their anger is elevated.

Extra: This form can only be taken if the ghost does not reach/is restored from the Slipped status. This form is not the real version of the person, as it is only a manifestation of their pent up frustration and sadness. The person can choose to let go of their anger, however, and pass on to the true afterlife.

[hyperfixationsporfavor]

True Form Sukuna/Reader: A Moment in Time (Part 5- The Arrival)

Author's Note: Hello pretty readers! I'm not entirely confident with this chapter so I held off posting it for awhile. Any feedback is always appreciated. Enjoy!

Warnings: implied violence, implied nsft

The carriage rocked back and forth on the rocky country road.

“Won’t you look at me?” Sukuna sadistically coaxed. 

Please.

“Don’t make me ask again,” he threatened.

And so you do, meeting his eyes, trying not to go mad with fear. Bloody red irises pin you to the corner you huddled in. 

You had remained still since you had departed from the capitol. The voice of the young servant boy calling out to you almost brought you to tears. You knew besides the powerless youth no one would care for your well being, no one would remember you as Sukuna sunk his teeth into your heart. 

“Are you frightened maid?” he coyly asked. 

Oh his arrogance enraged you, but it did minutely relieve your nerves enough to answer him. 

“Shouldn’t I be? Lord Sukuna,”  you asked, delivering a sharpened tone in your honoring of him.

This wasn’t unnoticed by your captor. 

Before you could blink he extended his lower right arm and took your chin in between his fingers, using his left lower arm to pull you towards him.

“I’ll advise you to watch your tone when you address me.”

His warning caused a cold sweat to run down your back, laced with venom and guaranteed execution. 

But the feeling of his hands on your body stirred something else, something you couldn’t quite place. You had remembered those hands from somewhere, a memory where they hadn’t frightened you. 

Your train of thought was interrupted when the carriage came to a halt and Uraume poked their head inside.

“My lord, a situation has arisen.”

“What is it?”

~

Sukuna stepped out of the carriage and was greeted by a small family of farmers. They all dropped to their knees and averted their eyes in a fearful display of respect. 

“L-Lord Sukuna, we apologize for burdening you with our presence,” the patriarch stammered. 

“Tell him what you told me, peasant,” Uraume instructed.

So the farmer explained the issue. 

A group of bandits had looted their rice crop in the middle of the night, and had done the same to others in the area. 

Sukuna honestly could have cared less about this family or any of the others who had found themselves on the receiving end of the thieves' daggers. 

However, he knew if he left this issue unattended others would encroach on his territory and think him a fool. No, he’d take these petty nuisances and mutilate them, string them from the outer walls of his temple, and make an example of them. 

He turned to Uraume.

“I’ll handle this, take the maid back to the temple.”

~

You peered through the curtains of the carriage and observed the scene. 

The family that kneeled before Sukuna consisted of a mother, father, and a small daughter. The child didn’t fully grasp the threat that towered before her, she simply mirrored her parents actions. 

As her father explained the situation she peeked up and noticed you. 

Who were you? 

She hadn’t recognized you from the village. 

Perhaps you were to Sukuna what her father was to her mother. 

The King of Curses had a queen. 

~

After Sukuna took his leave, you and Uraume continued on towards the temple. They reluctantly joined you in the carriage for the remainder of the journey. 

The flat farmlands began to transform into mountainous terrains, dense with an imposing forest. 

It was here, where Sukuna’s temple was hidden. 

The carriage suddenly stopped and Uraume stood up, dusting off their robes. 

“Follow me,” they ordered. 

You reluctantly did as they said, not wanting to incur their masters' wrath. 

Uraume led you up a steep pathway of stairs, something that visitors would have to conquer if they wanted to reach Sukuna. 

You struggled, lagging behind Uraume who effortlessly made the trek up. After what felt like an eternity the two of you finally arrived. 

~

The palace you had worked at had been a sizable structure, but it was dwarfed by the temple. It loomed over you with a threatening aura. You could only imagine how many had met their demise on these grounds. The worshipers, prisoners, and sorcerers who had been devoured behind the doors.

~

“This will be where you live from now on,” Uraume announced as the two of you entered the temple.

“I can’t imagine you’re happy about that,” you muttered, knowing well that the only person who had the authority to take your life was Sukuna.

They just scowled at your sarcasm. 

“I’m not particularly worried. I doubt you’ll stay long.”

~

Uraume led you to the throne room to await the return of their master. Knowing Sukuna, the bandits would be dealt with quickly enough. 

“Stay here,” they ordered. “Or else-”

“Uraume,” a voice called out. 

An elderly man entered through the doors you had just come in with such nonchalance it was almost astounding. His wooden cane echoed through the room with each step he took. 

Uraume scowled at the stranger. “What do you want Kenjaku? I’m busy.”

“I’ve come to discuss business, and I’d prefer to do it without the presence of that hedonistic brat’s conquest.” 

You tensed up, knowing fully well he was addressing you. 

Uraume clenched their jaw, for some reason, choosing not to end the old man’s life as quickly as they ended Yorozu’s. 

They begrudgingly nodded and shot a warning look in your direction. “Don’t move.”

~

Uraume and the old man known as Kenjaku had left you to your wits in the locked room. 

You turned to face the throne, dipping yourself forward to mockingly bow towards it. 

Was this the room you would meet your demise in? 

It wasn’t as if you had any option besides death at Sukuna’s hands. 

Did you? 

You couldn’t go back to the capitol, certainly not. 

The lord of the house would turn you away, and if he had died the others would follow suit and extend a personal invitation for Sukuna to come to the capitol to partake in an elaborate feast where the main dish would be your severed head. 

But your persistence kept pestering you, not allowing you to fall before Sukuna’s throne and burst into tears. 

You walked around the throne room observing the walls decorated in elaborate tapestries depicting war, and the carnage it left in its path. You stopped in front of one that depicted a woman holding her baby, shielding him from the monster that threatened her. You reached out and pressed your fingers against her cheek, drawn to the tears woven in. 

As you leaned forward you felt something hollow. 

Letting curiosity get the better of you you pushed the tapestry aside and discovered a small opening. 

No, it couldn’t be. A way out? 

The opening revealed a long hallway, and at the end, an exit. 

You looked behind you and when you were sure no one was coming back you proceeded inside. 

~

“So Ryomen’s resorted to whisking maid’s away to the temple,” Kenjaku mused over his tea. 

Uraume smothered their irritation over the old man referring to their master so casually and sighed. “He’s been acting strange as of late. As if life has become dull.”

“He’s always done whatever he pleases, even when he was an ungovernable child.”

“Well, whatever the case, I fear this sudden infatuation with this maid will only lead to greater issues.”

Kenjaku hummed in agreement. 

“That’s what Tengen believes. But she’s always been one to worry. There’s been talk among the main clans and I’m sure you know the capitals already abuzz with this affront. No one cares for the life of a faceless soldier. But the livelihood of a man with a sizable estate? The days of constant bloodshed and power struggles are numbered.”

“What should be done?” they asked. 

“Let him play with his new toy. Bed her. Eat her. Both. That is if she hasn’t stumbled across your trap. You conniving devil.”

A small smirk appeared on Uraume’s face. “I haven’t the slightest idea what you're talking about. 

~

You were far from the fool that Uraume believed you to be. 

It would have been a ridiculous oversight on their part to leave you in a room with a discreet exit. 

You almost expected Sukuna to be waiting for you at the end of the hall, but you wouldn’t remain stagnant. 

You wouldn’t go down without a fight. 

The passageway led you through a few turns and ended with a small storage space filled with weapons, an armory. Swords, spears, and anything else for Sukuna to use in the game of war. 

Past a wall of armor was a door, and when you opened it you were greeted with the outside, the woods spreading as far as you could see. 

You took a dagger from its resting spot and concealed it in your robes. 

You took a step away from the house, then another, picking up the pace until you sprinted through the barricade of trees, imaging Sukuna taking his spear and shooting it through your back, but it never came, so you ran. 

~

The End.