#in general all of them need to not center him in order to have a relationship with him. how's that for an oxymoron
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While I disagree with thesinisterspinster and explain why in another reblog, I'd like to address kitty's criticism with a little nuance.
It's unfortunately easy for users on the internet to conflate popularity on the internet with societal influence. I think it bears reminding that separatists are a very small minority, even within the radblr space, which itself is heavily policed and mischaracterized by outsiders.
Separatism as a political idea is also exceedingly fringe and niche. It has just momentarily enjoyed a brief segue into the spotlight of the general public and has faced NUMEROUS attacks from just about every kind of person on the political spectrum.
For this reason, I think both separatists and non separatist feminists have a long ways to go in mutual empathy because many non-separatists simply refuse to recognize the fact that:
They are the majority/status quo
The decision to marry/partner with a man is largely rewarded and validated by general society
A lot of separatists and pro-separatist same-sex attracted women are still heavily vilified for not conforming to the hetero status quo and do not enjoy "perfect bliss" because they're still women in a patriarchal society
Going against the status quo in such a radical way is HEAVILY socially punished and women who make this decision often face ridicule, violence, isolation, villification and lack of support
Separatists are allowed to get angry and frustrated with other women because the situation women find themselves in is DESPERATE and has been for many years. It's natural for women to have a fight and flight response toward this situation and I hope you can find compassion for them as you expect them to find compassion for women who struggle with de-centering men or combatting other aspects of female socialization.
Nothing is stopping you from being a female separatist and supporting non-separatist women except your own spite and narcissism.
I don't think that's the prevailing sentiment. Dangerous male partners also pose a threat to women simply associated with their victims. Women have been killed and raped by male partners of their female friends. Space needs to be made for women and girls whose mother's, friend's, sister's boyfriend, brother, husband ended up sexually violating them. That's part of the reality. Male-centered women can and have endangered women, too, simply by bringing predators into close proximity to their female loved ones or allying with him when allegations come up. Women can and will feel bitter about things like that. In general, human beings get angry at people they believe to be class-traitors, and several separatists express that they are angry because they feel betrayed by het-partnered women.
Now you may think (and not wrongly) that no political party has a right to what you get to do with your body, but in the mind of a radical feminist separatist, you are acquiescing to the chief mode of female oppression and the status quo, thus contributing to the seemingly endless subjugation of her and her sisters by pathologizing and nullifying the accessible and alternative path of life without men (at least on a domestic scale). Not only that, but she is also frequently seeing many het-partnered feminists and men trivialize, ridicule or advocate AGAINST this "emergency exit" in her mind's eye called separatism. Of course she feels betrayed and of course she views you as an enemy of progress. Especially at a time where she is so desperate for a modicum of allyship. Like you, she feels as though you are demanding support you are not willing to reciprocate.
Misogyny is exhausting for all of us, and so is fighting it. It is mind-numbingly exhausting being friends with women who adamantly center men to the detriment of themselves and other women around them. Opting out of such a relationship in order to conserve one's own energy and mental well-being may not be a feminist decision, but it is a human one. Women are not empathy machines full of endless kindness and energy and they are not evil for giving up.
You claim that women with male relationships are at their most vulnerable but in the same breath express your desire to virtually abandon them.
Separatists, I will re-iterate, are a very small group of not just the human population but an already "understaffed" feminist front. There's only so much women can do for other women, but resisting female socialization especially isn't one of them. If I cannot kill your predator boyfriend, cannot convince you to leave him and cannot get rid of all the bad men myself, what else is there for me to do? Especially if I don't want to watch another female loved one go through all that? It's just a mentally and emotionally exhausting space to be in so of course some women will opt out. Many straight women are both victims of AND complicit in their oppression, and no one can liberate us but ourselves.
That is, I think, part of the heart of the frustration for separatists. Feminists can only do so much for women until women themselves decide to take up the responsibility of their own liberation/protection.
And some of us have more patience for the process other women undergo to get to that point than others.
My two cents, anyways.
i think my main peeve with every radblr user that has come and said "separatism won't work" or "you can't force women to forego their natural instinct to date and marry men/bear children" is missing the very crucial fact that patriarchy is built and sustained by women's reproductive and domestic labour and any effective feminist movement would prioritize dismantling those mechanisms. 4B is not a sex strike. it is literally strangling the windpipe of patriarchy. that's what we're all about, right? liberation, i assume? you can't pander to these institutions and change the world, ladies, i'm sorry. you can't negotiate with the engine of the machine you claim to want to escape. how are you going to negotiate workers' rights and keep working in poor conditions anyway? join no unions and do no boycotts? it's delusion. sorry, but freedom requires spine and resolve, especially a freedom that's been this overdue.
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King and Rook Checkmate in Two
Dragon Age Veilguard Inspired Scenes, follow up to previous scenes (in chronological order): + Scents and Grief + Letter to Lucanis + Fives Stages, Two Talons, and a lost little Crow + A Crow's Caw and Crumbling Masks + A Waiting Move, then... > King and Rook Checkmate in Two + An Antidote: Hyacinthus Litwinovii Purpura These scenes were prompted by what was not shown during/following the Regret Prison. We've finally achieved the multi-part final scenes for Lucanis and Rook being reunited. This is the final actual reunion, thank you for reading and I hope enjoy this and all of the other scenes. Faelarin de Riva.Fae is a nonbinary Crow!Mage! [see here]
>>
Emmrich, Taash, and Lucanis stood poised at the other side of the rippling portal to the Fade. Emmrich was searching, feeling for subtle shifts in the Fade, thin slips of energy that would allow them to locate and seize on the unique light Rook emitted.
Emmrich called out excitedly, “This way. It’s thinner here!”
“You better be right,” Taash said somewhat exasperated, their senses tingling from the nearness of this thinning of the Fade and their own gathered nerves at wanting to be reunited with their friend.
Something like Rook’s voice seemed to whisper from the fluid material before them and Lucanis called out excitedly, a plea, “Rook!”
Several minutes dragged on as the three waited for signs that Rook had heard them and their search was finally over. That for all their waiting they would be rewarded and could pull their beloved leader from the muted existence of the Fade back to their vibrant reality, back to them. Lucanis ached with the need to reach forth into this ripple and draw Rook to freedom, to them, to him; home.
Emmrich jumped as his scrying pinged on their sought energy, speaking with joyous wonder, “There! A light!”
Lucanis followed with direction, “We’ve got something. Get ready.”
Emmrich breached the barrier with his arms first, grasping desperately for their quarry and meeting a swung grasp of someone’s arm. He grabbed their glove and forearm and Lucanis added to Emmrich’s efforts, holding tight to the offered arm, and started to pull them through the shimmer of the Fade, as Taash commanded, “Heave!”
ROOK! SPITE FEELS THEM! Spite yelled triumphantly in Lucanis’ mind.
All three pulled with every ounce of strength they could muster, feeling a reverse force dragging Rook back a moment before a definite resurgence of strength infused them all, Lucanis’ eyes showing purple at the edges, as they leveraged their combined strength in this tug-of-war. Finally, as if emerging from a mist covered pool, Rook came forward, stumbling as they overbalanced through their movement and that of their companions. All four bodies’ motion moved them free of the Fade and overtipped their equilibrium, tumbling unceremoniously away from where they had been. Neve quickly maneuvered and stepped forward to avoid being dragged down into the pile, extinguishing the magics and releasing the ritual now that they had achieved their prize.
Harding scrambled over to help Rook, lifting them from their fallen position at the center of the gathering. Harding carefully brushed at their blood and gore caked leathers, taking in their disheveled but generally unharmed appearance, unable to manage vocalizing her relief and joy. Taash was already on their feet and standing at Rook’s other arm, trying to help them rise, their desire to embrace Rook almost overwhelming their attention to the careful way in which Rook was processing their surroundings.
Emmrich dusted himself off and steadily got to his feet with the assistance of his protégé; Manfred having run over quickly to help the elder necromancer off the floor with a satisfied sound. He rearranged his clothing, setting appearances to right as he looked with fond expression at his friends, solace washing over him at having successfully returned Rook to their company and possibly igniting a shred of hope once more for the preservation of Thedas.
In all this movement, Lucanis had rolled with the earlier fall and was stuck in a frozen crouch, unable to rise immediately as he watched Rook be helped to their feet and checked on. His hesitation allowed him to assess Rook for any signs of injury or indications that they had been harmed while lost in the Fade prison. His careful eyes looked over them from top to bottom, first taking in the somewhat mussed appearance of their hair, its hyacinth purple vivid in the brilliance of the room. Their hair was pulled back, including a small plait on their left side, and gathered in a twisted bun on the crown of their head. Long face-framing bangs cascaded down the left side from an off-center part all accenting and complimenting their long elven ears that rose in an elegant backward sweep and ended in slightly rosy ear tips that often telegraphed their feelings. Their face had three long-healed scars over their right eye and the makeup they usually applied with such care was smudged and faded though the residue of the fight at Tearstone Island was evident in patches on their skin. Lucanis noted the caking of blood and gore on their leathers and the appearance of some tears where barely healing wounds awaited proper care. They looked whole, save the remains of the fight with Ghilan’nain and Lucanis’ could not find any overt wrongness or worrisome feature in their appearance. He heaved a sigh that started to release all his pent-up apprehension and looked longingly at Rook, trying to make his mind fully accept the beautiful reality of their return.
With the sound of Lucanis’ sigh, Rook’s eyes were drawn up and away from their immediate companions to settle on the crouched and assessing figure of Lucanis. In that moment, heartache and dread bubbled up, terror and fear replacing a momentary respite as dread washed through them that they had once again been deceived and had not truly escaped their prison. To see Lucanis hale and whole was a truth they could not yet accept and an agonizing scream tore through their vocal cords as they cried out for their lost love, “LUCANIS!”
Their legs moved, they tried to pull free from their friends, once again finding their body rushing toward Lucanis and collapsed in unparalleled agony before reaching their target. Their face was a picture of tortured aching as tears tore from their eyes. They reached out, unseeing through the veil of tears and cried.
Lucanis could not get his legs to cooperate, limbs sprawling and feet slipping to gain purchase as he tried to embrace Faelarin. He knew that anguish that had taken hold, the struggle to believe that they were well and truly safe. He went again to rise and found his legs refusing still to hold him so he stumbled, half-crawling to reach his destination. With some effort he bridged the gap and immediately encircled Rook, clawing to draw their body into his, pulling them desperately into the shelter of his arms. His fingers drew into their hair and eased their face into the crook between his neck and shoulder, as he leaned his cheek down to rest against their crown, whispering, “I am here. Estoy aqui, mi vida.”
They clutched at him, wailing at first, gasping breathlessly and repeating his name in small broken pleas until their abused voice gave out. While they wept, wedging themself closer until they finally allowed the reality under their fingertips to seep into their mind. They inhaled deeply and smelled the rich, warm, and earthy aroma of coffee and subtle notes of smoke and cinnamon. They could smell a pleasant hint of sage in his beard. They pressed their face deeper against the warm skin of his neck and started to calm. They drew their hands up wrapping their arms tightly around Lucanis’ leather-bound torso, clasping firmly to the loose parts of his mantle as to disallow any space between them.
Lucanis responded with equaled need for comfort and pulled Rook’s otherwise taller body deeply into his embrace, tucking them protectively against his feathered shoulders. He pressed his lips to their hair, breathing them in, catching the hint of neroli and lavender a scent so completely part of them. With careful reassurance, he soothed, letting his voice soak into them, “You are here. With me.”
They rested there in Lucanis’ protective hold, sheltered, as they re-acclimated to their reality and savored this momentary stillness, this peace so desperately needed like air.
#dragon age the veilguard#dragon age#veilguard spoilers#lucanis dellamorte#rookanis#rook x lucanis#rook de riva#crow rook
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consistently torn between "nanami and saionji should just never speak to touga again" and "touga finally recognizing he wants genuine connections and putting in the effort to fix what he's broken and the three of them reaching some sort of catharsis with each other Despite It All"
#ITS LIKE#i think it's completely justifiable to just want them to not be involved with each other#but also kind of inherintly it is less interesting to have them just not interact with each other bc it means you can't really#explore their dynamic any further#mostly nanami just needs to have the option to not be reliant on him in order for anything between them to work itself out#i do think it CAN be salvaged despite the akio/anthy parallels but. on god it needs some craaaaaazy work#as for saionji i honestly think the series covers a lot of development ground for him already#but similarly i think he needs to divorce himself a bit from touga#in general all of them need to not center him in order to have a relationship with him. how's that for an oxymoron
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Please, Don't Prove 'Em Right - A.H
a/n: my girl sabrina can do no wrong and i have been listening to this song on repeat since it came out so i just absolutely needed to write a fic about it
masterlist
pairings: aaron hotchner x fem!reader
summary: aaron hotchner is a busy man and he tends to disappoint you by missing important events
warnings: angst (sorry in advance), aaron is like not a great husband, reader is also an imperfect character, reader is a girl boss though
wc: 1.2k
You were in your best dress. More expensive than you'd ever think about buying for yourself, but it had been a gift from Aaron. You had fought him on it, scolding him for spending so much on a dress you were sure to only wear once. But he had insisted, telling you that this opportunity was once in a lifetime and that it would be a sin for it to not be celebrated with a dress that made you shine like a ruby.
He was right, partly, you were shining--glowing, sparkling, glittering--as you moved through the library. It was beautiful, to say the least--all opulence and history that was almost too much to absorb. The marble floors almost seemed to amplify the conversations around you, the clinking of glasses, the swish of overpriced gowns and tuxedos.
Your eyes settled on the tiered desks fitted with bronze reading lamps, now repurposed as a station for hors d'oeuvres and champagne. The circular arrangement of desks, once centered around knowledge, now facilitated hushed gossip and the discreet laughter of society's finest.
You could almost hear what they were thinking: there she is again without her husband, that poor thing always by herself, and your personal favorite—does he even exist?
You wanted to be angry, to scold their prying eyes, for putting their noses into something that had nothing to do with them whatsoever. But could you really blame them? Every event you attended you told the same story--my husband is a busy man with an important job--a line you had grown tired of repeating.
And that was all true. He devoted most of his time to saving lives--how could you find fault in that? How could you complain to having a husband whose very essence was self-sacrifice and heroism?
This evening was set to be an exception; he was in New York for a case, and the Pulitzer Prize ceremony was not something he would miss. He had given you his word.
You understood his passion for his job, completely, because you held that same passion for your own. You dedicated years of your life to your journalism, investigating corruption at its highest levels. This is exactly how you ended up here tonight, nominated for a Pulitzer Prize for that very work. A Pulitzer Prize.
The term once seemed like a fantastical concept to you, a lofty accolade reserved for the likes of JFK, Bob Dylan, Robert Frost--icons, not someone as ordinary as you. Yet, against all odds, you find yourself among the select few, a nominee for an honor that has only been won by 1,512 individuals since 1917, a fact Spencer had supplied you with.
Someone was speaking to you, saying your name. Almost without thinking, your hand found a flute of champagne, taking a generous sip before turning to face them.
"You look stunning, and a well-deserved congratulations are in order. Everyone back at the office is cheering for you." It was your boss, her stilettos adding inches to her already imposing frame.
The flattery didn't quite mask her usual coldness, it was all too artificial. She wasn't your biggest fan, and she had made that clear from your first day. Still, you mustered a smile and thanked her anyway, taking another sip of champagne, hoping to drown away her nauseating voice.
"It's too bad your husband couldn't be here," she began, and you had to resist the urge to rip out her extensions. "This is an incredible accomplishment, but he's quite the busy man, as you say."
"Yes, he is busy, but he'll be here tonight," you replied, flashing her your best smile as you smoothed the red fabric that suddenly felt too tight. "He's actually here in New York on a case."
"Oh, how great. I can't wait to put a face to the name." You could tell by the look she shot her own husband that she didn't believe a word from your mouth. "Anyway, I have to go speak with an academy representative, but I'll see you and your husband at the ceremony?"
You responded with a nod, not dignifying her with words as she left, her giggles a bitter sound. You hated her. And you were ready to make her eat her words when your husband, who looked absolutely incredibly in a suit, showed up.
But then it was dinner, and you found yourself alone, surrounded by a table of important people whose names you couldn't remember. The seat beside you was empty and suddenly that omnipotent, cloud-nine feeling you had vanished with the time that passed.
The text you sent piled up, feeling a little juvenile, like you were back in high school again getting stood up at prom.
Let me know when you're close!
Is everything going okay?
Call me if you can.
An onslaught of anxious thoughts skyrocketed around your mind as you mechanically chewed the fancy food that only seemed to upset your stomach further. What if something happened? Was he okay? Did the case go wrong? Did he get in a car accident on the way here?
You were a bundle of nerves, gnawing on the inside of your mouth as your heel tapped up and down against the floor. But this wasn't borne from concern for his well-being; deep down, you were certain he was fine. The truth was simpler and sharper: he wasn't coming.
You should have been prepared, should have braced for this, but you were convinced that this time, this occasion would be an exception.
You name was being called, but this time not by someone wanting to extract prying information or stir speculation, no, this time it was carried across the crowed, wrapped in the microphone's static hum.
Your head snapped up, fingers ceasing their fidgeting as you struggled to mask the shock and avoid the gaping, breathless look of a fish out of water.
You had won.
People were clapped, but it seemed far away as you made your way to the stage, hands coming from all directions to offer pats on the back and handshakes of congratulations.
You had won.
Your feet were carrying you up a small set of stairs. You were trying to remember how to walk--left, right, heel, toe. There was a bright light on you now, prompting a slight squint and you worked to keep a smile on your face as you accepted the award.
You had to be dreaming. Had to be. There was no other explanation.
You were on display now, under the intense stage lights. Your body was on autopilot, stepping behind the podium, words flowing out of your mouth--a speech you had rehearsed over and over again in the slim chance that you would win. And here you are.
But the more you spoke the more you seemed to deviate from the script.
You paused, voice catching as you tried your best not to let the tears fall--your makeup was too pristine for smears.
"But tonight, as I accept this honor, I am reminded that while we may seek comfort in the presence of others, our truest strength comes from within." Your eyes dart around the audience, clinging to the slim chance he's there, that he showed up. "It comes from knowing that when we step into the moment, we step in with conviction, with passion, and sometimes, with a singularity that says we are enough."
The final words of your speech hang in the air, a brittle hope that disappears as quickly as it surfaced. He proved them right, and no amount of applause can drown out the sound of your heart breaking just a little.
part 2
taglist: @hotchhner @khxna @readergf @sarcasm-and-stiles @edencherries @aurorsworld @princess76179
#aaron hotchner angst#aaron hotchner x fem!reader#aaron hotchner x fem reader#aaron hotchner x reader#criminal minds x reader#criminal minds angst#aaron hotchner#hotch#hotchner#Spotify
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Tags courtesy of @streetsandsodiumlights
Mom they're gentrifying disco elysium
#lmao#like everyone in the notes im like. how do you apply disco elysium’s narrative power to a story about… nothing?#disco elysium is a deeply political story set in an extremely allegorical world#every choice in the story/characters/worldbuilding/etc ultimately contributes to the depth of it. that’s WHY it has an impact#martinaise is not a generic grimy setting. it’s the forgotten ugly child in the corner of revachol#exploited for its commercial value in a city whose entire purpose for the rest of the world is to be exploited for its commercial value#if u dig for two seconds into the information you get to learn about revachol’s relationship with the rest of the world#and martinaise’s relationship with revachol#do you KNOW how much insane symbolic meaning you get out of that???#and that’s just one thing. the actual beauty of this game is that almost everything has something like that#there are symbols and parallels everywhere. the kinds of things that wouldn’t work if you took the politics out of it#it’s not a mistake that harry is white. it’s not a mistake that he can say racist & fascist things#it’s not a mistake that addiction is such a huge part of his story#if you replaced him with anything else the story would not be the same. it’s SUPPOSED to be uncomfortable#this goes for all of the other characters too. Joyce is a rich white woman on purpose. Kim is an Asian man on purpose. etc etc#this interconnectedness and intentionality is what makes disco elysium have the narrative power it does#you couldn’t make such an expansive story without first building a world w consistent internal logic#and with believable conflicts and forces fighting each other#you can’t make a game with this many choices without accepting that some people will want to make heinous choices#and accepting that giving them those options is a statement of itself in the game#a game about a young witch investigating the disappearance of a pet — not even a person. not even HER pet — isn’t the same#where is the emotional hook? where is the conflict? how many choices can you reasonably make over the course of that story?#and in a small village there’s so much less room for worldbuilding. disco elysium takes place in a small part of town but it’s for a reason#it’s bc martinaise is a microcosm for revachol and revachol is important. you need to understand it to understand the world#a small village in the alps sounds… disconnected. it isn’t the center of the world. it isn’t even a PIECE of the center of the world#unfortunately in order to write something as narratively interesting and strong as disco elysium you also need to understand what makes it#uh. good?#and we all know that what makes it good is the ick of it all
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What could Sans find out about Flowey ?
By finishing a neutral route over and over again multiple times, Flowey has some unique dialogues in which he mentions various trivia or shares his thoughts on some of the other characters.
One such character is Sans, who Flowey notably gives us a warning about.
However, the way he words that warning feels a little intriguing :
While Sans is generally a very perceptive character who is often capable of making pretty good guesses from limited information, Flowey makes it rather obvious that he is speaking from experience rather than simply making a general comment about Sans' observation skills.
But a question that isn't brought up very often is, what was it exactly that Sans would frequently "find out" about Flowey to warrant this warning ? And how ?
While the question may seem unanswerable at first due to Flowey not giving us any specifics whatsoever, there are a few details scattered throughout the game which may allow us to deduce our way towards what was most likely the intended answer.
First, we know what solution Flowey ended up settling with in order to deal with whatever that issue was : Simply avoiding Sans.
In any given timeline, Flowey took the habit of avoiding to be seen by or around Sans at any point, unless he specifically had something in mind that required him to do so. (such as in the pacifist ending) As a general rule of thumb, he would avoid Sans altogether as much as possible.
However, even with that effort on Flowey's side, a quick mention of a talking flower from Papyrus is already enough to seemingly get Sans at least a little suspicious that something may be up with that.
This is our second clue : The fact that it took Sans so little information for him to get suspicious of what Papyrus told him about a flower.
Our last clue is the few words we hear from Sans after he sees and hears Flowey at the end of the pacifist route :
In order to find out what to make of those clues, we need to introduce a fourth element : Sans' scientific background.
Luckily, none of the more complicated or speculative nuances of that side of his character are required here, all that we need is to highlight his somewhat-hidden friendship with Alphys.
She knows him well enough to call his jokes in advance :
Or here, the game more obviously points out that these two seem surprisingly friendly.
Sans tries to play it off, but it is clear they know a lot more about each other than seems at first glance.
But how much exactly ?
Well...
To go back to our main point, if one were to call Papyrus' phone in front of Alphys' lab, the conversation between the skeletons brothers would eventually deviate towards the question of wether or not Alphys is hiding dogs inside of her lab.
To which Sans answers, winking :
If it had just been this one joke, it may have been a coincidence, but the game doubles down on this exact same implication if you call Papyrus from within the lab as well, showing that this connection between Sans and Endogeny was absolutely intentional :
While the determination experiments were sorely Alphys' entreprise, it appears that Sans was at least made aware of the way they ended up playing out.
We cannot affirm with certainty how much detail exactly Sans has regarding the experiments, but if he is aware for the dogs and possibly even involved in dealing with them (as he had the dog food bag in his room), then he most definitely would also know about the vessel too. It was the main goal, after all.
This vessel had a few particularities.
First, it was a golden flower, the flower from the outside world, chosen for symbolic reasons.
But second, that specific golden flower was chosen because it was different from the rest.
It was at the center of the garden, it had grown before all the others, those were the ones mentioned by Alphys in her entries. But there was one more specificity which she omitted to bring up :
Golden flowers in Undertale are a species of flowers which has 5 petals.
But our "vessel" had a mutation, resulting in an extra 6th petal.
A design choice in part, perhaps, but one that takes a very real in-world importance within this context.
Adding to this that, from the view of the current timeline iteration, the vessel seems to have suddenly vanished one day and...
Since it is likely for Sans to have been aware of all of this, now, it makes a lot of sense that the mere idea of a new mysterious talking flower that says strange things showing up out of nowhere would immediately put him on high alert. A potential connection with the missing vessel is easy to make.
Actually, now that we have this context, even Alphys seems to make the same connection as well after hearing Papyus mentioning a talking flower just before Flowey arrives.
But most of all, it now feels incredibly clear why Flowey needs to avoid being seen by Sans so much.
His entire appearance, and particularly his obvious extra 6th petal, are all dead giveaways of his origins.
Could Sans, who is skilled enough at analysing faces to tell the difference between the face of someone that has died 9 or 10 times in a row, really miss out on such blaring evidence ?
Of course not.
Flowey might as well have written "i am the vessel" on his face with a marker as far as Sans is concerned.
Chances are that merely seeing Flowey even once would be all it takes for Sans to be practically certain that Flowey must be the former vessel.
Not only that, but given that those experiments were all about determination, the so called "resolve to change fate", Flowey would also immediately be considered extremely likely to be the anomaly, too.
This is what we see in this scene :
Not only does Sans get to see Flowey here, but the speech that Flowey makes during this scene also provides him with definitive evidence that Flowey really was the "anomaly" he had been worried about, as his psychological profile matches extremely well with the one Sans shows us to have built for the anomaly in a genocide route. But, it also shows him that Flowey has, for now at least, lost his anomalous time powers to Frisk, and is thus struggling to keep them in his "game".
This suggests that for now, Frisk actually still has the advantage, and that despite all those crazy speeches, without his reset powers, that weirdo has got nothing on them.
But this is all later on in the story.
During Flowey's earlier RESETs, being seen by Sans, even once, quickly becomes a major pain for Flowey in every timeline iteration in which it happens.
At best, he might get "pranked accross time and space" a number of times. At worst, Flowey might have no choice but to reset and start all over again on whatever he was aiming to do.
Except this time around, without letting the smiley trashbag learn ANYTHING about him.
#undertale#undertale theory#sans#flowey#undertale sans#undertale flowey#flowey undertale#sans undertale#papyrus#alphys#undertale papyrus#undertale alphys#alphys undertale#papyrus undertale
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PICK A CARD: What Era Is Your Beauty From?
☯︎ “A man should hear a little music, read a little poetry, and see a fine picture every day of his life, in order that worldly cares may not obliterate the sense of the beautiful which God has implanted in the human soul.” ― Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Disclaimer: This is a general reading, take what resonates. I am not suggesting any of these descriptions are cannon to your ancestral history, these are just how my intuition perceived, and then presented your beauty’s energy.
p1 → p2 ↙︎ p3 → p4
🂽 Pile One 🂽 (the devil, 2oC rev., ace of cups rev., 4oW, 3oC, king of swords, the tower, the world)
❖ Pile one, I feel like I’m watching the Game of Thrones out of context. Just flashes of people from around the Medieval 1400s living their day-to-day; singing, dancing, eating together, and then… not.
❖ The imagery I got when I asked what era your beauty came from, was very longing in nature. There was a lot of joy and celebration but it felt like I was watching the film through teary eyes and a heavy heart.
❖ The “movie” flashed between a thriving culture sharing tales of triumph and having happy, drunk sing-song moments together; and then those same people under a war-torn regime of a very cruel but powerful man. I sense themes of religious persecution, nationwide government-forced famine, and general desecration of the once-peaceful way of life. The population was going through collective mourning.
❖ People lamented over their unfulfillable desire to reconnect with their homeland and all of their loved ones. With the World card at the end of the spread and the Empress at the bottom of the deck, I get the clear image that your beauty is the physical embodiment of a large collective’s longing for the sanctity of their community. You invoke that feeling people get when they remember a bitter-sweet memory that hums fervor in their chest and gives them the fire they need to push forward.
❖ Your beauty comes from an era where the genuine smile and cheer of a pretty girl sparked a nation’s hope for reformation. You are the last remaining connection to long-lost celebration and the heart of a forgotten city.
How Do You Paint The Divine Image of Hope?
🂽 Pile Two 🂽 (7oC rev., 4oP rev., full moon, leo, sacral chakra)
❖ WHOOOAAaaaaa Ammberrr is the collluuhhhhh of ya enneergyyy!! WHOoaaA, shades of gaawwllddd displayyy naturraalllyyyyyy…..
❖ Just know I was HOLLERING that. This is my hippie pile. My people. Yea that’s right, I’m talking the late 1960s - early 1970s.
❖ Your beauty arose at a time when society desperately needed color (specifically seeing some of you wearing a lot of bright colors or eye-catching jewelry or hairstyles). The world was bleak and the war’s aftermath on the overall mental and emotional welfare of the general public pushed people to radical ideals and birthed a revolution centered around liberation, pleasure, and community.
❖ Your beauty is all sunshine and rainbows. Psychedelics and organic food. The best music in human history (feel free to argue with me, but know that it is going straight out the other ear, mama) and week-long outdoor festivals full of peace, love, and vulnerability with total strangers.
❖ Your beauty brushes people with the chilling winds of shameless pleasure. The taste of unadulterated personal freedom that is almost a societal taboo. Your beauty is so purely liberating.
❖ Lmao, I imagine a guitar riff going off everytime you walk into a room.
❖ You are the physical embodiment of eccentric love and vivacious rebellion.
Play That Funky Music
🂽 Pile Three 🂽 (The lovers rev., the High Priestess rev., Ace of Swords., 4oC. 7)
❖ Revolution is a running theme for all of the piles. This collective’s beauty awakens people.
❖ I’m seeing a brilliant man going mad at the lack of creative intelligence around him and pushing for societal rebirth. A complete cultural shift from the Dark Ages (pile one), to modernity. This is my Renaissance pile.
❖ You embody the mystical fusion of art, religion, architecture, and science. You are all the world’s intrinsic beauty rolled up into one figure. You are the art that attracts painters, inventors, and philosophers alike.
❖ You have the beauty of an all-around muse. You invoke the spirit of creative passion. It is like people see you and get a stroke of inspiration. Something that kicks them in the ass and tells them to go outside and create.
❖ This pile is very romantic. A classical beauty, like red roses and bottle poems. The universal innate desire to dream big.
❖ Shoutout to my Aquarians, 11th housers, and Shatabhisha natives.
The Medieval-Modern Muse
🂽 Pile Four 🂽 (king of pentacles, 2oP, 5oP rev., 9oP)
❖ OKAY PLOTWIST?? I don’t know what era this pile’s beauty is from because it’s set in the future.
❖ It’s funny how the last piles were all set in periods of revolution (putting in the WORK) and your pile, the final pile, is set in a better world full of financial stability, the end of inequality, economic fairness, and universal abundance (the fruits of the labor).
❖ Dude, I was trying to read the message at first and was just scratching my head. I was like, “When has anywhere, literally ever been this good???” Then I saw the ace of wands reversed at the bottom of the deck and saw impending change and it clicked.
❖ I also saw some star semblance, and see that your beauty is a reminder to mankind that the “impossible” is already set in motion. The hell we have created will crumble.
❖ You are a physical embodiment of society’s future triumph. You radiate wealth and fairness. My Venusians, especially Libra. You also look regal, something about you makes people want to stand taller.
❖ You got the pride card, I see that you give people the feeling of victory. You are living proof of future triumph in a better world where greed and sorrow are eradicated.
❖ You are the harbinger of the next era.
Introducing The First Titanium Man On The Moon!
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can i order an older!batman!damian x reader they have a lot of children (biologically) and his family and friends does not know, i wanna know their reactions
yes your price is 1 order of creepcast merch for me since there’s 3 days left and i haven’t been able to get my grubby hands on it
YOU HAVE KIDS?
pairings — older!damian wayne — al ghul x fem!reader (could also be read as just reader since i never really use she/her much)
warnings — idk actually, pretty generic names for the kids but obviously you can imagine a different name if you want to (i just don’t like using d/n ykwim) (plus i only use them once)
summary — literally just the request but only with the batboys, batgirls, and bruce!!
notes — i hope this is good 😟
━━━━━━━ TO BE FAIR, YOU should’ve told them sooner. well, Damian should’ve, they were his family. but, you’d never forced him too, since your account on instagram wasn’t followed by any of them.
“are you sure you want to do this?” you rubbed your hands along his shoulders, gently. you were due at the Wayne manor in a little for a small lunch, you’d never been one to force Damian into seeing them, since you understood, but you were surprised when he planned on going.
“yeah, i’ll have to do it sooner or later.” he grabbed your hand and peppered kissing along your knuckles.
“mom can i bring my doll?” your youngest daughter, just turning five with no front teeth, walked out of the hall opening holding her old doll passed down from you. smiling, you nodded.
“you gonna remember to bring it home, baby?” you stepped forwards, rubbing your hands through her messy head of black hair. she’d inherited more from her father.
“mhm!” she smiled, turning back to her room with a grin.
“can’t we have more?” Damian wrapped his arms around you, his head leaning snug against your shoulder. you put your hands over his, a soft laugh leaving you.
“not for a little bit, Dame.” you turned around with a grin, gently kissing him. you shared the small intimate moment without hesitation, bonded as one soul in the moment.
“mom! are we going yet?” your oldest, now eleven, walked down the hall. you turned to her, then to your husband, who nodded. your oldest daughter saw it, and walked over to put her shoes on.
getting your other three — your youngest and the middle boys (twins) — and helping them with their shoes, you were all off. the ride was peaceful, your kids finding themselves distracted with either the outside world or the toys you let them bring along.
“have you told any of them?” you had been holding Damian’s hand over the center console, your thumb in a constant soothing motion over his knuckles and the curve of his thumb.
“no, only Alfred. he’s the only one who needed to immediately know. besides, i told him first anyways.” Damian sighed.
“that’s fine, baby. i told you, you never had to.” you brought his hand closer to your mouth, gently kissing it. Damian smiled at you before the rest of the car ride was passed with ease.
Damian, getting out and opening your door, then began to help your youngest get out of the car. you helped the twins out, made sure they had the toys they wanted, and had them follow Damian to the front door.
on the way, your draped your arm over your oldest daughters shoulders, tugging her into you. she basically melted into you, her arm going around you in return.
Alfred opened the door, a wide smile crossing his face. “master Damian!” he was overjoyed, “lovely to see you.” he hugged the man before following up with greeting you and your kids the same way.
he led the six of you upstairs to where everyone else was.
if you could’ve had a camera, you would’ve taken a picture of the moment. their faces were covered in pure shock, staring at your kids. your hand squeezed Damian’s, which you had found yourself holding.
“well, if this isn’t news i don’t know what is.” Dick broke the silence first, stepping forwards and embracing Damian. respectfully, he shook your hand.
“these are our kids, Elliot and Titus,” he gestured to the twins, both holding their action figures and playing around with them — they were Red Hood and Nightwing action figures.
“our oldest, Lorelei,” he gestured to her, “and youngest Regan.” they looked like the two of you. your youngest had all of Damian’s features, and your oldest might as well have been your carbon copy.
the twins looked like a mixture, and you could see everything processing in their minds.
“why don’t you four come with me?” Alfred stepped forwards when he noticed the slight tension in the air.
your kids didn’t argue, following him out to the garden.
“how come we never knew?” Bruce, getting older and older each day, stepped forwards.
“because it was our mutual agreement. i told Damian he didn’t have to tell anyone he didn’t want to.” you defended you and your husbands decision instantly.
“doesn’t matter,” Dick stepped up now, “we know now!” he was grinning.
“did you really buy your kids Nightwing and Red Hood action figures?” Jason was grinning when he spoke up.
“the girls have Batgirl figures.” you informed them with a wide smile, “you might not have known them, but they’ve always known you guys.” you added, your hand rubbing comforting patterns into Damian’s back.
“does this mean we’re all aunts and uncles? well, grandparent for Bruce.” Tim asked. you nodded with Damian in confirmation. a challenging look flashed across all of their faces instantaneously.
“this doesn’t mean you guys can go and spoil them.” Damian said, trying to fight back a smile.
ever since being with you, he’d mellowed out and been less harsh towards people. something you hadn’t done on purpose. he was still mean when he had to be.
“don’t spoil them too much, we still want humble and kind kids.” you corrected Damian.
“i can live with that.” Jason shrugged.
“do they really have batgirl figures?” Cass asked. you nodded again in confirmation, mentioning how it was your idea.
“how old are they all?” Steph had finally asked.
“eleven, seven, and five.” you nodded, telling them which was which afterwards. you couldn’t specifically hear it, but you knew they were all ready to fight over the title of favorite.
after awhile at the manor, you all found yourselves back at home. you and Damian relaxed outside as your kids stayed inside, but every once and awhile, the younger ones would run outside and cause chaos.
“do you feel better now that they know?” you had your head against your husbands chest, listening to him and his heartbeat.
“a little. i… i’m glad they reacted how they did. i thought they’d hate me forever.” Damian admitted with a small laugh. you grinned.
“i don’t think anyone could hate you anymore, you big softie.” you teased him, holding open your arm when your oldest daughter came out to join you two on the hammock.
masterlist — reminder that asks / requests are open!!
#ceciljameswork#batfam#damian wayne#dc comics#dick grayson#fluff#jason todd#batman#damian wayne fluff#damian wayne imagine#damian wayne x reader#damian wayne al ghul
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Hard thought - being so desperate for each other that you and Minho dry hump each other til you both cum in your pants
holy shit, anon (MDNI or you will be blocked, nsfw under the cut!)
one of minho's hands lays heavy against your hip as he holds himself above you, a forearm pressed into the couch cushion next to your head. lips meld against each other, want and need and lust mixing and creating a concoction that renders you both dizzy and craving more, more, more.
pressed flush against your clothed center, his boxer-clad cock grows harder and harder as hands tug at shirts and squeeze at bare skin. his fingers find your hips, sliding around to the globes of your ass and squeezing while he grinds you against him. you emit a breathy moan against his lips, a sigh of his name. the friction is addicting, the thin fabric of your panties rubbing against your clit. the fabric clings to your folds as you grow even wetter.
both of your movements grow increasingly desperate as the seconds tick by. he mouths and nips at your neck, his tongue not far behind to sooth the marred skin, groaning as you curl your fingers into his hair, tugging at the dark strands. his head removes itself from your neck so he is able to lock your gaze to his — and fuck, you're a sight to behold. furrowed brows, eyes snapped shut, swollen lips coated in spit, bitten oh so hard to muffle your cries. your oversized shirt is slipping from your shoulder, revealing the strap of your bra and the bare skin of your shoudler.
one hand remains on your ass, continuing to guide you against him, while the other reaches up to hold your chin. your eyes flutter open, only to avoid his gaze. with a deep, shuddering breath, he squeezes your chin.
"eyes on me," he orders, his voice deep and dark. visibly shivering above him, you obey. his umber eyes bear into yours, hypnotizing — and while you want to bury your head back into his chest and hide, you simply can't. he smirks at your slack-jawed expression. "such a good girl. shit, feels good?"
"y-yeah," you squeak out, panting now. you've drifted somewhere far away, lost in the pleasure he's so generously giving you. your vision goes fuzzy around the edges as his hand slides down to wrap around your throat, moaning at the sensation.
"yeah?" he asks, the lilt in his voice condescending. "you like my cock grinding into your pretty pussy, my hand around your throat? bet you're so wet already, hm? are you?"
with a rapid nod of your head and a whine, your eyes shut again, hips grinding down even faster. when they blink back open, you find his cocky demeanor has lessened, his head thrown back as he groans and curses under his breath.
"god. fuck, baby," he breathes, starting to thrust up into you to meet you halfway. you squeal at the sensation. "y'feel so good. gonna make me cum soon."
you scramble forward to kiss him, muffling your moans and his groans. your fingertips press into his shoulders as you feel your peak approaching. the rustle of clothes mix with the obscene sounds.
and then you're shoved straight over the edge.
you cry his name as your thighs quake, trying to close but being halted by his own. your lips leave his so your head can dive into his shirt, riding out the pleasure. minho ruts into you once, twice before his torso shudders beneath you. he hisses out a quiet "fuck" as his release stains his boxers.
slowly, the two of you come down, your face still buried into his chest. he can feel the heat radiating off of your cheeks when he cups them to bring you in for a gentle, slow kiss. the desperation that previously filled the air has all but dissipated, replaced by soft adoration — and slight embarrassment.
"that...was so fucking hot," he mumbles once he pulls away, a small smile curling at the corners of his mouth. "can't believe you made me cum in my pants."
you giggle despite your newfound fatigue. "i guess i just have that effect."
he pinches your waist. "brat."
that only make you laugh harder. shifting off of him, you stand on trembling legs. "shower?"
he laces his fingers with yours with a sly grin.
"i thought you'd never ask."
#sorry that this took a billion years to be written#stray kids smut#skz smut#minho smut#stray kids x reader#skz x reader#minho x reader#lee know smut#lee know x reader#agust.nsfw#💌 — lino
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If I may request for gooey wan:
After reading the snippet about Rex' reaction, I'm just curious how different groups of people react to the craziness of Obi-Wan's powers and how unfazed the 212th is.
How does his powers act when they're on shore leave and he and Cody go to Dex's for lunch.
Anyway keep up the amazing writing, can't wait for the next part of the loud!au it's so good ❤️
“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” a child-like voice sings and Fives tries to become one with the wall immediately.
“You cannot run! You cannot hide!” The following giggling turns up the goosebumps on his arms to the max, and he indulges in a shiver.
“I hate horror holos,” he whispers to himself before switching on internal comms. “Weren’t we supposed to be inconspicuous about this?”
“Change of plans,” Rex tells him from somewhere on the northern side of the command center. “He’s stopping them from calling reinforcements.”
The child-voice suddenly shrieks in glee and Fives’ goosebumps reach new heights. “Found you!”
“Squad Esk, change position to point 5-7-Krenth,” Commander Cody orders over comms, and, naturally, they haul ass.
Squatting down on the gangway opens up quite the view in the bubble of disturbing silence that apparently surrounds General Kenobi when he does his thing.
It’s a void of nothingness. Not actually harmful to living beings, though the sparking droids let Fives theorize that some electronics don’t have much to buffer against whatever the General… exudes. Pardon his Coruscanti.
The enemy commander scrambles against the wall, trying to get away from Kenobi who’s standing still in front of them. The black smoke is thick, covering the entire floor and crawling up the corners nearby.
The enemy is caught up in the General’s look, the Galaxy black holes that are rumored to hide behind the pleasant smile.
Fives clicks his knee guard against the gangway just to break the suffocating silence but no sound rises up.
The enemy collapses to their knees and Kenobi steps back. Not physically but his sheer presence seems to decrease in intensity. Fives clicks his kneeguard again and this time, the sound is allowed to reach his ears.
“Cody,” Kenobi says quietly, “the hostages are about to be transported off planet. I don’t know from which port.”
“On it,” Commander Cody answers and immediately barks orders over comms to shut down all spaceports.
“Do you surrender,” Kenobi asks, still quiet. Tired.
Fives feels his brow furrow involuntarily.
“Yes,” the enemy replies, pale and shaking under the General’s gaze. “Please…”
And that’s how Fives’ first joint mission ends. Not with a bang but goosebumps that fail to disappear for a few good hours afterwards.
.
“It’s been rough for him,” Cody admits, absently swirling the straw through the milkshake Dex put in front of him the moment he fell into a seat at the counter like all his strings had been cut. “He’s overcompensating for the time he hid from me— us who he is.”
Dex mulls over that for a moment. Long enough the Commander glances up at him. “He’s a dumbass,” he settles on, the diplomatic route. “Always has been.”
Cody snorts, takes a sip. “I talked to him, of course,” he says, flaps his hand before scratching at the prominent scar on his forehead. “He competently ignored me to the point I benched him.” Cody shakes his head, wide eyes on the milkshake. “That was incredibly stressful.”
The diner is empty at this time of night. Quiet and reserved for all types of encounters; from distressed clone commanders to their smokey nightmare Jedi.
Dex studies Cody for a moment, weighing the possibilities what a man like that could need the most at the moment. “Grab the mop. We’re cleaning the kitchen.”
.
“—and then he looks at you with those big eyes and you’re supposed to say no? How?” Cody hauls the bucket out of the sink, black sleeves rolled up to his elbows. “While he tells you once again about boundaries and all the important aspects of choice, and due diligence of command.”
“That sounds like a you problem,” Dex says drily, scrubbing at a medium stubborn stain on the durasteel work counter.
“I am aware, thanks,” Cody sneers and Dex hides his laugh in the spritz of grease remover. “I want to be unaware of that but that stage has passed right to anger.” He wrings out the mop with what Dex would describe as thirst for vengeance. “Maybe I can un-love him,” he murmurs to himself like on the verge of epiphany. “What stage is that?”
“Bargaining,” Dex replies, crosses two of his arms while another still scrubs at the stain. “Those are the five stages of grief by the way. You’re falling in love.”
“Isn’t that the same in the end?” Cody mutters which is certainly food for thought.
“The first time I met Obi-Wan,” Dex starts and the Commander’s incredible attention is focused on him like a laser. It’s intimidating even for someone like Dex. “He got stuck in the darkness in the back alley.”
“Sounds just like him.”
It had been right out of a horror holo.
:
The alley behind the diner had always been a quiet place on Coruscant.
Dex let the trash bag fall into the dumpster but no sound came forward.
It had never been this quiet and dark.
He tapped on the ground with a foot. Nothing. Flicked his fingers against a drainpipe.
Nothing.
“I’m sorry,” a young voice said from the dark, right behind his shoulder, and Dex jumped. “I don’t know how to stop it.”
He spun around, squinted into the unnatural dark.
A soft sniffle from above and he looked up and into blue glowing eyes. “I’m sorry.”
.
Smoke rushed past him, howling and shrieking in the distance. Two of his hands were clamped around a small waist while the child and he tried their best to separate smoke from the darkness.
“I really am trying to corporeal my sense of self,” the child defended himself and Dex could only imagine the kinds of accusations thrown his way.
“Don’t worry about.” They’d been trying to untangle the child from the side of the building for close to twenty minutes with no progress at all. “You’re like a sticky womp rat,” he muttered.
“Excuse me?”
The offense taken was a bit too hilarious. Dex grinned up at the kid. “You don’t know what a sticky womp rat is? The slime toy? You throw it to the ceiling and it sticks.”
“A slime—!”
And just like that they both fell to the ground. Dex’s back would never forgive him.
.
“I trapped someone in their nightmares,” the young Jedi confessed, shoulders hunched up.
“Did you do it on purpose?” Dex asked, whisking hot milk into the custard.
“At first,” was the murmured reply, and Dex was surprised. The child didn’t seem the type. “I was so angry with Bruck.”
“You let them go?”
“As soon as I could.”
Dex turned around, watched Obi-Wan wipe at his eyes with the smoky sleeves. “Which wasn’t fast enough, I’m guessing,” he said, placed with custard bowl in front of the child.
“There’s no one like me at the Order,” Obi-Wan whispered. “I want to help, not be the cause for pain.”
:
“He took it to the extreme,” Dex says, remembers the instances too close in time where Obi-Wan visited him, looking more and more human and less and less like himself. “He put his nature into a box and forgot about it.”
“His compartmentalization is top tier,” Cody murmurs, close to awe.
Dex facepalms. “Not the point.”
Cody takes another dozen plates to the designated cupboard. “After the incident,” and Dex can hear the suppressed capitalization of the word, “he was like a newborn. Stumbling and helpless.”
“Must’ve been a nightmare.” He remembers the chill, the feeling of being hunted.
“No one slept a wink the first week,” Cody laughs, sobers. “It was like the ship was haunted by ourselves. He apologized so much. Wasn’t easy.”
Dex can only imagine.
Cody looks up, makes sure of the eye contact, and Dex doesn’t do him the disservice of looking away. “He had helped us so much. So we stepped up and helped him.”
Obi-Wan is one unlucky son of a blaster but he earns the loyalty given to him.
.
“Thank you, Dex,” Obi-Wan said, eyes glowing blue. Small claws clinked against the empty bowl.
Dex nodded, ruffled ginger hair. “Anytime, young Jedi. Your ride is here.”
I know, was whispered into his ear and he shivered.
Obi-Wan blushed. “Sorry.” Hopped down from the seat and into the care of the Jedi, visibly sagging with relief, coming through the diner door.
There was a small black blob on the floor. Dex wiped it away without second thought.
Cold, cold, alone. Strangling suffocating he knows—
“I know what you did and your victims will be more forgiving that I am.”
Cold. He runs. Runs runs runs—
.
“You two should come in together next time,” Dex suggests, shakes off the memory.
Cody smiles at him.
:
“I am the hungry.” Obi-Wan’s eyes rush into black. He takes a step forward, flickers. “I am the anyone. I am the everywhere.” The void spreads, consumes. “I hunt your nightmares until I become them.”
“See,” a voice whispers into Cody’s head, “deep down, deep down, they’re all like that.”
Cody nods, stands up straight. “Blast him.”
The 212th turns as one, fires. Fires and fires until the smoke screams.
“Good soldier,” the voice says.
Cody wakes.
.
The next day ARC trooper Fives is declared a traitor.
#goo! on the negotiator#star wars#codywan#obi wan kenobi#commander cody#creature!obi wan#obi-wan’s eyes are inspired by husky eyes#my art#frostbitebakery art#thank you Nonny!! sorry that it took a bit
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Cool for the Summer 1
No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.
Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, age gap, power dynamics, cheating, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
Summary: After finishing your degree, you return home only to find things aren't as you left them.
Characters: Bucky Barnes
Note: Hellooooooooo. I've done it.
As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.
Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.
I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖
The heat is suffocating. There’s so many people crammed into the tight space. Enough to smother you and make you sweat. You're close to the end.
The train is finally still and passengers rise to take down their bags and form a queue along the center aisle. You stay patiently in your seat. You’d rather wait there then brave the crowded shuffle as the impatience to disembark mounts.
At last, the doors open and people begin to move. You don’t stand until the last person passes your row. Your suitcase is at the front of the car with the bigger luggage.
Step-by-step you make your way up and slip your bag off the middle shelf. You haul it awkwardly to the door and the man on the ground helps bring it down. You thank him, looking only at his branded pin, and step off.
You drag the bag behind you and hike up the smaller bag on your shoulder. You’re exhausted and it’s not even noon. The automatic doors stand open as the other passengers enter the station. You follow and wheel your bag to the side so you’re out of the way.
You take out your phone. Your mother texted that she was here ten minutes ago. You can’t see much through the busy station. It’s summer and everyone is on their way somewhere; going home or heading out on vacation.
You’re relieved to be back but you won’t be able to relax until you’re at your mom’s house. You can’t wait to hide in your room and catch up on your reading. After four years at college, you have a long list.
As endless as your list may be, your reprieve won’t be. You have your degree now. You need to use it. Find a job, start your life, be an adult. The prospect is exciting but terrifying. More the latter as it entails associating with strangers. You’ve never been very good at that.
You did so well in school because it’s all you did. You didn’t go out and party, you didn’t distract yourself with dating or drinking, you didn’t even sign up for that book club that looked fun. You only stayed in and studied and occasionally ate in the cafe instead of boiling ramen or ordering in.
You don’t see her. You roll over to a free seat and sit. You text and ask where she is.
The general public stirs around you, blending into your peripherals as you stare at your phone and wait. You’d be better off waiting outside. Maybe. There’s a line of taxis and it’s all clustered with people trying to claim one.
“Ahem, excuse me.” The deep tone draws your head up but your eyes don’t go all the way. You focus on the man’s neck and the silver and brown stubble under his chin. He says your name and you sit up taller. “That’s you, right? Your mom showed me a pic. She’s just run to the bathroom.”
“Huh?” You clutch your bag tight.
“She did tell you I was coming, didn’t she?” He asks.
You shake your head and gnaw on your lip, “no. Who are you?”
You don’t know him. Not by his voice or the brief peek at his face. He’s older. Maybe her age. His dark hair is peppered with grey and his face is lined around his eyes and mouth, a few softer wrinkles in his forehead. His blue eyes are as bold as gems.
“Bucky.” He answers as if that should be explanation enough. He offers his hand. “Finally, we meet.”
You look around and accept his hand. You shake it. “Um, okay?”
He lets you go and grabs the handle of your suitcase. You reach for it in panic and stand. You nearly tip over and barely avoid brushing against him.
“She didn’t mention me. At all?”
You shake your head.
“Bucky,” your mom’s voice undercuts the awkward introduction. You turn to watch her flutter over. “Oh, sweetie, you’re home!”
Your mom seizes you and wraps you in a tight hug. She usually lets you have your space. You’ve never been touchy feely but you don’t protest. It has been a while since you saw her.
“Um, mom?” You murmur as she releases you.
She steps back and looks between you and the stranger. No, his name is Bucky.
“Oh, yes. You two. This is Bucky. Bucky--”
“We met,” Bucky interrupts.
“So sorry. I had an iced coffee on the way,” she trills.
“Bucky?” You raise your brows in your mom’s direction.
“You remember. I told you I met a guy,” she lowers her voice and nudges you. “This is him.”
“Oh.”
You vaguely remember her mentioning it after Christmas. You didn’t think too much about it. You don’t remember it coming up again. She always just said she went out or talked about chores. You wonder if she didn’t tell you on purpose. If maybe she expected you to overreact.
“We thought we could take you out for lunch as a bit of a homecoming. That train food isn’t very filling.” She smiles. “Well, it was Bucky’s idea. He’s so sweet.”
“Honey,” he chuckles. “Please, you’re giving me a lot to live up to.”
“Erm. If you want.” You shrug.
“Sounds like a plan. I’m starving.” Bucky pulls your bag away and you flinch again. “Ladies, first. Want me to get your other bag?” He offers and you shake your head.
Your mom moves first and you quickly catch up to her. You wish she’d at least warned you. You’re entirely unprepared for this. She knows you don’t do well with new people but maybe that’s why she didn’t say anything. So you couldn’t come up with an excuse to get out of it.
The sun beats down and adds to the sheet of sweat across your nape. Bucky looms behind you, his shadow skewing on the pavement, and you search for your mom’s car. You don’t see it.
She leads you to a dark blue car and you stare at it dumbly.
“Bucky drove,” your mom explains. The trunk pops as Bucky rolls your bag up. You step back as he lifts it inside. You thank him again as guilt bristles in your chest.
You follow your mom around the side of the car, waiting for her lead. When she opens the door, you open the back one. When she gets in, you get it. When she clips in her seat belt, you do. Bucky gets in on the driver’s side and drops his keys in the little tray between the cup holders. He jabs the button to turn the engine.
He doesn’t shift into gear right away. He does up his own seat belt, adjusts his posture, then fiddles with the mirror. You glance up as his eyes dart away in the mirror. Was he looking at you?
You pick at the hem of your sleeves button-up and lean into the door. You really hope you’re not in the way. You have that rotting sensation in your gut. You’ve ruined their day.
“Alright, everyone buckled in?” He grips the wheel with one hand, the other hooking behind your mother’s seat as he cranes and backs out of the spot. You stare at his thick fingers as you slump down in self-consciousness. You know he’s only checking his rear window but you’re always paranoid of being seen.
He rolls the car straight and steers between the slanted rows of vehicles. He idles behind the fleet of cabs and weaves his way through the chaos. Your mom sighs and shifts. She’s a less than patient driver.
“So, we were thinking the new bar and grill, figured you haven’t been around to try it,” your mom explains. “But if you miss Dezi’s, we can go there. Me and Bucky love getting Sunday lunch there. You remember how we used to go?”
Your lips twitch as you fright a frown. Dezi’s is your place. You and your mom went there since you were in grade school. Knowing she’s been taking him feels like a violation. The suspicion that you’re being replaced unnerves you. You don’t have any right to be mad about it. You’re grown now and your mom’s allowed to live her life. Thing’s change, they already have.
“New place is fine,” you grumble.
“Great! Megan recommended it. I’ve been dying to try it.” Your mom is elated.
She’s never short of enthusiasm but you don’t know the last time she didn’t have a single complaint. If it’s a nice day, she’s disappointed she can’t be at the beach. If she has the day off, she’s upset she has to do the laundry, even if you offer to throw it in with yours. And when she finally gets her food at a restaurant, she laments that she didn’t order the chicken instead of beef. Maybe change is good.
“Your mom’s a great tour guide. I don’t feel so lost anymore.” Bucky stops at a light and looks at her. “Uh, Lauren?”
“Straight then left,” she instructs him with a point of her finger. Her nails are done. Not her usual chipped paint on her short square cuticles; she has a full set with a lovely almond shape.
He follows her directions and continues through the green. You turn your attention out the window. You were only just home for the holidays but everything feels so different. Or maybe you are too.
There’s nothing ahead of you no, yet everything at the same time. You haven’t found much in your job search. Every job your mom sent you, you applied. You trawled the online boards and even used the student career center for help with your CV. A dozen articles littered your feed deeming the market oversaturated.
Another disappointment for your mom. You’re sure she won’t fail to mention this one. You exhale and twine your fingers together in your lap.
“Tired, sweetie?” Your mom asks.
“Uh, yeah,” you answer. It wouldn’t do any good to share your worries. You still have time to find a job. Eventually, you have to get something.
“Alright,” Bucky flicks his blinker on and waits to turn. “Here we are.”
He pulls into the lot of the bar and grill. It’s built to resemble a log cabin and the entire theme has a rustic tint. He slides into a spot and shuts the engine off. In the silence, your stomach rumbles loudly.
“Hungry?” He chuckles and peeks back over his shoulder. As your mom jostles her purse and untangles her seat belt, he winks. Your blink dumbly and click the button to release yourself.
“Sure.” Your voice creaks as you pull the door handle. It doesn’t budge. You try again. Then frantically feel around for the lock.
“Oops.” Bucky turns and hits a switch. The locks thunk back.
Your mom gets out first and you follow. Bucky catches up and brushes by you as he passes. He beats you both to the front door and opens it for you. You trail your mom and he stays close as he enters behind you.
“Such a gentleman,” your mom praises and giggles. She sounds bubbly. You can’t remember her sounding like that before.
“Table for three,” Bucky says to the hostess.
Again, he lets you go ahead of him. Your mom is ahead of you as the hostess leads you into the dining room. You’re sat at a booth. You’re relieve to have a bench to yourself, facing your mother and Bucky, but she insists on being on the outside in case she needs the bathroom. That leaves you across from him.
“Drinks.” Bucky intones as he grabs the slender menu. “Cocktails?”
“What do they have?” Your mom leans on him as she reads over his shoulder.
“Hmm, interesting. Apple cider’s a bit out of season,” Bucky comments. “Figured we should celebrate. Baby girl is home and graduated.”
You wince at the reference. Baby girl? He sucks his teeth as he examines the menu then turns it around. He offers it across the table.
“Think I'll stick to beer,” he says.
“Go on,” your mom goads. “Get something special, sweetie. You earned it.”
“Oh, it’s okay, I’ll just have water.”
“It’s a special day,” she insists.
“Well, er...” you take the menu and nod. You look down at the listings as your cheeks burn hot. You don’t like to argue, especially when there’s no good reason.
You try to make sense of it. Blackberry sounds good but you’re not sure what bitters are. You don’t drink. You had one glass of wine at a New Years party with your mom’s friends a few years ago and didn’t really get the appeal. It made your stomach feel swishy.
There’s a lemonade that sounds okay. You like lemonade. You settle on that and put the menu down. Your mother scoops it up and you apologise. You should’ve asked her if she needed it.
A server appears and takes your drink orders as she doles out a set of larger menus. You take yours and listen as she recites the specials. You don’t really catch any of it. You’ve always done better with writing than oral instruction. She leaves and you wait for the others to open their menu before you do the same.
“This is nice,” your mom says. “I’m so happy you two are getting along.”
You force a smile and Bucky slips his arm around her and squeezes. Your eyes meet again and his cheek dimples beneath his beard. You quickly avert your attention back to the sandwich options.
Getting along? You barely know him. Not to mention, you didn’t expect him. No use in whining about it. He's here and your mother is happy.
#bucky barnes#dark bucky barnes#dark!bucky barnes#bucky barnes x reader#series#fic#dark fic#dark!fic#marvel#mcu#cool for the summer#winter soldier#captain america#avengers#au
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There's a post on r/relationship_advice about a young woman whose boyfriend asked her if his was the biggest penis she'd ever had sex with. She told him objectively no, but that bigger penises hurt her physically and make sex painful and unenjoyable, and his penis is perfect for her.
The boyfriend has been obsessed with this answer since, repeatedly demanding reassurance from her and constantly revisiting the topic even when she becomes frustrated. She describes one time they were on a call and she hadn't slept, and he was keeping her up at 5 literal AM making her reassure him about his penis.
This is how she frames the issue--shocker:
The responsibility being hers, to "do enough" to help her incredibly insecure and in-need-of-therapy man to get over an issue that she did not cause.
Men are being incredibly normal about it in the comments and making sure we know how severely oppressed and harmed they are by penis size comparisons:
Of course, further up in the selfsame post, there are multiple comments from women talking about how they dislike big penises, how their best lovers were indifferent to size; there are even men talking about how they're average-sized or small but have long-term female partners who love their bodies.
This generous male individual commented multiple times, but expressly stated that he didn't even finish reading the post:
His additional comment elsewhere:
In case it's unclear, the basic thesis of OldSoulMillenialMan's comment is that all men have a deep and profound insecurity around their penises, and need, emotionally, to hear "your penis is so huge, I'm terrified of it, it's going to ruin me, it's the biggest ever" from their women on this issue.
Putting the whole emotional labor aspect of this post aside, I took away a few key findings.
Despite women commonly and frequently remarking that they like average-sized penises, not just in "coed" communities like relationship subreddits, but in female-centric communities like the TwoXChromosomes subreddit, etc (which are all full of men, often moderated by men, and are definitely trolled, brigaded, and read by men, given how often women are solicited via DM from their posts in female-centric subreddits), men simply do not believe them, and believe there is no parallel for the "body positive" movement for them--the "body positive" movement which was begun by women, for women. The implication, here as always, is that the onus is on women to provide positivity for men, to provide help and comfort for men, to fix men's problems for them. Men never generate an internal movement directed at each other in order to heal the wounds they experience that center on maleness and manhood. They only ever want women to do the work for them. (There is also 0 recognition of how the "body positive" movement as such has been completely co-opted for profit by the beauty and fashion industries; nor any recognition of how beauty standards for women have actually intensified in the past 5-10 years.)
Men's insecurities around their penises and penis size can only be balmed by knowing that they're big enough to scare a woman, that they're big enough to "ruin" a woman. This really highlights the function of sex for men and the interpersonal function of the penis in heterosexual relationships: the function being penis as weapon. The penis is not just a genital organ a man happens to have, which he happens to use for pleasurable sex with his female partner. The desire is to use his penis to harm her. He wants his penis to be the penis that makes her suffer, that makes her scared and worried she cannot bodily accommodate him, that makes her "ruined" by the sheer size and suffering he causes with his penis. As feminists have discussed for a long time, this is a fundamental element of hetero male sexuality. "Fuck" is not just a word that means "to have sex"; "you're fucked," "fuck you," and other uses of the term clearly outline how to be "fucked" is conceptualized as an aggressive, violent, and degrading thing. Even when men are in loving partnerships with women, their deep-rooted desire is to be the ultimate violation and degradation their female partner experiences, because that is the meaning of sex to them.
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okay thoughts/timestamps for the phanniversary newlywed game video!! (random breaks are to appease the tumblr gods)
youtube
:55 - The capitalesterification of things that used to be unspoken fandom holidays is startling to me still. Jarring, even. It's theirs to own; I'm not really mad about it. But it feels weird. 2:00 - "You are our third in this video. The questioning third." I need a shot, actually. 2:13 - Dan referencing how they are basically the same person at this point before it even starts. 2:27 - Who would be caught tied to a wall at furcon? Unanimously Dan. This doesn't surprise me at all; my headcanon for a while has been that Dan is more likely to identify as a furry while Phil is more likely to be fascinated watching furries have sex but not identify with any other aspects of it as much. I think Phil probably just enjoys things a bit to the left of center, in general, even if he doesn't want to partake himself. 3:32 Who is bossies? Unanimously Phil. I love this little peak into their dynamic. Ignoring the "stinky baby" thing, they are bossy in different ways. Dan is more big picture trying to accomplish goals and Phil is more to try and satisfy his individual needs.
4:05 - Who is more likely to cut the video off due to a sponsor? Obviously this one is Phil, and cue spon segment that I skipped the first time and am skipping now. 5:28 - Who would accidentally answer the door with no pants on? Unanimously Phil. I think this just speaks to a little more of Phil's general obliviousness and ability to be in his own bubble when he's comfortable, which is kind of fascinating considering Phil seems more anxious and hyperalert when they are in public. 5:50 - Who drinks more? Unanimously Dan. We knew this already about Phil being a lightweight and Dan not being one, but I do enjoy confirmation that Phil is just a silly drunk and the shoutout to a classic dinof video. 6:36 - Who is the gayest? Unanimously Phil. This does not surprise me at all and I am going to answer an ask specifically just about this. But tl;dr I think Phil has a very binary sense of attraction and Dan doesn't. Also he gets a gold star for "the concept of women." 7:02 - Who's most likely to get a tattoo? Unanimously Phil. This Phil lore is interesting and I do think he'll end up with a tattoo at some point. 8:20 - Who is most likely to have the next medical emergency? Unanimously Phil. His body really is a fail. :(
8:42 - Who is better at time management? So many questions in and the first differing response!! This immediately took me back to the roulette game. Good to know Dan has not changed in his stubbornness, and also that he believes a divorce is when he can't see Phil for five seconds. 9:44 - Who snores more when sleeping? Unanimously Phil. rip everyone on that tour bus, apparently? Now I need to know if Dan is the type to just put in earplugs, or if he wakes Phil up when it's too loud. 10:16 - Who starts more arguments? Their second differing response, and imo the most satisfying moment of the video. Insert this type of domestic into my vein. Dan is pettier about small things but he says he's just pointing things out/observing it, and to him he's just verbalizing it and to Phil it's Dan starting an argument. Phil wants Dan to let more things just wash over him. 11:10 - Who kills/removes the spiders? Unanimously Phil, which we already knew but I love a good renewed confirmation that he removes them with a glass instead of killing them. 11:31 - Who is more likely to stand up for the other when a restaurant gets their order wrong? Unanimously Dan, followed by the beautiful phrasing of Phil not even complaining if he got "the cheese super allergy knife bowl, mmm tasty." But the dichotomy here that I really love is how in the microcosm of their relationship Phil is bossier, more outspoken with turning things into arguments, and more likely to ask for and get his way… but when it comes to outside of the relationship Dan finds that more comfortable. Dan really does have that older sibling-verging-on-mom override.
11:53 - Who's more likely to be lurking on social media? Unanimously Phil. Dan is traumatized and I do believe he doesn't want to know or see the commentary on himself or his projects except through a filter. Philter. Sorry. I'll move on. 12:10 - Who is the bigger nerd? Unanimously Dan. Dan does seem more for ADHD style hyperfixation whereas Phil is more of a lifetime fandom person. 12:47 - Which one of you is the alpha? They each answered themselves, but neither of them took this seriously. Phil is right tbh they are both betas. 13:17 - Phil doesn't like being told what to do. This is probably my second favorite part of the video. I feel like it makes sense but isn't something I would readily think of; he doesn't like confrontation so it's not an element of his personality that we would see come out a lot. But he's also someone that's essentially never been in a scenario past the school age where he really had to answer to anyone above him. He's equal in his relationship, he's financially independent, he's in control of his career. Any 'boss' he's had was an unconventional scenario (like BBC1 where he didn't have to apply to be there, he was invited) and while he's worked hard he's just done it of his own volition and not due to anyone outside of himself and his partnership requiring it.
13:29 - Who's more likely to flirt with the waiter? Unanimously Phil, which I love because this is really a slice of true Dan. He didn't once try to imply that he's the lolz horny on grindr getting those hookups slut boy summer persona. Dan is only that in theory; in reality he's worrying about politics and his own anxiety and making sure Phil wasn't served cheese allergy knife soup. 13:59 - Who's more likely to become a stripper? Unanimously Dan. Shoutout to the nakedbooth era of 2009. I also appreciate his point about how being any kind of content creator is similar. 14:40 - Who is most likely to leave their hair in the shower wall? Opposing answers, but Phil's logic is flawed. It isn't who will see it, it's who would do it. Confirmation from Dan again that Phil is very messy and also still uses three towels. 15:04 - Who has a worse sense of direction? Unanimously Phil. I really identify with this.
15:14 - Who has the highest screen time? Unanimously Dan, but they go into the differences in screen time. Phil seems to actively use his more whereas Dan uses it passively to watch things. Dan never lets his mind just be chill and doesn't want to be alone with his thoughts, whereas Phil can rawdog the laundry with nothing playing. Dan uses his phone for escapism, Phil uses it to seek out information. 15:52 - Bubbly Ben coming in clutch with "Whom's ass claps the hardest?" - I need an oil painting of Dan's expression as Phil reads this. And the caption should be, "Answer the fucking question, Phil." (It is, obviously, a unanimous Phil.) Followed by one of Dan's patented over the top 'we crossed a line' which I'll forgive him for in this one instance since the entire video was fairly free of his go-to filler quotes.
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Muzan Kibutsuji General Yandere Profile
Yandere! Muzan Kibutsuji x fem! reader
Tw: kidnapping, stalking, mentions of non-con, violence, graphic gore, mentions of cannibalism, verbal and physical abuse, murder, one brief mention of throwing up, brief mention of Muzan slutshaming you, mild sexism, verbal abuse, mentions of Stockholm Syndrome, mentions of low self esteem, fem reader, MNDI
I do not condone any of the actions described in this post - this is fiction and should be treated as such. If you or a loved one is in a similar situation to anything contained in this post or my blog in general, please seek help. You're in charge of your internet consumption; please make responsible choices. With that, enjoy!
WC: 10K
DARLING PROFILE:
Human
Muzan is not one to easily develop feelings for others in any positive context.
He’s a selfish, cruel being, utterly bent on his own self-preservation with no regard for the lives of others.
He’s self-centered to the extreme, and as such, if he develops feelings for someone (especially romantically), it takes a very, very long time and can only be achieved under specific circumstances.
His darling has to be someone intelligent, quick-thinking, perceptive, ambitious, charming, and a whole list of other things that are almost impossible to achieve.
And yet, the biggest, most glaring trait they must possess is their humanity.
It’s strange and a juxtaposition to Muzan’s own inhumanity, but there’s just something that draws him in about the idea that his darling is so very flawed by the very nature of their being and yet so alluring and tempting and intoxicating.
It enrages him, quite frankly, but his darling must be a human in order for these feelings to form. He initially only feels a mild curiosity towards them – mixed with irritation and contempt, of course, but there’s this nagging feeling urging him to learn more about them, to interact with them, to understand why his pulse picks up ever so slightly when they’re around.
He likes the fact that his darling is so weak; he’ll never tell them, of course, but it only reaffirms his own superiority complex, convincing him that he’s the strongest, and his darling is the weakest.
They’re a pet, in a lot of ways, but Muzan finds himself oddly intrigued – his human is so complex, the emotions they feel and their motivations something he’ll never fully understand, but as time passes he finds himself hating their presence less and less, sometimes even desiring to touch them – a notion that makes his skin crawl in both disgust and a strange, potent sense of desire.
It’s frustrating and confusing, but Muzan’s darling will be a human – though not for long.
Intelligent
It’s no surprise, really, that Muzan is absolutely incapable of handling a darling that doesn’t possess above average intelligence.
They don’t need to be a genius, but his darling must have a strong grasp of both academic and social intelligence.
Where these intelligences lie is flexible; he’s equally impressed by a darling that can recite complex physics formulas and one that can analyze some of the most classical literature ever written.
It doesn’t really matter where the smarts lay, but his darling must be able to showcase at least some level of critical thinking in their daily life; Muzan is enticed by someone who can come as close as possible to being his equal, and as a creature that views himself as smarter and superior to all others, his darling must be something special, too.
(Of course, his darling will never truly be an equal – he’s still the most magnificent, perfect creature, tireless in his search to become immune to human constraints like sickness and aging, but there’s something endearing about a darling that can entertain some of his conversation, who can at least follow some of his logic when he’s feeling generous enough to include them in his plans. Besides, and he’ll never admit to it, he’s fond of hearing his darling’s opinion – he’ll continue with what he thinks best, of course, but if his darling present sound reasoning, Muzan will often entertain the notion for a bit, distantly surprised if his darling has considered an idea he hasn’t yet, or if they present a line of argument that manages to stump him.)
And so, in order for Muzan’s interest to be piqued, his darling must be intelligent and must be unafraid to showcase this – but as his attention is initially fickle (it does not remain this way, however), they musn’t be too proud of their intelligence.
Pride is a sin only he can indulge in, not some lowly human.
Perceptive
Muzan is, unsurprisingly, easy to upset.
Being in his presence is akin to walking on eggshells, with the repercussions of a single step out of line costing a life. And while he won’t ever kill his darling, but it’s still very much in their best interest to learn his triggers and what makes him particularly angry or calm.
His darling must be able to analyze others and understand them quickly – a certain level of empathy is needed, and while he’ll never admit that his darling can read him like an open book, in order to survive they must be able to.
He’s attracted to the idea that his darling understands when to speak and when to stay silent, when to approach him and when to give him space, even when to refer to him as my Lord rather than his actual name.
(He always prefers his actual name, as the way the syllables sound rolling off his darling’s tongue is heaven and sends shivers down his spine, but he must maintain a certain level of control over them and forcing such a title is a good way to highlight the difference in power between them.)
And so, a darling that’s able to pick up on these silent cues and patterns is immensely attractive to him – he has very little patience for idiotic people, and he already harbors enough resentment towards his darling for catching his attention that they must be able to navigate the treacherous waters he places them in.
Besides, there’s something indescribably pleasing when his darling knows exactly what he wants, able to predict his desires often before he can express them or realize them himself.
It makes him feel good, his ego getting stroked and relaxation spreading throughout his entire body, and of course, it only makes his feelings for his darling grow, taking root in his gut and twisting and turning these roots until they’re wrapped so tightly around his heart it may strangle it.
And while Muzan likes to think he’d never let someone hold such a grip on him, he’s simply in denial of how truly dependent he is on his darling’s presence – he’s in much, much too deep.
Quiet
Muzan himself is not a particularly talkative man – even during his human years, his voice was reserved mostly for complaints, yells, with a scowl sprawled across those pale pink lips of his.
He’s not one for idle conversation, and while he can force a pleasant smile and white lies and it suits his purposes, he generally doesn’t desire being in the company of those who talk incessantly.
It’s annoying, frankly, and Muzan isn’t exactly understanding or patient once he’s deemed someone irritating.
And so, a darling who is naturally less talkative is incredibly attractive to him – he likes that they’re quiet, that they only really speak when they need to, if only because he enjoys silence.
A more selfish part of him also enjoys the knowledge that a less talkative darling means a significantly lower chance of them interacting with other men – they aren’t likely to strike up a conversation with a stranger on the street, barring them from potential danger and potential suitors.
His darling’s quietness is pleasing, yes, but there are times when Muzan becomes annoyed by this particular trait, however; his darling should be quiet but still talk to him, when he desires it. They should be silent around others, sure, but they should still respond eagerly and enthusiastically when he initiates a conversation with them.
He wants to see them smile at him and treat his every word as if it were gospel, as if it were something precious and important and cherished.
And so, while his darling should watch their tongue around others (and around him too, really), they should be actively engaged when speaking with him.
But not too much – Muzan can tell when they’re forcing themselves to be eager, and it bruises his ego a bit to know that his darling isn’t being totally honest when they compliment his latest strategy in finding the blue spider lily or the Ubuyashiki manor.
It makes a wave of insecurity settle in his gut, a feeling he resents possibly more than feeling weak – it infuriates him, so it’s best to avoid laying it on too thick.
Really, being his darling is just one big balancing act – they’ve got to keep him pleased and happy, a task that could quite literally result in life or death.
GENERAL YANDERE TRAITS:
Possessive
In general, your existence absolutely infuriates Muzan.
It takes an incredibly long time for his feelings to form, and even then, he’s entirely unsure of why he even likes you – you’re plain, weak, boring, worthless compared to him. Why is he wasting his time with you? You’re simply one human in a sea of them, all doomed to slowly wither away and die some miserable death, inevitably suffering and growing weaker with every day. Why would he ever find himself even remotely interested in a creature with such a glaring flaw?
How could he allow himself to ever hold even a flicker of intrigue towards a being with such obvious limitations?
Centuries and growing power have left Muzan with such an extreme level of arrogance that he’s equal parts enraged and in denial of his interest in you – early on, he tries his best to simply pretend that you don’t exist. Perhaps he’s having to live in human society for whatever reason, and you’re a neighbor or a woman he occasionally sees near his home.
Regardless, he’s making a point to not speak to you, to not even look at you, fully not acknowledging your presence all in the hopes that the weird, scratching feeling in his heart will go away and he’ll no longer be plagued by this weird, horrible awareness of you.
Except, while he likes to think that it works, the moment he sees another man look at you or converse with you, his nails sharpen and veins sprout along his temples, a new kind of irritation coursing through him. He doesn’t like the way you make him feel, but he likes this even less – this man, this human, who’s standing so very close to you and has absolutely no reason to.
The feeling is strange – it’s envy, he thinks, something he’d felt often back in his human days, but this is different. There’s something else, something sharper, something that’s twisting and burning, something that makes him grit his teeth, that gets his feet moving before he can really even think about it. He’s quick to separate you and the stranger, physically separating you with his body between yours, his breathing a bit uneven and strained, those blinding red eyes of his trained directly at the stranger.
He has enough self-control to not immediately slaughter the man (you’re in far too public a setting – killing every human in the crowded plaza square wouldn’t be hard by any means, but it’d certainly be a hassle), but he’s only brought back to reality out of the angry trance he’d been placed into when he hears your small, irritating, alluring voice saying the human name he’d flippantly told you.
Immediately he’s scoffing, glaring at the man for a final moment before turning on his heel, quickly sauntering away from you while trying to figure out why the fuck he’d just unconsciously rushed to your location. He’s unsettled, quite honestly, and angry, of course, but more than that he’s worried – he'd done that without his control, his body not waiting for his permission to approach you, to interrupt whatever that human had been trying to do.
(He personally raids a small village that night, slaughtering every human he can find in ways that leave blood pooling across every floorboard, his pretty, pressed clothing stained red and feeling wet and heavy against his skin.)
And even once Muzan eventually realizes that what he’s feeling for you is attraction – and, dare he say it, fondness – this possessiveness doesn’t subside. If anything, it grows worse. Because now, rather than simply being uncomfortable and angry with other men (and women) approaching you, he’s angry because they’re approaching something that’s his – you’re his human, his woman, his plaything.
And why do these stupid, irrelevant humans think they have any right to look at you, to steal your time and attention, or god forbit touch you? He’s overwhelmingly possessive, and while there is some part of him that feels something loosely resembling love for you, his feelings akin you much more to a beloved object rather than his partner. You are not an equal with him – he is in charge, and he’s the one who decides your fate.
And even once he’s stolen you away this feeling persists – he’s not loving, and he doesn’t really make any attempts to hide how he views you. He’s not particularly expressive, so there’s a very good chance you won’t be aware of his romantic intentions towards you until later into your captivity, but you’ll know that you’re below him from day one. H
e’s constantly verbally reminding you that he’s superior, that any efforts you take to escape, disobey him, rebel, or call for help can and will be dealt with accordingly – often with a few lives lost. He’s possessive and selfish, genuinely believing that you have no reason to interact with another living thing on Earth besides himself – you’re his partner, his woman, and although you’ll never be an equal, he should be absolutely everything to you.
So, you’d better get good at acting.
Obsessive
While Muzan never fully comes to terms with the level of his obsession with you, his actions speak much, much louder than his words. He may speak to you like you mean nothing to him, but if you knew the extent to which he’d stalked you, watched you, and collected information about you prior to kidnapping you, you’d become even more terrified of the demon.
He’s not particularly subtle about his emotions, but he keeps a very strict barrier between the two of you. He holds every ounce of control in the relationship – he knows everything about you, but you know very little about him.
You only know his name (and only Muzan, not Kibutsuji), that he prefers the small home he keeps you in to be extremely clean, that he doesn’t enjoy physical touch (at least, you don’t think he does – if you knew the extent to which he imagines touching you or the things he’s imagined doing to you, you’d never enter the same room as him).
You don’t know a lot of basic information about him that you really, really wish you did – why did he kidnap you? What is he? Does he want to kill you? Questions swirl in your head constantly, but the same can’t be said of Muzan – at least, not in the sense that you’re a complete enigma to him.
On the contrary, he understands you almost scarily well – courtesy of the extent to which he watched you before kidnapping you. Because he was so angered at himself for developing an interest in a human woman, he found himself desperately hoping that by finding out more about you, all of his interest would fade and vanish, allowing him to simply kill you and continue on with his life.
And so, he took to watching you – you’re remarkably weak, he finds out. You live in a home that’s very, very easy to break into, the locks on your doors hardly putting up a fight before budging under his strength. He scoffs at this information, though it does make a small sense of envy eat away at him – has any other man done this before? How often do you get visitors in the night? Are you secretly whoring yourself out to other men?
He finds himself digging through every corner of your small, modest home – every drawer is opened and searched, every cabinet thoroughly analyzed, every closet and shelf picked over in extreme detail. He’s noting each and every thing he finds, his eyes narrowing or his eyebrow cocking up because wow, there is nothing even remotely remarkable about you.
You don’t have any particular wealth, nor do you have any supply of medicine, nor do you even have any particularly enjoyable artwork or cooking materials. He’s disappointed, but as he moves towards your bedroom and slowly slides open the door, his breath catches. You’re laying on your back, the small gap in the window letting in moonlight that shines across your face, your eyes dancing rapidly behind your eyelids.
He frowns, his nails digging into the wood of the door, irritation settling deep in his gut. You aren’t supposed to have this affect on him. He isn’t supposed to lose himself momentarily just from the sight of you – you, who has absolutely nothing to offer in the face of his power, wisdom, and resourcefulness.
And yet, here he is – staring at you like some sort of lovesick fool, his eyes unable to stop detailing the curve of your nose, or looking at the very vague outline of your chest from underneath the blanket. He leaves, that first night, finding an innocent to slaughter and only feeling marginally better. He’d hoped that one visit would be enough, trying to focus his mind on the fact that you’re so painfully average, that there’s nothing remarkable about you – but for every negative thought he has, a glimpse of your voice or the sound of your voice overpowers it.
And eventually, he convinces himself to return to your humble home, this time going directly to the bedroom. You’re asleep again, this time on your side, with strands of hair framing your face. Your soft breaths make his brows crinkle, and a sudden, fleeting thought runs through his mind – you’re so vulnerable in this moment, he could kill you with very, very little effort.
And soon his nails have grown sharp, and his elbow is cocked, adrenaline surging through his veins because if he could just kill you, perhaps this whole stupid infatuation could be done with. But the elbow stays cocked, doesn’t move, even as his eyes stay staring at you, not blinking, every nerve in his body screaming at him to end your life.
He can’t.
And that realization is the most upsetting of all – he can’t bring himself to kill you. Him - Muzan Kibutsuji, the Demon King, can’t bring himself to murder a sweet little thing like you. It’s comical, really, and although it infuriates Muzan, it represents a turning point in his feelings for you.
After that night, he no longer tries to force himself into forgetting about you or ignoring you – instead, he pushes himself to learn more about you, becoming fascinated with understanding why you of all people have caught his attention.
And really, this is where his more obsessive traits come into play. Suddenly he’s making a point to watch you sleep every night, always staring and watching your chest rise and fall, marveling at what power something as weak as you has over him. He’ll thumb through your closet, pulling each article of clothing out and appraising it, deciding if he likes it or not.
(Those that he doesn’t like are taken away with him, thrown into the trash and discarded so that only what he chooses actually adorns your figure, just as it should be. Later on into your ‘relationship’ this will still be true – he’s choosing what clothing you wear around the cabin, even what undergarments you wear. He’s particularly fond of silk and satin, liking the luxury feeling of the texture on you and the way it feels against him when he’s pressed up against you.)
He’s following you every night, walking around as your shadow and keeping a watchful eye on you, noting with disdain when you stumble or when you spend too much money on a snack or when you aren’t aware of your surroundings.
He’s especially stuck as your shadow when your period comes about – he’s on you like fucking glue, even going so far as to carefully pull back the sheets and spread your legs as you sleep, kneeling between your knees and pressing his face a few inches away from your clothed cunt, letting his eyes flutter closed as he inhales, smelling you you you.
(Masturbating feels beneath him, but the first time he smelled you while you’re menstruating, he’d decided his pride was worth sullying if it meant getting the release his body was desperate for – desperate enough to have soaked a visible portion of his slacks with precum.)
So really, while he’s an arrogant, narcissistic creature, your presence is his one weakness, his one guilty pleasure that allows himself to indulge in – if only just understand how the hell someone like you managed to snag the attention of someone as powerful and important as him.
Controlling
Muzan doesn’t see you as an equal. You’re a possession of his, something that he has full control over and can dictate every part of their life. He’s so much stronger than you, literally able to kill you with just his pinky alone, and this power dynamic is certainly not a secret to you. You’ll be very, very aware of just how liable you are to what he wants.
Even before he kidnaps you, you’ll be aware of the presence of something in your life – to you, Muzan is simply a loose acquaintance. You don’t know each other well, but he always seems to show up at the strangest of times – with excuses of just passing by, wanting to catch up, or some other innocent, plausible explanation.
And so, when he’s telling you at the fruit stand that pears really aren’t the best for your health, consider apples instead, you simply nod and thank him for his insight. (Of course you don’t know that he wants you to eat the apples instead because he can’t stand the smell of pears, and to have you reeking of the fruit would be a serious deterrent his experience of watching you for the rest of the day.)
When you decide to be bold one day and wear the pretty, colorful kimono you own, Muzan happens to run into you and comments on it, telling you that you look so lovely in more neutral colors, don’t you think? (You don’t need to know that he wants you to be wearing less flashy things so that others won’t notice you as much, so that you won’t draw too many eyes, so that you won’t be lusted after and pined after by so many men – you wouldn’t their blood on your hands, now would you?)
He’s subtle about it, never making you believe that you’re being swayed one way or another, but that changes after he’s stolen you away. Once you’re in his clutches, you’ll become very, very aware of just how much Muzan inserts himself into your daily life.
He’s obviously chosen where you’re to live, forcing you stay with him and keep you isolated from everyone else on Earth, just so that your dependence on him will grow, just so that no one else can see you, just so that he becomes your entire fucking world, just as he should be. But he chooses more subtle things, too – things that border on uncomfortable, things that really should be solely your choice.
He instructs you on which clothing to wear each day – giving you a specific outfit, telling you to style your hair in a particular way.
He’ll tell you whether to bathe that day, and the order with which you should clean yourself – always hair first, then arms, breasts (this is part that he’s most fervent about watching, claiming that you don’t do a good enough job and he must be present to ensure that you’re truly clean), stomach, back, legs, and between your thighs.
(He’ll allow you to privately clean yourself there at first, but as time passes he stops allowing you to turn your back to him, instead standing over the washing tub and scrutinizing your technique with his eyes, insisting that you haven’t thoroughly spread yourself, that you haven’t pressed inside yourself deeply enough. And, once you’ve begun having sexual relations, he’ll insist that you aren’t capable of being fully clean unless something else helps clean out inside of you, too – something clean and meticulous and cared for like what’s between his legs, of course. So let him settle into the bathing tub and seat yourself on him, allowing him to maneuver you to really, thoroughly clean you.)
He’s even instructing you on what order to eat your meals – vegetables first, then protein, then carbs, those watchful eyes of his like a hawk’s making sure that you follow his commands to a tee. It gives him a sense of control, like a palpable sense of superiority over you – sure, you make him feel emotions that he has no control over, making his body respond in ways he despises, but at least he controls you. It’s a weak ploy at maintaining his ego, but it’s effective – because as time passes, slowly you’ll forget what it was like to live a life where your every decision wasn’t made for you, and the thought will honestly scare you – how did you survive? How were you able to stomach the thought of so many small decisions, so many unknowns, so many things that could’ve gone wrong?
And Muzan will feed these delusions – commanding you with a firm, almost bored voice and following it up with an weak women like you shouldn’t be making too many choices, you’ll always choose incorrectly. You wouldn’t have survived without me, don’t you agree?
Which connects to another key aspect of his controlling tendencies – Muzan is extremely manipulative. He’s a selfish creature motivated by his own personal gain, and he is gifted at deceiving others in order to get what he wants. He’ll never explicitly lie to you, but Muzan has no qualms with warping your world perspective a bit, feeding you delusions, forcing you into believing that you truly are nothing without him, that you truly need him in the way he claims that you do.
And it’ll work – all those comments about you being beneath him and unable to take care of yourself will eventually become a mantra for you, and while you’ll still be terrified of the demon, you’ll start slowly depending on him.
You’ll start needing him in a way that makes Muzan smug – because now, he’s not the weak one, right? You need him much more than he needs you. (This isn’t true, but Muzan convinces himself of it – it has to be true.)
DEALING WITH RIVALS:
Quite honestly, it’s rare that you find yourself in a situation where another physical person is around you aside from Muzan. He’s very, very possessive over you, treating you more akin to a pet or prized possession rather than a partner. And because of this, he’s able to easily control the people who interact with you – who they are, when they see you, how long they’re permitted to be in your presence, even what words they say to you.
Generally speaking, if he’s feeling kind, you’ll be permitted to see the Upper Moons, but even then it’s in extremely sparing quantities.
He doesn’t like the way Douma touches you, clinging onto you like some sort of leech and getting his filthy hands all over you.
He doesn’t like the way Akaza bends to you as if you have some sort of power over him, as if you were equal to Muzan himself – it makes some part of him smug to think that his underlings recognize that you’re his, but it still bristles his ego to think that you’re even remotely close to his status, even if you’re objectively higher than other demons.
He doesn’t like the way Hantengu sneaks glances at you that Muzan very much notices, just the mere act alone making him scowl and slice off the demon’s neck, sending him squealing and scampering away.
He doesn’t like the way Gyokko is always complimenting your beauty – you’re gorgeous, true, but only Muzan is allowed to admire you. Only he is allowed to take in the curves of your face and body, the softness of your skin, your alluring smell, the gentle lull of your voice. Besides, only Muzan is allowed to compliment you – even that alone is a huge, huge struggle for him, if only because positive affirmations of anyone aside from himself is a foreign concept, and he simply cannot have Gyokko undoing all the hard work Muzan has undergone to break down your confidence and build it back up himself.
He doesn’t like the way Daki insults you, because although Muzan doesn’t want anyone to compliment you, it’s almost more offensive to have an underling openly mock and ignore you – can’t she tell that you’re so, so much more important than she’ll ever be?
He doesn’t like the way Gyuutaro openly stares and leers at you, licking his lips like some sort of animal – as if he’d ever let such scum touch you. Your body is his to touch and fuck, and for the other demon to even briefly entertain the notion of being intimate with you makes bile rise up the back of his throat and his nails to sharpen without his permission.
The only demon Muzan is somewhat likely (emphasis on the somewhat, because he still rarely ever lets you interact with anyone besides himself) is Kokushibo, simply because Muzan knows that the Upper Rank 1 will keep both himself and you in line. He trusts that Kokushibo, ever loyal to his leader, will not entertain any inappropriate thoughts or actions towards you. He also trusts that Kokushibo won’t allow you to step out of line, his punishing hand swift as he ties you up and forces you to await Muzan, the one who will give you your real punishment for nervously playing with your fingers.
(That’s unwomanly of you, Kokushibo will tell you, all six of his eyes glaring down at you. A woman capable of standing beside Muzan should be regal and confident, you are not worthy of him.)
And so, you effectively will have no interaction with another soul aside from Muzan – but before his obsession pushes him to the extreme of stealing you away, he was certainly no stranger to envy or jealousy.
It's an innocent thing, really – the man in the gray kimono was just trying to keep you from falling. The lantern chain you were trying to hang on the ledge of your roof wasn’t too complex, but the stepstool you were precariously balancing on was another story. Reaching high over your head to attach the chain to the wooden beam was extending your limbs to their furthest ability, leaving you wobbly and liable to fall at all any moment.
And, of course, you did – suddenly you were falling backwards, the lanterns slipping out of your hands and a yelp slipping past your lips. Squeezing your eyes shut, you brace yourself for impact on the hard ground below you, but the air is knocked out of your lungs by a pair of arms slipping underneath your legs and below your back rather than the cold Earth below. The man carefully helps you stand up, laughing sheepishly as you profusely thanked him, rubbing at the back of his neck.
You’re smiling, Muzan can see from his spot at the end of the street, his gaze fixed on you even over the buzz of life at the nighttime market.
Your shop is easily one hundred feet away, but he can still smell you clear as day, your scent alluring and musky and rich, only now tinged with the slightest bit of embarrassment, appreciation, and attraction.
Muzan scowls, his dark brows drawing inward so tightly that wrinkles were sure to form. His fist curls in on itself, sharp nails already slicing into his palms and letting blood drip onto the ground below him. Every muscle in his body clenches, taut with anger, anticipation and the uncontrollable urge to do something, veins standing out against the paleness of his neck and forehead.
That man was touching you.
Helping you.
You, who was stupid enough to get on a ladder and hang up those incessant lanterns – you, who was careless enough with your own miserable, misfortunate human life as to potentially throw it away for some measly lights. Anger clouds his every thought, but he forces himself to stay still, to not immediately jump onto the man and tear him to pieces bite by bite until he was screaming and sobbing and begging –
Soon the man is on his way, leaving you behind as you disappear into the depths of your shop, the man tucking his hands into his pockets with a smile curling on his lips that makes Muzan’s self-control snap, his legs finally pushing him into action.
It’s not hard to snatch the man by the throat, his claws digging against the soft, thin skin and dragging him away to a deserted back-alley.
It’s not hard to hold him in the air, his feet not touching the ground as desperate fingers clumsily grope at Muzan’s, unable to break the inhuman grip the demon has on his neck.
It’s not hard to watch the man’s face slowly turning purple, his actions getting weaker and weaker, and it’s only once the man is right on the verge of losing consciousness that Muzan lets go, throwing him to ground and hearing a sickening crunch noise as the man wheezes. Muzan’s lips curl, his eyebrows still furrowed, his expression looking halfway between pained and exhilarated.
You worthless human. His voice is full of disdain, hatred seeping into every word as he kicks the man in the stomach, the action causing him to cough up blood, more wheezes and desperate heaves filling the back-alley.
Who gave you permission to breath? Who gave you permission to touch her? Who gave you permission to touch what’s mine? He kicks him again, the curl of his lip deepening.
The man is curled up into a fetal position, blood flowing onto the dirt below him. Muzan scoffs. Pathetic. You must think you’ve done a very heroic deed, saving her from falling.
Muzan’s smile drops. You did nothing. You are just a weak, useless human. What could you offer her?
He waits for a moment, just to see if the writhing mess of a man before him wasn’t as pitiful as he appeared, and his brows cock up ever so slightly when his wheezing, strained voice asks, then why didn’t you save her?
And with that, Muzan slices his head clean off, only the smallest of whimpers ringing in his ears, followed by the dull thud of the now decapitated head falling to the ground. Muzan’s chest is heaving, his red eyes wide, a few curls knocked out of place at the exertion, and for a moment he’s frozen.
There’s genuine rage swimming through his veins, and the sheer amount of that man’s blood staining his clothing makes him pause. Why had his words effected him so? He’d quite literally lost control of his body once he heard the question – why didn’t he bother to save you? Why had he only watched, allowing this other man to step in and keep you from cracking your head open on the ground?
Muzan’s scowl deepens, and soon he’s turning back to the body, sharp nails ripping and slicing at the man until all that remains are scraps of clothing and a face so disfigured that identifying him would be impossible.
And even then, Muzan doesn’t feel the sense of satisfaction that killing someone who insulted him would normally bring – instead, the rage is calmed ever so slightly by a strange feeling that makes his fingers tremble, his throat feel swollen, and his heart race in his chest.
And when he returns to the busy streets of the night market, inhaling over and over and over, he’s quick to catch your scent, trailing behind you with those red eyes trained on your form.
TAKING HIS DARLING AWAY:
Because Muzan is in denial about his feelings for you for most of the beginning of his obsession with you, kidnapping you isn’t the first thing that comes to his mind. He tries to ignore you for as long as he can, holding out and believing that whatever it is that you’re making him feel will eventually go away if he doesn’t pay attention to it.
Except that it doesn’t, and as time passes he becomes more desperate to see you, to hear your voice and speak with you and be in your presence and – god forbid – touch you. And so, while not seriously considering stealing you away in the beginning, once Muzan comes to terms with the fact that his infatuation isn’t going to simply go away on its own he decides that keeping you by his side permanently is the only acceptable solution. It’s the only solution where he won’t lose his mind, honestly.
He grows so dependent on the idea of you that it starts affecting his daily tasks and life – he’s distracted, every moment he has to himself filled with idle thoughts of you and what you could be doing in that particular moment.
Are you eating enough? He knows humans have to eat more often than demons, and you have to be careful about balancing your nutrition and portion control – he’s sure he could a much better job at managing your dietary health than you can.
Are you sleeping enough? Demons don’t have to sleep, and as a result it’s been centuries since he’s had a full night’s rest, but he knows that you spend over a third of your day asleep – a massive waste of time, as far as he’s concerned.
(This doesn’t stop him from stopping by the measly apartment you call home, however, standing at the end of your bed with an unreadable expression on his face as he watches you sleep. Sometimes he’ll even get closer, kneeling beside you so that he can see your face better, perhaps even ghosting a few fingers over the curve of your cheek, your bedroom so silent he can hear his own breathing falling in time with yours.)
Are you with other people? Are you speaking with others? Are you wasting your time and energy on all of those ridiculous ‘hobbies’ of yours? Muzan wants to know – needs to know, and as time passes he simply can’t stand not knowing every single thing that you’re doing at all times.
And it’s not like kidnapping you would be hard – you’re practically defenseless, your reaction time not nearly fast enough to even pose the smallest fight against him. And so, it’s easy to scoop you up into his arms one night, picking you up out of your bed and taking a moment to lean down closer to your neck, his curls brushing against your jaw as he slowly, deeply inhales, the moment of vulnerability passing just as quickly as it occurred as he gulps and stares for a moment, only to immediately take off running towards the cabin he’s prepared to keep you in.
The cabin itself is in the middle of nowhere – in the countryside, at the base of a mountain, with tall trees and no trails leading anywhere. The cabin is wooden, with a fireplace and a meager dining area (only you’ll be using that dining space, of course, but Muzan grows fond of watching you eat – if only to comment on how pathetic it is that you need to sustain yourself with food so much more often than he does). A futon has been placed in the corner of the cabin – it’s big enough to fit two people, but thankfully he hasn’t tried to share it with you yet, not that you’re confident he will.
(You’ve woken to see him sitting beside you on it, however. He was still fully clothed, with an expression on his face that you’re not sure how to describe, but he’s never actually joined you in bed. Thank god.) t’s not horrible, per say, but your life within the cabin will far from idyllic.
Muzan is not a kind man. He’s not even a man – and this becomes apparent to you very quickly. It’s not unusual for him to return home from long periods of time away with blood staining his clothing, that familiar sour look on his face as he stares knowingly at you, expecting you to grovel at his feet and thank him for finally returning to you.
You’ve never seen him eat – he doesn’t touch the food he brings to you (and it’s good food, too – nutritious and surprisingly delicious, making you wonder exactly how he obtained it), and almost seems disgusted when he has to touch it.
You know there’s something wrong, but multiple things bar you from ever asking why his nails grow so long in such short intervals, or why he’s so inhumanely strong, or how he can be so silent when he moves – those things being the many silent, unspoken rules he has laid out for how you should act. He’s controlling in every sense, and although he doesn’t communicate exactly what he expects of you, you’ll quickly learn that he's picky, and he won’t settle for any behavior less than perfect.
Most of these rules revolve around the fact that you aren’t allowed to escape or disrespect him. Attempting escape is a rebellion against being his woman, and just as an owner does a dog, he will punish your ill behavior and pulling your metaphorical leash much, much further than you should.
Plus, your attempts to escape are a form of rejection in his eyes – he never makes it explicitly clear that he’s romantically interested in you, but he feels that you should just know this, and thus your insistence on getting away from him feels like a personal slight against him, like a slap in the face designed to hurt him in the most acute, intimate way possible.
Of course you don’t know this, but after each escape attempt, he’ll punish you, then promptly return to his office (a small, adjoining room in the cabin that you’re strictly forbidden from entering), sitting on his leather couch and letting his head sit in his hands, taking deep breaths and willing himself to stop letting such stupid, weak, human emotions affect him so.
The only thing that works, though, to calm his heart is to once again watch you as you sleep, allowing himself to get close to you, closing his eyes and inhaling your scent, perhaps even holding a shirt in his hands and imagining the way your skin would feel against the fabric. It’s a reminder that although you were disobedient and tried to leave him, you weren’t successful – you’re still here, with him, as you should be.
Disrespecting him is also, of course, a severe infringement of the unwritten code he expects you to follow. He has to maintain some sense of superiority over you, and the moment you disrespect him either with words or actions, this fragile hierarchy is threatened, and you come dangerously close to the uncomfortable truth – that despite all his grandiose talk about you being beneath him, he would be absolutely nothing now without you.
He would be a mess, unable to function, unable to find purpose in avoiding death and sickness, unsure of how to move forward with a life that now no longer seems worth continuing. And so, as long as you avoid those two major triggers, most of your time spent in the cabin will be passed with Muzan simply sitting in your presence, those red eyes watching you like a hawk and making you beyond nervous. He scares you – he’s a monster and you know it, he’s stolen you away from your life and forced you into some strange, pseudo-relationship of roommates, though his intentions are much more sinister than you can imagine.
The one silver lining of being stuck with Muzan is that his crippling fear of rejection bars him from making any sort of sexual advance on you. Of course, he very, very much wants to fuck you (thought the thought shames him, because you’re a human woman, and the idea of touching a human and being touched by a human makes his skin crawl), but the idea of you not being as passionately and needily engaged and eager as him is enough to stop him from attempting anything.
This has an unfortunate side effect though, which is that he channels this anger and fear of being rejected by you into meanness directly at you – comments of how you’re clumsy or loud or irritating slip past his lips. And although he doesn’t often mean them, the venom in his voice will get you shutting up, fearfully and self-consciously staring down at the floor.
He feels the smallest pang of guilt when this happens, because although he’s a sadistic creature, seeing you upset isn’t nearly as pleasing as he’d expected. But it’s a necessary evil in the larger scheme of things – he has to keep you in line, and by stealing you away so that he can keep constant surveillance on you and control your meal times (he decides when you eat, even if you’re not hungry or don’t want the meal he’s brought), how often you bathe yourself (often he’ll watch the process, those red eyes raking up and down your figure, making sure to wear loose bottoms so that you don’t see how the sight of you wet, soapy, and embarrassed effects him), and make sure you interact with no one, he’s ultimately fulfilling a self-serving goal: preserving you, and keeping you all locked up and safe for him to enjoy.
And only him.
PUNISHMENTS:
Despite Muzan’s strange fondness for you (or, more accurately, his dependence on your presence), he’s by no means a gentle lover. He’s cruel, demeaning, incredibly strict and harsh with you, with expectations that he never clearly communicates with you. It’ll leave you guessing in the dark, hoping and praying that your every action, word, and even thought won’t trigger some sort of negative response from him. He’s fickle, his mood changing quicker than you keep up with, and because of this, Muzan finds himself angry with you much more often than he’d care to admit.
He was resistant to developing feelings for you at first, embarrassed, disappointed and frustrated with himself for stooping so low as to develop an attraction with a weak human like you, but as time passes he finds himself growing less resentful and more desperate. He’s still angry with himself, ashamed that he’s allowed himself to let you become his one weakness, and because of this he’s a bit trigger-happy with punishing you.
He’s always looking for reasons to belittle you, to put you down in order to make himself feel better. He’s an egotistical, narcissistic creature, and just because you’ve managed to worm your way into his heart doesn’t mean that you are exempt from this aspect of his personality.
He’ll find ways to twist your words and actions into somehow being displeasing to him, whether by being disrespectful to him, or an attempt to escape.
You’re quiet and avoid speaking with him or looking at him? Sure, you’re scared, as you say, but this could also be an attempt lulling him into lowering his guard around you, like you’re waiting for the right opportunity to try and run or hurt him. (Just the thought along is laughable – as if you could ever do serious damage to him.)
So, he’ll force you into speaking simply by threatening any remaining family you have. That’ll get you spluttering and talking, he’s sure – your weak sensibilities and this absurd devotion to your family that you seem to possess is perfect to exploit. (Plus, it’ll get you to stop ignoring him, something that makes his heart feel like a knife is twisting inside him, making every part of him ache and bile rise in the back of his throat. But you don’t need to know that – he’ll never admit it.)
You’re refusing to eat the food he’s brought for you? You ungrateful thing – he’d gone so far as to get the best quality, fanciest food he could find for you – things that he could imagine himself stomaching back when he was a human. Things that – despite you being below him – you deserve as his pet. He’ll merely scoff, throwing the food off to the side, before returning a few hours later with something warm and wet and fresh – blood is dripping off the pretty white plate he’s dished the human heart on, his face carefully neutral aside from the smallest of smirks while he tells you to eat up, you wouldn’t want an ended life to be in vain, would you?
It’s cruel and it’s evil and it’s horrible, but pinning your compassion and disgust at him murdering innocent people because of your rebellions against you is the most successful and effective tool he could use to keep you in line. It works – every single time.
And Muzan has no qualms with using every possible resource at his disposal – sure, you may be angry at him, perhaps even hate him, but he’s confident that with time, you’ll realize that he’s all you have left. You’re weak and incapable and you’ll never, ever be rid of him, so why won’t you just obey him like you, as the inferior life form, should?
Your fingers are trembling as he nears you, that same unearthly silence to his steps that makes every muscle in your body stand at attention, your fight or flight instincts begging you to run as fast as you can away from the monster in front of you.
There’s nothing in his hands, but that doesn’t make you feel better – you know what he can do with those hands, and you curl up tighter against the corner you’ve sat yourself in.
Muzan’s got a half-smile on his face – it’s the closest he can get to a genuine smile, you think, but it still makes your skin crawl, unease and dread eating away at your gut. He stops in front of you, crouching down so that he’s at eye level with you. His curls sit around his face, the casual white dress-shirt he sports perfectly pressed and rolled up at the elbows.
Hello, how are you faring? He asks, and immediately you grow suspicious – this is unusual. He never directly asks you about yourself – he normally talks about himself, only occasionally dropping a comment or two about you that lets you know he recognizes your presence in the room.
What is he playing at? How do you respond?
I’m okay… you start, nervous that he’s looking for an answer that you don’t know. At your response, he makes no noticeable change, but instead stands once more. He’s still staring down at you, those red eyes feeling heavy and piercing.
Come with me.
And then he’s walking, and you’re scrambling behind him to keep up with his long strides. He settles down onto a leather couch in his study, and for the briefest moments you hesitate at the threshold, having never been allowed in this room.
He notices your resistance, and rolls his eyes slightly. Come here.
You do as you’re told, and carefully, tentatively sit down on the other end of the leather couch. It’s silent for a few moments, before Muzan breaks it, his voice a bit deeper than before. Come here.
Confusion settles over your features, but you slowly scoot over a bit, so that you’re an inch or so closer to him. Muzan’s still staring at you, you can see it out of the corner of your eye, and a frown sits on his lips.
You scoot over a bit more, continuing when he doesn’t say anything until there’s just the smallest sliver of space between your bodies. You can hear his breathing, having never been so close to him before. He’s still looking at you, but you focus your gaze on your hands in your lap, trying desperately to not visibly show your nerves.
Are you afraid of me?
His question startles you, and you stiffen up, peeking at him for just a moment. Unsure of how to respond, you merely nod, your voice small as you murmur yes. Muzan hums, and suddenly there’s a hand sitting on your thigh, his skin cold and dry, the weight feeling heavy. And although you try to stop yourself, knowing the consequences will be anything but pleasant, the unforeseen physical contact makes you jump, scooting away from him ever so slightly.
The room is still for a moment, before you hear his sharp inhale, literally seeing his face morph into one of rage. He’s breathing hard as he gets to his feet and practically storms out of the room, his steps still nearly silent. You’re still frozen, trying to process what you’ve just done – you rejected him.
Obviously you don’t want him, but this surely must be one of the unspoken rules you’re supposed to follow – surely such an arrogant man wouldn’t appreciate being you being so blatantly repulsed.
Unsure of what to do – does he want you to leave his study? Stay? – you stay in place, every part of your body shaking in fear and horrible anticipation at your punishment for such a grave offense.
You don’t have to wait for long – ten minutes later he’s barging through the door, dragging a woman by her hair into the space. She’s already stained with bits of blood, her hair matted with it and her pretty clothes darker than they should be.
Muzan’s staring at you, a wild look in his eye, his hair a bit messy and a few more buttons of the dress shirt undone. He throws the woman to the ground, and you notice how shallow her breathing is – she must be on the verge of death.
Muzan’s voice is deep, husky in a way that stills you to your very core as he growls out you will never, ever reject me. Do you understand? You have no place or authority to reject me. You are nothing. I am the only worthwhile thing in your life. Do you understand?
You nod, over and over, eyes flashing between his piercing gaze and the woman who’s slowly trying to get to her feet. Every time she gets close, Muzan pushes her back to the ground, the tears clouding your lashes just barely letting you make out the way her face twists up in pain.
You are nothing. You are nothing.
Muzan is repeating it to himself over and over again as he picks up the woman, forcing her to face you. Briefly, you’re shocked – you’ve never seen this woman in your life, but something about her seems oddly familiar, like you’re looking in a mirror.
Her hair is remarkably similar to yours – the same texture, the same color, just a different length.
Her nose is similar to yours, her skin color, even her eye color.
Her body is similar, too – a similar build, proportions, and suddenly you’re sick.
This woman is you.
Muzan’s still breathing hard, his face contorted into that ugly scowl, and without a word, his hands are tangled in the woman’s hair again, pulling and yanking upwards until a wet squelching noise fills the room, and suddenly her body falls backwards, limp, with her head still held in the air, his forearm flexing.
You can’t stop yourself from vomiting, the sight and sound too much for you to bear. Muzan watches with pursed lips, his eyes still wide and barely blinking. You look pitiful like this – shaking like some sort of scared mouse, staring at him like he's a monster, like he’s the Devil himself.
And as he stares down at you, something pleasant settles in his gut, because while he’d prefer your adoration, the way you’re looking at him now is good, too. Because you’re looking at him, giving him the attention he was craving earlier.
Perhaps he shouldn’t have tried to be kind in his approach at initiating physical contact with you. After all, it’s not as if you really have a choice – it’s such a strange, human desire to want to touch another, and really, isn’t it your fault that he’s feeling this urge?
(Isn’t it your influence and doing that he wants to touch you, to feel you, to be inside of you?)
He bares his teeth, an eyebrow cocking up. Do not reject my advances. Your death will not be as merciful as hers.
And to that, you simply nod.
OVERALL DANGER:
10/10
Muzan is, undoubtedly, a nightmare to have infatuated with you. He’s so deeply in denial in the beginning that he forces himself to stay away from you, only for that to make him crave you more, to realize that his feelings for you aren’t simply going to go away.
He’s possessive and controlling, seeing you as his in every sense of the word and feeling completely justified in taking over every aspect of your life.
He’s paranoid, always keeping an eye on you because being this emotionally tied to another living thing is incredibly nerve-wracking, your weak human body and disposition making him nervous that even the wind will send you knocking on death’s door.
And even then, he doesn’t express this worry in any healthy way – he’s not afraid to verbally degrade you, using harsh words as a shield so that you don’t see just how pathetically deep his obsession and attraction to you is.
It’s demoralizing, embarrassing to a degree that forces him to treat you like a pet of sorts – punishing you with threats, stealing you away to be stuck in some remote cabin in the woods where not a soul will dare near the home, smelling both him and the scent of death strongly in the air.
He’s so emotionally out of touch, and as a result your life with him will be a constant series of walking on eggshells around rules and expectations you don’t even know about. It’s difficult, and frankly you’re viable to find yourself quickly losing your sanity.
But don’t worry too much – Muzan may not act like it, but he does care about your health and safety, and you’ll be in capable hands to help reshape and remold you into the perfect little human partner.
Perhaps you’ll even become a demon – a very, very likely event, considering the fact that as a demon, you have to obey his every command.
(Just the thought of you completely obedient and submissive makes him smile, his eyes narrowing a bit and his nails tapping on the nearest surface, those slacks of his feeling a bit too tight.)
He wants you to be his, and a man as selfish as him knows no bounds. So really, get ready – you will be his, and will never escape him. Lucky you.
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Speculations for Caleb's myth based on what we Know So Far (Dawnie's Version) (Infold please don't sue me)
Disclaimer: THIS IS ALL PURE SPECULATION after discussing with the caleb gc and i thought i would share it here, too‼️
CalebMc is not your typical love story because of two things:
Caleb’s established relationship with her
Infold’s commissioned art depicting CalebMc as the seduction of eve
ESTABLISHED RELATIONSHIP
Caleb and Mc were both adopted by Josephine, though it is noted that he does not share the same family name as her and retains his own surname (Xia). However, due to the close nature of their relationship, it is not socially acceptable to simply just show his love to Mc… but what if there’s something deeper?
SEDUCTION OF EVE
Eve is a biblical figure known to be the first mother of humankind. During her time in the Garden of Eden, she is seduced by the potential knowledge from the serpent. Most interestingly, Infold has commissioned a drawing of Mc and Caleb in this exact scenario which implies:
Caleb has knowledge Mc wants
The desires within the both of them need a catalyst to grant them that knowledge
OR
Caleb is being set up as someone to corrupt MC.
BUT, WHO IS CALEB?
He is shown to be someone kind and charismatic, witty and good at cooking. It is implied he is a charmer and is highly intelligent due to his high-risk job as a fighter pilot in the Deepspace Aviation Academy.
WHAT HAPPENED TO HIM?
After the explosion, Caleb is presumed to be dead. However, with his name already listed in the beta, it is highly probable for us to deduce that he will be returning back to the game. Further proof: In the trailer for the Visions Opposees music video, we see a man falling from the sky after the 4 LIs are shown with MC. There is some speculation that this might be Caleb.
As he falls between time and space, there are suspicions that because of his Evol or the Spatium Protocore, he is currently in a different plane of existence.
But, where he is or when he will come back is not what we’re here to discuss. We’re here to speculate about his myth.
THE MYTH OF THE WHITE SNAKE
Snakes are an important figure in Chinese myths, and the biggest one is Bai Suzhen. She is a white snake spirit who became immortal and could take human form and is the main character in the Legend of the White Snake, one of China's four great folktales. She notably met her husband in a past life and risked her life to steal herbs from the monk of the South pole to revive him back from the dead.
THE COWHERD AND THE WEAVER
Another big Chinese myth. This one centers around forbidden love between a celestial weaver and a cowherd. Long story short, she returned back to the heavens after living a life with him and bearing him two children, but because of her grave error in tarnishing herself with humans, the gods separated them by heaven and earth—forcing a milky way between them. They are only allowed to meet once a year by crossing a bridge of magpies.
SPECULATIONS FOR CALEB'S MYTH
If we follow Infold’s style according to the other LIs’ myth, MC is always someone who is shunned and ostracized by society in order to set up a connection between her and the LIs. However, taking into account all the myths listed above running in the same vein as Caleb’s general vibe, they have one thing in common: forbiddenness.
Forbidden love. Forbidden knowledge.
Mirroring Caleb’s love for MC which is forbidden because they were raised together.
What I speculate is this:
MC is someone who is of high importance and meets Caleb through a chance encounter. Her life is sheltered and she yearns to learn more—to experience more (kind of like Abysswalker’s MC). But, she is not used for the powers of her Aether core, and is sheltered from that knowledge. Enter Caleb who has an inkling of what she is and what is her potential. He shows her a different world, one where she can’t be used as a pawn in anyone's game and gives her a taste of true power. In turn, she becomes drunk on it and seeks him out more to learn about her true purpose.
Somehow, they fall in love with each other and he admits his feelings. But, what she doesn't know is he has a different form, and only lives among humans to [insert motive because I am not Infold’s writer goddamnit]. However, something happens to her and she gets seriously injured. To save her from the brink of death, Caleb has to steal something from a deity or whatever. He goes to the heavens and steals a herb that can bring her back to life but unbeknownst to him, MC is actually the child of a god/higher up being/etc and this could be alluded to be Josephine.
Knowing what he has done to her granddaughter, the Queen Mother Cvnt of heaven casts him away and keeps him from MC in the heavens, where she thinks he has abandoned her during her weakest moment. Someone saves her and it's Josephine, who brings her back to life but only poisons her thoughts about Caleb as the subsequent days go by.
But, seeing how much Caleb loves MC, her heart softens and she allows them to meet once a year, under her watchful eye (EVER WHAT’S UP).
….. Okay that’s it…. That is the only way I can connect the dots.
THE END
#caleb xia yizhou#caleb love and deepspace#love and deepspace#caleb lads#xia yizhou#myth speculation#dawn.txt
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Katara's Lightning: waterbending technique
Part 2
By a happy coincidence, one firebender who just knows how to redirect lightning joined the Gaang. You have no idea how excited I was when I realized the potential for Zuko and Katara's interaction in this concept.
Two benders of opposing elements turn to each other's elements to master one phenomenon: lightning. She's a waterbender who creates this lightning, and he's a firebender who repels it. One draws these skills from the other's martial art: lightning redirection is based on the concept of waterbending, while lightning is a firebending technique.
This is not just a combination of elements, it's their unification into something whole. Mix water and fire! It would seem impossible, but Katara and Zuko are people who have always gone beyond human capabilities to achieve their goals. If they can't do it, no one can.
Thus, by blurring the boundaries between fire and water, they destroy the illusion of difference between peoples (if you remember, this topic was raised by Guru Pathik in book 2). People of water and fire can work together, help and even complement each other.
After all, in fact, each of them makes up for the lack of the other. Katara can't control the lightning, and Zuko can't create it to further deflect it. They need each other for the balance of power. Like Yin and Yang, like day and night, like the sun and moon. How beautiful it is, I can’t.
I think the whole idea of Katara personifying anger would have continued with Zuko joining the team. When he appeared, she found nothing better than to center her rage on him. He betrayed her, this is justified anger. He's the prince of the nation that started the war, he is responsible for these horrors. He's the son of the one who ordered her mother killed.
However, Zuko did something that no one expected, especially Katara: he allowed her to let go of the anger of her life. He achieved this by redirecting the power of her rage to the real culprit of all Katara's worries - the murderer of her mother. And the reprisal against him gave her inner peace and a solution to a problem that seemed unsolvable.
Her anger was just like lightning, which was eager to strike at least someone, just to throw out the accumulated energy. Righteous, but throwing itself at everyone. Zuko didn't hide it, didn't calm it down, but redirected it to where it was needed, finding the necessary target.
This is another metaphorical aspect of their joint technique. He learned to channel her lightning not just through training, but through interaction and strengthening their personal connection. And the result was that understanding at a glance, which formed the basis of their fighting style. I don't know about you, but I thought this summed up their relationship perfectly.
Thus, from now on, she can rely on Zuko and trust him not only with the emotional burden, but also with their lives in the midst of a storm, both metaphorical and literal. After all, she knows that he will always deflect lightning from innocent...
Remember this moment? Zuko and Katara fight back to back, showing their shared trust in each other and cooperation as warriors. But imagine if, on top of everything else, they trained a joint technique for generating lightning and then directing it. It looks so cool in my head, it’s a pity I’m not an animator and/or storyboard artist, I don’t know how to stage scenes (((
And then, when lightning seemingly brought Zuko and Katara together, it ended up nearly tearing them apart, taking his life.
Because Zuko will always deflect lightning from Katara…
< Part 1
#atla#avatar: the last airbender#atla fanart#atla au#katara#atla katara#zuko#atla zuko#lightning bending#bending meta#waterbending#I hope you enjoyed reading :3#I finally figured out the image description#I really like describing the symbolism of relationships#connecting the emotional with the physical is my favorite
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