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xoxo-sarah · 5 months ago

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A Chance

My Wife part 3

Part 1 | Part 2

↝pairing: Season1!Daryl Dixon x wife!reader

↝warning: things are rough between Daryl and Reader, death, cursing, arguing, walkers, ect. The usual twd stuff, angst, reader wears Daryl's clothes ( but as a big girl myself, we can just ignore how he's a twig and that's most likely unrealistic 🫡), not proofread

↝⎙ 1.30.25

|| Disclaimer: I do not own Daryl Dixon, or any character from The Walking Dead. I only own y/n and any characters I create with my own brain. ||

Daryl Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Daylight broke and Andrea hadn't moved.

Daryl grumbled about Amy turning, but you quickly shot him down each time. People grieve in different ways. Andrea knew what she had to do when the time came.

"Y'all can't be serious." Daryl huffed, watching Andrea through squinted eyes, "Let that girl hamstring us? The dead girl's a time-bomb." He seethed.

"Daryl," You glared up at him, rubbing the scratch on your upper arm. "Don't be insensitive."

"We ain't got time for this." He seethed, glaring back at you.

You stood, "She lost her sister, not her smarts. She knows what to do."

He stepped closer, putting his weight on one leg, slightly slouching to be eye level with you. Maybe he was trying to be intimidating, but it didn't work. You had seen the dark, sad parts of him. He will never be able to scare you or berate you with actions or words. "And if she don't?"

"What do you suggest?"Rick questioned Daryl, stopping the oncoming argument.

Daryl stepped closer to Rick, bringing his fingers to his temple, "Take the shot. Clean, in the brain from here. Hell, I can hit a turkey between the eyes from this distance."

"No," Lori spoke up, "For God's sake, let her be."

Dary scoffed before walking off. In turn, you eyed the back of Andrea's head. She knew what she had to do, right? You hoped so.

Pulling your eyes away from her, you looked around at all of the bodies. Most were people who you had just seen, laughing and eating. Others were the dead that had wandered from the city.

Shutting your eyes, your hand automatically went to your wrist, the tightly woven thread helping to ground you. Your fingers traveled down to your left hand, the wedding ring soothing against your fingertips, a contrast to the thick thread of the collar/ bracelet on your wrist.

Daryl looked up as he helped drag a body across the ground. He watched you, watched your movements; a desperate search for comfort.

- time skip -

Daryl stomped away, not understanding why Amy and Jim were not being taken care of. They were "ticking time bombs". They were liabilities. In the new world, there was not time to grieve. Sneering at the thought, he yanked the tent flap back, watching you jump, immediately wiping under your eyes.

His eyes trailed over you in the silence of the moment. You needed comforting. He wanted to comfort you. He really did. But he had a feeling those tears were his doing. He shouldn't have taken his frustration out on you, knowing you had witnessed something horrific.

The tent opening fell down as he walked away.

Your hands instantly went back to your face, muffling the sobs that raked your body.

Sweat had mixed with the dirt and grime, caking your skin as you helped bury the bodies. The bright sun beat down, causing you to squint.

Daryl kept an eye on you from a distance. Neither of you had uttered a word to each other since the morning. You were both too stubborn.

Backing his truck up, bodies in the bed of it, Daryl caught sight of you looking up through the side mirrors. Just as quickly, you looked away and got back to digging, ignoring Rick and Shane's argument to your left. Turning the truck off, Daryl jumped out, slamming the door.

He made his way to where you, Rick, and Shane were digging holes for the friends you had light the night prior. "I still think it's a mistake not burning these bodies. It's what we said we'd do, right? Burn 'em all, wasn't that the idea?"

"At first."

Daryl scoffed, "The Chinaman gets all emotional, says it's not the thing to do, we just follow 'em along? These people need to know who the hell's in charge here- what the rules are."

"And who the hell's in charge, Daryl? It sure as hell ain't you."

Daryl scoffed again, watching as you glared at him, waiting for him to reply, from where you had jumped down in a freshly dug hole.

"There are no rules." Rick countered Daryl's statement.

"Well, that's a problem." Lori walked past Daryl's truck, children and their mothers behind her. "We haven't had one moment to hold onto anything of our old selves. We need time to mourn, and we need to bury our dead. It's what people do." With that, she turned and walked away, not caring to hear what anyone thought about that.

Feeling disgusting, you had made your way back to the tent. Not having any clothes, you opted for something of Daryl's. His cut shirts weren't ideal, but they were cooling and non-restricting. His old work pants fit loose, but that's not anything string couldn't fix.

Buttoning the second to last button of the dingy shirt, you heard the opening of the tent begin to unzip. You moved to cover yourself, but ultimately relaxed when Daryl stepped in. He looked up, scanning your body before glancing behind himself, making sure nobody had seen you changing from over his shoulder. He zipped the flap back up, before simply standing there. He was slightly hunched over, as were you, thanks to the small tent.

It was silent.

Your fingers went back to the button, as you ignored your husband's presence.

Daryl moved closer, standing behind you. The air around you two changed. His head fell to your shoulder, his own grime mixing with yours. He stayed there, vulnerable. This was his way of apologizing.

Your body relaxed further, sinking back into him. His arms snaked around your middle, holding you close.

"It's okay." You whispered, only loud enough for him to hear, and not to disturb this newfound peaceful atmosphere. He nodded, moving his hands to your hips, turning you around. His fingers made quick work of buttoning the last button for you.

The next morning, everyone was getting ready to leave for the C.D.C. Rick was out in the field, talking to a man named Morgan, the guy who had saved Rick’s life. Lori, Carol, and the kids were helping to load everything into cars. You helped Daryl load up his truck. Hopping onto the tailgate, you helped pull Daryl’s bike up, gently laying it on the truck bed.

“Are ya willin’ to put your life in his hands?” Daryl helped you jump down, glancing at Rick in the distance. Daryl was looking to you for answers. You were always the more level-headed of the two. Daryl would follow you into fire, he’d follow you to the end of the world. And you just might be doing that.

“I think you have to hope there’s a safe place out there. If we don’t hope for it, then we won’t get it. Hope is all we’ve got.” You patted his chest, before walking by him. He watched you, before slamming the rusted tailgate closed.

The wind blew through your hair, cooling your face. Daryl drove, one hand on the steering wheel, the other near his mouth as he nipped at his fingernails. The leg that was not being used for the gas and brake pedals slightly shook, a trailer to his nerves. You rode in silence.

“”M sorry–‘bout yesterday.” He spoke up first, biting his thumb nail. You turned your head, looking at his side-profile. He didn’t dare to glance at you.

“I know. I am too. We were both on edge; said some things. It’s alright.”

He nodded, pulling his thumb from his mouth. “Ya think Merle’s alright?”

You thought about it. Daryl had told you what they found on the roof and what they had run into.

“I think he’s a tough fucker to kill.” Daryl let out an entertained huff, “He had enough energy to steal the van, so there’s a high chance he’s okay…maybe.”

Daryl let your words marinate. Letting out a deep exhale, he swapped hands on the wheel, placing his right one of your knee. You moved closer to him, placing your hand over his.

Guilt was eating at you.

You had all left Jim under a tree. Sure, it was per his request, but that didn’t stop the shame bubbling in your gut. Even miles from where he sat, you had a frown on your face, thinking of him. The turning was inevitable. But the thought of him having to sit there and deal with the feeling of his bones being made of glass, cutting into him with the slightest move, having to deal with that all on his own, hurt you.

Daryl felt the tension in the truck. You sat closer to the door, hands in your lap.

His hand moved toward the radio, before cursing himself. That wouldn’t work in the apocalypse

Grumbling, he leaned over, opening the glove box and blindly digging through. Pulling a cassette tape out, he plucked it into the truck, twisting the volume knob.

It’s what Jim wanted, you kept reminding yourself. But it didn’t make you feel any better about yourself. You just hoped he wasn’t in pain for much longer.

Daryl tapped your arm, watching you blink awake. The melody had settled you to a light slumber. Still groggy from sleep, you took in your surroundings. For a moment, you forgot that the world went to shit. The sky was turning a dark orange, sun setting in the distance. But as you sat up in the seat, you could see the bodies on the ground, bugs buzzing above them.

“Wanna get out?” Daryl stared at you as you looked at the huge building through the windshield. Even more bodies laid in front of the building, flies swarming them. Some bodies were mindlessly wandering around.

This was the C.D.C?

Without giving a response, you opened your door, jumping out. Daryl followed, grabbing his crossbow and a shotgun from the floorboard. Walking around the truck, he pressed the gun to your side, getting your attention. You grabbed it and began following everyone to the building.

The stench alone almost had you hurling.

“Alright, everybody,” Shane began whispering, “Keep moving. Go on. Stay quiet. Let’s go.”

The constant buzzing of flies and the horrible smell of decay just might be your own personal hell.

Finally, you were a few feet from the building. Rick and Shane beat on the roll-up doors.

“There’s nobody here.” T-Dog swayed on his feet, turning to look over his shoulder every few seconds.

“Then why are these shutters down?” Rick was holding onto hope; he had to.

“Walkers!” Daryl pulled you by the arm, putting you behind him.

Children screamed, guns cocked, feet shuffled.

“You led us into a graveyard!” Daryl turned, making his way toward Rick. His nostrils flared. Fury behind his eyes.

You stepped in front of him, separating him and what he wanted to do out of anger and frustration.

“He made a call!” Dale interjected.

Daryl rounded you, “It was the wrong damn call!”

Shane stopped Daryl. “Just shut up. You hear me? Shut. Up. Shut up!” He pushed Daryl back, pointing at him.

You quickly walked over, grabbing Daryl’s shoulder before the whole thing could escalate.

Shane turned, walking back to Rick, who still stood at the shutters. “Rick, this is a dead end.”

“Where are we gonna go?” Carol held onto her daughter, but was ignored.

Night was blanketing the sky–fast. You could barely see where the cats were parked from where you stood.

Shane continued, “Do you hear me? No blame.”

Lori acknowledged Carol, “She’s right. We can’t be here, this close to the city after dark.”

“Fort Benning, Rick-still an option.”

“On what?” Andrea stepped forward, glowering. “No food, no fuel. That’s 100 miles.”

“125. I checked the map.” Glenn corrected.

Carl clung to Lori’s legs. She stared at her husband, “Forget Fort Benning! We need answers tonight, now.”

“We’ll think of something.” Rick tried, not meeting his wife’s eyes.

“C’mon!” “Let’s go!” “Let’s get out of here!” Everyone began to make their way back to the vehicles, “Alright, everybody back to the cars. Let’s go, move.”

“The camera– It moved!”

“You imagined it.”

“It. Moved.” Rick didn’t think anything of Dale’s words, walking closer to the camera near the doors. “It moved.”

“Rick, man. It’s an automated device. It’s gears, okay? They’re just winding down. Now come on. Man, just listen to me.” Shane grabbed Rick by his upper arm, trying to drag him away. “Look around this place. It’s dead, okay? It’s. Dead. You need to let it go, Rick!”

Rick pushed Shane off, going to the shutters and beating against them again. He stared up into the camera.

“Rick! There’s nobody here!” Lori yelled.

Rick ignored her, “I know you can hear me!”

Shane began ushering everyone back to the cars. “Everybody get back to the cars, now!”

Rick didn’t budge. “Please, we’re desperate. Please help us.” He begged, “We have women, children, no food, hardly any gas left.”

Lori thrusted Carl onto you, seeing as you were the closest to her, and ran over to Rick. She grabbed him. “Rick-”

“We have nowhere else to go-”

“There’s nobody here.”

Rick continued to pound on the doors.

Carl clung tighter to you.

“Keep your eyes open.” Shane ordered.

“If you don’t let us in, you’re killing us! Please!” Rick yelled at the top of his lungs.

Shane went over, pushing Lori away and grabbing Rick by his shoulders. “Come on, buddy. Let’s go.”

Carl pushed himself closer to you, hearing his father so desperate but to no avail.

Rick fought against getting dragged back, still staring into the camera, “Please help us.”

People shouted. Carl’s tears soaked into your /Daryl’s/ pants.

“You’re killing us! YOU’RE KILLING US!”

Shane shoved Rick away, watching his face crumble.

“You’re killing us.”

Your eyes widened, holding Carl closer, as a bright light nearly blinded you. The shutters opened, rolling up slowly. A hissing echoed. Everyone gawked, not knowing what to do.

“Daryl, you cover the back.” Shane ordered. Carl let go, running to his mother.

You cocked your gun, joining Daryl. He glanced at you, a questioning gaze set on you. You simply blinked at him, in shock.

Everyone walked toward the light, looking around and gawking at the interior. It smelt clean, a contrast to the horrid, rotting smell outside.

“Hello? Hello?!”

“Close those doors.”

“Watch for walkers.”

“Hello?”

A gun cocking had the group readying themselves, wildly looking around for the source.

A man stood in the shadows, gun in hand. “Anybody infected?”

“One of our group was. He didn’t make it.” Rick answered the unknown man.

“Why are you here?” The man stepped forward, “What do you want?” He put the gun down, looking at all of your grime-covered faces.

“A chance.”

Part 4

•2021-2025 by xoxo-sarah on Tumblr•

•My work is not to be translated, copied, modified, and/or reposted on any other site without my permission. [I do NOT give permission!]

#xoxo-sarah 🩷#🐿️#daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon fanfic #daryl dixon imagine #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon angst #daryl dixon fanfic series #daryl dixon x wife!reader #daryl dixon x reader angst #daryl dixon x female reader #daryl dixon x you #daryl dixon x y/n #daryl dixon x oc #daryl dixon x fem!reader #twd imagines #twd fanfiction #the walking dead fanfic

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thatmooncake · 1 month ago

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Liking Nexus and wanting to imagine him getting a redemption arc isn’t cringe, some of you guys are just mean

People go to great lengths to defend their faves, seemingly afraid they’ll get the same treatment Nexus did both by the fans and the series and become the demonised unfavourite - the scapegoat who can do no right. At the same time many insist Nexus and his fans somehow uniquely “deserve” this treatment (Nexus can’t, he’s made up - his fans don’t, some people are just mean) and that these things befell Nexus specifically for an actual reason.

They did.

The reason was the writers wanted something new for the character.

Not him not trying hard enough to grieve better or be a better victim of Ruin’s actions. Not him “liking Solar more than Sun”. Not New Moon being the “worse” choice out of him and Moon (meta reason given is Moon literally came back because they needed a Moon - of course Moon was the better choice out of him and Nexus who was an active threat at the time, the reverse would’ve been true if it’d been New Moon vs Moon with the killcode actively causing damage). Not him being more villainous than Ruin or Eclipse (I am not going to be debating whether genocide or murder is morally better or worse than verbally, psychologically and physically harming a small handful of people, sorry). Not something that was subtly established throughout his entire time as New Moon. Not something that was planned from the start. Just a change in direction. That holds literally no moral weight - that’s not something to hate each other over. The writers are allowed to do that - it also needs to be understood as being a writing decision that, although it was retroactively woven into the narrative to some degree, was made on a whim.

It could’ve more or less been any character this happened to. It still could happen to basically any of them. They’re made up, they don’t make their own choices, they don’t get to fight against what the writers want, they don’t get to make appeals on narrative decisions. You’re not watching a documentary of a fictional world where in-story choices aren’t made for a meta narrative reason - sometimes writing decisions are made on the fly due to the nature of the medium. And when the characters’ choices don’t fit within the established narrative aside from to be a change for the sake of change (literally the meta reason given for Nexus going evil) and the in-story reason that has been repeatedly established for the entire villain arc is literally psychosis plus ingesting a substance that made the character in question quite literally lose his mind as demonstrated and explained by multiple other characters - both mitigating factors that didn’t need to be included if they weren’t supposed to be taken into account when considering how this character got to where he got - when his villain arc alone required a mastermind interloper character to step in and manipulate his every step into villainy, his decisions can’t be reasonably treated as 100% informed or as part of his established in-story disordered “personality”, because we already know they happened because they needed to happen for the story to progress the way the writers wanted it to, and yet still effort was put into heavily mitigating his ability to make good choices, which shouldn’t just be written off or ignored because you want to bash the character or make his fans feel bad for liking him.

More food for thought: Nexus isn’t blameless or a good guy. He’s done bad things. Despite Dark Sun’s involvement, despite the nsp, despite the grief, despite the psychosis. You don’t have to like him, pretend to find him good or interesting, or give him a pass. You can hate his guts. But you know who else was unequivocally considered a bad guy who didn’t deserve a pass at the time he died (twice, maybe three times in fact)? Eclipse. You know who accomplished more damaging acts of villainy and had just as bad or worse intentions than Nexus at the time of his death(s)? Eclipse.

And the difference between the two - the thing that sees Nexus written off as an irredeemable “psychopath” (respectfully, both this and “narcissist” are misappropriated terms for stigmatised disorders so it’s best not to use them in this circumstance btw) while Eclipse is now praised for taking all these steps in the right direction - is that the writers chose to give Eclipse a redemption arc and they didn’t choose to go down that route with Nexus. Nexus was not more uniquely “deserving” of being the narrative unfavourite or the scapegoat. He just wasn’t chosen to get better - he wasn’t allowed to do better. That could have been Eclipse. That could have been Ruin. In this case it was Nexus. Like it or not, that’s just simply how it happened.

I’m allowed to care about that and imagine more possibilities. You’re allowed to not care about that and dislike him. You don’t get a pass for bullying people over it.

There is literally no good reason to demonise Nexus or his fans more than any other character or keep telling them what he is or isn’t “capable of” or “correct” them and laugh at them for imagining alternative outcomes they might like better. The canonical answer is: he’s not capable of anything anymore, he’s not in the story. The non-canonical answer is: let people use their own imaginations, especially when the writers have decided they don’t want to or have chosen not to use this character anymore. That’s not a diss on them. It is what it is.

Have you seen the DCA fandom? The DCA isn’t canonically a mermaid or a spy or a god or anyone’s love interest. The DCA doesn’t get adopted in canon. No one let that stop them from having fun, and honestly power to them for their creativity and acceptance even when they disagree. Imagination isn’t cringe - it’s a good thing. It’s great that people enjoy this character that much actually. We all have stuff we like and dislike and don’t care about and that’s a-okay. There’s a difference between that and constantly derailing people’s fun to say rude insulting things about the thing they like while they’re trying to talk about it. You’re not hurting Nexus - Nexus isn’t real, he isn’t capable of being hurt. You’re hurting real people for the crime of liking a made up character in a way you don’t like or agree with. Say what you like about things being cringe - that’s worse than cringe. I don’t care how badly you want to find someone or a group of people you can say it’s acceptable to bully for some reason. You’re not being cute and sassy, you’re just being mean. People are allowed to harmlessly enjoy themselves (especially if their fave happened to draw the short end of the stick in canon) even if you don’t like it or find it annoying - please give other people that level of consideration at least.

(And no I won’t be derailing this to debate Nexus’ morality or whether you think that I’m somehow saying he didn’t make any of his own choices or didn’t do anything wrong (tl;dr I didn’t). Respectfully, this post is about meta narrative analysis and fandom meanness and how yes, basically any character could’ve been and could still be Nexus’d.)

#TSAMS #✌️#bullying nexus fans is so …embarrassing #I will keep tapping this sign as many times as I need because I have not been treated great #keep it classy guys #I will not be debating whether some people are okay to bully. no they’re not #‘but I just don’t like nexus’ then it isn’t about you #‘but nexus fans are annoying’ stop treating people like a monolith #‘but I don’t bully nexus fans I just prefer ruin/eclipse/other character’ then this post isn’t about you #‘no. I actually just defend my fave because-‘ not about you #‘how dare you call me mean’ are you mean tho #‘nexus isn’t an innocent victim-‘ not my point. next.#‘I don’t see any bullying’ lucky you. not my experience #long post #just in case #fablespeaks

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mikotos-nape-nibbler · 2 months ago

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thoughts on Fuuta's T3 album cover

The Appare March an homage to The Purge March. homages are tributes to what already exists and you transform it into your own style.

Appare 1. something remarkable; something excellent and splendid 2. a word used to give praise; well done the origin of the word "appare" is from 哀れ (aware) "pathetic". あは (aha, from historical kana spelling of 哀れ "ahare") means "pity", a word that expresses all the emotions that spring up from the bottom of the heart, including joy and sadness. "appare" sounds softer (because of that glottal stop っ), a more sensitive way to say "aware/ahare" so it's been said that it's been used as a word of admiration/did "appare" start to mean "praise" since after the Middle Ages/the start of the Kamakura period (1183-1333, emergence of samurai, establishment of fuedalism, expansion of Buddhism). the way its kanji was chosen was apparently irrelevant to its meaning so it just has cool looking kanji. most people don't write it with kanji anyway

Voice Drama Name: 火宅之境火宅之境 (kataku no sakai) is a 4 character compound that means "boundary of the fire house". it basically means a situation full of disaster or a parable of the world since it invokes the imagery of something on fire, a house engulfed in flames within. it's in reference to a buddhist teaching in which the world is always suffering thus is [a house] always on fire

Official EN Translation of 03's VD: THE SECOND COMING "The Second Coming is the Christian and Islamic belief that Jesus Christ will return to Earth after his ascension to Heaven. The idea is based on messianic prophecies and is part of most Christian eschatologies. In Islamic eschatology, Jesus is also believed to return in the end times." (Wikipedia)

false christs (09 to himself), famine (haruka + a lot of prisoners look like they've lost weight), persecution (since the start of MILGRAM), deaths as skysliver aptly put "Things going to shit is usually taken as a sign that Jesus is going to come soon to save the (religious) masses. Everyone else is screwed though." for Fuuta and Amane, what has happened in MILGRAM might be a sign of the second coming/the end times/doomsday. besides all the prisoners know there's only 3 trials, so considering MILGRAM has been their only world for 5 years now and it's the third trial, it makes sense for them to think that the end is near. and it makes sense why Fuuta's trying to convert others to help them from being left behind from salvation. CLEAR ROADS AHEAD APPARADE, THIS DOGMA CAN'T BE STOPPED apparade sounds like a homonym for "a parade" dogma means "a principle or set of principles laid down by an authority as incontrovertibly true". the word has religious connotations. since the roads are clear/no obstacles ahead, the dogma that Fuuta/Amane will bring in this parade can't be stopped

iuta -> iūtā latin for "coming from having been helped/aided" looks like its written in a stylized Gara Gara Bold font. font style is a Roman type -> Old-style/humanist based + also Blackletter type Old-style typefaces = variations in line weight (thick/thin strokes in the letters) Blackletter typefaces = based on manuscript letterings. popular in Gutenberg's printing. nowadays Blackletter typefaces are used on metal/hip hop music the head of the "i" does make it look like a flame on a candle making it look like an "f"

he looks like he lost weight. maybe he's fasting for penance, voluntary self-punishment inflicted as an outward expression of repentance for having done wrong.

i already know i'm forgiving 03 unless it turns out he murdered/human sacrificed shidou for the sake of salvation/religion. throughout his life he hasn't had any adequate support which left him vulnerable to join cults, cults of internet bubbles, cults of organized religion, etc. he withdraws into an articulated organized community that assists individuals who feel lost in some manner (or rejected by the milieu they live within) [read more]. unforgiving him would only further push him into religious dogma since unforgiveness = persecution. most people don't realize that rejecting people in a cult only makes them rely on the cult doctrines further- it further solidifies the belief that outsiders are hostile, thus danger. the way people get out of cults is to be an open support for them, to have someone there when the person needs them. the way people join cults is to have no support system feelings of hopelessness/loneliness and, while in that vulnerable state, cults offer a community of support and system of faith, ergo hope, which can be appealing.

#milgram #milgram fuuta #fuuta kajiyama #milgram 03 #./003/concat

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justanotherlifeff · 3 months ago

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Frayed Threads of Fate

Scaramouche/Kabukimono/Wanderer x Reader

Read full fic at AO3

(Kitsunes fall in love only once. It is said that the legend of the red string of fate was born from this very notion—a bond so absolute that neither time nor destiny could sever it. A tale of destined lovers, woven into the pages of Inazuman light novels, romanticized and reimagined, yet so far removed from human experience that it was dismissed as mere fantasy.

And yet, the frayed red string hanging loosely from your pinky told a very different story.

[The story will take place in two different timelines. First, timeline 1 where Scaramouche was still the 6th harbinger, though it will begin from much before his Kabukimono days and go from there. There would be more of timeline 1 than timeline 2, and a lot of character interactions as the fanfic is more based on the relationship between Y/N and Scaramouche in his Kabukimono era, Kunikuzushi era and ofcourse, Scaramouche era. Second, timeline 2 which is Sumeru during in-game canon era after Wanderer got his memories back and tries to reconcile with the past he had with Y/N. There will be angst. Lots of angst. And a lot of triggering material as mentioned by the tags so be warned. Reader is a kitsune yokai and Yae Miko's half sister.])

Prologue

Godhood—an illusion, a meaningless ambition that he had once chased with relentless fervor. For centuries, he had believed in its promise, in the idea that divinity would grant him purpose, significance. And yet, in the end, it had amounted to nothing. No throne, no reverence, no grand design had awaited him at the finish line. Just the same cruel, indifferent world that had never once bent to his will.

Even erasing himself from Irminsul had done little to change the course of fate. He had thought—perhaps naively—that by vanishing, he could grant a better future to those whose misfortunes had been intertwined with his existence. That by severing himself from history, he could unmake the past, untangle the suffering that had taken root because of him. But the world did not grieve his absence. It did not stumble. It merely shifted, adjusted, rewrote itself to accommodate the void he left behind. And still, the same tragedies unfolded. The same people suffered—not by his hand this time, but by coincidence, by fate's own cruel design.

So what had he accomplished?

When the Dendro Archon returned his memories, when the Traveler stood before him under the shade of that sunsettia tree and told him that his life was not meaningless—that he had been a villain, yes, but a villain desperate for meaning—he hadn't known whether to laugh or to cry. What a pathetic joke. He had struggled, fought, abandoned, and betrayed, all in pursuit of something that had never existed in the first place. And even when he had given up, even when he had tried to rewrite his own story by erasing himself, the world had simply continued on as if he had never mattered.

Wanderer exhaled sharply, an almost bitter chuckle escaping his lips. Nothing had really changed. Or so he thought.

"Unfortunately, your place was taken by another lost soul."

Nahida’s words made him pause, his brow arching in faint curiosity. Another lost soul? Who could possibly take his place? Had another puppet been woven into the fabric of this timeline, doomed to walk the same miserable path he had barely escaped?

"Who took my place?" The question left his lips before he had fully processed it, driven less by concern and more by a detached, lingering curiosity—who else could be unfortunate enough to inherit the burden of his existence?

Nahida’s gaze was gentle, yet her words carried the weight of inevitability. "She goes by the Harbinger title 'Trouvère.' Though her true name is Y/N. Does the name ring a bell?"

For a moment, the world stood still. Then, the ground beneath him may as well have shattered. Y/N. A name he had buried, a presence he had long since abandoned to the past for the sake of moving forward—no, for the sake of severing all that made him weak. And yet, here it was again, spoken aloud with the finality of a cruel joke. Fate was merciless. He had sacrificed everything, erased himself from history to grant others a future untouched by his shadow. And in doing so, he had unknowingly condemned the only woman he had ever loved. Condemned her to his existence.

The weight of it settled like iron in his chest. She had inherited his suffering, his mistakes, his path paved with ruin. And he had been blind to it, believing that nothing had changed. But everything had changed. In the worst ways possible. The God of Wisdom had an irritating habit of reading minds.

"Come on," Nahida urged, a knowing glint in her eyes. "She’s staying in one of the chambers of the Sanctuary of Surasthana. You could meet her—perhaps talk to her—since she hasn't exactly been cooperative." She offered a sheepish smile, as if her words weren’t about to upend what little composure he had left.

The Wanderer exhaled, still attempting to process the revelation that, in another timeline, his villainy had persisted without him. And now, this—an echo of the past given form in the present. How difficult could this be? So he followed her.

To see her again. The woman who, despite everything, would have followed him to her death. No matter how many times he pushed her away, no matter how many times he abandoned her, she had remained. Devoted. Unwavering. What would she be like now? He had once heard a saying—kitsunes love only once. And in that other life, she had given that love to him. Had dedicated herself to him entirely, with a faith so unshakable it bordered on foolishness.

But without him, without the man she had once chased through storm and fire… Who had she become? The Sanctuary of Surasthana was as serene as ever, its halls steeped in quiet reverence. The air carried a sense of stillness, undisturbed, as if the world beyond its walls did not exist. Yet, for all its tranquility, peace was the last thing in the Wanderer’s heart. Was he even ready to face you? You, who had given up so much. You, whom he had already shattered once—perhaps beyond repair—only to somehow find a way to wound you again, even in a world where he no longer existed.

Did he even have the right?

The question settled heavily in his mind, an echo of doubt and guilt. Yet, despite everything, his feet carried him forward. Whether it was curiosity, obligation, or something deeper, he did not know. All he knew was that soon, he would see you again. And he was terrified of what he might find. The Wanderer had crossed many thresholds in his lifetime—or perhaps, in another lifetime entirely. Doors that led to places he was never meant to enter, boundaries he had shattered, choices that had shaped him into the person he was now. And yet, standing before this one, he hesitated.

Crossing the threshold of your chambers felt different. It was suffocating. A part of him wanted to turn back, to disappear before you could ever realize he was there. But he owed the Dendro Archon—owed her enough to see this through, even if every fiber of his being screamed at him to leave. So he stepped forward. Not for himself, not for you, but to ease a debt. And there you were. Sitting at a desk, your back to him, unaware—or perhaps unwilling to acknowledge—his presence. For all his apprehension, for all the ways he had braced himself, he still wasn’t prepared for this.

"I have no intention of cooperating, Buer. It doesn’t matter which one of your little followers you’ve dragged along this time."

Your voice cut through the chamber like a blade, sharp with exhaustion, laced with irritation. You weren’t speaking to him. You hadn’t even spared him a glance. No, your words were directed at none other than the Dendro Archon herself. Nahida, ever patient, merely sighed. "You may want to speak with him, Y/N," she said, unshaken by your hostility. "He has a rather interesting story—one that heavily relates to you."

And at that, you finally turned. Your gaze met his. For a fleeting moment, there was nothing. No flicker of recognition, no sign that his presence meant anything at all to you. Your eyes were empty, hollow—disinterested, as though he were no more than a stranger in passing. Then, in the space of a single breath, something shifted. Your expression flickered—widened—not in recognition, but in something far more visceral.

Your gaze dropped, fixating on his hand. On something unseen to anyone else in the room. And then the air snapped taut with killing intent. The shift was instantaneous. Before he could react, before he could so much as breathe, you moved. A blur of motion—then impact. The world tilted. His back hit the ground, breath ripped from his lungs as fingers clamped around his throat, pressing just enough to burn. Sharp nails dug into his skin, and your grip was ironclad, unyielding.

Fox ears flattened against your head, your pupils blown wide, wild with something between rage and fear. The unmistakable aggression of a kitsune yokai.

"Who the fuck are you?"

#scaramouche x reader #scaramouche #scaramouche smut #scara x reader #scaramouche x you #wanderer smut #wanderer #genshin scara #kunikuzushi #wanderer genshin #wanderer x reader #wanderer x you #wanderer x y/n

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bloobluebloo · 1 month ago

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Hi! i just wanted to say i am SO GLAD that there's someone else out there that thinks Rauru's whole deal in TOTK was sus. Like, i played the game and when the story said "this godlike figure with great technology descended from the heavens and benevolently decided to rule over the 'non-advanced' people already living there and also 'invited' all the other neighboring kingdoms to dissolve and be absorbed into HIS kingdom for the sake of 'peace' and 'prosperity'" when i got there i was just "now wait a fucking second". Maybe it's just because I'm from one of the many countries that were colonized by Brittan, but i always found the way that the game talked about the Zonai to be kind of propaganda-y and I'm glad I'm not the only one who sees it. AND im also glad that you say "Rauru had some shit going on" but don't try to like, IDK how to say this, woobify Ganon? Like, YEAH Rauru was doing some messed up stuff, but that doesn't suddenly make Gannon the underdog victim we should root for, Ganon is still an asshole.

TLDR: i think ur cool and ur takes are based. Have a nice day!

It's my pleasure! To be quite honest, I would have been fine with TotK's storytelling if it had taken the steps to portray Rauru as a character with some compromised morals. If Rauru had started out as a king that truly thought himself above others because of his Zonai heritage, and then had learned the value of working together with others once he realized that someone like Ganondorf could overpower him, then I would have been more forgiving of his character arc. In fact, it would have tied in with TotK's alleged theme of "hands working togther", with Rauru having accepted that he could be victorious with the help of others versus Ganondorf who chose to stand alone. Alas, that is not the story we got.

We have to accept that Rauru was a good king from the start, soft spoken and flawless. We should not question why he built fortifications so close to the desert's borders that Ganondorf could actually send a horde of molduga to attack his forces, monsters that famously can only travel through sand (which means that Hyrule's fortifications were built extremely close to the desert's borders). We should not question why Rauru sent multiple invitations to the Gerudo to join when no answer should have been accepted as a "no thank you". We should not wonder why other tribes seemingly accepted fealty without resistance even though we watched Rauru decimate an entire horde of molduga in seconds with the power he held. We should not ask why there are mines beneath each tribe's settlement or why there is a flying Zonai fortress in the Gerudo skies (which, by the way, the famous TotK Artbook states that the Gerudo were a sovereign and old kingdom so like, hello?). It reads like propaganda because that is how propaganda is fed to the masses. It forces you to accept a viewpoint without question, and a lot of TotK was simply accepting that Rauru is the good guy and Ganondorf is the bad guy without much narrative weight. As for Ganondorf, I enjoy calling him "the worst victim you could possibly come up with". He was born with round ears which, in the world of Hyrule, is a predetermined sign that he was going to be cursed. He is also born a man amongst a tribe of women who famously hold a lot of disdain about men in general. He is the king at the time when a Zonai is trying to consolidate his power "in the name of peace" and who is being forceful about ceding power to him. Imagine Ganondorf having to bear the burden of being the one to dismantle Gerudo sovereignty? Additionally, he's the only one who is seemingly resisting Rauru's encroachment onto his lands. All's to say that he has reason to be angry! However, that doesn't mean that he doesn't have his own personal motives or selfish wants, perhaps desires that are in his own best interests more than for the sake of his people. What people don't understand however is that just because someone isn't a great person it doesn't mean that what's happening to him is good and justified.

Anyways, sorry for rambling! I will always be beating Rauru with hammers 😌

#ganonthots

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hoenoredone · 2 years ago

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HOW THEY WANT TO BE TAKEN CARE OF

tags: sfw, fluff, headcanons, enstablished relationships, pure indulgence, WARNING: naoya zen'in. characters: gojo, nanami, yuuta, naoya (i love this man, sue me).

GOJO SATORU

be the big spoon, don't interrupt him when he rambles, kiss his cheeks and play with his hands.

the weight of the world is quite literally on gojo's shoulders, there's nothing that he wants more than to not have to feel it, even if it's only for a few minutes. he wants you to hold him, tell him that he's the most handsomest man you've ever met and shower him with kisses. he wants to lay his whole body on you and stay still for a few minutes, he wants you to notice when his hands ache from training and exorcising curses the whole day. he wants to know that he is a good teacher, and that his efforts to nurture a new generation of prodigies who can stand beside him are not futile.

NANAMI KENTO

make him lunch, tie his tie in the mornings, remind him to be home by six, send him out of the door with a kiss and a warm cup of coffee in his hand.

nanami hates going to work – you know he does –, but at the end of the day he's a simple man. he loves sipping on the coffee you make every morning when you wake up (that moka was the smartest investment you had convinced him to make in a while). he loves getting up from his desk during lunch time and grabbing the small cooler bag you insisted he buy. you don't leave him any notes, but you do draw a silly little face or a silly little heart in the corner of his rice. he doesn't even like ketchup but he loves the effort you put in making him smile.

OKKOTSU YUUTA

quiet time, skin to skin, sharing earphones

there are very few instances in which yuuta can relax, his status as a special grade prevents him from ever feeling completely safe. however, resting his head on your chest while you watch some random video on youtube, he forgets all about his duties and jujutsu society. he smushes his cheek further into your chest to better feel your heartbeat, and you rub his back in response. he falls asleep in uder two minutes.

ZEN'IN NAOYA

serve him tea, massage his shoulders, make sure to take care of your appearence, listen and stroke his ego.

naoya wants you to enter his study from a side door, make sure that no one is lurking outside, place a gentle kiss on the top of his head and let him slowly melt into your affections before you pour him some of the best jasmine tea money can buy. you don't have to prompt him into telling you all about the incompetence of his underlings, once he feels the gentle yet firm pressure of your hands on his stiff shoulders he is but putty in your hands. you can't help but wonder if he truly doesn't realize the power you hold over him, or if he simply denies his weakness to you for appearence's sakes.

#gojo satoru #gojo x reader #nanami kento #nanami x reader #yuuta okkotsu #yuuta x reader #naoya zenin #naoya x reader #sfw #fluff #headcanons #jjk #jujutsu kaisen

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mihai-florescu · 3 months ago

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For trans day of visibility, I am sharing one of the short stories written recently to get back into creative practice. The character and his story have been rattling in my head since 2023... after all this time he is out, but do not hesitate to offer feedback of any kind - I'm ready to take it and improve my writing.

A Patchwork Body's Prayer

Lights on, clothes off, time to scrub the day's memories out of the skin- no, it would've been better to keep the lights off actually... A sideways glimpse into the mirror turns into a full body check, top to bottom, then bottom to top, front and back, back and front. It is not an act done out of vanity nor reverence thanking the body for everything it's done to carry this soul and mind so far; there is a tinge of disgust laced with overwhelming guilt and shame, bitter on the tongue, nauseating to swallow. But the trance cannot be escaped, the glimpse of the body has turned into obsessive staring and molding of skin and fat, reimagining the very structure, as it has so many times in the past as well, and it will until a decision is finally taken to face fears and fate head on.

"My body is my own" - a mantra I want to believe in, a phrase I'm sure applies to others, but not to me. It is not out of fear I believe this, not at all, I know all about the procedures. The multiple options available, with nipples, without, breast liposuction, keyhole incisions, curved scars, connected scars, phalloplasty, metoidioplasty. The blade doesn't scare me, nor the weeks of preparation and bed-bound rest. It is the guilt that's nestled into my heart and lungs like a snake coiling deep in my chest keeping me paralyzed in perpetual self hatred. Whichever choice, whichever move, be it an action or inaction, is a betrayal.

The very fact that these options are so easily available at my fingertips, ways to alleviate the disconnect served on a silver platter if I just reach my hand out, or rather, place step after step to get to them, adds to my shame. My mother came to a foreign land when I was but a baby in pursuit of a bright future and I am spitting on her grave, on her hard work cleaning uncaring people's homes and babysitting snotty whiny brats like myself, all that effort to make me feel loved only for me to not be able to love back this body I was born in. She did it for her daughter's sake and her daughter dares be sulky, forever unhappy, eternally ungrateful for her life. What a life worth sacrificing her youth and health for! But these are not thoughts she's ever expressed to me, she couldn't. She died before I found a name for my problem - gender dysphoria.

Top to bottom. Limpid black hair reaches the middle of my torso, long enough to cover the tip of my breasts, but the shape of them is clear in my mind anyway. I've fantasized what it would be like to one day wake up and find them gone, a metaphorical and literal weight off my chest. Swipe up, swipe down, flat, still flat, just a tender end remaining. Ah how I would spend that day walking to the beach feeling the sun I so adore, gentle on my skin, congratulating me. I would wear a fitted shirt that shows off my figure, that is to say, no figure in particular, and I would go into town to celebrate, somewhere no one knows me, but they will celebrate nonetheless. It would be the start of a new life, a new beginning where I get to decide on how I reintroduce myself to the world, a cheerful fellow with lighter baggage of body and soul.

But I am not there. I hide my body from the sun's gaze as I do with everyone else. These curved sacks of fat are the first obstacle in my rebirth, a chain of the past I once held onto for survival. From mother to daughter, sucked on for continuation and connection, my body is proof of their success, of their enduring existence in the world. From my ancestors who watched their home invaded by strange men with stranger habits and ideas, men who brought with them an enlightenment that darkened the sun's shine in battle over faith and Gods worshipped, I inherited this body of mine. I suppose those men also won part of my soul, I laugh bitterly peeking at the icon of the Saint Mother on the wall behind my obstinate figure.

Eyes shifting back, I cover my pubic area, unused in its natural state. It's not like I haven't fantasized what it would be like to wake up with genitals suddenly changed as well, but the brief euphoria is overtaken by a wave of nausea, not bigger in size, but more prevalent, engulfing my whole body until all I can do is close my eyes and hope to see nothing, feel nothing, hope for nothing. Those strange men long ago might've been of concern to my ancestors, but there's another overriding my own memory, or rather, the lack of it. How can I dream of the delight of a dangling member when it is the root of my family's suffering, my mother's shame and my existence?

He was a tourist. A good for nothing looking for cheap thrills on an exotic island his fellow men, his own grandparents maybe, had desecrated a mere 50 years prior. What came of his drunken stupor and need for relief, well, that's me. This little girl's form identical to my mother's and her mother's before, save for my eyes, foreign ones in their piercing cruelty, unfit for such a sweet gentle girl. I never knew his face but I know his eyes, mirrored in mine from an early age, no, even before that, laced with an insatiable lust for more than I was given. Far away from my roots I grew to resemble my mother in all aspects, except I never shook off the fiendish glint in my eye. I'm sure this sight too drove her to an early grave.

Oh Immaculate Mary watching over, forgive me for the sin of being born, being ungrateful, given everything and still wanting more, wanting the impossible, the unspoken of. My Queen, My Mother, I offer myself entirely to thee, and to show my devotion I offer thee this day my eyes, my ears, my mouth, my heart, my whole being without reserve. Holy Mother who art in Heaven and so much resemble her and her mother before and her mother's mother, do not disdain to take care of me as thou had your own son, for in your eyes I see the same kindness that has permitted me to live until now.

The wooden icon I pray underneath is an imobile unchanging body much resembling my own, a worn out icon I am forever indebted to regardless. But then she smiled her mother's smile and her mother's mother smile that is then reflected in my own, and said:

"My child, rise up, for you are loved beyond imagination. It is not betrayal you have committed and punishment that you truly seek, those are the wicked whispers of the snake which has taken home in your ribcage, stifling your true self, poisoning your mind. What flows through your blood is not a chain nor a whip, but freedom. You exist, you will make mistakes, you will repent and try again. But it is more of a sin to deny yourself living under the sun, is it not?"

She still smiles. And she will always smile no matter what. She is watching from above and within and smiling the same smile mirrored back in my own that unites us, the smile overpowering any wicked glint and guilty thought at the magnitude of my desire. It is not easier to breathe, nor is the journey ahead any thornless. Salvation is not fully found in the wood nor myself yet. But ever so slightly, the grievous snake has shifted in my chest, in a chest that light will shine on one day, without forgetting my roots and their sacrifices, but not chained to believe ties through time and space are ropes not to be unbound.

#writing #tdov

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unnaturalequilibrium · 8 months ago

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Capítulo 2 & 3

- Mafin rewatch (Sueños de Libertad)

Watching the de la Reina siblings is a hoot. It's all so deliciously dysfunctional. Damian's three porcelain dolls, all dressed up and filled with generational trauma. How could that not be fun to watch?! I enjoy that Marta is the action oriented one of them. The boys bicker, but she refuses to play their game, instead tries for a solution and an action forward. It’s notable that both brothers turn to her as if her agreement, her word actually holds sway. They’re already making a point of this being a man’s world, but these men, even if it’s a means to play out each other, hang on her word and give it weight.

I’m kind of sad Jesús is such a right villain, because I enjoy him and Marta together. They play off each other well and you instantly get the nuances between them, making it super easy to envision how things were before Andrés return. The way they’ve kept that business afloat, probably stood side by side against their father on a number of occasions. I feel like they’ve kept each other alert, maybe a bit too guarded, but also with a sense of mutual respect despite all of the other muddled feelings of jealousy and resentment and old-fashioned sibling rivalry. In a world where Jesús wasn't such an evil man I think this could have been one of my favourite relationships on the show, if they'd taken the time to develop it more. Especially in the way she yields to him in the beginning and how her character growth comes into play later on.

Carmen is the boss you want to have before she’s even anyone’s boss. The way she is straightforward and stands up to Marta for her own and her fellow workers sake and safety. I wish she was my workplace Union rep. She’s such a competent lady and I'd gladly line up behind. But why throw fucking caveman Tasio around her neck like a noose I’ll never understand. Though I’m getting ahead of myself, or ahead of the show at least.

I mean seriously, what’s up with that opening credit?! Of all the characters, they get a two shot. In bed. The two of them who at this point in time have nothing to tie them together. A flimsy string of connection through fathers, through work. I wasn’t here from the start, but I assume they were shipped from day one? Granted by my arguing maybe Gaspar and Tasio should be shipped too, but at least those two aren't in bed together. And no, don't enlighten me if there are people who do ship them. Some things I'd rather go through life without knowing. This would be one of those.

Lol, Luz is so no-nonsense as she saves Damian's life. “Stop praying and let me stab him with a giant needle, you rich fools!”. Her and Begona sharing the medical field and a bit of empathy with each other is nice too. An ensemble cast that is balanced between men and women seldom leave room for a lot of female friendship, but this one does. I appreciate that.

Fina establishing from the very beginning what she thinks of men, and especially the fool ones like Carmen's deadbeat boyfriend. I feel you. And I am in love with the way she throughout all the episodes to date will be used as a way of voicing what the tired lesbian feminist in all of us wishes she could say, out loud.

If trolls exist, you know like proper giant ones, the kind that can be mistaken for a mountain, covered in moss and trees and then suddenly just opens its eyes and stands up to stretch. You know the kind of trolls you think of when listening to Grieg's In the Mountain King's Hall - yeah those. I imagine if they existed then they'd sound exactly like a sickly Don Damian, like a melodic stone avalanche. That said I’ve never envision mountain trolls to sound Spanish before now. But maybe that’s on me.

Joaquín is a bit of an ass, calling Fina (and the rest of them) lazy - my eyes are narrowed. It wasn’t actually something he developed when he got on my shitlist by flirting with the secretary while having a cute as a button wife or pointing a gun at Marta. Apparently the assery was a pre-existing condition. It’s interesting though that Luis is the one talking about taking over the company, yet he still comes off as the decent one of them.

“You don’t notice the boys?”- Petra, you blonde little snake, don’t call my Fina out like that. Maybe we're allowed to know she's a lesbian, but don't flaunt it in front of the entire canteen like that. It’s kind of funny though how Fina is so clear about Luis not being her type, yet there are so many common denominators between him and Marta both in personality and in physicality (except of course the most important one in this case, their sex).

I know he’s supposed to be one of the good guys, but honestly, Andrés is a bit of a douchebag, isn’t he?! Or maybe that's a bit harsh, but he comes across as pretty smarmy. He's like what the wall behind your stove would be if anthropomorphised, kind of greasy, kind of sticky and in constant need of being hosed down. But yay for not letting the roof drop on your employees, I guess.

#mafin rewatch #mafin #sueños de libertad

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brights-place · 8 months ago

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TWST Yuu Ramble

A/N: Listen I just wanted to ramble about TWST because its so fun but so messed up fucking hell I could make a lore video. My english is not the greatest still getting accustomed to it but holy shit

Warning: Angst, ANGSTTT

You realize how fucked up twst acutally is

Your known as Yuu the main character and just imagine being so smart so accustomed you have a life you have a job people you care for and that being taken away from you as your dropped off into a different reality filled with magic and all that jazz.

Imagine that you had a partner your mother your family and friends ASWELL being the top of your classes fuck your school even! you had a life the main character YUU HAD A LIFE AND IT WAS TAKEN AWAY!! Thats so fucked up your put into a new area forced to learn from a kindergarten level of the seven Villans in NRC learning all this stuff and how people could be little you because your intellect is not like theres and how you need to change and adapt while putting your mental health at risk.

For fucks sakes your mental health is already shit and being put into a different reality stopping all these over-blots dude Yuu needs to have a fucking break!

The weight would go so far as to giving a panic attack or worse Im a person with tics but just imagine having a tic attack after all the weight of stress because of being some sort of chosen one getting scars for each and every fight not only physical but mental and the only thing pushing you through is going back home. Just fighting to not only see your friends but family.

Yall know that part in the underworld song in epic the musical just the part with the mother ‘waitinggg odysseus when you come home i’ll be waiting’ THE GRIEF OF A MOTHER IS ENOUGH TO MAKE YOU CRY just imagine fighting malleus at the end and your so close to beating him and all you want is just to see your mother and family again.

Now listen im cooking up a giant story for this because how fucked up it is I wanna put realistic ass responses cause the mental breakdowns the scarring all the weight can lead yuu/you to cracking fighting for your life to a world you dont get at all.

I mean I love the characters I love the interactions but Yuu going through all this still would have trauma all im thinking is how they’d feel in the middle of the night trying so hard not to break down beside grim hoping they wont die the next day and live these people they befriends yes they loved them yes Yuu cares for them however they are still the same people who nearly took their life the same people Yuu had to save and its so fucked.

Thanks for coming to my ramble session Im 100% making this into a book on my wattpad and upload the chapters up in here because holy fuck its so messed up.

reblogs + comments are appreciated ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡

©brights-place 2024 — do not repost on another platform, copy, translate or edit my works! if you fit my DNI list please don't interact

#twst #angst #twst rants #twst theories #twst reponses #Twisted wonderland #Twst Fanfic Idea??

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doumadono · 1 year ago

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Warnings: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT!, original female character, non-con, bondage, forced orgasm, unprotected & rough p in v, mentions of alcohol abuse, breeding, name calling, creampie

Synopsis: Hoshiko is assigned to guard Shinjuro and help with his alcohol addiction, but he resists her efforts. One night, he decides to assert his dominance in the Rengoku mansion, proving that despite being a former Hashira, he remains a dangerous man

A/N: this original story was commissioned by my lovely @serenesaku on my Ko-fi page. Thank you once again for trusting me with your request ♥

DEMON SLAYER COMMISSIONS CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 1 - THE HAPPENING

The night was thick with an oppressive silence, the kind that blankets the world just before a storm.

Within the Rengoku estate, the air was stifling, filled with an unspoken tension that seeped into every corner. The household, once filled with laughter and the sounds of training, had succumbed to a heavy stillness, its vitality drained away by the despair that had taken root within its walls.

Shinjuro Rengoku, former Flame Hashira, sat slumped in his chair, a half-empty bottle of sake clutched in his hand. The room reeked of alcohol, a stark testament to his descent into self-destruction. His once fiery eyes were now clouded, the flame of his spirit dimmed by years of pure grief and regret. The loss of his wife, the pressures of his position, and the weight of his own failures had driven him to this sorry state.

He took another swig from the bottle, the liquid burning down his throat, but it did little to numb the ache in his heart.

The knock on the door was an unwelcome intrusion, cutting through the fog of his inebriation.

Shinjuro scowled, ignoring it at first, hoping whoever it was would take the hint and leave him in peace.

But the knocking persisted, growing more insistent. With a growl of frustration, he heaved himself out of the chair and staggered to the door, sliding it open with more force than necessary. He squinted at the figure standing before him, his vision swimming.

A woman stood there, with long, silver hair cascading down her back. She wore a dark, form-fitting uniform, a white cloak draped over her shoulders, and her hand rested on the hilt of a katana at her side. Her eyes, cold and piercing, met his with an intensity that cut through the haze of his drunkenness.

"What do you want?" Shinjuro barked, his voice slurred and rough. "Can't you see I'm busy, woman?”

The woman did not flinch. "Shinjuro Rengoku, I am Hoshiko. I have been assigned to ensure your protection and to assist you."

Shinjuro's eyes widened in disbelief, then narrowed in anger. "Assigned? By whom?" he demanded, his grip tightening on the bottle. "And why would I need protection? I am no longer a Hashira. I am nothing."

Hoshiko's expression remained impassive. "Regardless of your current status, the higher-ups have deemed it necessary. Your life is still valuable, and there are those who would seek to exploit your weakness."

"Weakness?" Shinjuro roared, his face flushing with a mixture of rage and humiliation. "You dare speak to me of weakness? You know nothing of what I have endured, what I have lost."

Hoshiko's gaze did not waver. "Perhaps not. But I do know that drowning in sake will not bring back what you have lost, nor will it protect those who still depend on you."

Shinjuro's breath came in ragged gasps, his fury battling with a deep, gnawing despair. He wanted to lash out, to drive her away, but something in her unyielding demeanor held him back. "Why a woman?" he spat finally. "Do they think I am so far gone that I need a babysitter?"

Hoshiko's gaze hardened. "I am not here to coddle you, Rengoku-sama. I am here to fulfill my duty. Whether you accept my presence or not is irrelevant."

Shinjuro staggered back, the room spinning around him. He slumped into his chair, clutching the bottle like a lifeline. "Fine," he muttered, his voice heavy with defeat. "Stay if you must. But do not expect me to be grateful."

Hoshiko inclined her head slightly, a gesture of acknowledgment. "I expect nothing from you," she replied. "My duty is clear, and I will see it through."

Hoshiko stepped across the threshold of the Rengoku mansion, her boots making a soft thud against the wooden floor.

The air inside was thick and stagnant, a stark contrast to the crisp night outside. Her keen eyes scanned the surroundings, taking in the scene of disarray that greeted her.

The grandeur of the mansion’s past was still visible beneath the layers of neglect, but it was a faint echo of what once had been.

Empty bottles were strewn about the floor, some still upright but many toppled, their contents long since evaporated or soaked into the wood. The acrid scent of stale alcohol clung to the air, mingling with the musty odor of dust and decay. Shards of broken glass glinted menacingly in the dim light, a silent testimony to the fits of rage and despair that had evidently taken place here.

Furniture was upturned, cushions and blankets tossed carelessly, creating an obstacle course of clutter and chaos. Papers and scrolls lay scattered, their edges curling with age and neglect. The remnants of what might have been meals were abandoned on tables, now a haven for flies. The once meticulously kept home of the Rengoku family was now a desolate, almost sleazy, space.

Hoshiko's gaze flicked over to Shinjuro, who had collapsed back into his chair, the half-empty bottle of sake still clutched tightly in his hand. His eyes, bloodshot and bleary, barely registered her presence as he took another swig, the liquid dribbling down his chin. His appearance mirrored the state of his surroundings — disheveled, broken, and completely lost.

She took a deep breath, suppressing the urge to comment on the squalor. There was no point in voicing her thoughts; the evidence of his downfall was all around them, and Shinjuro was undoubtedly aware of it. Instead, she steeled herself, allowing her eyes to convey her disapproval as she surveyed the room with a calm, detached air.

Moving deliberately, Hoshiko stepped over a pile of discarded clothing and made her way deeper into the mansion. She would need to clear a path, at the very least, to ensure there were no hazards for her charge — or herself. The sooner she could bring some semblance of order to this chaos, the better.

As she began to right some of the upturned furniture, Hoshiko cast another glance at Shinjuro.

He seemed oblivious to her efforts, lost in his own world of misery and self-pity.

She would not pity him, she decided. Pity was useless. What he needed was someone strong enough to drag him out of the abyss he had fallen into, someone who would not coddle or enable his self-destruction.

"Stay out of my way," Shinjuro muttered, his voice slurred, though the anger in it was unmistakable as he repeated himself yet again. "I don’t need your help."

Hoshiko paused, straightening a chair with a measured calm. She met his gaze, her eyes unwavering. "Whether you think you need it or not is irrelevant," she replied evenly. "I distinctly remember saying I am here to fulfill my duty."

Shinjuro scoffed, turning his head away, but not before Hoshiko caught a glimpse of the torment that flickered in his eyes. She continued her work, silently vowing to herself that she would not be swayed by his resistance. There was too much at stake to allow his pride and despair to thwart her mission.

As the night wore on, Hoshiko methodically cleared away the detritus, creating a semblance of order amidst the chaos. She worked silently, her movements efficient and precise.

As she cleaned, Shinjuro watched her from his chair, a strange mix of emotions churning within him. Resentment, shame, and something else – a glimmer of hope, buried deep beneath the layers of his self-imposed misery. His gaze occasionally lingered on her with a flicker of curiosity as well.

The mansion, though still far from its former glory, began to look less like a ruin and more like a home in desperate need of care.

Hoshiko knew that the physical mess was only a symptom of a deeper rot, one that would take far more effort to cleanse. But it was a start, and in this grim, forsaken place, even the smallest step towards order felt like a victory.

As dawn approached, Hoshiko finally paused, wiping a bead of sweat from her brow. She looked around, assessing her progress. It was far from perfect, but it was better.

She glanced at Shinjuro, who had fallen into a restless sleep, the bottle finally slipping from his grasp.

For the first time since she had entered the mansion, Hoshiko allowed herself a moment of hope. The path ahead would be long and arduous, but she was determined to see it through.

Shinjuro Rengoku might have been a broken man, but within him still burned the embers of the warrior he once was. And she would not rest until those embers were rekindled into a roaring flame.

The days that followed were a grueling test of endurance, both for Hoshiko and for Shinjuro.

He made no effort to hide his contempt, his behavior a mix of belligerence and self-pity.

Yet, Hoshiko remained steadfast, her presence a constant, unyielding force in the household. She shadowed him with a quiet resolve, ensuring he ate, rested, and did not completely succumb to his vices.

Each morning, Shinjuro would awaken to find Hoshiko already up and about, methodically cleaning the mansion and preparing a simple breakfast. He would scowl at the sight of her, muttering under his breath about her intrusion. "You don't need to do this," he'd snap, pushing the bowl of rice away. "I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself."

Hoshiko would simply raise an eyebrow, her expression remaining impassive. "Clearly," she'd reply dryly, her tone never wavering. "And yet, here we are."

One particularly rough morning, Shinjuro stumbled into the dining room, his eyes bloodshot and his movements unsteady. The previous night had been a haze of sake and bitter memories, and now, the light of day was a harsh and unforgiving reminder of his failures. He saw Hoshiko setting the table and felt a surge of irrational anger. "Why are you still here?" he growled, his voice rough and strained. "I told you I don't need your help, woman!"

Hoshiko paused, her eyes meeting his with that same unwavering intensity. "And I told you I am not here for your approval," she said calmly. "I am here to ensure your well-being, whether you like it or not, Rengoku-sama."

Shinjuro's hands clenched into fists, his body trembling with rage. He wanted to throw something, to break the suffocating calm that she exuded. Instead, he swiped the bowl off the table, sending it crashing to the floor. "Damn you, woman!" he shouted, his voice echoing through the empty halls. "Do you think you're better than me? That you can just waltz in here and fix everything?! Get out of my fucking kitchen! I don't need your damn pity," he snarled, his voice slurring as he swayed on unsteady feet.

Hoshiko did not flinch. She bent down, picking up the shattered pieces with a steady hand. "No," she said quietly. "I do not think I am better than you. I am not here out of pity as well. I do think, however, that you can be better than this."

Her words hung in the air, a quiet challenge that cut through his fury.

Shinjuro turned away, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He wanted to lash out, to drive her away, but deep down, he knew she was right. The fight left him as quickly as it had come, leaving behind a hollow ache.

There were other moments, too, where Shinjuro's brash behavior tested Hoshiko's patience.

One evening, after a particularly heavy bout of drinking, the former Hashira confronted her in the courtyard.

Despite the bleak circumstances, Hoshiko's discipline never wavered. She trained in the courtyard, her movements precise and deadly, a silent reminder of the strength she possessed. She was practicing her forms, the fluidity and grace of her movements a stark contrast to his stumbling gait.

"Why do you bother?" he slurred, leaning heavily against the wall. "Why waste your time on a broken man?"

Hoshiko did not pause in her practice, her katana slicing through the air with deadly precision. "Because you are not broken," she replied evenly. "You are wounded, yes. But wounds can heal."

Shinjuro laughed bitterly, the sound harsh and grating. "You speak as if you know what it's like," he sneered. "But you don't. You have no idea what I've been through."

Hoshiko finally stopped, lowering her katana. She turned to face him, her dark blue eyes cold and unyielding. "You are right," she said softly. "I do not know your pain. But I do know that wallowing in it will not bring you peace."

Shinjuro stared at her, his anger simmering beneath the surface. "And what would you know of peace?" he asked, his voice tinged with vexation.

Hoshiko's gaze did not falter. "I know that it is not found at the bottom of a bottle," she stated simply. "And I know that you will never find it if you do not at least try."

Without warning, he lunged at her, his movements fueled by rage and desperation. Even in his drunken state, his speed and strength were formidable, remnants of the Hashira he once was. His hand shot out, aiming to grab her by the collar and throw her off balance.

Hoshiko reacted instinctively, her training kicking in. She sidestepped his initial attack, her body moving with a fluid grace that belied the tension of the moment.

But Shinjuro was relentless, his fury driving him to press the assault. He swung wildly, a powerful backhand that she narrowly avoided by ducking low and rolling to the side.

"You think you're better than me?!" he roared, his voice a guttural snarl. "You think you can save me?! No one fucking can!"

Hoshiko's response was calm, almost maddeningly so. "I think you are worth saving."

Her words only seemed to enrage him further. With a roar, he charged at her, using his full weight to try and overpower her.

Hoshiko danced out of reach, her movements precise and measured, but even she couldn't avoid him forever.

Shinjuro managed to catch her off guard, grabbing her wrist and twisting it painfully, forcing her to the ground.

Pinned beneath him, Hoshiko looked up into his wild, tormented eyes. She could feel the strength in his grip, the raw power that still resided in him despite his years of self-destruction. But she did not flinch. Instead, she allowed herself a small, knowing smile.

Shinjuro's eyes widened in confusion and anger as he felt a cold, sharp pressure against his side. Glancing down, he saw the tip of Hoshiko's katana pressed against his ribs, the blade angled perfectly to pierce him if she so chose.

"Even in your current state," she said softly, her voice steady despite the intensity of the situation, "you are still a force to be reckoned with. But strength without control is meaningless, and you of all people should know that."

He stared at her, breathing heavily, his mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. He had her pinned, yet she had him at her mercy. The realization of his predicament, the futility of his rage, hit him like a physical blow. Slowly, the fire in his eyes began to dim, replaced by a flicker of something else — shame, perhaps, or recognition. “Why?" he rasped, his voice cracking. "Why do you care?"

Hoshiko's smile softened, but her grip on the katana did not waver. "Because, Rengoku Shinjuro, you are not beyond redemption. You still have a purpose. You just need to find it again."

For a moment, the courtyard was silent except for the sound of their breathing. Shinjuro's grip on her wrist loosened, and he pulled back, his shoulders slumping as the fight drained out of him. He stumbled to his feet, looking more defeated than ever.

Hoshiko rose gracefully, sheathing her katana with a fluid motion. She stepped closer, her expression a mixture of determination and empathy. "Let me help you, Shinjuro," she said softly. "You do not have to do this alone."

He looked at her, his eyes haunted and filled with a deep, abiding pain. "I don't know how," he admitted, his voice barely a whisper.

"You don't have to know how," Hoshiko replied. "You just have to be willing to try."

Shinjuro's gaze dropped to the ground, his shoulders trembling. The journey ahead was daunting, and the shadows of his past loomed large. But for the first time in a long while, he felt a tiny spark of hope — a fragile, flickering flame that Hoshiko had ignited within him.

He nodded slowly, the smallest of gestures, but it was enough.

Hoshiko inclined her head, a silent acknowledgment of his first step towards healing.

The days dragged on, a relentless cycle of anger, despair, and fleeting moments of clarity.

Hoshiko remained a steady presence, her resolve unbroken by Shinjuro's brash behavior.

Slowly, painfully, he began to see glimpses of the man he once was, buried beneath the rubble of his grief.

It was a long, arduous journey, fraught with setbacks and moments of darkness. But with each passing day, Hoshiko's unwavering dedication began to chip away at the walls Shinjuro had built around himself.

And though he would never admit it, even to himself, a part of him began to hope that maybe, just maybe, there was a way out of the shadows.

Weeks after Hoshiko first arrived at the Rengoku mansion, the atmosphere had begun to change.

The once pervading scent of stale alcohol had lessened, and the mansion, though still showing signs of neglect, had started to regain a semblance of order.

Shinjuro had seemingly limited his drinking, his temper had cooled, and there were even days when he participated in the training sessions with a renewed, albeit tentative, vigor.

That evening, Hoshiko decided to prepare a simple yet thoughtful dinner. She hoped it would be an opportunity to foster a more constructive conversation with Shinjuro, to delve deeper into the pain that had driven him to such depths of despair. She spent the afternoon in the kitchen, her movements purposeful and serene as she prepared the meal. The aroma of simmering miso soup, grilled fish, and freshly steamed rice filled the air, a comforting contrast to the mansion’s usual gloom.

As the sun set, casting a warm, golden light through the windows, Hoshiko set the table. She arranged the dishes with care, creating an inviting space that spoke of normalcy and hope. She called for Shinjuro, who had been in his study, a room that had seen more use in recent days as he slowly reconnected with his old scrolls and writings.

Shinjuro appeared in the doorway, his face a mix of curiosity and apprehension. "What’s this?" he asked, his voice gruff but not unkind.

"A meal," Hoshiko replied, her tone gentle. "I thought we could enjoy it together."

He hesitated, his eyes scanning the table, then nodded slowly. "Alright."

They sat down, and for a while, they ate in silence.

Hoshiko had learned not to push too hard, to let the conversation flow naturally. She watched Shinjuro as he ate, noting the way he seemed more present, more engaged with the simple act of sharing a meal. It was a small victory, but a victory nonetheless.

As they finished their meal, Shinjuro set down his chopsticks and looked at Hoshiko. "Thank you," he said quietly. "For this."

She smiled, a rare and genuine expression that softened her usually stoic features. "You’re welcome."

He paused, then asked, almost hesitantly, "Would you share a cup of sake with me?"

The request caught her off guard. She felt a surge of anger, a sharp reminder of the battles they had fought against his addiction. But as she looked into his eyes, she saw no defiance, only a tentative plea for companionship. Hoshiko took a deep breath, reigning in her initial impulse to snap. "One drink," she said, her voice firm but not unkind. "Just one."

Shinjuro nodded, a flicker of relief crossing his face. He fetched a small bottle of sake and two cups, pouring the clear liquid with a steady hand.

They raised their cups, and for a moment, they simply sat in silence, the sake warming their throats and loosening their tongues.

"To small victories," Shinjuro said, raising his cup.

"To small victories," Hoshiko echoed, clinking her cup against his.

One drink turned into another, and then another.

The conversation flowed more freely with each cup, their words mingling with the night air.

Shinjuro opened up and spoke of his past, of his lost wife and the burden of living up to the Rengoku name. He spoke of his failures, his grief, and the crushing weight of expectations that had driven him to the brink.

Hoshiko listened, her heart aching for the broken man before her. She shared pieces of her own story, fragments of a life dedicated to duty and honor, and the sacrifices she had made along the way.

It was the most honest and open conversation they had ever had, a raw and unfiltered exchange that brought them closer than they had ever been.

But as the night wore on, the sake dulled their senses, and the constructive conversation they had hoped for began to slip away.

Shinjuro’s words grew slurred, his movements less coordinated.

Hoshiko felt a familiar sense of dread creeping in, knowing they had crossed a line. “We should stop,” she said, her voice laced with concern.

Shinjuro shook his head, his eyes bleary but determined. “Just one more,” he mumbled, pouring another cup for each of them.

Hoshiko hesitated, but the momentary bond they had forged made it difficult to refuse. She took the cup, her resolve weakening.

They drank, the sake blurring the edges of their conversation, turning it into a hazy recollection of shared sorrows and fleeting laughter.

By the time the bottle was empty, Shinjuro was slumped in his chair, his head resting on the table.

Hoshiko felt a wave of disappointment and regret wash over her. She had allowed herself to hope, to believe that this night might mark a turning point. Instead, it had become another reminder of the long, arduous journey ahead. She rose from her seat, her steps unsteady. Carefully, she lifted Shinjuro, guiding him to his room.

He mumbled incoherently, his body heavy and uncooperative.

As Hoshiko guided Shinjuro to his room, she felt the alcohol beginning to exert a stronger influence over her senses. Each step grew increasingly difficult to control, the hallways of the mansion seeming to blur and shift around her. She watched Shinjuro collapse onto his bed, his breathing already deepening into the heavy rhythm of sleep. For a moment, she stood there, gripping the doorframe, trying to steady herself. "Rest well, Shinjuro," she murmured, her voice sounding distant even to her own ears. With a final glance to ensure he was settled, she turned and began the long, unsteady journey back to her own chambers.

The corridors seemed to stretch endlessly, the walls closing in and then expanding again in an unsettling dance. Hoshiko's steps were slow and deliberate, each one requiring a concerted effort to maintain balance. She had consumed alcohol before, even in significant amounts, but never had she felt its effects so profoundly. Her mind buzzed with confusion and a growing sense of unease.

By the time she reached her room, her vision was swimming, the edges of her sight tinged with a strange, almost dreamlike quality. She pushed the door open and stumbled inside, the room spinning around her. Her usually sharp, disciplined mind felt clouded, detached. It was as if she were merely an observer within her own body, watching herself move without truly controlling her actions.

She didn't remember crossing the room to her futon, but suddenly she was there, her fingers fumbling clumsily with the ties of her kimono. The fabric felt heavy and uncooperative, slipping through her hands as she tried to undress. Her normally precise movements were slow and uncoordinated, each task requiring an immense amount of concentration.

Hoshiko's vision blurred further, the room tilting wildly as she finally managed to shed her clothes. She couldn't recall how she had done it, only that one moment she was struggling with the ties, and the next she was lying on her futon, her body bare and exposed to the cool night air if not counting her cotton lingerie.

She felt herself drifting, the futon's soft surface barely registering through the haze that enveloped her. Her mind swam with fragments of thoughts and images, none of them clear or coherent.

The events of the evening played back in disjointed flashes, her conversation with Shinjuro, the shared drink, the vulnerable look in his eyes.

Hoshiko's eyelids grew heavier, her vision darkening as she lay there. A vague sense of alarm flickered at the edge of her consciousness, but she was too far gone to grasp it fully. The room continued to spin, her body feeling both impossibly heavy and weightless at the same time.

As she finally succumbed to the pull of unconsciousness, a single, disjointed thought lingered in her mind: something was wrong. But the thought slipped away as darkness claimed her, leaving her in a deep, dreamless sleep.

The first thing Hoshiko noticed as consciousness clawed its way back to her was the darkness.

The room was shrouded in the oppressive blackness of midnight, broken only by the faintest sliver of moonlight filtering through the shoji screen. The second thing was the rough texture of the futon beneath her, and the biting sensation of silken cords digging into her wrists and ankles. She was naked, her body splayed out and completely vulnerable.

Panic surged through her like ice water, her heart pounding violently against her ribcage. She tugged against the restraints, but they held fast, cruelly binding her to the futon beneath her. Every frantic movement only served to chafe her skin, the silken bonds cutting deeper into her flesh.

Her mind raced, piecing together fragments of memory. The sake. Shinjuro. The room spinning before everything went black. She had been assigned to watch over him, to ensure he didn’t spiral further into his drunken stupor. But now, it was she who was helpless.

As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she scanned the room for any sign of explanation. Her own quarters, normally a sanctuary of solitude, now felt like a prison. Her clothes were in tatters on the floor, the remnants of her once pristine uniform scattered like the fragments of her dignity.

A shadow loomed above her, and Hoshiko's eyes were drawn upward, her breath catching in her throat.

Shinjuro Rengoku stood over her, his towering form bathed in the faint glow of the moonlight. The upper part of his attire was gone, revealing a muscular chest marked with the scars of countless battles. His broad shoulders and powerful arms exuded strength, yet it was the look in his eyes that sent a chill down her spine.

"Shinjuro," she whispered, her voice trembling with a mixture of fury and fear. "What are you doing?"

"Well, look who’s awake," he drawled, his voice thick with mockery. "The mighty Hoshiko, brought down to this. How the mighty have fallen."

"Shinjuro, please," she pleaded, trying to keep her voice steady. "This isn't you. You're better than this."

His eyes darkened, a predatory gleam in their depths. He knelt down, bringing his face close to hers, the heat of his alcohol-stained breath ghosting over her skin. "You think you know me, Hoshiko? You think you understand what I'm capable of?"

"Shinjuro, let me go!" she demanded, her voice a mix of anger and fear.

His hands roamed over her naked body, rough and possessive.

She shivered, a mixture of rage and helplessness flooding her senses. "You won't get away with this," she hissed, her voice breaking.

"And who's going to stop me?" he taunted, his grip tightening. "You? You're tied up like a helpless little bitch you are."

Tears of frustration welled up in her eyes as he continued his assault, her body betraying her as it responded to his touch. "Shinjuro, please..."

"Begging already?" he sneered. "How pathetic."

She turned her head away, unable to bear the sight of his face so close to hers.

His hand moved roughly to her face, gripping her jaw and forcing her to meet his gaze. "Look at you, the mighty Hashira, all tied up and naked like the helpless bitch you are."

He shifted his weight, straddling her as his hands roamed over her body. His fingers trailed over the tantalizing curves of her breasts, squeezing and fondling them with a cruel possessiveness. "So soft," he muttered, his voice thick with desire.

"Stop it," she gasped, trying to twist away from his touch.

Her protest was met with a sharp slap across her cheek, the force of it snapping her head to the side. "Shut up," he growled. "You're mine now. You'll do as I say."

Tears of frustration and fear welled up in her eyes as he continued his assault. "Rengoku-sama, please..."

Another slap, harder this time, made her vision blur. "I said shut up. You don’t get to speak unless I say so."

His hands moved to her other breast, kneading the flesh roughly, his thumbs brushing over her nipples.

The sensation sent unwanted shivers through her body, each touch a bitter reminder of her helplessness. She sobbed, her body trembling beneath him. "Please, Shinjuro, stop..."

But he didn't stop. He continued to toy with her, his hands roaming and exploring, leaving bruises and marks on her skin. Each slap silenced her cries, reducing her to a state of broken compliance. He took his time, savoring every moment of her humiliation. His hands roamed over her body, lingering obscenely on her breasts before trailing down to her thighs. He spread her legs roughly, his fingers digging into her flesh. "You think you can just walk into my life and order me around?" he sneered. "You think you're better than me?"

She tensed, her body trembling with revulsion. “You’re disgusting. Stop it!”

"You don't get to tell me what to do," he growled, his fingers parting her folds. "You're mine to use as I see fit."

He drew away a bit, teasing only the outside of her opening until he managed to lull her into a false sense of safety. As soon as she relaxed, he pushed his thick digit into her, not leaving her muscles any other choice than to yield and allow him entrance. He growled, "Fuck, how are you so tight, little Hashira?"

Her body tensed at the unwelcome intrusion, and a tear streamed down her flushed cheek. She bit her lip, trying to stifle a cry of pain and humiliation. "Please," she whispered again, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Stop."

"Not a chance," he murmured, adding another finger and curling them inside her, trying to find the sweetest spot of hers. "You're going to take everything I give you."

He moved his fingers with a cruel, practiced precision, in and out of her tight hole, while his thumb brushed against her sensitive nub.

To Hishiko’s horror, his increasingly demanding strokes on her clit made her body react and to her embarrassment, an unwelcome heat started spreading in her belly. A while later, the woman felt a trickle of wetness between her legs and her cheeks burnt in embarrassment while she whimpered softly in denial. She squeezed her eyes shut. The unwanted pleasure mixed with the pain, sending conflicting signals through her body. She hated herself for the way her body responded, the way it betrayed her.

He stopped rubbing her clit, and her closed eyes popped open.

Shinjuro was staring at her slick pussy with a hungry look in his eyes. "You are so beautiful like this, so exquisite" he claimed almost reverently. "I need to taste you now, so be a good girl and lay still for me," he chuckled darkly, as if she had any other choice.

Shinjuro then slowly lowered his mouth, all while holding her gaze.

Hoshiko started protesting, but her protests were cut off with a gasp as he sucked her clit into his mouth. An involuntary moan made its way out, but she was too shocked to feel embarrassed.

His hands stroked her thighs while his mouth attacked her core.

Hoshiko squealed quickly as she felt him release her clit and start petting her lower tummy soothingly while the other finger continued to slowly stroke in and out of her pussy, making her tremble.

He then continued his ministrations on her clit while slowly pushing another finger into her while sucking her bundle of nerves into his mouth.

She groaned and ground her teeth together as the slight burn made her pussy tense up. The stretch was harsh; he really had big hands, and she desperately tried to move her pelvis from side to side as if she could escape him.

Shinjuro just chuckled and continued to pump in and out of her pussy while licking and suckling on her clit.

Her inner muscles slowly started relaxing, and the burn turned into a firm pressure. She felt an orgasm building and was oh so desperate not to come. Hoshiko started protesting and begging him to stop yet again, but he just continued while humming softly with his mouth attached to her clit, the vibration adding to the torture.

The next thing she knew, an unexpected orgasm slammed into her without her permission, and she was left spasming around his thick fingers.

He continued to stroke her velvety walls and tease her clit, drawing out the intense waves of pleasure. As the climax gradually subsided, he stilled his movements and gently withdrew his fingers from her pussy.

She groaned at the relief from the overwhelming pressure, her entire body going slack as she tried to recover.

"So fucking beautiful, doll. Absolutely perfect, and all mine," Shinjuro murmured, his voice thick with lust. As he spoke, his other hand moved to stroke the bulge in his hakama pants, the fabric straining against his hardening dick. "I wonder, if feeling you come all over my fingers makes me feel like this, how would it feel having your pussy strangling my cock while you come all over it?"

He brought his fingers, slick with her juices, to his mouth and slipped them in, tasting her. His eyes never left hers, a dark satisfaction gleaming in their depths as he savored her essence. "Delicious," he growled, the word dripping with possessive hunger.

Rengoku’s words sank in, and she whimpered, a cold dread seeping into her bones. Her gaze drifted downward, her eyes slowly lowering to his pants, and she let out a gasp. He was clearly aroused, and the sight of the obscene bulge straining against his hakama sent a wave of terror through her. Tears trickled down her cheeks as the horrifying realization set in — he was going to take her, and by the looks of it, it was going to hurt. The anticipation of the impending violation made her shudder, her body trembling with a mix of fear and helplessness. “Leave me alone…” she begged.

He got off the futon and began undressing, peeling off layer after layer until he stood completely naked before her. His enormous cock was erect, its hefty weight counteracting its upward strain. The sheer size of him filled Hoshiko with dread.

Seeing her expression, he chuckled darkly. "Don't worry, you will take me, and you'll learn to love it before we're finished.”

He bent down and opened a bag that stood near the futon which she hadn’t noticed before.

With trepidation, she watched him lube up a large harigata.

He got on the futon again and moved towards her, and she was again reminded of her vulnerable position — completely restrained and exposed, with no chance of avoiding him or whatever he wanted to do to her.

His calloused hand pushed the head of the harigata towards her rosy opening, and she tensed. "Relax, or this will hurt more than necessary," Shinjuro warned before firmly pushing the toy past her tight entrance.

Hoshiko let out a scream, but he didn't relent until the toy was fully seated inside her, bottoming out painfully. She started shaking and panting, trying to cope with the painful stretch and the horrible cramps from the firm pressure against her cervix.

For a moment, he remained completely still, and through her whimpers, she heard him speaking.

"Good girl, such a good girl," he praised.

"It hurts," she whined pitifully.

He then started stroking her clit and withdrew the harigata before pushing it all the way inside in one long, relentless stroke.

Groaning, Hoshiko had no other choice but to take it, letting him claim her pussy with the toy.

After what felt like an eternity of him thrusting it in and out of her, she tried to focus on her breathing to deal with the intrusion. The tingling sensation in her pelvis caused by the stimulation and the pressure on her clit made her groan in despair. She knew now that she had no control and no energy left to fight the upcoming climax. Hopelessly, she gave in to the electric waves of pleasure inside her and came with painful spasms, her body trying to expel the intruder or draw it in — she wasn't sure anymore.

As her orgasm subsided, her inner muscles relaxed, and the sensation of the toy inside her became intense but less painful. She drew a deep, shaky breath, and he immediately smiled down at her.

"Absolutely beautiful. I knew you could do it. And I think you are ready for my cock now, my little Hashira,” Shinjuro mused.

She had little energy left to protest and just shook her head weakly, but with plenty of her juices trickling down around the harigata and aiding its intrusion, she had no doubt he would manage to get inside her, no matter his size.

He gently pulled the toy out of her abused pussy and tossed it on the floor beside the futon. He then stroked his cock, a bead of precum already visible on the tip. Settling his body over hers, panic surged through her again, and she started pulling on her bindings. He ignored that, lining up his cock against her opening and slowly began to push.

"No! Rengoku Shinjuro, I beseech you!" she groaned as she felt her pussy desperately trying to stretch around the head of the monstrosity, but it wouldn't go in. He didn't seem bothered and just increased the pressure until she felt a pinch that rapidly turned into an intense burning.

All the while, he stroked her body in a mockingly soothing manner. His rough hand moved down to her clit to try to aid her in relaxing, and her inner muscles twitched in confused response as Shinjuro petted her bundle of nerves.

She ground out a pained cry as you helplessly pulled at the silken cords that tied your hands together above her head.

Suddenly, the steady pressure made his thick cockhead pop through Hoshiko’s opening, and she screamed just as Shinjuro let out a guttural groan.

Desperation set in, and she started thrashing against her bindings until his voice cut through her panic, deceptively soothing. "Take it easy, doll. Just relax, it will feel good soon, I promise.”

Yet Hoshiko hissed through clenched teeth, tears streaming down her cheeks again.

"Don't cry," he reminded almost regretfully, holding himself completely still with just the head of his cock inside her velvety pussy. He reached up with one hand to wipe her tears away. "I'm sorry it has to be this way, but the pain will stop soon, I promise. And after that, I'll give you endless pleasure. I'll make you come until you don't care how much it hurts when I claim you with my cock.."

His words both soothed and worried her, but she knew she had no choice but to submit. Hoshiko obeyed him by taking a deep breath. The woman’s inner muscles relaxed a fraction.

He then started moving inside her, pushing slowly until he was fully seated in her wet, warm pussy.

She panted as he withdrew almost completely before pushing in again, harder this time. There was pain, intense pressure, but also something else. Raw, crackling pleasure zapped up Hoshiko’s spine as Shinjuro’s thick cock touched every part of her pussy, forcing it to mold itself around him.

A sudden feeling of being completely and carnally claimed washed over her, and she moaned as her pussy spasmed painfully around his thick cock.

"Little cunt," he growled in warning. "Don't do that unless you want me to take you hard. Do not test my patience."

But she couldn't control it. His words made more juices trickle down around his cock, and another spasm of her inner muscles made her moan.

"Look at me," he commanded, his voice like steel. "Look at me while I take what's mine, you fucking useless cunt."

Reluctantly, she turned her gaze back to him, her heart pounding in her chest.

His expression was one of dark satisfaction, his eyes gleaming with a twisted hunger. He was relentless, each thrust claiming her further, branding her as his.

Rengoku then withdrew and immediately slammed into her again, and she lost all control over her body. The moans leaving her lips were no longer her own, and she writhed on his cock, trying simultaneously to escape and to draw him deeper at the same time.

But it wasn't fully her choice — his hands held her hips in an iron grip as he slammed into her over and over again.

Her mind fragmented under the relentless assault, her sense of self slipping away with each brutal thrust.

She was too lost in the moment to reflect on the situation anymore. She felt another orgasm building and just let it happen, not caring about the pain she knew would come from her muscles tightening around his enormous cock. She heard him talking, praising her for taking him so well, calling her a good girl as her pussy melted around him as she came yet again in intense spasms. “S-Stop, please…”

But he didn't stop. He fucked her oh so hard, each time pushing her further into a haze of pain and unwanted pleasure.

As Hoshiko seized again and again, overwhelmed by the sensations coursing through her body, she felt Shinjuro's movements becoming more sloppy, more primal. His thrusts grew deeper, more desperate.

Then, like a thunderclap in the night, she heard Shinjuro's primal roar. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he cursed. In that moment, Hoshiko felt the warmth flooding her insides as he released his thick, warm seed deep within her. “Fuck, take it, bitch, take all of it. I can’t wait to see you swell with my fucking offspring.” He continued to thrust his hips into hers with unrestrained fervor, ensuring that she received every last drop of his semen.

Their cums mingled together in a potent concoction, flooding her core until she felt drenched to the brim, every fiber of her being saturated with their combined releases.

He was mumbling soothingly in her ear about how beautiful she was shortly after. “That’s it, my little whore. You were so good to me, taking my cock oh so well.” He slowly started withdrawing his half-hard cock, and she whimpered as the pain made its way back into her consciousness. Shinjuro shushed her and soothed her with kisses and gentle caresses, pulling out as carefully as he could.

Hoshiko lay there, broken and violated, the reality of what had happened sinking in. She was no longer the aloof, untouchable Hashira. She was Shinjuro's possession, his conquest.

Her whole body ached as he began untying her legs. Shinjuro massaged her sore muscles gently and kissed every part of her. He was mumbling about how Hoshiko was his now, his woman, and how he was going to pleasure and claim her again and again. When he had untied her completely, he left the bedroom briefly, returning with a glass of sake. Rengoku carefully soothed her when she whimpered from the soreness, and then supported her head as he helped her down the glass of alcohol. “Drink. It’ll ease your nerves.”

Having swallowed the drink, Hoshiko felt a haze descend upon her, enveloping her in a cocoon of numbness. As she closed her eyes, surrendering to the oblivion that awaited her, the final image that burned itself into her consciousness was that of Shinjuro's face, twisted into a malevolent grimace.

"You belong to me now," his voice echoed in the darkness, each word dripping with possessiveness and dominance. "You are mine, my little, sweet cockslut."

The darkness of the night lingered long after the sun rose, casting a shadow over Hoshiko's heart.

She woke up, a pounding headache splitting her skull, and an overwhelming nausea clawing at her stomach. As she tried to shift, she winced, feeling a sticky discomfort between her legs. Her heart plummeted as the realization struck her - she sensed the dried cum of Shinjuro on her inner thighs, a sickening confirmation of her worst fears she desperately wanted to erase from the back of her mind.

For a moment, she couldn't move, her body frozen in shock and disgust. Her eyes darted to her side, and she saw him lying there, naked and sleeping peacefully, as if nothing had happened. Rage and revulsion churned within her, a storm threatening to consume her whole.

With trembling hands, she pulled herself from the futon, her movements slow and deliberate. Each motion sent waves of pain through her body, both physical and emotional. She dressed carelessly, her fingers fumbling with the fabric as she tried to cover the marks of her violation. The once-pristine kimono hung loosely on her, a stark contrast to the meticulous care she usually took with her appearance.

She stood in the center of the room for a moment, her breath coming in ragged gasps, as if she could expel the filth through sheer force of will. The room around her seemed to close in, the walls pressing down with an oppressive weight. The very air felt tainted, corrupted by the heady scent of sex.

Shinjuro might have won this battle, but the war was far from over.

Hoshiko clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms, the pain grounding her in the present moment. She would rise from this torment, stronger and more determined than ever. And when she did, Shinjuro would face the full force of her wrath.

As the first light of dawn filtered through the shoji screen, she closed her eyes, a single thought echoing in her mind: She would make him pay for this. But that would be another part of her story.

She moved silently through the mansion, her steps light despite the turmoil within her. The house seemed eerily quiet, the silence a stark contrast to the chaos of her thoughts. Each room she passed through held memories of her attempts to help him, now tainted by his betrayal, his violation of her rights.

When she reached the entrance, she paused, looking back one last time. The mansion stood as a testament to Shinjuro's fall from grace, a place she had hoped to bring light and healing. But now, it was merely a reminder of the darkness that had consumed him — and nearly consumed her as well.

Without another glance, she stepped out into the cold morning air. The chill bit into her skin, but it was a welcome relief, a sharp contrast to the suffocating atmosphere inside. She walked away from the mansion, each step a declaration of her intent to survive, to fight back. She left all her belongings behind, not sparing a single glance for the possessions that had once seemed so important. The kimono she wore was her only possession now. There was no intention of returning to this place, no desire to reclaim what she had lost. Everything she needed, she carried within her: her resolve, her strength, and the burning desire for justice.

The path ahead was uncertain, fraught with danger and challenges. But Hoshiko knew one thing with absolute certainty: she would not be broken by this. She would rise from the ashes of this night.

As she disappeared into the distance, the first rays of the sun pierced through the morning mist, casting a pale, ethereal light over the land. It was a new day, a new beginning, and Hoshiko would seize it with every ounce of her strength.

The battle was far from over, and she was ready to wage it with every ounce of her being.

#shinjuro rengoku smut #shinjuro smut #rengoku shinjuro smut #kny smut #demon slayer shinjuro #demon slayer x oc #shinjuro rengoku x oc #kny x oc #original female character #ko fi commissions #kny angst #shinjuro rengoku #writing commissions #kofi commission #writing commission #writing commission open #smutty fanfiction #divider by cafekitsune

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wordsandrobots · 4 days ago

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Why do we hate Gaelio, again? Or is it the fact he's rich and white?

*Is* Gaelio white? Bauduin is a French name but that's not necessarily an indication of specific ethnicity and this being anime, I tend to assume that I can't judge from eye or hair colour alone. In fact, with Iron-Blooded Orphans, we have to consider things like Yamagi being designed as Japanese, then coloured blonde/blue-eyed in the final production, to the surprise of the artist who did the original draft. Gaelio has a very 'anime pretty-boy' aesthetic, but the texture on his and his family's hair is clearly trying to evoke something slightly more . . . poofy? than 'standard' looks. So your guess is likely as good as mine as to what they're going for, although if you (or anybody) has seen any translations of the notes on his design process, I'd be very interested.

Certainly, IBO plays fast and loose with what you might typically expect from Earth nationalities, what with the extremely Japanese prime minister of a bloc made up of Canada and Russia, and so on. For no reason at all, I gave the Bauduins an association with New Zealand in my fic, but I must stress, I pulled that out of thin air. While I do myself lean towards that French/European suggestion (from things like the cut of Gallus' beard, the design of the mansion, and the way the tea things are presented, etc.), it's by no means guaranteed that those aesthetic indicators are intended to be taken as determining ethnicity - not in a world where we have the delights of a Japanese-Italian fusion mafia.

Anyway, that's enough facetious missing the point. I refer you to my previous explanation that I in fact adore Gaelio, sopping wet ninny that he is.

He is presented to us as an arrogant, prejudiced brat who gradually - over the course of two seasons and repeated trauma - gets it beaten through his thick skull that other people exist beyond the walled-garden in which he was raised and have value in spite of their circumstances. This is a lovely bit of character development, mattering all of jack shit for anyone but him because he remains steadfastly mistaken about his best friend's true nature until the very last possible second, and presumably goes on to live with that for the rest of his natural life. He is at once an incredibly tragic figure and one who bears significant blame both for what happens to him and the tragic fates of every other character in the show. At a very basic level, he is the one responsible for McGillis' plans being doomed from the start of Season 2, through his alliance with Rustal Elion. An understandable decision, of course. But also one that places him on the side that nukes children from orbit.

He is a delightful character to unpick. I have thoroughly enjoyed analysing him in essays and poking him with sticks (and other things) in fanfic. I dare say I have put more thought than most into exactly what might become of him, psychologically, after the end of the series, as he goes forward under the weight of all the realisations he had too late.

So no - 'we' do not hate Gaelio. *I* treat him as a character in a story, intended to evoke a particular emotional reaction in the audience, which I read as being quite complex owing to the way his arc unfolds in opposition with the protagonists of the show, even as he gradually comes to display more sympathy for them.

"[I]s it the fact he's rich and white?" Good grief, as if the the idea ragging on a character who provides ample opportunities for mockery (several of them IN THE FLIPPING SCRIPT, thank you Mikazuki) constitutes 'hating' wasn't asinine enough. Mate, I think *Iok* is a fantastic piece of writing. Watching him is like pulling teeth. Excruciating for every second he remains alive. But I do not feel about him any way other than I am clearly supposed to, the walking disaster zone that he is. Now there's a rich tosser we're meant to despise.

Gaelio? For heaven's sake, the moment he goes off the deep end in that final fight of season 1, the way the camera pans around him as his shock and pain transmutes into blind rage? Masterful! Great work all round on the animation and direction. It's a gut punch, especially since flying off the handle is exactly what allows McGillis to defeat him. A character who's been trying kill everyone we care about, who has shown himself, slowly, to have depths and actually noble characteristics, suddenly placed in the position where we can *feel*, as a gut-punch, the absolute depths of the betrayal to which he has been subjected!

Does he deserve such a fate, as beneficiary of the system seen to be screwing over practically everyone else in the show? Excellent question, I'm glad the show creates space for us to ask, demonstrating both his good *and* bad aspects in relation to different people, who he deems as significant or not depending on how they are presented to him. Isn't that a wonderful and vital thing to be talking about when discussing matters of exploitation across class divisions? Maybe the way he behaves is a result of being born wealthy, which exerts a corrosive effect on a man who is, at his core, decent, loyal and concerned with justice. Maybe that doesn't make any difference - maybe it can't - because so much is invested in dividing the rich from the poor, one man's change of heart cannot ever be meaningfully significant.

And maybe those are the sorts of things worth considering when looking at a piece of fiction, rather than some bland, surface-level yay or nay tick-boxing exercise that would make it impossible to appreciate entire libraries of fiction, from the tales of Robin Hood to The Count of Monte Cristo.

I hold a phenomenal amount of disdain towards most real people who are 'rich and white' because of how they act towards others and the active harm they perpetrate on a massive scale. As lucky and comfortable as I am, I am as far from your average billion- or even millionaire as I am from the sun and I hope with every shred of decency I possess that I always remain so. I would not wish the brain- and empathy-damage that money and power do to a person on anybody, least of all myself.

But you know what? Characters in stories are not real and do not need to be judged by real standards, even if we are intended to judge them by their actions. Fiction is where you will find good rich, white men and indifferent rich, white men, those who are simply features of the world and those who are literary heroes. Wise wizards and determined detectives, kindly lords and noble missionaries, benevolent philanthropists and forthright duchesses, brave princesses and true-hearted princes. Each of us has to make our own judgements about what stories we can stomach and assess to the best of our abilities the messages we wish to take away from them, in light of authorial intent and regardless of it.

Because here's the truth, anon, that you have irritated out of me this bright and breezy afternoon: there are many characters in many stories who annoy me quite out of proportion to what was intended. The soppy and the simpering, the glorified and the priggish. Those who may have been the author's personal darlings, who land on my palette as grit and gristle.

But my hate?

My actual cold fury and disdain, directed with all the laser focus I can muster lest it spill over into frothing uselessness?

Why would I ever be so crass as to waste something so important on letters across a page? Pixels in flux, waveforms on a disc, artistic confections with no existence beyond a tiny set of depicted actions - what in that is worth my hatred?

I might hate a message. I might hate the way something was executed, to lesser or greater degrees. I can certainly hate the person behind the art, if they are particularly heinous in thought and deed.

A character though? Really? I've created enough of them to know how trivial it is to construct a lightning rod for antipathy, to evoke, for a moment, the shadow of some greater, more appropriate target. But that's all they are. Shadows. Phantasms. Images. There is no merit in screaming at such passing reflections. Only in considering how the mirrors have been arranged for our enjoyment.

You have insulted me, anon, by assuming even in sarcastic suggestion that I should 'hate' Gaelio Bauduin or any similar marionette by the same metrics I might judge real people with real qualities and real intention. Which is even assuming we might reduce 'rich' and 'white' to trivial badges of dishonour, rather than categories carrying monstrous historical weight, actively enabling terrible harm to our fellow beings.

Quite frankly, you've insulted me by assuming I should need any reason to harbour distaste towards a character beyond the sheer fact of that emotional reaction. Spare me this yearning for justification of personal taste and make peace with the fact that many people will be bored by what excites you and vice versa. It's not worth your time - or mine - to do anything else.

Also, Gaelio is a dolt of the highest degree, an appalling judge of character, a craven hypocrite, and I'll bet he isn't nearly as hot stuff as he imagines himself to be. I wish him a long, happy atonement, in the arms of whichever angry short-arse will take him.

#words in answer #gaelio bauduin #gundam iron blooded orphans #gundam ibo #g tekketsu #tekketsu no orphans

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sweetenerluvss · 1 year ago

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Anyone else miss when Fairytail used to take it self seriously? Back in the early manga days, Mashima went absolutely hard on the world building. Establishing rules and keeping power scaling consistent somewhat; even having darker themes to the show. Characters had more emotional weight to them, with them actually taking each other seriously.

This moment, there’s no tears involved but you can tell how much impact it has on the characters. Especially Gray. Natsu doesn’t kick Gray to the side and takeover the fight in a comedic way, in fact he even tells Gray to use the spell if he wants to. He’s not smiling, there’s no exaggerated goofy expressions. Instead his expression is the focal point of the panel, we see the conviction in his eyes. That he means what he says, he doesn’t want his rival at the time, Gray to die. Yet in this moment, he turns away entrusting Gray with the choice. But this time he’s reminded that there are people who will be affected by his decision to use the spell or not. Without the use of any tears, we can feel how hard this moment hits for Gray. Someone who has felt like he never deserved to live in this world. The arc take itself seriously and we see Gray remember Natsu’s words. They hold value to him and he chooses to fight for himself as well.

In these panels, we focus on his expression. There’s real stakes in these fights and this was back when there was no healer too. We get to see real wounds and what happens when wizards take on more than they should. They get hurt. We even see this in the first trip Natsu and Lucy go on together.

We see the guildmembers lives are taken seriously, that there is real consequences to them going on jobs. That being a wizard is dangerous, theres so much camaraderie and emotion shown in the early manga we really get a feel for just how much of a family Fairytail is to each other. They’ll even scale a snowy mountain littered with monsters just for the slim chance to drag them back to magnolia town. Betraying their pride to admit to their rivals they care. Aka Natsu and Gray. But you know what was great about it? It wasn’t all dark Fairytail knew when to be funny too, there was many light moments. Fairytail has always been fun goofy adventures but it knew when to take itself seriously.

Then we have 100yq…

This is supposed to be a serious moment. Lucy was literally burnt. Natsu’s arm is torn to shreds, we see his eyes wide and sweat trailing down his skin. This is obviously not a comedic moment. So tell me why… instead of getting to focus on the characters feelings and how this may affect them. We get this…

There is no detail to the expressions, their very simplified and cartoony. And we also have, Lucy being treated as fanservice… again. But the worst part about it is this is so out of character for Natsu. The way he looks at Lucy here, its as if she’s a bother to him. He completely disrespects her and downright sexually assaults her. They dumbed his character down to… this. This is the same Natsu that shed tears at the idea of Gray dying for his sake, the same Natsu whos blood boiled to see Erza scared, the same Natsu who took on an entire guild because of the unfair treatment to Yukino.

Yet he can’t even treat Lucy fairly here. This is something the old Natsu would not do, it’s so out of character. And Lucy is out of character here too, the old Lucy would’ve punched him square in the jaw for trying this.

In fact in the past she even threatened to leave the team because she thought he was only having her on the team for her blonde hair.

Lucy isn’t afraid to hold him accountable and we see Natsu reassure her feelings and take them seriously.

If this was 100yq her feelings wouldn’t have been taken seriously. They would’ve been played as a joke, they would’ve said something like. “What do you mean it could’ve been anybody? You’re the only girl in the guild with blonde hair, I doubt Laxus would wanna do the job.”

But Natsu didn’t say something like that, we see Lucy’s conflicted expression at knowing he chose her because of her personality. And we’re shown that her feelings here are serious. Whereas in 100yq we don’t even get to see her face/reaction to his careless disregard of her burns. All we see is the side of her face, all the focus is on her chest for the joke.

Bonus Last point. This here is an exact example of what I mean. The serious weight of this situation we get to see clearly. Their expressions are the focal point, were shown this is a moment with weight to its whereas in 100yq the panels focus is on Lucy’s chest. We were robbed.

#fairy tail #fairytail rant #anti mashima #anti 100yq #100yq rant

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wrenhavenriver · 2 months ago

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Top video games AND top video games characters please!

............we all know dishonored / corvo + the outsider and bloodborne / lady maria will be on here right. we do? okay cool. i am going to do five video games + characters that are not dishonored and bloodborne just. for the sake of variety lmao

1 - lies of p, which i have just waffled on about at length over here. favorite character (SPOILERS): the character who both is and isn't a character, Mr. Haunts the Narrative himself, carlo (who looms over the protagonist in the same way the morgan yu of yesteryear does in Prey 2017). bonus points for his friendship with romeo, who lives up to his namesake in tragic devotion to him.

2 - disco elysium (again, waffling already done here). it's hard to think of anything to say about kim kitsuragi that someone else hasn't already said better, what a warm sunrise (...parabellum) of a character. absolutely worth framing a picture of to put on your wall in the background when you're being interviewed on the national news.

3 - legend of zelda: twilight princess. i am an absolute sucker for melancholy atmosphere and twilight princess does that so well, a good portion of which is due to the parallel tragedies of the titular princess(es) themselves, midna and zelda (AKA one of baby gay me's first lowkey ships. come on you can't have one of them sacrifice themselves for the other and the one left alive bitterly say "i've taken all that you had to give...though i did not want it" and not make the lesbians in the audience go insane). anyway midna's lament still one of the best tracks in the entire series thank you bye.

4 - fire emblem: awakening for dooming me to a lifetime of being intermittently hopeful and then disappointed by nintendo directs. i've already talked about this in another askbox game but robin will always be my favorite fe protagonist and i will never be able to explain it any better than "someone has to kill the dragon. this is how the story goes."

5 - final fantasy x rewired my brain as a child. the grief of a world regularly wracked by cataclysmic loss...the machinations of a corrupt theocracy throwing sacrificial lambs into the meat grinder to sustain another few years of the status quo that gives them power...the looming shadow of Your Shitty Dad Who You Hate but also owe several core aspects of your character to...absolutely fucking formative. and how was i not going to fall in love with lulu when she's introduced like THIS, the crabby/cynical goth mage who turns out to be shouldering the weight of several shattering personal tragedies while mentally preparing herself to imminently lose someone else because her life is only ever defined by grief after unending grief???

#askbox games #szczypawice #lies of p spoilers #sort of vaguely

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depressedhatakekakashi · 2 years ago

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Check-In

Gai's Birthday Bingo 2023

Prompt: Mask

Words: 3,760

Character: Maito Gai, Yamato, Hatake Kakashi

Notes: Post- Chunin Exams

“A month?” Tenzo just about choked on his tea when he heard the timeline his Senpai had given him for Sasuke’s training. He’d known that Kakashi had plans to focus on his student’s training in preparation for his next chunin exam fight, but to be told that he’d be out of contact for a month seemed a little extreme. In all of the years they’d known each other he’d never known Kakashi to take even a day away from training, but now here he was telling him that he’d be taking an entire month. “What if there’s a mission? Or an attack?”

“I’ll be just outside the village,” Kakashi dismissed his questions with swift answers while stirring the minuscule remains of his tea. “If anyone needs to contact me they’ll be able to. Whether I answer or not will be determined by how important I think the issue is.”

“But-”

“There are no buts,” his Senpai continued over him. “Sasuke’s being pitted against that Gaara kid from Suna. Not only did that kid break Itachi’s record for finishing the forest of death, but he just about killed Lee in their battle. If Gai hadn’t stepped in…” his words drifted off, but the weight of what he refused to say still lingered over them.

If Gai hadn’t stepped in, Lee would have died.

Tenzo hadn’t been there to see the fights himself, but he’d heard all about them from Asuma when they met up for drinks shortly after. Every detail had been spilled over Sake, from Asuma’s disappointment over Choji and Ino’s loss’ to his surprise at Naruto’s win.

The fight that he’d talked about, though, was Rock Lee’s. Not a single detail had been spared and by the end of the night, Tenzo could feel the concern that radiated off of Asuma. He’d even expressed some fear about Shikamaru’s upcoming fight against the Suna girl, Temari, but it was nothing compared to his concern about his student facing off against Gaara.

That was the fear of a sensei who didn’t have his student going up against Gaara, though. For his Senpai, the reality was very different. Not only was Sasuke set up to face Gaara in his next match, but according to Kakashi, he was woefully unprepared.

“I have to make sure he does alright,” Kakashi whispered, his eyes focused on the swirling tea in his cup. “I put them into this exam. I need to help them survive, no matter what. Even if it means I ignore missions for a little while.”

Tenzo understood his Senpai’s concerns. Every shinobi in Konoha faced the chunin exams, but it seemed that the risks in these exams were far more than when Kakashi had anticipated. Not only was there the threat that the Gaara kid posed but there was also Orochimaru.

A sannin seeking to steal Sasuke, one of Kakashi’s precious students, and use for their own gain.

The world was stacking the odds against Kakashi and all he could do was try his best to protect his students.

“What about the others?” Tenzo asked, his mind wandering to the other two students Kakashi had taken on. Whenever he spoke of them Kakashi seemed to have nothing but praise. Although he’d been forced into the job, it seemed to Tenzo that he’d taken to it quite well.

His students were his pride and joy and he made sure to remind Tenzo of that fact every time they saw each other.

“Naruto needs to work on his chakra control,” Kakashi answered with ease. “I’ve spoken to Ebisu about training him while I’m helping Sasuke. If he can improve in that area I’m sure he’ll do well in his next match. He is Konoha’s number one unpredictable ninja, after all. No one expected him to make it this far, but here he is.”

Tenzo couldn’t help but laugh at the terrible nickname his Senpai had given Naruto. “Isn’t he going against one of Gai-san’s students? Hyuga Neji, correct?” Kakashi nodded. “I’ve heard a bit about him. Seems like he could pose a bit of a problem to Naruto.”

“He can,” Kakashi confirmed. “But there’s not much I can do for Naruto until he improves his chakra control, and Ebisu’s a better teacher in that regard than I am. Besides, as dangerous as Neji is he’s not going to kill Naruto.”

“Are you sure about that?” Another story he’d heard from Asuma was about Neji’s fight against Hyuga Hinata, and that was a story that said the exact opposite of what his Senpai was telling him.

“Neji is hard, but not that bad,” Kakashi confirmed. “He’s also Gai’s student. I trust that if things get out of hand, Gai will step in if I’m not there too.”

“True,” There was no one who knew Kakashi’s struggles better than Gai. Even Tenzo didn’t know the true extent of what his Senpai had suffered in his life, but he had learned enough over the years to know that he’d do everything in his power to protect Kakashi from more pain. There was no doubt in his mind that Gai felt the same way. “So Naruto will be trained by Ebisu and Sakura?”

“A month without training won’t kill her,” Kakashi sighed. “She’ll have to take care of her training for the time, but I’ll make it up to them all when the exams are done and everything has settled. Once I can breathe then I’ll kick into gear.”

Tenzo cringed at the saying. During his time in team Ro with Kakashi he’d come to understand that ‘Kick into gear’ really meant ‘drive them into the ground until they can’t move, and then do it again’.

Sakura was going to need the month-long break to prepare for what was coming her way.

“So a month,” he sighed, circling back to the beginning of the conversation. “That’s going to be a pretty boring month for me. Though, I guess I can focus a bit more on missions while you’re occupied.”

“Actually,” straightening up, Kakashi locked eyes with Tenzo. “I have a request.”

Gai’s apartment was easy to locate. Not only did Tenzo have the apartment number that his Senpai had written down on a small piece of paper for him, three-zero-five written in giant blocky letters so that he wouldn’t misread any of the numbers, but there was also a sign hanging on the front of the door that announced who was living there with pride.

A simple wooden sign that Tenzo recalled making himself just a few years ago for Gai’s birthday. He hadn’t known what to get for the overly energetic Jonin until his Senpai had shown him a picture of his tortoise summon that he’d snuck during one of his outings as ‘Sukea’. Now here it was, staring back at Tenzo after a year. Telling him exactly what he needed to know.

He was in the right place.

Now all he had to do was knock.

“Come on,” he lifted his right hand and took a deep breath, but nothing happened. His hand refused to move. “You can do it, Tenzo. It’s just a quick check-up. Poke your head in, make sure he’s alive and functioning, and go. That’s all. It’s easy.”

He took another deep, slow breath, but still nothing happened.

His hand just hovered there in front of the door, neither lowering nor reaching out to knock. Stuck in a limbo of inactivity that Tenzo couldn’t seem to force it out of.

“Just one knock,” he whispered, cringing when his hand refused to move. “Come on. He’s not going to hurt you.”

Gai was a good man. Stranger and perhaps a little too much for Tenzo to handle most days, but a good man. Short of harming Kakashi, which he would never think of doing, or one of his students, there was nothing Tenzo could think of that he could do to upset Gai.

Even if there was, Checking up on him certainly wasn’t on the list.

“Just go,” he insisted. “One knock and-”

Before he could finish that train of thought the door swung open and he found himself face to face with Maito Gai.

Smiley, energetic, always pleasant Maito Gai.

Except, none of those descriptors seemed to fit the man that he was staring at today. Not because Gai wasn’t trying to portray himself as the exact same person he always with, with a smile that spread across his entire face, but because that smile didn’t match at all with the tired, defeated look in his eyes.

“You look…”

“Great?” Gai cheered, though his voice sounded a little flatter than usual. “Wonderful? Ready to jump out and greet the day with the full power of my youth?”

Tenzo shook his head. “Awful.”

As soon as the word left his mouth the smile dropped off of Gai’s face and his shoulders slumped. “You’re learning from Kakashi, aren’t you?” he sighed, all of his usual energy missing from his voice. “

“I am a trained Anbu operative,” Tenzo argued, just a little insulted by the implication that he would need his Senpai to tell him what to look out for when he approached Gai. His Senpai had, of course, given him a few hints of what to keep an eye out for, but that didn’t matter. He was trained to read people’s emotions and body language. To look deeper and see all of the subtle signals that they were trying to hide from him.

“Ah,” waving off his protests, Gai leaned forward and peered down the hallway. “He’s not with you, is he?”

Tenzo could only sigh. “He’s out training Sasuke for his next match,” he assured the green-clad dork that his Senpai called ‘rival’. “That’s why I’m here.”

“To check up on me?” jutting his bottom lip out, Gai huffed. “I’m fine. I don’t need someone to pop in and make sure everything is alright. I’m not-”

He stopped himself, but Tenzo knew exactly what he wanted to say.

I’m not Kakashi.

A low blow, but a rather deserved one. In the twenty years that he’d known his Senpai one undeniable fact that Tenzo had learned was that his Senpai didn’t handle loss or disaster well. He would always put on a front, masking his emotions behind an aloof attitude, but deep down he was spiraling.

Tenzo didn’t think Gai would have the same reaction. His experiences with pain, as far as Tenzo knew, were different than Kakashi’s and his personality was almost the complete opposite.

That didn’t stop him from worrying, though. Everyone had a breaking point and although he hadn’t met any of Gai’s students, he’d heard enough about them to know just how much Gai cared about Lee.

If there was someone out there in the world whose death would cause Gai to crumble, it was either Kakashi or Lee. Kakashi because of their long-standing friendship and rivalry, and Lee because of how much Gai had come to care about him in such a short amount of time.

Tenzo wasn’t keen to find out which one it was anytime soon. The energy that Gai brought to the village was strange but comforting. The world needed more of the bright, youthful energy and less destroyed, irreparable spirits.

“I see,” shoving those thoughts to the side for the moment, he leaned to the right just enough to get a view into the room behind Gai. The layout was the same as every other Jonin apartment in the building but with a few weights laying out on the floor and a workout mat half haphazardly thrown into the corner beside Gai’s desk. On the desk, there was a bit more of a mess, with dishes piling up on the back near the wall and three books of various sizes spread open along the desk. “And what is it you’re reading about?”

“Uh, well,” glancing back over his shoulder, Gai cringed. “I was just looking up some information. It’s important to keep up to date with our knowledge.”

There it was again. That wide, toothy grin that Gai always wore on his face.

A grin that Tenzo had once viewed with caution, but which he’d come to enjoy over the years.

“Stop it.”

“Stop what?” Gai blinked, the smile dropping away for just a split second, only to return as soon as Gai realized it was gone. “Stop reading?”

“Smiling.” Tenzo huffed, hating the words that were coming out of his mouth. As much as he liked to complain about Gai’s seemingly endless amounts of energy, he had genuinely come to love his smile.

It was one of the brightest, most genuine smiles he had ever seen in his life, and whenever Gai turned it toward him he felt a strange warmth spreading in his chest. Kakashi had laughed at him the first time he talked about it and told him that everyone felt that way about Gai’s smile, but he hadn’t believed him.

Now, though, that warmth was missing. He couldn’t look at Gai’s smile and feel happy to see it because deep down he knew it was a lie. A mask that Gai was using to hide away the pain he was experiencing.

“I don’t-”

Deciding to make a daring move, Tenzo pushed past Gai into his apartment and headed straight for the desk. His goal was the pile of dishes that sat at the back of the desk, but as he reached out for them he couldn’t help but gaze down at the books.

Medical books, all turned to pages with detailed pictures of leg muscles or leg bones.

Kakashi had been right to ask him to check in on Gai.

“You’re worried,” he noted, focusing his attention back on the dishes and slowly starting to move them from the desk into a small space between his left arm and chest.. “You’re overthinking Lee’s condition and trying to make up for your lack of knowledge on the subject by studying as much as you can.”

“What are you, an interrogator?” Gai huffed.

“No,’ That line of work had been a part of Tenzo’s job once, a long time ago, but it was rare for him to take on that role in Anbu. “I’m a friend,” placing the last dish on the pile that now teetered in his arm, he maneuvered his right arm around it for a bit more support and turned toward the kitchen. “A friend who has specifically been sent by another friend to check in on you.”

“Always straight to the point,” Gai sighed as he followed Tenzo toward the kitchen, dragging his feet along the floor. “And what are you doing with my dishes?”

“Cleaning them, obviously,” coming to a stop in front of the sink, he leaned down and carefully placed the dishes down so they didn’t topple over. The last thing he wanted to do today was go shopping for a new set of dishes after destroying all of the ones Gai had. “Since you’re too focused on improving your knowledge pool someone has to make sure you’re going to be eating off of clean plates.”

“I can-” turning his head, he glared straight at Gai. “N-never mind.”

“That’s what I thought,” with that argument sufficiently killed he focused back on the daunting task he’d taken on. “Well, I’m doing the dishes maybe you can make some tea?”

“Tea?”

“Yes,” Tezno confirmed. “You do still remember what tea is, right?”

Gai sputtered, tripping over his words a few times before finally taking a deep breath. “Green tea?” His voice came out strained, but the question was quickly followed by the sound of feet shuffling and cupboards being pulled open.

“Green tea is fine,” Tenzo confirmed. Turning on the tap he watched as water flowed into the sink. The pile he’d collected was taller than anything he’d ever tackled before, but he was certain that it was a task he could finish in under ten minutes. Just enough time for Gai to make them some tea. Once the dishes were clean and the two of them were seated with their drink, then he would start asking the questions that were already swirling around in his mind.

How long has it been since you went outside?

When was the last time you got yourself some dango?

How is he doing?

Those were questions that would have to wait till later, though. Things he would ask when the two of them were sitting face to face with their hands wrapped around a warm cup of tea.

Until then, they would continue swirling around in his mind demanding an answer to the nagging concerns that came with each one of them.

“You don’t have to worry, you know,” Gai spoke as he stepped up to Tenzo’s side and held out his kettle to him. Taking the kettle, Tenzo popped it open and placed it under the tap. Once it was about halfway full he pulled it back and returned it to Gai. “I’m fine.”

“Fine,” he couldn’t help but laugh. Every moment he’d heard Kakashi say that exact line to him came rushing back to him. Bombarding him with memories of exhausted, haunted eyes staring through him as if he wasn’t even there. “Your student is in the hospital.”

“I know that.” Snatching the kettle back, Gai turned away with a huff. Instead of making his way toward the stove, though, he just stood there. His back facing Tenzo and his kettle clutched in his hand. “I know that…”

At that moment, Tenzo regretted agreeing to his Senpai’s request.

If he’d been smart he would have insisted Kakashi come instead. He would have pressured his Senpai to put off Sasuke’s training for just a few hours to check in on his friend. It was Kakashi, not Tenzo, who knew how best to support Gai.

He hadn’t, though.

Instead, he’d promised to take care of it. Assured his Senpai that he would make sure Gai was taken care of when he couldn’t be there for him. Now he was stuck with a pile of dishes higher than he’d ever seen, with no idea what to say next.

Well, there was one thing he could say. Something that he was certain he would never dare to utter in front of anyone else, even under threat of torture, but which seemed fitting in this moment.

“If it was Kakashi-Senpai, I’d be a mess.”

Gai spun round, an expression of utter horror on his face as he stared at Tenzo. “What?”

Grabbing the first dish from the pile he took a deep breath and started cleaning. “If it was Kakashi-Senpai in the hospital,” he continued. “I would be a mess. Or even Yugao, or you.”

It was difficult for him to admit, but all of his years of being trained to cut himself off from others and deny himself any emotional bonds had failed. Part of it was because of his Senpai’s insistence on friendship, which had rubbed off on him over the years, but there was also a piece of him that knew he never would have been able to succeed.

His friends were important to him. No matter how much he wanted to cut himself off from them, he couldn’t. It’s exactly the weakness that Kakashi had exploited when he found out about Tenzo’s mission to kill him, and what had led to him going against Danzo’s orders for the first time in his life.

If any of his friends were stuck in the hospital with an injury that might never be healed, he would throw himself into his work much like Kakashi always did. There wouldn’t be a pile of dishes growing on his desk or open medical textbooks, but his mental health would take a turn for the worst.

And if or when that happened, he knew two things for certain.

Kakashi would show up at his door dragging him outside for some fresh air insisting that he can’t give up, and Gai would be right behind him with that brilliant smile and promises of dango and spars to cheer him up.

“All I’m saying is…” finishing with the first bowl he placed it under the tap to wash away the leftover soap and placed it into the small drying rack beside the sink. “I get it. You don’t have to pretend to be alright for me, Gai.”

For a second the two of them just stood there. Gai holding onto his kettle full of water, and Tenzo washing dishes. The only sound that echoed in the small apartment was running water and the light clink of dishes as Tenzo added them to the drying rack.

Then, without any warning, Gai set the kettle down on the counter, threw his arms around Tenzo’s shoulders, and pulled him into a bone-crushing hug.

“Gai-” Tenzo croaked out as his bones cried out in pain. Immediately the Jonin loosened his hold, though he still kept Tenzo pinned against his body as he buried his face into his right shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered into Tenzo’s shirt. “No apologies,” placing his hand on Gai’s arm, he ignored the water dripping from his fingers. There wasn’t much for him to say at the moment. Comforting other people wasn’t something he was good at, and he wasn’t about to pretend to be.

Comfort wasn’t what Gai needed, though. Kind words wouldn’t wash away the reality of the situation his student was in. They wouldn’t rid him of the memories of Lee’s battle, or the sight of his student laying in a hospital bed lucky that he had survived but with little hope for a continued life as a shinobi.

Kind words would do nothing for Gai during this time, so Tenzo didn’t bother to try and come up with any. Instead, he simply stood there and let Gai hide his face in his shoulder while he hugged him.

‘Just be there for him,’ Kakashi had told him when he’d asked why he wanted him to go check in on his best friend. ‘He needs someone right now. Usually, I would go, but I only have a month to prepare Sasuke for this next fight. So go in my place, please.’

So, that’s what Tenzo resolved to do.

Be there for Gai.

Ask him questions, check in on his well-being, and just listen.

There was nothing he could say to make the situation better, but if Kakashi was right he wouldn’t need to. All Gai needed was company, and that was something Tenzo could provide in spades.

#GaiBirthdayBingo #Gaibirthdaybingo2023 #Maito Gai #Yamato #Tenzo #Hatake Kakashi #Fic #A focus on Gai and Yamato's friendship for a change #let them have a moment <3 #Even if it is because Kakashi asked Yamato to check in on Gai #It's still their moment

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