#or their families killed and enslaved

[sarafangirlart]

Imagine if I made an au where Perseus adopts Medusa’s kids, ppl will rightfully call me deluded bc he literally killed their mom and Medusa’s sisters are right there and deserve to keep whatever they have left of their sister. This is how stupid y’all’s au where Odysseus adopts Astyanax.

[bakedcrossaintt]

is anyone else so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so sad about beta or is that just me

[pj-was-here]

Silenced Sovereign AU

inspired by A Mute Dragon is a Dead Dragon by @feerdelor

Black Pearl is captured an enslaved by the CoD in order to destroy/drown the Creme Replubic, how did the CoD do this? with the help of an aspiring young cookie beast tamer named Sea Tamer Cookie of course! who is in no way related to House Oyster haha wdym?? and with the help of some dark magic and a few ancient artifacts they were able to wear her down enough so they were able to slip on some shackles and some spells and VOILA!~

The CoD's personal natural disaster!, only she seems to have retained some of her will it seems much to DE's annoyance but nothing time and patience can't fix

In the mean time with her emotion's magically and severely repressed Black Pearl is forced to look at her long and deeply repressed memories and trauma as she's forced to serve filthy land cookies against her will, fortunately not everything is bad(?) her new "master" happens to be nothing but an arrogant child who looks... suspiciously like a certain spineless traitor... and who she accidentally ends up becoming close too much to her wounded heart's immense chargrin

Hopefully Black Pearl can figure out how to get out of this mess before thing's blow up

Meanwhile Captain Caviar notices something is up with the Duskgloom Sea when it's infamous storm seemingly disappears over night, which is where he ends up running into the Monarch of Tear Crown, Crimson Coral Cookie and Frilled Jellyfish cookie (who seems to be deeply bothered with something not even she knows, but whatever it is it's bad) where they all discover that the Soveriegn of the Duskgloom Sea... is missing

Caviar has a bad BAD feeling about all of this and so does Crimson Coral, so they put aside they're differences in order to look for the missing Soveriegn... before something not very good happens

[not-so-superheroine]

Since it's not going in my article due to space constraints, i'll share a bit about Jane Manning James here. It won't be superfleshed out atm bc it got cut. I plan to do more later. As I am *Reorganized*, writing this for a Community of Christ publication, i researched Ld-S shared history to the point of Nauvoo. my article doesn't follow west (technically). the main resource was an LDS one (thank you v much for your freely available archive) asking about her time with the prophet of the Restoration.

Jane Manning James

A significant Black Latter Day Saint from the early church was Jane Manning James. A woman from Connecticut notably made the walk from Buffalo, New York to Nauvoo, Illinois on foot, with most of her family. This was only after being separated from the group of recently converted latter day saints in Buffalo, possibly due to their race. Jane was baptized in 1842 by missionaries in her home state of Connecticut. She recorded these things about her journey and arrival to Nauvoo and her faith when asked to recall her life living with Joseph Smith in 1905.

“When I went there [Nauvoo] I only had two things on me, no shoes nor stockings, wore them all out on the road… They [Joseph and Emma] was looking for us because I wrote them a letter. There was eight of us, my mother and two sisters and a brother and sister-in-law, and we had two children, one they had to carry all the way there, and we traveled a thousand miles.”

She was sure in her belief of the Restored Gospel of Jesus Christ and Modern Prophecy. She says in her recollection, after seeing that Joseph Smith Jr was indeed the man in her vision in Connecticut, that “This is the Gospel of Jesus Christ and there will never be any other on earth. It has come to stay.” Sister James would later go west with the saints under the leadership of then Apostle Brigham Young.

--------

me tumblr posting again:

thank you for the example set Sister James on faith, dedication, and perseverance. She also had spiritual gifts, such as speaking in tongue and faith healing. She believed following the gospel, knowing it was a key to a better way of living life (for her.) it wasn't easy for her, and yet, i think the faith community i observe today (and mormonism in general) is better, just for her having lived it.

may she be at peace, and in a manner God, Sister Jane herself, and her family she led that meant so very much to her, see fit.

[barxism]

Hektor is by far and above the best character in the Iliad nobody even comes close

[curlyradiant]

The post WaT herald therapy sessions are going to be so wild from Kaladin's POV.

Like first we have Chana, who is going to end up sobbing admitting that she selfishly tried to kill her daughter and set her up as replacement for herself. Then Kaladin is going to learn that said daughter is Shallan. HIS Shallan.

Then he's gonna be helping out Battar and she's gonna mention spiking some guy for Odium and it's gonna turn out to be Moash, who Kaladin last saw when he murdered Teft.

Then while talking to Nale they are gonna circle back to the Davar family and talk about Helaran being sent to kill Amaram to THEN have Kalak jump in and mention that he told Amaram to enslave the soldier who killed Helaran so Amaram could take the shards. Said soldier being KALADIN HIMSELF.

Like, our boy is going to discover that a bunch of his life's messes are due to the meddling of his new immortal coworkers.

[jedi-enthusiast]

The funniest thing about Star Wars is that the fandom looked at the peaceful warrior monks whose whole thing is being selfless and practicing emotional self-control, and decided that they were an abusive death cult...while simultaneously looking at the actual abusive death cult and going- "oh yeah, these guys Allow Love™️ and are 100% found family" -even though being abusive towards and murdering your loved ones and your fellow Sith is literally the main requirement for being one alongside being a shit person and committing atrocities

Palpatine murdered his entire family, abused literally every apprentice he had, and then committed multiple genocides and dragged the galaxy into a dark age of fear and pain

Maul murdered a ton of people, literally took every chance he could to ruin Obi-Wan's life and kill those close to him, abused Savage while "training" him, and kidnapped and manipulated a child to try and take him on as an apprentice while also trying to murder his family

Dooku helped orchestrate the plot that eventually got his padawan killed, attempted to kill his padawan's padawan, cut off the arm of his padawan's padawan's padawan, tried to enslave the galaxy and murder his family- (the Order) -and abused both Ventress and Savage while they were under his tutelage

Ventress abused Savage and forced him to murder his brother, took part in trying to enslave the galaxy, killed tons of innocents, and then tried to murder her former master in his sleep

Anakin's path to the Dark Side is literally marked by him doing worse things and more of them especially to those close to him, his Fall culminates in him murdering- (or attempting to murder) -his wife and unborn children as well as him trying to kill his brother/father figure and committing two genocides at once, he plunges the galaxy into a dark age, then continues to commit atrocities, also tries to kill his padawan a lot, tortured his daughter, and cut off his son's hand

...

So tell me again how these people are the- "uwu found family" -trope and are So Great because They Allow Love, because...idk, I'm not seeing it

[angelynmoon]

Fic thought:

Jaskier gets tired of how Witchers are treated, he's spent decades with Geralt, watching him be spit on and payment shorted, despite his best effort his songs have done little to change public opinion, and other Witchers have it much worse.

It's after the Mountain, when he and Geralt part ways, not for long, it's never for long, no matter how mean Geralt can be in a moment, the Witcher always finds him again, a gift as a peace offering and apology both, that Jaskier stumbles upon an execution, a Witcher accused of leaving a monster unhunted, but Jaskier knows that no Witcher would do such, he knows that.

That moment changes everything, changes the very course of Destiny, because there is no way that Jaskier can stand idle and watch a Witcher be killed for no reason.

And so Jaskier saves the Witcher, a Letho of the Viper school, who in turns swears his life to Jaskier's protection despite, or perhaps because of, the Bard's protests.

Jaskier returns home for the season, trying to figure out what to do with the Witcher he now has in his service, and he hears of a Cat Witcher that's been enslaved by a King and it's then that Jaskier makes a choice and a plan.

It's easy enough, Letho has toppled kingdoms before, he's a Kingslayer after all, only it's not Letho's sword that takes the King's life, it's Jaskier's.

Jaskier takes over the Kingdom and Court quickly, roots out treason and lies thanks to the Cat he frees, who also pledges his service, he has no where else to go, his past removed before the King bought him, he remembers only what he is, a Witcher, and Letho who can hear lies.

Eventually the rest of the Cats and Vipers find their way to Jaskier's growing Kingdom, as do Elves and like creatures when they hear that Jaskier's Kingdom is a refuge for the odd and mistreated.

Jaskier's not entirely sure just how it happened but by the time Geralt comes to apologize, Jaskier has been a King and been running a Kingdom for at least a year and has an Army that is at least half Witcher, he's been getting marriage offers from people that turned his family down when he decided to go to Oxenfurt to learn music.

Yennifer offered to be his Court Sorcerer, for Melittle's sake.

Jaskier just wanted his Witcher and his people safe, he didn't intend for this to happen.

-

Because accidental Warlord!Jaskier would be hillarious.

No one lets Geralt live down the fact that his Bard conqured a Kingdom so he'd be safe and treated better, also they definately call him Queen Geralt, or at least Lambert does.

[xyzcan]

This shit is based off of this, like so heavily based off i'd say it's the same but... Nahh I just like the idea so creds to this guy ig: @saikowatermelons

yandere x reader

- warnings: cannibalism, noncon, blowjob, yandere, degradation too, tied up, imprisoned reader, unhealthy power dynamic (prince n slave), honestly I get too horny writing smut scenes that I lose the supposed 'emotional' shit I'm supposed to add lmao... But HEJSKSKSKSK @tnsophiaayaonly would you notice this if I add scara in the tags? :3 pretty pls.

- And I keep on writing as if I was in Google docs because my doc's automatically turns asterisks into these italics or bold thingies... BRO the asterisks won't stop!!

And my grammar sucks, sorri English just ain't my first language </3

--- xyzcan writes.

He was born adored.

From the moment he first cried in the cradle, the kingdom wept with joy. The stars were said to shimmer brighter the night he was born. Poets wrote about the gleam in his eyes like it was a divine prophecy. His smile? That became the religion of fools and worshippers.

He was their prince.

And fuck, they loved him for it.

His every word was echoed with cheers. His footsteps blessed roads. His existence—untouchable, godlike, holy.

But they never knew him.

Behind that charming grin and bright laughter was nothing but a hollow pit of disinterest. All that devotion? Boring. All that praise? Noise. Meaningless, pathetic noise.

He played the part. Of course he did. Wore the crown like it was forged for him alone, smiled like he gave a shit, patted peasants’ heads and waved from balconies like he cared.

But it was all fucking empty.

The only thing that stirred him was the idea of power. Not just rule. Not just control. But something deeper—domination of the soul. He wanted to crack someone open. Strip them bare. And not because they bowed to him. Because they resisted him.

He waited for something real.

And then you showed up.

You were a smudge. A stain. A girl born from the ashes of a family of thieves—lowborn scum, the kind the court only mentioned to make examples out of. Your parents were enslaved, publicly punished, humiliated for crimes they did commit. And you...

You were the one that slipped away.

You didn’t scream for help. You didn’t beg for mercy. You ran like an animal. You stole scraps to survive. You learned to hide in shadows, to trust no one, to look at royalty with rage in your eyes instead of reverence.

You were filth.

You were perfect.

The moment he heard your name from a guard’s lips—dirty, snarled, covered in blood and accused of murder—he didn’t give a damn. Just another rat to execute. He signed the parchment for your death without even looking at it.

And yet…

He didn’t send the order through.

Why? He didn’t fucking know. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was instinct. Or maybe it was that single glimpse he caught of you—cuffed, dragged through the halls, blood drying on your temple, snarling like a goddamn beast—and something inside him shifted.

He let you rot.

One month. Two. Six. A year.

The dungeon devoured you.

And still, you didn’t scream.

You glared.

And that’s when he knew.

He couldn't kill you. Not yet.

Because you were the first thing that made him feel anything in years.

The air in the dungeon is thick. Wet. Rank with mold, blood, and rotting bodies that no one bothered to bury. It clings to your skin like oil. Every breath is a curse.

You’ve been down here for so long you’ve forgotten what sunlight feels like. Your bones feel like glass, your skin like paper. Every chain clamped around your wrist and ankle itches like fire. But it’s the silence that eats you alive.

Until he shows up.

The prince.

Cloaked in white and gold, untouched by filth. His boots click softly against the stones, clean even in this pit. He stands in front of your cell like he’s gazing at a painting, not a person.

You lift your head slowly.

He sees the bruise on your jaw. The cuts on your lips. The way your collarbones poke out like blades. And still, somehow, your glare burns hotter than the torches behind him.

You’re not broken yet.

And that makes his pulse quicken.

“Ah,” he says, smiling with that same radiant grin he shows the masses. “Still alive. Still angry. That’s good.”

You narrow your eyes. Your throat is too dry to speak, but if you could, you’d scream every curse you know.

He kneels. Close enough to touch. “You haven’t asked why I’m here,” he murmurs, studying your face.

You say nothing. He likes the silence too much.

“Would you believe me if I said I missed you?” he teases, tilting his head. “That I’ve thought of you every night for a year?”

You shudder. The chains clink with your twitch.

“...Fuck you,” you rasp, barely audible.

His grin widens.

There it is.

“I’ve kept you down here for so long,” he says, voice like silk and acid. “Because I wanted to see what you’d become. I thought you’d break. Thought you’d beg. But no… you’re still you.”

His hand reaches into his coat. He pulls something out. Wrapped in soft, royal cloth.

You stiffen.

He unfolds it slowly.

And your stomach drops.

It’s a hand.

Small. Pale. Fingers curled in a permanent twitch of agony. Dried blood coats the wrist.

You gag, bile rising instantly. The smell hits you next—rotten, metallic, thick enough to make your eyes sting.

“Hungry?” he asks softly.

You look up at him like he’s the fucking devil.

He chuckles. “Oh, come on. Don’t look at me like that. You’ve been starving for days. I know. I hear your stomach. I see the way you tremble.”

You shake your head.

“No?” he says, blinking innocently. “But you said you were hungry…”

Then—too fast—he lunges.

Grabs your face.

Fingers crush your jaw open with brute force. You fight, kick, scream hoarsely, but he doesn’t care. He presses the bloody hand against your mouth. Flesh touches your lips.

You sob, wrenching away, but the chains bite into your skin and hold you in place.

“You don’t get to choose,” he snarls suddenly, voice cracking with something savage. “You don’t get to say no. You belong to me now.”

Tears streak down your face as he smears blood across your lips, forcing the taste into your mouth. You choke, body lurching with nausea.

You vomit.

He watches.

He smiles.

“I knew it’d be fun,” he whispers. “I knew you’d fight. Scream. Cry. I knew you’d make me feel.”

He leans in, lips brushing your temple as you sob uncontrollably.

“I’m going to make you mine,” he breathes. “Not like the others. Not like those pathetic worms out there who beg for my attention. You are different. And I’m going to ruin you piece by piece until you scream my name like a prayer.”

And somehow… that’s the most terrifying part.

Because he means it.

He’s not here to kill you.

He’s here to keep you.

To twist you into something broken and beautiful, just for him.

And the worst part?

He’s already started.

“I’m hungry,” you croak, voice shredded and trembling—but your eyes don’t waver. “But not for that… you sick fuck.”

The silence that follows is deafening.

His smile twitches—just for a second. Not the polished grin he offers the crowd. No. This one’s twitchy. Unstable. Wrong. Something flickers behind his eyes, like a fuse catching flame.

Oh?

Even now—after all the rot, all the starvation, all the fucking hell—you still dare to look at him like that? You still dare to bare your teeth at a prince like you’re some rabid animal? His cheeks burn. His breath shudders out of him.

And he laughs.

It’s a soft, breathy thing at first, almost confused. Then it grows—full-bodied and unhinged, echoing off the stone walls like mockery.

“You’re unreal,” he whispers, leaning in. “Do you have any idea what you look like right now? Filthy. Shaking. Barely breathing. And still, you throw insults like you’ve got power here. Like you matter.”

You glare harder, bloodshot eyes narrowing. “You don’t fucking scare me.”

That’s not entirely true. But you’ll be damned if you give him the pleasure of knowing just how much.

His gaze drops for a second—just a heartbeat. But it’s enough.

You follow it.

And your blood runs cold.

There, beneath the soft fall of his pristine white coat, straining against velvet trousers, is the undeniable outline of his arousal.

You freeze.

He doesn’t.

In fact, his smile grows sharper. His voice drops into something darker, lower

“…See? You noticed,” he says softly, almost sweet. “I was wondering when you’d see what you do to me.”

Your stomach twists, bile threatening again. You want to scream. To disappear. To rip your skin off just to feel clean again. But all you can do is stare at the living nightmare in front of you.

This isn’t a prince.

This isn’t a savior.

This is a monster in silk and gold, who people kneel for with tears in their eyes, who children dream of meeting, who the entire fucking kingdom worships.

But here, in the damp belly of the palace, you know the truth.

He’s just a sick fuck.

He steps closer, slowly—like you’re prey.

He watches your reaction like it’s a performance crafted just for him—each flinch, every twitch of your lip or narrowing of your eyes only fans the flames licking hungrily beneath his skin. His smirk deepens, eyes gleaming with something predatory. He lives for this—the way you still bite back, even now, even after everything. It’s like watching a candle trying to burn in a storm, defiant and stupidly beautiful.

He pulls his hand away from your mouth, slowly, like he’s savoring the moment. Blood streaks your lips, trailing down your chin in thin, red rivers. You cough, gagging as the taste of iron clings to the back of your throat. His eyes follow the path of that blood like it’s art.

Then he pressed it.

That disgusting, throbbing bulge in his pants.

And he notices you cringing.

His smirk twists. Grows darker. Hungrier.

He steps closer, the heat of him suffocating, invading your space like a fog you can’t escape. His voice drops into a gravelly whisper, thick with amusement and filth.

“You’re right,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours. “I am a monster."

Before you can spit another insult, his hand shoots forward and fists in your hair.

You cry out, your scalp screaming as he yanks your head back with brutal force. The cold wall behind you offers no mercy as you’re pinned in place by his hold. Pain lances down your neck, tears springing unbidden in your eyes—but still, you glare.

He leans in, and you can see it—really see it. That perfect princely mask is gone. His expression is feral now. Lust, yes—but something else too. Something ancient and terrifying. Something that sees you not as a person, but as a possession. A toy. A fucking plaything to break and remake as he pleases.

“You’re so full of fire,” he whispers, breath hot against your cheek. “So fucking brave. It’s adorable.”

His grip tightens in your hair, drawing a hiss from your throat.

“I wonder how long it’ll take to turn that fire into begging."

You don’t answer.

So he grabs your jaw, fingers digging into the bone until it aches, until your mouth is forced open like some grotesque puppet.

“Look at you,” he breathes, almost in awe. “Fucking gorgeous, even now.”

You try to twist away, but his grip only gets tighter. It hurts. It really fucking hurts. The sting mixes with exhaustion, fear, rage—and yet your eyes burn with hatred.

“Do it,” you rasp. “Whatever you want. I won’t break for you.”

He pauses—just a heartbeat—and then lets out a low, shaky laugh.

“Oh, you will,” he says. “That’s the best part.”

He unbuckles his belt with a metallic clink, his movements deliberate and cruel, as if prolonging that humiliating tension. He pulls out his length—already hard and veined—holding it in front of your face.

"Open that smart mouth of yours," he commands softly, his voice dripping with mocking kindness.

You hesitate, your eyes filled with hatred and disgust. This was so fucking humiliating. He chuckles raspily, the sound sending a shivers down your spine.

He wraps his hand around his length, giving it a slow stroke. "Or should I just shove it down your throat?" He threatens, his thumb brushing against his tip.

Without warning, he slaps his cock against your lips, forcing them open. "Suck," he orders raspily. He grips your hair tighter, using it to guide your head down onto his shaft.

You gag as he forces himself into your mouth, filling it completely, you feel his tip burning in your mouth.

He starts fucking your mouth roughly, letting strings of groans and moans escapes his lips, groaning like it's some divine prayer. Your lips stretch wide around his thick girth as he pushes deeper, hitting the back of your throat. It burns, but the humiliation burns even further.

You try to breathe through your nose, but he doesn't give you time to adjust, when has he ever?

His hips move in a brutal pace, his cock sliding in and out of your mouth with wet, slurping sounds. He watches his cock disappear into your mouth over and over again, his pleasure building rapidly.

He never expects to feel this good with a criminal of all people.

He pulls your head forward harder each time he thrusts in, making you gag and drool around him. Your saliva coats his length, adding wetness to each stroke.

"Look at you," he rasps, watching as your lips stretch obscenely around him, "Such a pretty mouth for such nasty things." His cock glides smoothly now, thanks to your saliva. He pushes deep enough to make you gag again, holding your head there for a moment.

"Take it."

His pace becomes even more brutal, using your mouth like a prostitute, like the fucking slut of a criminal you are. He can feel his release approaching and he wants to use you for it.

He reaches down and grabs your hair harder, pulling your head back to look at him as he starts fucking your mouth even harder. "I'm gonna cum,"

"And you're gonna swallow every fucking drop." He growls with feral intensity, pushing his entire length down your throat. Your eyes water and your nose runs as you gag loudly around his thick base, fuck. He starts fucking your throat, forcing his dick down your throat over and over again, he could feel your teeth scraping against the base of his shaft, as if threatening to bite him.

He honestly just gets off to it more.

He grunts deeply, his hips moving faster and more erratically as he nears climax. The wet sounds of his cock sliding in and out of your mouth become obscene and loud in the quiet dungeon. Saliva drips down onto both cheeks making them glisten obscenely under harsh light.

"You're so disgusting taking my whole fucking dick down your throat," he groans, his voice filled with disgust and arousal, he considered slapping you, treat you like the criminal you are.

Would that make you beg and submit?

"You look like a fucking mess, all choked and slobbery." He pulls out for a moment, just to slap his wet, throbbing dick against your face.

"Open up, you stupid whore," he hisses, grabbing your jaw and forcing your mouth open. "Look at this fucking mess," he says, showing you the wet, saliva-covered length of his dick. "You're gonna swallow it all, you dirty slut."

"Gods, you're like a cheap whore," He mutters, pushing back inside your mouth, making you feel every vein with your tongue. "Do all criminals suck off cock this good, or is just you? Do you even have dignity? Do whores like you have pride?" He laughs darkly, hitting the back of your throat again.

"I'm gonna cum soon, baby. I'm gonna cum down your fucking throat and you're gonna swallow every fucking drop like a good little slut." He starts fucking your mouth faster and harder, his balls slapping against your chin. "Swallow it all..."

You feel tears go down your face. This was not only humiliating, but you were just forced to feed on fucking human flesh. And still—even now? You're still getting said human flesh down your throat, it's just a different kind.

"Right there," he moans loudly, gripping your hair tighter, throwing his head back, he can feel his release coming like some high-drugged up guy. "Right fucking there!" He holds your head still as he thrusts deep into your throat one last time and explodes. His cock pulses violently inside your mouth filling it with ropes of his cum.

Your knees ache against the cold stone floor, and your throat feels raw, violated. Your body is still trembling—not from exhaustion, but from the aftershocks of him.

And then… he touches your cheek. So softly. So fucking softly.

“Good girl,” he coos, as if his voice hadn’t just torn through your soul minutes ago.

You flinch, and that only makes his smile widen—like he finds it endearing. His thumb brushes a tear from your cheek like some twisted parody of affection.

“Gods, you took that like such a good little toy,” he murmurs, his tone warm now. Worshipful, almost. Sickeningly proud.

You stare up at him, blankly at first. Numb. Dissociated. But then the heat rises—behind your eyes, in your throat, in your chest. Shame, rage, horror. Your stomach twists, like it might turn itself inside out.

“Such a pretty little whore,” he adds, stroking your face with a lover’s touch.

You can’t breathe.

It’s not just what he did.

It’s that he thinks you should be grateful for it. That he's comforting you—as if he cared. That he expects you to smile, to nod, to collapse into his arms like some ruined little doll who finally accepts her place.

And the worst part?

Your body doesn't scream. Your body doesn’t fight. It just sits there—tired, used, broken in silence.

You feel your sense of self crumbling, piece by piece. Your thoughts are screaming, but they’re trapped beneath a glass surface. He doesn’t hear them. He doesn’t want to hear them. He’s already rewritten your story in his head—and in his version, you're his.

His to use. His to break. His to “praise."

Your vision swims. You want to throw up. You want to claw your skin off. You want to scream that you are not this, you are not his, you are not some thing—

But your voice is gone. Swallowed by everything he took.

And he kneels down beside you, whispering, “See? That wasn’t so bad… You’re mine now, sweetheart. I’ll take care of you.”

His voice is gentle. His hand is warm.

And all you can do… is sit there, soaked in grief and fury, tasting the rot of helplessness on your tongue.

Although the hopelessness you felt, that feeling of violation itching on your skin, that salty taste of his release remains on your mouth... Even after all of that, he can still see— feel. Feel that you're still you. Human. Fiery and so so you.

And it makes him grin.

“I thought you were different,” he murmurs, the edges of his voice soft as silk—a lie wrapped in luxury—as he drags a gloved finger down the rusted chains keeping you bound.

It felt like a lie to you, but to him? It's the utmost truth. He can still see it. The thing that made you so fucking special.

Each metallic scrape feels like it’s splitting your nerves open, like it’s scoring his presence deeper into your already-battered psyche.

“And look at that…” he breathes, tilting his head with childlike awe. “I was right. You’re delicious when you’re angry. I want to bottle that rage. Smear it on my skin. Drink it. Bathe in it. Let it soak into my fucking bones.”

You recoil instinctively, your chains clinking with pathetic defiance.

“You’re disgusting,” you hiss, you finally found your voice and it cuts through the hopelessness you felt, the words tearing out of you, raw and ragged. “You’re not human.”

That stops him. Not like a wound—but like a revelation. He blinks once. Slowly.

Then he kneels again. Just like before.

But this time… he’s closer.

Close enough to smell the iron on your breath. Close enough that his warmth seeps into your cold skin like poison. His gloved fingers trail up to the shackles around your wrists, curling around the chains—not to release you, of course, but just to feel them. To remind you they’re still there.

His breath ghosts against your lips, too intimate for words like “prisoner” to make any fucking sense anymore.

“No,” he murmurs, so quiet it could be mistaken for reverence. “I’m not.”

His eyes gleam—not like jewels, but like something wet and feral crawling out of a pit.

“And neither are you. Not anymore.”

You freeze. Not from fear. Not from pain.

From the truth in his voice.

“Do you think the world up there will ever take you back after this?” he whispers, his tone almost tender. “Do you think they’ll see anything but filth when they look at you? You’ve been marked, sweetheart. Tainted. Owned.”

Your heart is hammering now. Not from the threats. But from the quiet realization that—deep, deep down—you believe him. Some cracked little voice inside you is already grieving the life you’ll never get back.

You shake your head, biting down hard on the sob rising in your throat.

“I’d rather fucking die.”

He smiles.

But not with mockery. Not with sadism. It’s softer. Like you just confessed your love instead of your refusal. His hand brushes your face like you’re precious porcelain he intends to shatter slowly.

“Don’t worry, darling,” he says, voice low and warm, like a lullaby sung in hell.

“You will. But only when I say so."

That’s when you realize the real horror.

It’s not the pain. It’s not even the loss.

It’s the waiting. The knowing. The cruel, slow corrosion of being kept alive not for salvation—but for his entertainment. For his need. For him.

And there is no escape. Only the illusion of time.

Only him…

...and the unbearable, suffocating fact that no one is coming for you.

[complaintsdonttakeitseriously]

Tw: typical neglected reader trope, mentions of abuse and enslavement, tag as yandere batfam but has no mention of yandere behaviors… yet. Reader has no morals btw they only care about their interest

Anyway genius reader who still yearns for a family and her nemesis is her own blood brother Damian. They are the only ones who actually related to Bruce yet they’re the one thrown to the side. Unbelievable. That’s the last straw of her patience with this fucked up family so she went off the grid to start her own life.

The others didn’t notice for a long time mostly because they still see her around the manor, aimlessly going around hallways, talking to Alfred. Of course the old butler didn’t pay it much attention, they are always so independent so when they say they already ate then that’s that. What they didn’t know is that the Reader they were interacting with is actually a semi realistic hologram with pre recorded messages specifically for Alfred only. Mostly cause his the only one who bothers. The hologram is crude, it flickers and glitches but it still does its purpose for the next two years. No one noticed anything.

By the time they notice, probably one of the boys accidentally ’bumping’ into them only to phase through like they pass by ghost. That’s when they started to notice that Reader is gone. Then whole drama and angst of gut wrenching guilt consumes the narrative meanwhile Reader is off to somewhere in the multiverse adventuring on their own because their universe sucks.

Okay so let’s see what Reader was actually up to during their two years of no contact. First off they made their base, secure themselves as financially independent by selling tech to the highest bidder unironically helping the villains on fighting against the heroes. Then got themselves a spaceship of their own then setting off to the multiverse to find a new home. No Man Sky style. After building a base they did something out of pure malice and spite, they clone Damian to enslaved and abuse. They didn’t go through it though because the bastard is actually lovable if molded right. So now Reader has a sidekick and the ideal little brother, she renamed Daemon, on her side for infinity.

Yes I did imagine the batfam eventually finding reader but only because they went back to earth for whatever reason. Yes, Damian will crash out because he got replaced by a much better version of himself. Yes, it’s going to cause so much drama and Damian wanted to kill his clone while Reader cheers for Daemon to kill Damian instead. Yes, it will absolutely crash him. Reader does not care and lowkey is cruel about it.

Reader also doesn’t like Jason mostly because they’re attach to Jason that died. Doesn’t believe that he got brought back to life and still firmly thinks post Lazarus Jason is a fake that Bruce took in and gave the identity of their deceased brother. Reader calls him, Cryptid (derogatorily). They also hates Bruce for not only neglecting them but also doing something as diabolical as giving their dead brother’s identity to some random.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Sandra Newman’s “Julia”

The first chapter of Orwell's Nineteen Eighty-Four has a fantastic joke that nearly everyone misses: when Julia, Winston Smith's love interest, is introduced, she has oily hands and a giant wrench, which she uses in her "mechanical job on one of the novel-writing machines":

https://gutenberg.net.au/ebooks01/0100021.txt

That line just kills me every time I re-read the book – Orwell, a novelist, writing a dystopian future in which novels are written by giant, clanking mechanisms. Later on, when Winston and Julia begin their illicit affair, we get more detail:

She could describe the whole process of composing a novel, from the general directive issued by the Planning Committee down to the final touching-up by the Rewrite Squad. But she was not interested in the finished product. She 'didn't much care for reading,' she said. Books were just a commodity that had to be produced, like jam or bootlaces.

I always assumed Orwell was subtweeting his publishers and editors here, and you can only imagine that the editor who asked Orwell to tweak the 1984 manuscript must have felt an uncomfortable parallel between their requests and the notional Planning Committee and Rewrite Squad at the Ministry of Truth.

I first read 1984 in the early winter of, well, 1984, when I was thirteen years old. I was on a family trip that included as visit to my relatives in Leningrad, and the novel made a significant impact on me. I immediately connected it to the canon of dystopian science fiction that I was already avidly consuming, and to the geopolitics of a world that seemed on the brink of nuclear devastation. I also connected it to my own hopes for the nascent field of personal computing, which I'd gotten an early start on, when my father – then a computer science student – started bringing home dumb terminals and acoustic couplers from his university in the mid-1970s. Orwell crystallized my nascent horror at the oppressive uses of technology (such as the automated Mutually Assured Destruction nuclear systems that haunted my nightmares) and my dreams of the better worlds we could have with computers.

It's not an overstatement to say that the rest of my life has been about this tension. It's no coincidence that I wrote a series of "Little Brother" novels whose protagonist calls himself w1n5t0n:

https://craphound.com/littlebrother/Cory_Doctorow_-_Little_Brother.htm

I didn't stop with Orwell, of course. I wrote a whole series of widely read, award-winning stories with the same titles as famous sf tales, starting with "Anda's Game" ("Ender's Game"):

https://www.salon.com/2004/11/15/andas_game/

And "I, Robot":

https://craphound.com/overclocked/Cory_Doctorow_-_Overclocked_-_I_Robot.html

"The Martian Chronicles":

https://escapepod.org/2019/10/03/escape-pod-700-martian-chronicles-part-1/

"True Names":

https://archive.org/details/TrueNames

"The Man Who Sold the Moon":

https://memex.craphound.com/2015/05/22/the-man-who-sold-the-moon/

and "The Brave Little Toaster":

https://archive.org/details/Cory_Doctorow_Podcast_212

Writing stories about other stories that you hate or love or just can't get out of your head is a very old and important literary tradition. As EL Doctorow (no relation) writes in his essay "Genesis," the Hebrews stole their Genesis story from the Babylonians, rewriting it to their specifications:

https://www.penguinrandomhouse.com/books/41520/creationists-by-e-l-doctorow/

As my "famous title" stories and Little Brother books show, this work needn't be confined to antiquity. Modern copyright may be draconian, but it contains exceptions ("fair use" in the US, "fair dealing" in many other places) that allow for this kind of creative reworking. One of the most important fair use cases concerns The Wind Done Gone, Alice Randall's 2001 retelling of Margaret Mitchell's Gone With the Wind from the perspective of the enslaved characters, which was judged to be fair use after Mitchell's heirs tried to censor the book:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Suntrust_Bank_v._Houghton_Mifflin_Co.

In ruling for Randall, the Eleventh Circuit Court of Appeals emphasized that she had "fully employed those conscripted elements from Gone With the Wind to make war against it." Randall used several of Mitchell's most famous lines, "but vest[ed] them with a completely new significance":

https://law.justia.com/cases/federal/appellate-courts/F3/268/1257/608446/

The Wind Done Gone is an excellent book, and both its text and its legal controversy kept springing to mind as I read Sandra Newman's wonderful novel Julia, which retells 1984 from the perspective of Julia, she of the oily hands the novel-writing machine:

https://www.harpercollins.com/products/julia-sandra-newman?variant=41467936636962

Julia is the kind of fanfic that I love, in the tradition of both Wind Done gone and Rosenkrantz and Gildenstern Are Dead, in which a follow-on author takes on the original author's throwaway world-building with deadly seriousness, elucidating the weird implications and buried subtexts of all the stuff and people moving around in the wings and background of the original.

For Newman, the starting point here is Julia, an enigmatic lover who comes to Winston with all kinds of rebellious secrets – tradecraft for planning and executing dirty little assignations and acquiring black market goods. Julia embodies a common contradiction in the depiction of young women (she is some twenty years younger than Winston): on the one hand, she is a "native" of the world, while Winston is a late arrival, carrying around all his "oldthink" baggage that leaves him perennially baffled, terrified and angry; on the other hand, she's a naive "girl," who "doesn't much care for reading," and lacks the intellectual curiosity that propels Winston through the text.

This contradiction is the cleavage line that Newman drives her chisel into, fracturing Orwell's world in useful, fascinating, engrossing ways. For Winston, the world of 1984 is totalitarian: the Party knows all, controls all and misses nothing. To merely think a disloyal thought is to be doomed, because the omnipotent, omniscient, and omnicompetent Party will sense the thought and mark you for torture and "vaporization."

Orwell's readers experience all of 1984 through Winston's eyes and are encouraged to trust his assessment of his situation. But Newman brings in a second point of view, that of Julia, who is indeed far more worldly than Winston. But that's not because she's younger than him – it's because she's more provincial. Julia, we learn, grew up outside of the Home Counties, where the revolution was incomplete and where dissidents – like her parents – were sent into exile. Julia has experienced the periphery of the Party's power, the places where it is frayed and incomplete. For Julia, the Party may be ruthless and powerful, but it's hardly omnicompetent. Indeed, it's rather fumbling.

Which makes sense. After all, if we take Winston at his word and assume that every disloyal citizen of Oceania is arrested, tortured and murdered, where would that leave Oceania? Even Kim Jong Un can't murder everyone who hates him, or he'd get awfully lonely, and then awfully hungry.

Through Julia's eyes, we experience Oceania as a paranoid autocracy, corrupt and twitchy. We witness the obvious corollary of a culture of denunciation and arrest: the ruling Party of such an institution must be riddled with internecine struggle and backstabbing, to the point of paralyzed dysfunction. The Orwellian trick of switching from being at war with Eastasia to Eurasia and back again is actually driven by real military setbacks – not just faked battles designed to stir up patriotic fervor. The Party doesn't merely claim to be under assault from internal and external enemies – it actually is.

Julia is also perfectly positioned to uncover the vast blank spots in Winston's supposed intellectual curiosity, all the questions he doesn't ask – about her, about the Party, and about the world. I love this trope and used it myself, in Attack Surface, the third "Little Brother" book, which is told from the point of view of Marcus's frenemy Masha:

https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250757531/attacksurface

Through Julia, we come to understand the seemingly omniscient, omnipotent Party as fumbling sadists. The Thought Police are like MI5, an Island of Misfit Toys where the paranoid, the stupid, the vicious and the thuggish come together to ruin the lives of thousands, in such a chaotic and pointless manner that their victims find themselves spinning devastatingly clever explanations for their behavior:

https://www.bbc.co.uk/blogs/adamcurtis/entries/3662a707-0af9-3149-963f-47bea720b460

And, as with Nineteen Eighty-Four, Julia is a first-rate novel, expertly plotted, with fantastic, nail-biting suspense and many smart turns and clever phrases. Newman is doing Orwell, and, at times, outdoing him. In her hands, Orwell – like Winston – is revealed as a kind of overly credulous romantic who can't believe that anyone as obviously stupid and deranged as the state's representatives could be kicking his ass so very thoroughly.

This was, in many ways, the defining trauma and problem of Orwell's life, from his origin story, in which he is shot through the throat by a fascist: sniper during the Spanish Civil War:

https://www.rjgeib.com/thoughts/soldiers/george-orwell-shot.html

To his final days, when he developed a foolish crush on a British state spy and tried to impress her by turning his erstwhile comrades in to her:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Orwell%27s_list

Newman's feminist retelling of Orwell is as much about puncturing the myth of male competence as it is about revealing the inner life, agency, and personhood of swooning love-interests. As someone who loves Orwell – but not unconditionally – I was moved, impressed, and delighted by Julia.

Tor Books as just published two new, free LITTLE BROTHER stories: VIGILANT, about creepy surveillance in distance education; and SPILL, about oil pipelines and indigenous landback.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/09/28/novel-writing-machines/#fanfic

[sunderwight]

SV scenario where Shen Jiu is also Shen Yuan's Meimei.

Trans egg SJ never got to examine her gender identity very much in her first life. What with all the enslavement, abuse (given as well as received), misunderstandings, betrayals, dismemberment, and death, there was far too much for her to ever come to terms with a set of concepts she'd never really had the luxury to entertain. By the time Shen Jiu was a peak lord, the Shen Qingqiu persona was locked in, and any dreams of a different life or inclinations to the contrary of her role were ruthlessly quashed by SJ herself.

But when SJ finally dies and her soul is free to reincarnate (taking a few more memories than usual along for the ride), she has mixed feelings about being born as the youngest daughter of a wealthy family.

The mixed feelings don't actually last long, though after a while she starts to wonder why the fates would grant her a reprieve? Maybe remembering her past life is her punishment, because it's certainly the worst part of her new situation. Her parents are indulgent, her older brothers all dote on her and spoil her, and when she tests limits she's only gently rebuked if she gets rebuked at all. Not only is she allowed to wear fine dresses and look pretty, she's expected to (actually the expectation does chafe, a bit). But even when she uses foul language, skips classes, reads controversial books, and commits myriad other tiny rebellions, no real retribution ever comes of it.

Even despite everything, after some years Shen Jiu starts to become... not complacent, but perhaps calmer would be a better description. She has a stable future handed to her on a silver platter. Very few things remind her of her past, either. She can read books about snotty highborn lords getting railed by werewolves as readily as classics of literature or academic papers on science, business, culture, politics, or whatever else takes her fancy. Her family doesn't even put demands on her to marry, despite some of her mother's hints in that direction. For the first time, Shen Jiu has a life where it seems like she can't fail, she can only succeed however much she wants to. It's like having nowhere to go but up, except without the part about hitting rock bottom.

A foolish set of assumptions, in the end. There's always something to lose.

When Shen Yuan suddenly dies, Shen Jiu recognizes the sinister hand of the same entity which oversaw her own reincarnation. One which had visited her dreams quite recently, trying to tempt her back to her first life with offers of being able to change the past. It wasn't even difficult to deny it. Shen Jiu doesn't believe she could change what happened, and she doesn't really want to try. Her one regret is what happened to that person, the one who died so horribly while rushing to her rescue, and even that, she doesn't know how she would change (because she still doesn't know why he bothered in the first place).

But how dare the System God take the silliest and softest of her brothers to try and fix her accursed first life?! Luo Binghe will eat him alive! Cang Qiong will mistake him for a demon or a madman or worse, and throw him into some cell somewhere, if they don't just kill him outright!

Shen Meimei tries to negotiate with the System, but it tells her the window of opportunity for her to go back instead has passed. Smarmy piece of shit. There's nothing she can do without supernatural help, however, except bide her time and wait for another "window of opportunity". It's in the midst of this that she discovers PIDW, and its (terrible) account not only of the broad strokes of her first life and death, but of what came afterwards. That little beast really wrecked the world, huh? And all those women, too. She's never been more grateful to have not figured herself out in her first life. But at least with access to this information, she can try and prepare more. (She's suspicious of who actually wrote this account as well -- is Luo Binghe himself in this world? Better to leave it now, in that case, before he inevitably makes another bid for power and destroys everything in his wake all over again!)

When the System finally gives her an opportunity to go back (as herself, or rather "Bonus Epilogue Side Character -- Shen Qingqiu's Mysterious Little Sister!") she is braced for any number of outcomes. Shen Yuan could be dead. He could be imprisoned. He could have had his limbs all cut off. He could be stuffed into a pickle jar. He could be hiding or on the run somewhere. Hopefully, he'll be hiding behind that person, confused and distraught but still intact thanks to the sect leader's guilt-driven sense of obligation. Most likely if the same number of years have passed since Shen Yuan "left", he's already been destroyed by Luo Binghe and all Shen Jiu will be able to do is avenge him. But she has some ideas of how to kill the beast, so, she will.

Of course, what she finds is nothing she expected, and almost even worse.

Luo Binghe married her brother?!

Death is too good for him! Shen Jiu's going to skin him alive!!!

[alessiamalfoyzabini]

Moondir - 01

Pairing | moondir!OT7 x human!Reader

Word Count | 5,6k

Warnings | +18, angst, dirty and crude language, references to mass extermination, MC is forced to have a gynecological examination, discomfort and humiliation, references to future forced impregnation practices, MC is evaluated as if she were an animal, this is not for minors.

This fanfiction is dark and yandere, if you don't like the genre, don't read and if you are not of age, don't read.

I don't want to hear any complaints in the comments, thank you.

This does not reflect my way of thinking or living at all, it is just a work of fiction, it is like watching a horror movie, many of us love horror movies, but we would never dream of what we see in those movies happening in reality as well.

Simply put, this story was written for entertainment purposes, it should not be seen as a reflection of my values, opinions or morals. I absolutely do not condone such acts.

⤷ Summary | The Moondir, born of the Moon Goddess' love for a wolf, were persecuted and enslaved by humans for merely existing. Moondirian women have been captured and killed in the most heinous ways, men have instead been forced to do dangerous work in place of the humans themselves, and after more than a century, this has virtually brought their race to the brink of extinction. A group of Moondirian rebels have succeeded in their quest to regain their freedom, and not without the use of the crudest violence. Their females are now gone, and it will be human women who will help them repopulate the world.

➢ Author's Note | Hi, guys! 🥰 Here I am back with the story I had announced a few days ago, it will be divided into chapters, be sure to always read the warnings in each chapter! I'm very excited because I've been thinking about this storyline for a while and I really hope to do a good job 🤧 Let me know what you think, I love you ❤️

Taglist is open: @katherine-kookie - @btsuga-d - @pantara - @angelicsmilesworld - @lennieharper - @takemeaway5402 - @jiminismine4ever - @m00njinnie - @ke1k029 - @velvet-stardust2002 - @darkuni63 - @douknowbts - @aiiselle90210 - @fewercascade - @mageprincess7 - @get-that-brain-working - @whipwhoops - @dragons-flare - @seokjins-luigi - @pjmsneverland - @jimincrystal - @ajkwww - @ungodlyjoon - @hecateslittlewitchling - @namjoonsbuspass - @xicanacorpse - @btssimplove - @antisocial-mochi267 - @reallygenerouskoala - @dabishou - @themwordsblog - @deluluisme - @justanarchiveforfics - @blackberrywonie - @the-holy-hobi - @justlikecrazy - @herareila - @furioustrashlover - @mar-lo-pap - @dachshunddame - @pantaral81 - @lattejimin - @withmuchluv-tannie - @calmyourtitts7 - @plushjeno - @rafesbunniebby - @rms-expensive-girl - @polnaraffsrack - @rg2108 - @paramedicnerd004 - @jungshaking - @ane102 - @moonstarw

Main List - 01 - 02

Is it really so strange for you to find yourself at the feet of the man who swore to destroy your family?

Although your brother has downplayed his words over the years, you have now had the confirmation you so feared. Min Yoongi meant what he said and came back to end your existence, dressing as the icy captain of his team.

“I see you're all right,” he murmurs with a smile that does not reach his feline eyes, devoid of any human warmth. He looks down at you, imposing his presence on you, and you find yourself forced to bite your tongue not to answer him curtly. But, in fact, your silence only seems to provoke him.

One step forward from him and you find your chin clenched between two cold, ungentlemanly fingers, “I don't like this look, Y/N... I've always told you that sooner or later I'd wipe it off this pretty face,” his hot breath brushes your face, making you shiver. Mint and tobacco. A typical male smell that he didn't have the first time you met him.

You still don't respond to him, though you can't help but notice how much he has changed. The thin, shadowy young man like a ghost is gone; in his place is a hard, unreadable man. His high-quality jacket sparkles with prestigious medals and accolades, his tight pants highlight the sinuous lines of his athletic legs, and his solid leather boots shake the floor with every imposing step he takes.

You in comparison are just a little mouse who should beg that man.

“Will you die quietly, Y/N?” a question asked in a distant, mean tone. As if he hasn't known you for a lifetime.

You tighten your lips, releasing yourself from his grip angrily before spitting a stream of saliva straight into his face. Some soldiers remain impassive, others widen their eyes, stunned by your audacity or perhaps your death wish, but Yoongi remains perfectly calm and, with one hand wrapped in a dark glove, picks up the trail of saliva slowly creeping down his snow-white cheek.

“Interesting... proud to the end,” he murmurs with an amused grin, his eyes twinkling with interest as they return to scratch your fragile skin, “Yes... pride is a trait I've always detested about you,” he admits, using the same hand with which he picked up your saliva to nod to his men. Suddenly two of them grab you by the arms impetuously, holding you down for their captain.

Your heart speeds up and you can feel the dull thump pushing against your eardrums. A shameful fear grips your stomach as you see him approach further. He slowly kneels in front of you once more to whisper in your ear, undisturbed.

“The women of my race were just like you; beautiful, proud and fierce,” he begins, using a tone so sweet it makes you shiver.

His race. Moondir.

Neither beasts nor humans. Born from the union of the Moon Goddess with one of her strongest wolves.

Creatures born specifically to strike terror among the humans, great enemies of the Goddess, who, however, sought and found a way to enslave the Moondirians and succeeded. But after a century of mistreatment and starvation, the Moondirians have managed to rebel against the dictatorship, saying no more to those chains made of abuse and suffering, succeeding in setting up a rebel group worthy of opposing human power.

Now they have taken control of every country and rule with ferocity, taking revenge not only for the mistreatment they suffered but also for the extinction of their women.

The Moondirians have been forbidden to procreate, and to be safe, every female of their species has been killed.

Guilt compresses your chest when you think that none of those women were given a dignified or quick death, even more so when you remember that your father and brother willingly took part in that carnage.

Yoongi squares you with a new ferocity in his gaze, “Can someone remind me what human practice was when one of our women was captured?”

A faint frantic murmur rises from the soldiers, observing you in turn with disgust.

Another man approaches you, with a cadenced, light step; he is as tall as Yoongi and wears, along with the typical uniform, a stiff, black cap with silver embroidery that lets you know he is a lieutenant. His plump, soft lips are tight in a severe, irritated line, distorting his real beauty.

“When a Moondir woman was captured, they would rob her of all her possessions, proceed with forced undressing, and after a whole series of shameful abuses designed only to humiliate her, they would end the practice with a bullet in the head, if they felt generous enough that day to let her die right away.”

Yoongi nods in his colleague's direction, “What do you want me to do in this case, Jimin?”

Your heart leaps into your throat, peering into this man's furious amber eyes you can already get a taste of what will happen to you. But why is Yoongi leaving the choice to someone else?

“We are not inferior to humans, we should show them that we are capable of worse,” he barely manages to hold back a snarl that makes your skin crawl.

You will die. Like your brother, like your father, like your mother. There is no way they will leave you alive, and perhaps that is the best thing that could happen to save at least some of your dignity.

The Moondirian - Jimin - finally turns to his superior, “But without killing her of course, we need her.”

Suddenly the world comes crashing down on you. What does he mean by “we need her”?

Yoongi's icy bearing begins to chill even your bones, his satisfied grin makes you nauseous.

“What are you going to do?” opening your mouth to give breath to your fears costs you quite a bit of effort, the acid in your stomach begins to churn, clamoring to rise back up into your esophagus.

“We have no more women, Y/N,” he says softly, “You will be one of the many other humans who will help us become what we once were, which is a great and powerful people.”

Some sneer among the soldiers, others turn away to let Jimin, who no longer seems interested in your fate, pass by.

“Will you kill men and use women to bring others of your kind into the world?” at your choked question, Yoongi returns closer.

“Have you regained the use of speech, darling?” you shush immediately, shuddering at the feel of his palm brushing your face, “That's it, good girl,” he murmurs before moving closer to your ear again, “We've already killed most of the men, we'll kill the others we flush out of their shit holes, and as for the women... we're already having a great time fucking them like whores.”

A knot in your throat prevents you from swallowing the tears you are trying so bitterly to hold back, “You're a bastard,” you hiss in his direction, making him burst out laughing.

“And you will soon be a whore with your thighs open and your lap always full of cum, just like all the others.”

Your stomach churns with disgust and you eventually vomit, even putting your soul back in.

Contrary to what Yoongi said, you are not thrown into a cell to suffer the pains of hell, at least not right away.

You are forcibly yanked out of your home by a pair of snarling soldiers, you turn to gaze with tears in your eyes at those old walls that saw you come into the world and grow up. You have nothing left in there now. Your family was never rich, what your father and brother did was for the good of all, but you cannot deny the satisfaction in their faces every time they completed a mission.

The punishment for their sins affected you, too, because you grew up on money made from the skin of many other people.

“Get in, woman,” a soldier rudely shoves you into a military truck, you are practically surrounded by men more like beasts, and a ridiculous squeak escapes your lips as a disgusting taste makes you curl them, it was not a good idea to vomit.

You observe their uniforms and the weapons they hold against their well-placed bodies. You recognize everything, even the men in your family wore those uniforms, the Moondirians took and looted, now possessing what once belonged to humans.

“Where are you taking me?” you ask, trying not to let your voice tremble, and almost no one pays attention to you. Only one turns toward you, reserving a wicked grin.

“Trust me, human,” he chuckles, “You don't want to know.”

Discouragement assails you and you pay attention to the night landscape you see out the window, or at least what allows you to see the large bulk of the soldier standing in front of you with crossed arms.

“Don't ask too many questions,” he grunts, nailing you with an ugly glare, “The stench of your fear is making me nauseous.”

If possible, those words agitate you more; your father had told you about this ability of theirs, but you never really believed it. Other than Yoongi, you never saw a Moondirian in your life, and Yoongi was anything but sociable. He worked in your father's place, and as absurd as it sounds, even the poorest family was entitled to own at least one Moondir wolf. It was just one more way to humiliate them, but you child could hardly have known that. To you he was simply a sullen boy of few words, someone your brother had taught you to ignore for everyone's sake.

When Yoongi managed to escape, your brother and father-although concerned- scoffed at his words of vengeance, words that stuck with you for a good ten years, more than enough time for the Moondirians to create riots, revolts, murders and conquer all there was to conquer.

Mankind, from the height of its arrogance, believed it had everything under control, until little by little the throats of all the most important Leaders were cut, throwing the world into a black crisis from which it was then impossible to recover.

“Hey, human,” grunted another, “We're here, come on down.”

With trembling legs, you are dragged listlessly inside an old building that you recognize as a long unused hospital, inside-despite the long years of neglect-there is still the pungent smell of disinfectant and the neon lights work quite well. Inside, it has been kept clean and tidy, although employees at the front desk are missing and the main entrance is virtually deserted except for a few soldiers posted on guard duty.

The firm grip on your arm is painful, but you dare not say anything to the wolf who is escorting you. Rather you are terrified, wandering with spirited eyes from corridor to corridor, watching the hospital signs without really seeing them. You hate hospitals, you hate everything about them, and you don't understand why they brought you here.

A desperate wail escapes your lips as the wolf stops in front of a metal door with an opaque glass porthole.

"Straighten your feet, you fool! You look like a damn-"

“Hold your tongue, soldier,” the metal door slowly swings open, two blue eyes rimmed with long, thick lashes stab at you from all sides, while in response that soldier stiffens, “We need cooperation, if you treat her that way you will make my job more complicated.”

The man who opened the door is continuing to talk to the wolf at your side, but he does not look away from yours, he is firm and stern, making you petrify on the spot.

It is not just embarrassment or fear what you feel, it is something more visceral, a disarming awareness. Those blue eyes are laden with promises the man has every intention of keeping, a threat whispered gently, your heart beating so hard and so fast you don't question that he is listening with rapt attention.

Then, as if your gazes hadn't just nailed each other, he waves you in.

You try to put one foot in front of the other, aware that you have no escape route in that place, and when the soldier begins to follow you as well, a low growl of warning makes the hair on your neck stand up. But the warning is not for you, it is for that wolf who instantly freezes.

You don't know who this man is, but he must be someone with a lot of power, because up until a few moments ago that soldier was playing up, while now he looks more like a dog on a leash.

Making yourself as small as you can, you walk uncomfortably into the medium-sized room, eyeing the clean linoleum floor, then the light green walls with a few medical posters posted, finally the desk filled with papers and files locked in large binders.

“Have a seat,” the man says, pointing to an examination couch that makes you shudder. You search your eyes for medical instruments such as needles, gauze and who knows what else, but beyond the smell of disinfectant you see nothing else.

As if he has read your mind, the man gives you a sarcastic smile and it is as if a veil is lifted from your eyes, making you see past his blue ones. The first thing that strikes you are the full lips bent in that mischievous smile, the shape of the cupid's bow is enchanting, and smooth black hair manages to graze the base of his neck, while his bangs almost cover the well-defined line of his elegant eyebrows.

“Do you fear medical equipment?”

You tighten your lips at that blatant tease, feeling mixed emotions. You can't even remember the last time you've been to a doctor; you don't even know if this man is one.

“Are you a doctor?” you ask abruptly, almost as an accusation.

“Sort of, yes - not the way you humans understand it, though,” he replies with a shrug, shrugging off the partition to pull out a wheeled cart where medical tools are stored. You pale when you notice a speculum.

You take a quick step backward, toward the door, with every intention of escaping, and the man quickly turns to stare at you with slightly dilated pupils, no need for him to growl to freeze you once more where you are, “No risky moves, human,” he warns you in a deeper voice, “I'm still a wolf,” he hisses, gritting his teeth hard. Then you see it, a deep scar around his neck, which only moments before was covered by the tips of his hair and the collar of his lab coat.

“I don't want to be touched by you,” you murmur, terrified. You've always refused to face a gynecological examination, but you know what a speculum is for and you're uncomfortable with even the thought of him...!

You shake your head, but the man is not intimidated by your statement.

“It's going to happen what needs to happen, girl,” he replies, disinfecting his hands and putting on sterile gloves, “Now lie down on the table, after the examination we'll talk a bit so I can register you in the system.”

You didn't understand half a word he just told you, but his voice is enough to convince you not to take any steps.

The man snorts slightly, bowing his head and squinting his unusually blue-colored eyes.

“You should listen to me, I'm not going to hurt you... I'll probably also be the only man who will touch you gently enough not to make you cry” his words hit you like a violent slap, a knot tightens your throat and suddenly your eyes fill with tears.

“I didn't do anything wrong, I don't deserve such treatment,” you murmur swallowing the pain, the man stares at you with an impassive expression.

“Many of us have said the same thing, yet humans still played God by hunting us down, killing us and enslaving us” his harsh words make you realize that he will not listen to you, he may speak to you with an unusual calm, but the hatred is always there, ready to burn you, making you guilty of actions you never committed. Violence only breeds more violence.

“What will really happen to me?” you ask fearing your fate.

"If I deem you eligible, you will be escorted to one of our procreation centers, our staff will complete your genetic tests, and you will be assigned to the right males."

You will be raped, and not just by one man, but by many.

“Like a beast,” you blurt out angrily, incredulous and disgusted. Yoongi did not lie.

“Yeah, like a beast,” nods the man, “But you always have a choice: Are you going to lie down on that exam table, allowing me to figure out if and how healthy you are, in the most humane of ways, or do you want those soldiers to take you one at a time - or even more together - so that you remain pregnant in the most inhumane of ways?”

A shiver of terror squeezes your gut, making you want to vomit again.

Silently and with a lost look you begin to take off your shoes, “Wise decision,” he nods, beginning to arrange a gray monitor, “You can leave your underwear on, if it will appease you.”

You swallow bitter tears with each layer of clothing that leaves you, you feel humiliated as it is, but what other choice do you have?

When only your bra and peach-colored cotton panties remain on you, you slowly reach for the exam table and being very careful not to brush against the man who is now waiting for you sitting on a wheeled stool, you lie down with an insane urge to cover yourself from head to toe.

With a satisfied murmur he picks up a bottle, spreading clear gel on your lower abdomen, the icy sensation of the gel giving you chills, making you wince.

“What's your name?” the doctor asks, focused on the monitor-apparently able to read the strange shapes that appear between the grayscale image as he slowly moves the probe across the area of your abdomen. He pushes the probe across your skin for greater visibility and you stiffly murmur your full name

“My name is Kim Seokjin, and if you come back into the program, I will follow you as a doctor for a long time,” he replies, pushing the probe toward your lower abdomen, “Lower your slip a little.”

The request fills you with discomfort, but you do as he tells you, the fabric drops a little more with a slight rustle, and the probe reaches down to touch your pubis. You remain rigid as a statue, scrutinizing Seokjin's expression, but never once has the man looked at you with strange, slimy eyes. He is absolutely professional as he creates freeze-frames, occasionally asking you to take deep breaths and other times to remain totally still.

“Good, now place your legs in the stirrups, I will proceed with an internal examination.”

You widen your eyes, staring at him pitifully, “D-Do I have to?” you hate yourself for the tiny, terrified tone you used, but fear and shame are eating you alive.

The man - Seokjin - freezes for a moment, staring at you with a strange shadow in his blue eyes.

Finally, he sighs, “When was your last period?”

You think for a while before answering, "I think -- about two weeks ago? I guess have a regular period...?" you answer a little unsure, you haven't exactly kept track, because...

“Have you had sexual intercourse recently?”

At his question your skin heats up, turning redder than a tomato, “I-I... no, I mean... I haven't had any, ever” you bite your lips in embarrassment. You know very well that at your age it's strange. Your father always complained that at over 20 years old you were still not married, but it simply didn't happen, you never forced yourself to do anything, although there was no shortage of opportunities.

Seokjin's eyes shine for a single moment, but it is enough for you to catch his amusement.

"Basically I have no reason to proceed internally, but I still ask you to let me continue with my examination, I will only touch you superficially, I will go no further. Is that enough of a compromise for you?" you breathe shakily, nodding slowly.

You slip off your briefs and with a courage you don't feel you have position your legs on the stirrups, spreading them apart. Your heart pounding in your ears as you wait for the exam to end, you stiffen when the man touches your intimate area, going so far as to do something you've never allowed anyone else to do.

“What are you-” the words die in your throat, you feel the sensation of latex gloves against the entrance to your vagina, and two fingers checking its elasticity and shape. Your stomach clenches in raw shame, but you remain still, acknowledging the gentle, shallow touch, just as he promised.

“Right now I am checking the appearance of your vulva and the general elasticity of your entrance, to make sure there is no redness or sores, but everything seems to be okay,” he announces as he walks away, “You may wear your panties again, but remain lying down,” he announces, leaving you confused.

If the exam is over, why would you stay lying down? A wave of panic turns you pale; it is so intense that Seokjin turns in your direction with a stern look.

“Your smell is steeped in fear, woman,” he scolds you, tossing the latex gloves into the bin next to the monitor, then handing you some Kleenex to remove traces of gel, “If I wanted to do anything to you, believe me, I would have done it by now.”

You swallow before nodding, accepting the Kleenex and lying back down.

“Now I'm going to check the general state of your body,” he informs you as he returns to your side, in awe you watch as his hand rests on the soft skin of your abdomen, claws you didn't notice before glisten under the neon light of the room, but the touch is so gentle that the claws don't even reach out to touch you. The Moondirian's blue eyes slowly clear as a gentle tingle invades your body. The sensation reminds you of a lover's lips lightly brushing kisses against your skin, causing delicious shivers throughout your body, you find it quite natural to close your eyes, relaxing against your gloomiest expectation.

Seokjin continues his examination minutely, your blood flowing like peaceful waves inside your body, with the palm of his hand he moves closer to your chest, until he touches the curve of your breasts covered by the cotton bra. Although he has reiterated that he has no strange intentions, the sensual movement of his hand along your most sensitive skin makes your throat contract, a movement that immediately attracts his attention.

He thus begins to murmur something in a language unfamiliar to you, a song as sweet as a bird's song. You feel welcomed into a big hug and find yourself instinctively sighing, your heartbeat finally beginning to calm.

After another two minutes, the words stop and the warmth of his hand leaves your body, rousing you from that brief respite.

“You have excellent blood circulation and your vital organs are healthy, you are healthy,” he announces, “Now you can get dressed.”

You blink quickly, still with a foggy and confused mind about what exactly he did, "What happened? I felt strange," you whisper more to yourself.

“Do you know what the people of Moondir are like, Y/N?” he asks you, sitting down at his desk as you quickly get dressed, shake your head in denial, and Seokjin crosses his arms.

"We came into the world through a Goddess; our father was a wolf. We are connected to nature in more ways than one, and every Moondirian is born with the ability to rule an element. My element is Water, and with it I can control any kind of fluid, including blood, and through blood I listened to your body," he explains as if it were something very easy to understand even for someone like you.

When you sit in front of the Moondirian doctor, you can't help but ask, “Why are you so kind to me?”

His pointed smile leaves you breathless, and not positively.

“I know what you're up against, that's all,” he replies, igniting a flame inside.

"Are you doing this out of pity? I don't need it!" you growl, trying to retain some dignity, but Seokjin shakes his head.

“You are more stubborn than a puppy,” he sneers, before lowering the collar of his lab coat, finally allowing you to see the scar around his otherwise pale, sculptural neck. The mark is deep, but it is so old that it has lost the bright color of blood, blending in with the rest of the skin, “Do you know what this is instead?” he asks you.

You don't know exactly why such a devilry had been invented, but you remember that Yoongi, when he still worked for your father, always wore a thick electrified collar. The memory sends shivers down your spine, because you witnessed what that terrible object could do-it took at least a whole day for Yoongi to recover from those horrible shocks.

When you don't answer, Seokjin chuckles, “Of course you know, I can tell from your smell that you are aware of it, but maybe you don't know the reason behind its use.”

“Was it to punish you?” you ask, but the man shakes his head.

"Worse, it was suppressing our sexual instincts. “ he reveals with gravity, ”They exterminated our women to prevent us from procreating, and to prevent us men from feeling desire they designed a contraption as small as it is powerful and useful for their purposes.“ in his blue eyes you see a shadow drop, and when he resumes looking at you, there is no amusement, ”Out there you will find many of my kind who will not mind taking you by force, they have endured over a century of sexual deprivation, there is no one left to keep them on a leash, Y/N."

The world seems to be collapsing on you, you know the people of Moondir are not human, you know they are part wolf - beast - so you also have reason to think that you will be dealing with unscrupulous men, “Will I die like this?” you whisper with trembling lips, unable to believe that such a thing is happening to you of all people.

"No, you will not die. You are healthy and your body is mature, you are perfectly eligible for this task, and you will be cared for by experts at the procreation center, every kind of relationship will be followed, documented, and if there is a need, someone will step in to rescue you."

“That doesn't me-” but whatever you would like to say is interrupted by another man who opens the door wide without knocking.

You petrify like a marble statue, returning alert and anxious, how long has it been since the visit began, an hour? More?

He entered as if there was no one inside the room, if you hadn't dressed in time would he have had the horrible opportunity to look at you?

“You're early,” Seokjin does not seem pleased with the newcomer, who does nothing to apologize.

“You took too long this time, and I was wondering if you finally gave in to your instincts,” shrugs the other. He is a perfectly fit Moondirian specimen, his clothing similar to that of Yoongi and Jimin except for the camouflage color.

His deep green eyes nail you to your chair with vivid, eerie interest, his brown hair pulled back allowing you to peer into his face without any problem. His elegant features almost hide the madness behind those cheerfully cunning eyes. He reminds you more of a fox than a wolf.

"Stop it, Hoseok. I'm working," the other picks him up harshly, beginning to sign and stamp papers with a strange red, pungent-smelling substance.

"Oh, yeah? And here I thought you were examining these women for another reason,” he laughs lightly, approaching you with an all too confident stride, “One that involves very little words and more the body."

You move imperceptibly away from him, your survival instinct is warning you this Moondirian is different from Seokjin. Definitely. He seems more dangerous, more driven by his baser instincts.

“You're rambling, as usual” Seokjin unceremoniously hands over a freshly compiled file of documents, “She's eligible, don't damage her” Hoseok's smile turns meaner as he teams you from head to toe.

Then he takes a long breath, appreciating something, “I can't smell that other weird gel you use when you dilate them, you haven't examined her inside and it only means one thing,” he sneers alluringly, Seokjin's blue eyes light up with irritation.

“It means you won't touch her, she'll get safely to the center and you'll stay away from her after that, got it?” he asks with a certain amount of patience.

There is something unspoken in the air, you speculate that this Hoseok did something to one of the women and that Seokjin was not particularly happy about it.

“A hundred years of abstinence and you're acting like you're not feeling the effects, they fried your brain in that shithole and now you don't work anymore?” but the wolf's clear provocation - Hoseok - falls on deaf ears, Seokjin's attention is back on you, watching them both wordlessly.

A hundred years?

Can a Moondirian really live that long? That would explain Yoongi's youthful appearance. Aside from his more trained muscles, he hasn't changed a bit.

“Hoseok will take you to the nearest procreation center, he will see to it that you arrive safely, no matter how unreliable he may seem, I can assure you that with him by your side, no one will dare touch you with ill intentions.”

You nod as if intoxicated, casting a nervous glance at the man with the incredible green eyes. As unbelievable as they are disturbing.

“Yes, little flower ... you won't have to fear any one except me.”

‘You filthy bastard, try touching me and you will find that you are not the only one who can bite.’

Keep that furious thought to yourself, tightening your arms around your body protectively.

“One more thing,” Seokjin resumes, blatantly ignoring his colleague's response, “As I told you at the beginning of the visit, no rough movements, they excite us more than you think,” the doctor's warning hovers in the air like a gunshot, and you don't know if you will end that long day with all your limbs in place.

You leave the hospital with a weight in your chest; you are eligible.

Before you left, you asked Seokjin one last question, you asked him what would happen to you if he didn't find you eligible for their new repopulation plan, the doctor's glazed look was more than enough of an answer, then had come Hoseok's whisper at your side, amused.

«In that case I would have taken care of it, little flower.»

In a sports sedan that attracts far too much attention, you observe Hoseok, who drives in a relaxed and cheerful manner. As if he were a normal civilian and not a Moondirian trained to kill.

The profile sculpted with an almost aristocratic grace unnerves you. He is an animal of the worst kind, not deserving of that beauty, much less all that freedom.

“If you keep staring at me like that you're in danger of wearing me out, little flower,” you gasp, taken aback and appalled by the pointed smile he turns on you, “But I can give you a picture of me if you like me so much.”

In response you avert your eyes, pointing them to the clean but unusually empty streets. The razing has stripped the city of its soul, the once colorful and brightly lit stores are closed and empty, others have broken windows with obvious signs of struggle.

A frightening thought begins to creep into your fragile mind.

“You have killed the men and are using the women for your own purposes, but what about the children?” you ask in a hoarse whisper, your eyes lost in nothingness.

Hoseok snorts slightly through his nose, turning onto a highway.

“We are not so cruel, little flower,” he says almost bored, "Children have purer and more elastic minds. They have learned to fear us because of you adults, now they will learn to live with us, nowadays it's called a ‘reset’."

Children are not to blame, he does not say but that is what his words imply and you sighs relieved. Apparently, Moondirians have animal instincts in every respect, just as they love to hunt their prey when they run away, they also tend to take care of cubs, regardless of species.

“Don't be so relieved, woman,” his sharp teeth gleam under the flickering light of the road lights, “I would think more of myself than of others if I were you.” There is something true in his words, you can feel it in the way he utters them. Hoseok must have gone through hell, and you are sure he will put you through it too. Like a personal gain.

[bayetea]

I hate the "as a girl whose grandmother was a slave, can I just say not cool?" line from hazel in moa it's the worst line of dialogue rick has written in his life. But like what the fuck. what kind of insane lore drop is that. hazel's grandmother was an enslaved woman. marie levesque cast a spell to meet the god of riches so that she could finally know what it was like to live beyond the indigence and suffering of her mother. marie wanted to be a queen, not a slave like her predecessors. she wanted pluto to give her all the riches beneath the earth

and then the earth enslaved her body. gaea possessed her and through gaea's influence marie forced hazel for six months to overexert herself to the point of collapsing to raise and reanimate alcyoneus. gaea worked hazel like a slave

it's so explicit here. this is SLAVERY. gaea was using hazel's forced labor for material wealth and power. she was only 13. her grandmother was used and her mother was used and hazel herself was used, they were black women exploited for what their bodies could provide in service to the hideous intentions of monsters in power over them. hazel broke free from the cycle and saved the world all by herself by choosing death - it was the only way out

and even in her second chance at life she's actively fighting to die again. she's an instrument of the gods being used to achieve an end that is supposed to kill her. she was convinced that freeing thanatos would result in him taking her life. she didn't know throughout hoo if her father would kill her when the main quest succeeded. even nico didn't think hazel was going to live. she didn't WANT to die a second time. but she fought for the world and for her friends anyway

by the end of marie's life she was only skin and bones. gaea used her body until she didn't need it anymore. marie was the daughter of an enslaved woman who dreamed of being a queen and instead the earth goddess robbed of her life and dignity. and her soul would have been tortured further in the fields of punishment if not for hazel's unfathomable selflessness and bravery to negotiate for mutual asphodel. hazel never even saw marie again after that. what was it that doomed the levesque family? that marie asked the god of death and riches for too much? she deserved even more than what she asked for. I'm fucking sick no one talk to me

[gffa]

i'm sorry for the sensitive subject ask, but do you watch andor? i'm curious about your thoughts on the SA scene and the discourse that's followed it regarding vader. i feel like the scene is just more blatantly showing what already been implied throughout various star wars stories/media, and that most people (namely men) getting up in arms about it are clear "empire is cool" folks. but i'm on this weird fence about the discourse that's been dragged into the convo surrounding vader. i feel like anakin clearly is opposed to that sort of violence, given the various implications from the tcw zygerria arc for example, but i find it odd to bring vader into the conversation. vader, to me, is the twisted antithesis of who he used to be as a jedi. i feel like he clearly turns a blind eye to horrors he would have opposed when he still referred to himself as anakin skywalker. what are your thoughts?

I've been thinking about this and my gut reaction remains the same--Darth "willing to murder babies, is fine with reclassifying the Wookies as a non-sapient species so they could be used as slave labor" Vader is not suddenly going to grow a conscience about sexual assault. I don't think he's necessarily in favor of it, but I don't think he would do anything about it, either. This guy is the nightmare monster who rips his way into people's thoughts--a severe and deeply personal invasion of their very being--who tortures people with whatever method, who literally killed children because it got him what he was after. As a Jedi, Anakin was toeing the line on a lot of dark acts, but I don't think he would have used this tactic--though, I suspect part of that is because he just couldn't fathom wanting to have sex with someone that he wasn't in love with. I'm firmly on the "Anakin is demi" train and that informs a lot of how I see him and his reactions to situations in this area. But, no, I can't see that he would have tolerated this as a Jedi. That's why the murdering Jedi younglings scene is put in the movie, it's not just there for shock value, but to show that Anakin has crossed the moral event horizon. He has cemented himself as Darth Vader, who is willing to do literally anything to get what he wants, no matter how heinous or unthinkable, because the dark side is all there is. There can't be sudden exceptions to that rule or that scene loses its meaning. To say that Vader wouldn't have tolerated sexual assault is wild to me, because like. That guy participated literal baby murder, multiple genocides, mind rape, enslavement of entire species, torture, etc. But sexual assault would be a bridge too far for that guy? I love Anakin and I'm willing to give a lot of leeway to that he was deep, deep in the dark side and that twists your mind and soul, it warps you and lies to you and makes you think terrible things. And I think that darkness needs to be that deep, to make the point of just how incredible it was that he clawed his way back to the light. That's so much of why I love Anakin Skywalker, someone who tried so hard to do good, who fell so deep into the darkness, who found his way back out of those impossible depths--trying to soften the edges of that just doesn't feel true to the character for me. The dark side deadens you to compassion and care for others, just because we're uncomfortable with sexual assault, doesn't mean Vader would be. That's kind of the point of the dark side, it makes you fine with things you shouldn't be. As a note to where I'm coming from--I have a lot of personal family baggage with the violent death of a toddler, so I find Vader's murder of children to not just be a meme or a joke, I find it genuinely angering and disturbing. I still feel a visceral, physical reaction when I think about it for long. So, I get why people would have an instinctive reaction to, "Anakin wouldn't accept that!" to an horrific act being depicted in front of us. But I've had to accept that my guy would do that when it comes to my horrific act being depicted in front of me. The violent death of a child is such a defining act of monstrosity that trying to say this other act is somehow A Thing Even He Wouldn't Dare Do, just doesn't wash imo. That guy already crossed the line a long, long time ago. He'll absolutely do the things that make us viscerally uncomfortable to see depicted onscreen.

[eternal-echoes]

“We live at a time when Muslim extremists destroy Christian churches and holy sites, kidnap and enslave Christian women, and publicly slaughter Christian men in many parts of Africa and the Middle East-with only modest attention from American and European news media. One event did make the headlines, though: the twenty-one Coptic Christians beheaded in 2015 by ISIS in Libya. Masked murderers cut the men's throats on a video broadcast all over the world. The last words of some of them were "Lord Jesus Christ."

What happened next did not make headlines. On Christian television, Beshir Kamel, the brother of two of the murdered men, thanked ISIS for not editing out the men's last declaration of faith in Christ because it had strengthened his own faith. He then added that the families of those who were killed were "congratulating one another." He said: "We are proud to have this number of people from our village who have become martyrs ... Since the Roman era, Christians have been martyred and have learned to handle everything that comes our way. This only makes us stronger in our faith because the Bible told us to love our enemies and bless those who curse us."

When the host asked whether he could forgive ISIS, Kamel relayed what his mother had said she would do if she saw one of the men who killed her son: "My mother, an uneducated woman in her sixties, said she would ask [him] to enter her house and ask God to open his eyes because he was the reason her son entered the kingdom of heaven." When the host invited him to pray for his brothers' killers, Kamel prayed, "Dear God, please open their eyes to be saved and to quit their ignorance and the wrong teachings they were taught."(4)

This is what the Letter [to Diognetus] means when it says that Christians are set apart by their love. This love makes no sense apart from Jesus Christ. It shows how Christian faith can turn ordinary men and women into heroes. Christians in the Middle East offer us a powerful lesson in how to live as Jesus lived. And their suffering also challenges us to come to their aid.

The Coptic martyrs and their families offer us two lessons. First, the religious liberty that Americans take for granted is actually quite rare in the world. Even in the United States, our freedom to preach, teach, and witness our Catholic faith is only as strong as our willingness to live the faith vigorously in our own lives, and to work and fight for it in the public square. The Church has no shortage of critics eager to smother her voice and constrain her mission.

But second, we can never forget that we fight for the God of Love. We need to engage with that spirit even those who hate us. The Coptic martyrs and their families—like the early Christians-call us to claim the more excellent way. They remind us that we should bless our persecutors and pray for their conversion, that we should even be thankful for the opportunity to suffer for the sake of Christ. Only that kind of radical love can, in the end, bring victory not on the world's terms, but the victory of genuine peace in Christ.”

-Archbishop Charles J. Chaput, Strangers in a Strange Land: Living the Catholic Faith in a Post-Christian World 

—

(4) Quotations and narrative taken from Mark Woods, “Brother of Slain Coptic Christians Thanks ISIS for Including Their Words of Faith in Murder Video,” Christianity Today, February 18, 2015.