#to believe that your power is stronger than my devotion | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

doumadono · 2 months ago

Text

Warnings: dark ending, smut, exhibitionism, blood, overstimulation, p in v, creampie, death

Summary: as the high priestess, you lead a ritual to summon the powerful King of Curses, offering your body and soul as a willing sacrifice, only to meet your inevitable demise at the hands of the very deity you revere

JUJUTSU KAISEN MASTERLIST

The torches crackled and hissed in their sconces, bathing the ancient temple in flickering light and casting shadows that danced across the walls. Your heart pounded against your ribs like a caged animal, the anticipation making your palms sweat as you stood in front of the altar, your fingers fumbling slightly with the crimson silk robe draped over your shoulders. You weren’t supposed to be nervous, not when you had performed similar rituals countless times before - but tonight was different.

Around you, the other believers swayed in unison, their eyes closed, their lips moving in fervent, whispered chants. Their voices rose and fell, a symphony of devotion that vibrated through your bones, a palpable force that seemed to draw power from the very air itself. You could feel it - thrumming through your veins, wrapping around your heart, filling your lungs until every breath you took felt heavy with anticipation.

Tonight, you were calling upon the King of Curses himself.

"Brothers, sisters," you called out, your voice commanding yet gentle, a whisper that carried power, "tonight, we offer ourselves to him. Our bodies, our souls - everything belongs to our Lord Sukuna."

Your words were met with a chorus of whispered agreements, their voices merging into one, an endless, hypnotic hum that resonated through the chamber. You took a step forward, the hem of your crimson robes trailing across the cold stone. You could feel it - a rising tide of energy that thrummed beneath your feet, creeping up your legs, twisting around your spine like a serpent.

The silk robe draped over your shoulders was barely a barrier, translucent, whisper-thin, catching the dim light of the torches and clinging to the curves of your body. It was the only thing shielding you from the eyes of other believers. As you moved, it slid against your skin like a lover’s touch, revealing glimpses of bare flesh, the swell of your hips, the curve of your breasts and the perky nipples that hardened due to the cold air in the chamber.

You had studied ancient texts, whispered tales passed down through generations, and listened to the trembling voices of elders. They spoke of a creature, a god-like demon, who could bring salvation or damnation with a flick of his wrist. And you needed him. You needed his power, his strength, to protect what was left of your home from the relentless enemy forces that threatened to devour everything you loved.

Your master had always warned you that summoning such a powerful entity could be dangerous. In fact, most would consider it sheer madness. But you had practiced, studied, and prepared every day for this moment. And the time had finally come.

You took a deep breath, pushing the doubts and fear from your mind. The ritual demanded absolute confidence, unwavering faith, and total submission. "Great Ryomen Sukuna," you began, your voice strong despite the fear coursing through your veins, "I call upon you, the one true King of Curses, to grace us with your presence. We offer our devotion, our loyalty, and our souls as tribute."

The wind seemed to howl in response, the flames of the torches flickering more violently as if acknowledging your words.

There was no turning back now.

You repeated the incantation, your tone growing more fervent, your body swaying with the rhythm of the ancient words.

The wind howled around you stronger, rustling your hair and the hem of your ceremonial robe. With trembling fingers, you took the knife from the altar, its blade gleaming in the moonlight. "O, King of Curses," you murmured, your voice barely more than a breath, "I offer you my blood, my flesh, my soul. Come forth and answer our call."

Without hesitation, you sliced across your palm, the sting sharp but brief. Blood welled up and dripped onto the cracked stone altar, seeping into the ancient symbols you had painstakingly carved into its surface. The ground trembled beneath you, as though the earth itself recognized the power you sought to unleash.

For a moment, there was nothing but silence. Then, the wind died down, the air becoming unnervingly still, and a sense of dread settled over you like a thick, suffocating blanket. Your breath caught in your throat as you felt an overwhelming presence, one that pressed against your very soul and made your body ache with fear.

From the back of the altar, a shadow stirred, a darkness so thick it seemed to swallow the flickering torchlight. The air grew heavy, stifling, and a hush fell over the temple as the believers knelt lower, trembling in anticipation. From the depths of that black void, a figure emerged - slowly, deliberately, as though he had all the time in the world to make his presence known.

Sukuna emerged from the darkness, his presence suffocating, overwhelming. He towered over all, a god among mortals, cloaked in light, flowing robes that barely concealed the powerful form beneath. His muscular body, honed and perfect, moved with the grace of a predator, every step deliberate, echoing with the weight of his authority. His skin was pale, but not with any human fragility - it was alabaster, almost ethereal, in contrast to the black, intricate markings that wound across his chest, arms, and neck. Those tattoos, like dark serpents, seemed to shift with the flickering light, symbols of his immense power and ancient origins, each line coiling and twisting like chains of darkness binding the god of curses.

But it was his face that captured you - the sight of him, fully revealed. His hair, a wild, chaotic pinkish-red hue, framed his angular features, strands catching in the torchlight like flames burning in the night. The color was unnatural, vibrant, a stark contrast to the coldness of his expression. His sharp jawline and high cheekbones gave him an undeniable, cruel beauty, a face that seemed carved by the gods themselves for the sole purpose of commanding and conquering.

His eyes, though - those were what ensnared you. Crimson and burning with an unholy light, they bore into you with terrifying intensity, gleaming with malevolence and ancient hunger. Four of them, two set above the other, creating a gaze that felt impossible to escape, as if they saw through everything - your soul, your mind, your very existence laid bare before him.

Two pairs of arms remained folded across his chest, the motion languid, casual, as though he had all the time in the world. His hands, adorned with black markings like the rest of his body, exuded a dangerous aura, as though each movement was capable of bending reality itself to his will.

His gaze swept over the temple, pausing only when it found you. Beneath the thin silk robe draped over your naked form, your skin prickled under his scrutiny. His eyes lingered, dark amusement playing in the depths of his four crimson orbs. His lips curled into a cruel, knowing smile, a smirk that told you he had seen this moment long before you had ever whispered his name. "Well," Sukuna's voice was deep, resonating with the power of an ancient god. "It’s been a long time since anyone dared to summon me in such a way. I thought all of my worshippers had been swallowed by the sands of time. And yet here you are, kneeling before me like a lamb to the slaughter, sacrificing yourself so willingly, little priestess.”

You swallowed hard, willing yourself not to tremble under his scrutiny. "I am here to serve you, my Lord Sukuna," you uttered, bowing deeply until your forehead nearly touched the stone floor. "I have dedicated my life to you, and I wish to offer myself as your vessel. I am yours to command."

Sukuna's laugh was harsh, echoing through the chamber like thunder. "Is that so? And what makes you think that you, a mere mortal, could be worthy of serving me?"

"I have prepared for this moment my entire life," you answered, lifting your head to meet his gaze. "I am willing to give you everything - my body, my soul, my very existence - if it pleases you, my Lord."

"Hmmm." Sukuna stepped closer, his eyes narrowing as they roamed over your form. You could feel the heat radiating from him, a tangible aura of power that made your skin tingle. He towered over you, the sheer presence of him enough to make you feel like an insect beneath his heel. "Stand," he ordered, and you obeyed, rising to your feet with as much grace as you could muster.

He reached out with one of his many hands, the claws grazing your cheek, drawing a single line of blood. He observed the crimson droplet with a glint of amusement before pressing his thumb to your lips. "Lick it," he commanded, and without hesitation, you parted your lips, your tongue darting out to taste the coppery tang of your own blood.

"Interesting," Sukuna mused, watching you with a predatory intensity. "You do not cower or flinch. Are you not afraid of me, little priestess?"

"I am," you confessed, your voice barely above a whisper. "But my fear is nothing compared to my desire to serve you, my Lord."

His laughter reverberated through the temple once more, and this time, you could sense a hint of genuine amusement beneath the mockery. "Very well. Let’s see if you can truly entertain me."

In a blink, Sukuna's fingers curled around your throat, lifting you off your feet as if you weighed nothing.

You gasped, your hands instinctively gripping his wrist, but you didn’t struggle. You couldn’t - wouldn’t.

He brought you closer, his breath warm against the shell of your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. "Do you know what happens to those who disappoint me?" he whispered, his tone dark and laced with malice.

"No, my Lord," you replied, your voice choked but unwavering.

"They die," he mused simply, letting the weight of his words sink in. "Painfully. Slowly. And I enjoy every second of it."

He released you, and you crumpled to the floor, gasping for air, your heart pounding wildly in your chest. But even in the face of such raw power, you felt no regret. You pushed yourself back up onto your knees, bowing your head. "I will not disappoint you, my Lord," you promised.

"Prove it," Sukuna growled, gesturing toward the altar. "Strip."

Your fingers trembled as you reached for the sash of your robe, but you obeyed, letting the silk slide from your shoulders to pool around your feet. You stood before him, naked and vulnerable, feeling the weight of his gaze as it roamed over every inch of your body.

Despite your nakedness exposed to the cold air of the temple and the eyes of the other believers kneeling around you, you felt no shame, no fear. Their gazes, if they dared to lift their heads from the stone floor, meant nothing in the grandness of this moment. You had prepared for this - body, mind, and soul. Each prayer, each offering, every ritual bath had cleansed you of doubt, stripped you of earthly concerns. Your purpose was singular, unwavering. It wasn’t their eyes that mattered; only his. You stood bare not only in flesh but in spirit, ready to fulfill the sacred role of high priestess, ready to meet the eyes of the god you had summoned. This was the moment you had waited for, and no mortal gaze could shake your resolve.

Sukuna took his time, savoring the sight of you, and a dark chuckle escaped his lips. "Such a delicate little thing," he murmured, almost as if to himself. "I wonder how long you'll last before you break."

He approached you, each step sending a jolt of electricity through the air, and with a flick of his wrist, you were laid out on the altar, your back against the cool stone. The sensation was jarring, but you didn’t dare protest.

Sukuna’s hands traced the length of your body, his touch both gentle and brutal as he gripped the plush of your skin occasionally as if he were mapping out all the ways he could destroy you. His smile widened, revealing sharp, pointed teeth that gleamed in the dim light. He captured your lips in a searing kiss, his mouth claiming yours with an intensity that left you breathless. You could feel his other hands moving, one pinning your wrists above your head, another spreading your legs wide for him, and the last caressing the soft flesh of your inner thigh, drawing out a shiver that left you weak.

He played with your hard nipples a bit, then reached up and stuck a finger in your mouth.

You sucked on it for a second, and then the king of curses pulled it out and smeared the wetness on your left nipple.

Once it was wet, he blew on it, and it hardened even further.

You moaned softly, sucking your lower lip into your mouth, rubbing your thighs together.

He parted your legs unceremoniously.

As his fingers brushed against your pussy lips, you gasped, your body instinctively reacting to the sensation. "Please…" you begged, the word slipping out before you could stop it.

"Please, what?" Sukuna taunted, nipping at your lower lip, drawing blood and drinking it willingly. "You’ll need to be more specific, little priestess."

"Please, take me," you pleaded, the desperation evident in your voice. "Make me yours, my Lord Sukuna."

Sukuna’s grin was feral, and without warning, he thrust two fingers inside you despite the resistance of your tight pussy, making you cry out in both pleasure and pain. "Such a pretty little thing," he cooed mockingly. "So eager to be ruined." He moved his fingers with a deliberate slowness, savoring every reaction, every gasp, and moan that escaped your lips while his thumb brushed over your clit.

It was overwhelming: the heat, the sensation, the knowledge that you were entirely at his mercy. Your legs were already trembling like leaves on the cold autumn wind. You writhed beneath him, your body straining against the hold of his hand on your wrists, and he watched you with those crimson eyes, drinking in your every movement.

"Beg," Sukuna commanded, his voice low and dangerous. "Beg for me, and I might consider being gentle."

"Please," you whimpered, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. "Please, my Lord. I want you. I need you."

He laughed, the sound vibrating through your very bones. "Very well," he purred, "I’ll grant you your wish." He pushed his white hakama pants down his muscular legs, revealing the monstrous size of his member. His cockhead bounced back firmly against his toned abdomen, an audible slap as flesh met flesh. He slowly jerked himself several times, watching you writhing in anticipation, gently playing with your breasts as you looked him right in his crimson eyes. His cock got rock hard nearly instantly. Ryomen positioned himself at your entrance, and with a single, brutal thrust, he filled you completely, the angry, red tip of his cock kissing your cervix as he settled himself within your wetness.

You cried out, arching off the altar, your fingers digging into the stone as he began to move, each thrust harder, faster, and more demanding than the last.

The pain was there, sharp and searing, but it was drowned out by the pleasure, the feeling of being completely and utterly claimed by the King of Curses. "You belong to me now," Sukuna growled, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your neck after he leaned in. "You’ll serve me, obey me, worship me until the day you die."

"Yes," you gasped, clinging to him, feeling your release building, the heat coiling tighter and tighter within your abdomen. "Yes, my Lord, always."

Sukuna's laughter was the last thing you heard before he drove you over the edge, your body convulsing with pleasure so intense it felt as though you might shatter. And as you fell apart in his arms, the only thought that lingered in your mind was that you were finally his.

The world around you blurred as your body quivered beneath Sukuna’s relentless assault, every nerve alight with sensation.

His nails - sharp and jagged - scraped across your skin, leaving thin red lines in their wake. He grope your breasts, squeezing them between his calloused digits, brushing the nipples with the pads of his thumbs. "You're so fragile," Sukuna murmured, almost as if in awe as he kept of fucking your already overstimulated pussy. "So breakable. Yet you begged for this. Tell me, does it hurt?" He improved your position and hoisted your legs up onto his muscular shoulders. Sukuna began a fierce pounding, hammering away from the start.

"Y-Yes," you stammered, your voice hoarse from screaming, from crying out his name. "But it feels so good. My pussy is so sore, my Lord!”

He chuckled darkly, leaning in close until his breath ghosted across the column of your neck. "That's because you belong to me now, little priestess," he whispered, each word a venomous promise. "I will make you mine over and over again until there is nothing left of you but a shell that worships my very existence."

After abruptly pulling out of you, he flipped you over, dropping you on all fours. He quickly positioned himself behind you, his fat, swollen, cockhead pressed against your wet needy pussy so hard it almost forced you open.

Grabbing your hips, his rough fingers digging into your fleshy hips that supported your fat fuckable ass, he threw himself toward. The power of his thrust would've forced you off the altar if not for Sukuna holding you in place. Your entire body surged forward as a cock too big to take was forced into you with unstoppable strength. Sukuna’s hand shot to grab your hair and pull you head back, arching your back against his chest as he kept on slamming into the tightness of your core. His other hand moved to wrap tightly around your neck.

The muscles in his arms bulged as he quickened his pace, slamming into you with a force that sent shockwaves through your sweaty body. ''There will be no breaks for you tonight, little whore of mine. I want to fuck this fucking cunt of yours non-stop, do you understand?”

You gave a nod and made a quiet sound, and Sukuna pushed his cock in deeper, making you squeal a muffled cry as you bit on your lower lip, drawing blood from the flesh.

The wet slamming of your bodies filled the huge chamber.

You couldn't think, couldn't breathe, couldn't do anything but feel him. The sensation of his heat, his strength, and his utter dominance was enough to drive you to madness.

Soon, you were flipped on your back again, and immediately his massive cock pushed back into your abused pussy. His eyes burned with violent lust, yours were filled with a satisfaction like you'd just achieved your life's work.

One of his free hands moved up, tangling in your hair, jerking your head back so that you were forced to look into his eyes. Those crimson orbs gleamed with sadistic pleasure, reflecting the flickering flames around you, and you were certain you'd never seen anything more terrifying or beautiful in your life. "Say it," Sukuna commanded, his voice ragged. "Say that you belong to me."

"I… I belong to you," you choked out, tears streaming down your cheeks, the rawness of your voice echoing in the chamber. "I am yours, my Lord Sukuna." You took immense pleasure in being watched by the other believers. Your body, already beautiful on its own, became a sight to behold when joined by Sukuna's presence.

The satisfaction in his expression was palpable, and he leaned down, his lips brushing against yours in a kiss that was as much a claim as it was a punishment. He kissed you with the same brutal intensity that he took you, his tongue invading your mouth, leaving no room for resistance, no space for doubt. His other mouth, placed on his abdomen decided to have some fun too, so the slimy tongue darted out to lap at your clitoris.

You felt the pressure building again, that unbearable coil tightening in your core, threatening to snap at any moment. "Please!" you gasped, your nails digging into his skin, your body arching against him in a desperate attempt to bring him even closer. "Please, my Lord, let me… let me…!"

"Not yet," he snarled, his grip tightening painfully on your wrists. "You will not come until I allow it. Do you understand?"

You nodded frantically, the desperation evident in every fiber of your being. "Y-Yes, my Lord.”

"Good," Sukuna purred, thrusting harder, deeper, his movements growing more erratic, more frenzied. The sound of your flesh meeting echoed in the chamber, mingling with your ragged breaths and the low growls that rumbled from his chest. And still, he denied you, holding you on the precipice of pleasure, refusing to let you fall over that edge. His dick brushed all of the right spots deep within your pussy, and since you were dripping wet at that point, some of your juices were pushed out of you by his massive length.

"Please…" you whimpered, your entire body trembling, your mind unraveling as you teetered on the brink. "I can't… I can’t…"

"Beg," he demanded, and the cruelty in his voice sent a shiver down your spine. "Beg me for your release."

"Please, my Lord Sukuna," you sobbed, your voice breaking, your vision blurring as the tears streamed down your face. "Please, I beg you. I need it. I need you."

For a moment, he said nothing, merely watching you with that infuriatingly calm expression, his crimson eyes glowing with a light that seemed to come from another world. And then, without warning, he drove into you one final time, his body tensing, muscles rippling as he found his own release, spilling his thick, warm cum within you in nearly five massive spurts. The sensation was overwhelming, like fire spreading through your veins, igniting every nerve, every cell in your body. Slowly he withdrew the whole length of his cock and jerked himself while he kept on spraying thick liquid all over your helpless body. He covered your abdomen in hot cum until you were completely drenched in white, sticky goo. "Now," he growled, his voice rough and ragged. "Now, you may come."

It was all the permission you needed. The coil snapped, and you shattered, your body convulsing, waves of pleasure crashing over you in an endless, merciless torrent. You screamed, your voice hoarse and raw, the sound echoing through the temple, mingling with Sukuna’s own guttural groans as he continued to pound you, drawing out every last ounce of pleasure from your trembling form, not minding the hot tears rolling down your flushed cheeks. You shuddered in orgasm, cumming just from looking from under your half-closed eyelids, and imagining your Lord Sukuna fucking you again. "My body was made for you, my Lord.”

You were dimly aware of his hands on your body, caressing you, grounding you as you slowly came down from that euphoric high. Your vision blurred, your body limp, utterly spent, and you collapsed against the altar, unable to do anything but lie there, gasping for breath.

Sukuna’s fingers traced lazy patterns across your skin, and despite the roughness, there was a gentleness to his touch now, a possessiveness that made your heart flutter. "You did well," he murmured, his tone almost tender. "You pleased your lord."

A smile tugged at the corners of your lips, and you forced yourself to meet his gaze. "Thank you, my Lord," you whispered, your voice barely audible, but he heard it.

He smirked, leaning down to capture your lips once more, this time in a kiss that was slow, lingering, a silent acknowledgment of what you had just shared. Looking directly at where you were connected, Sukuna pulled his semi-hard cock out of you, grinning like a kid while watching how your mixed cum dribbled out of your reddened, abused hole. He scooped some on the pad of his index finger and took a closer look at the slimy, pearly white liquid slowly streaming down his digit. He pushed his finger past his parted lips, tasting himself and you on his tongue. “Such a delicious, little lamb,” he praised within a grunt that rumbled deep in his chest.

His fingers still traced across your skin, but their touch now carried a different weight.

You sensed the shift immediately, though your body, still dazed from the euphoria, struggled to react.

“Such a good little lamb,” he mused, his voice low and silky. “But even the most loyal lambs must be sacrificed.”

Your breath caught in your throat, but your body was too weak, too drained to move. You had known from the start what this ritual would cost you. You had prepared for it, accepted it. And yet, as you lay beneath him, his shadow swallowing you whole, that acceptance turned to a quiet, desperate hope for more - more time, more moments, more of him.

His hand wrapped around your throat with deceptive gentleness, his grip firm but not yet cruel. Sukuna leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear. “You’ve served your purpose,” he whispered, his breath hot against your skin. “And now, you’ll give me one final gift.”

A flash of panic surged through your exhausted body, but it was too late. His fingers tightened, cutting off your air, and his crimson eyes glowed with an almost loving intensity as he watched the life slowly being drained from yours. You clawed weakly at his wrist, but there was no malice in his actions - only inevitability.

As the darkness crept in, your vision narrowing to a pinpoint, Sukuna pressed one last kiss to your forehead. “Rest now,” he murmured, his voice soothing, as if he were putting you to sleep rather than ending your life. “You’ve earned it, satisfying your lord.”

The world dimmed, your body going limp as your final breath left you. The last thing you saw was his cruel, satisfied smile, and then - then was pure nothingness.

The temple fell silent, save for the distant murmur of the remaining believers, aware that their high priestess had become nothing more than a sacrifice, her blood and soul claimed by the king of curses.

As Sukuna’s laughter echoed through the vast temple, the gathered believers knelt in silent terror again. Their faces, once filled with awe and reverence, were now twisted in fear. They had witnessed the culmination of the ritual, the ultimate sacrifice of their high priestess - the one who had led them, who had spoken the will of their dark god. And now, she lay still, her lifeless body draped across the altar, pale and motionless, while Sukuna stood over her, drenched in the eerie glow of the temple’s firelight.

Some of the followers dared to look up, trembling, their eyes wide with horror. The sight of Sukuna towering above her was both majestic and terrifying - a god who had claimed his offering without hesitation or remorse. The air hung heavy with the smell of incense and the iron tang of blood, a solemn testament to the price of their devotion.

One brave soul, trembling with fear, took a step back, his face pale. Others followed, their belief shaken as they witnessed the brutal truth of the god they had summoned. Whispers broke out, hushed and frantic, the terror rising in their chests as they realized that if even their high priestess could fall to Sukuna’s insatiable hunger, then none of them were safe.

Sukuna turned his gaze on them, his crimson eyes gleaming with malevolent amusement, and in an instant, the whispering ceased. Every believer froze in place, their hearts racing as they cowered under his piercing stare.

"Frightened, are we?" he drawled, his voice low and mocking, sending a chill down their spines. His presence was overwhelming, dominating the space as he stepped away from your lifeless form, leaving it to rest as though it were nothing more than a discarded toy.

He scanned the kneeling figures, a smirk playing on his lips. "You shall be," he continued, his tone dripping with cruel satisfaction. "What did you think would happen when you called upon me? That I would take, and not demand more?"

The fear in their eyes only seemed to amuse him further. He took a slow, deliberate step forward, his bare feet silent against the stone floor, but every movement radiated power. "This is what it means to serve me," he said, his voice a dangerous purr, each word like a blade slicing through the tense silence. "To give everything. Your bodies, your souls, your lives."

He paused, his gaze narrowing, daring any of them to defy him. None did. "But take heart," he added, almost teasing, his tone shifting as though speaking to children. "Your devotion has pleased me. You live, for now. Consider yourselves fortunate, mortals."

A dark chuckle escaped his throat. “Continue to worship me," Sukuna claimed, his voice turning cold. "But remember - this is the price. When your time comes, there will be no mercy."

With that final, ominous warning, Sukuna turned away from them, disappearing into the shadows that had birthed him, leaving his followers trembling in his wake.

The oppressive silence returned, broken only by the faint crackling of the temple’s torches and some quiet sobs, as the believers remained frozen in place, afraid to move, afraid to breathe.

In the center of the altar, your body lay still, a solemn reminder of the fate that awaited those who dared to summon the King of Curses.

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depravitycentral · 3 months ago

Text

Yandere! Douma General Profile

Yandere! Douma x fem! reader

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

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

WC: 11K

DARLING PROFILE:

Stubborn

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

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

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

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

Opinionated

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Paranoid

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Talkative

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

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

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

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

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

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

GENERAL YANDERE TRAITS:

Clingy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just how he wants it.

Dependent

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Possessive

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

DEALING WITH RIVALS:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dead. He breathes out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

TAKING HIS DARLING AWAY:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

PUNISHMENTS:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His grip tightens.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ah, there you go.

OVERALL DANGER:

9/10

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#yandere kny #yandere kimetsu no yaiba #yandere demon slayer #yandere ds #_kny #_douma #_lee's profiles #yandere douma

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lovelyyandereaddictionpoint · 4 months ago

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could you do a yandere demon mitsuri or shinobu with a demon slayer darling

Demon Slayer Reader in Reverse AU | Yandere KNY

In this alternate universe the hashira are the equivalents of the Upper Moons. Unbelievably strong, incredibly devious, and just as responsible for innumerable deaths as their creator. You on the other hand are like Tanjiro Kamado, a demon slayer dutifully following the orders of Muzan as he’s determined to finally stop the rampant killing that those demons do. But there’s something special about you. Something that the demons just can’t deny. That has them persistently chasing you their greater their connection to their beloved creator. Maybe it’s the blood of their kin, or your kissable lips, or the curses you mutter as your sword doesn’t slice through their necks. Either way they are down-bad:

Mitsuri Kanroji

Turned after being rejected for her strength and differences

Now she uses them to eat scores of humans particularly the most bland people she can find

Can you believe just how few people she actually loves?

Too few people are special because of their differences or physical traits

Which means she’s happily devour all those who don’t which is a lot

She of course claims it’s love at first sight when she sees you

It really can be something as simple as a colorful hanafuda or being deaf

Anything unique to you makes her weak in her knees

“You’re making me so happy just to have met you! I love you!”

So busy fawning over you, she barely misses your swing

Stronger than others she only falls for you deeper

In her twisted mind the blood of Ubuyashiki makes beautiful people of his divine choice even more beautiful

Thus her mission when fighting you is to turn you

So she can have your beauty be eternal

“Don’t avoid me for long my Love! I’m going to make you perfect soon!’

The biggest challenge other than her flexibility, the cherry blossom flooded air, and her insane physical strength is her beau

Rarely does the Demon Moon of Love leave without the Demon Moon of Snakes in tow

And while for your first meetings he definitely is not trying to keep you alive for the change

After he get’s to know you and a nice talk that involves lot’s of dying lower rank demon slayers they’ll both be on the same page

Which will spell absolute doom for you as the conniving duo is not going to bother being upfront

They’ll scheme

They’ll plot

Hold your tsugoko or friends from up high as they take advantage of your heightened emotions

“I want to love you forever and ever and ever. And no one is going to stop me! Not even you”

Shinobu Kocho

She was turned along with her sister who Ubuyashiki saved after she fell ill

For years prior she had devoted herself to science, to medicine only for it to fail her at every turn

Only when she incorporated the great Ubuyashiki’s blood into her creations does she find proper results good results

And she is praised with having so many willing addicted meals and servants to offer as she produces her remedies for masses

Interacting with prey so often gives her a better way to hide and know about the demon slayer’s actions

And amateur slayers that come into her shop swords drawn are usually bullied by the surrounding towns folk

All to be beaten up and kicked out of the town becoming easy pickings at that point

She thought she’d do the same to you

By the way you walked she could sense your power and her mortal end coming closer

But you didn’t attack

Surrounded by many of her loyal customers you ask that she try the contents of a vial to tell what it is

Since it’s suspicious to the people you offer to drink it, another villager drinks it

“You’re the greatest medic in this region. Won’t you tell me what it is and where to find it?”

It’s Wisteria

Potent and poisonous wisteria

Here shinobu is faced with a choice

Attack you ruin her reputation and have to deal with a mob

Or…

drink it and writhe revealing her demon form to be attacked by the mob

“You think you’re a cunning little butterfly don’t you. Flashing your poisonous colors at me. You aren’t aware of the hunger you’ve aroused in me!”

She wasn’t happy as a human with the limits she had

So she doesn’t choose any of those options opting to kill everyone

You block the attack finding out it’s a feint for her to run away

Run away with a snarl that she hasn’t shown for hundreds of years

How dare you!?

Ruining her perfect system

When she reports to the Ubuyashiki compound by night she’s got her head down low while reporting

As expected she was chewed out not only by The Ubuyashiki but the Upper Moons as well

And there is one person she blames above all for her shame

“That despicable little demon slayer!! I’m going to make them pay!”

Her hatred for you becomes a widely welcomed truth among the other demons

Hanging your whereabouts above her head

As she snaps at them like a snarling dog

But her hatred is not simply that

She wants to own you

To hold your face as she successfully demonstrates her mass attack absorbing all within the vicinity

To clip your pretty little wings and delight in your forbidden flavor for as long as possible

When one of her colleagues theonesheclaimsshehatesthemost pressures her she’s rambling to him about how she’d never want to actually kill you nor turn you completely into a demon like she

“They’re not good enough for Master…but it’d be a shame for such a beautiful butterfly to die so quickly.”

So she’ll turn to science

Once again using her expertise to craft some serum that she plans to keep you attached to for the rest of your not-so mortal life

She’ll use her own blood measuring and testing how little is needed to give you the best parts of being a demon

She knows the clock is ticking as your life goes on

So she’ll be excited to track you down, learning as much as she can about you

Almost as much fun as she’ll enjoy making simple humans that remind her of you as test subjects

She’d even be willing to get help from one of the Upper Moons with her hunt for you

“I hope your ready for a change, butterfly! There’s nothing I can’t do without his blood.”

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lazycranberrydoodles · 7 days ago

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hi i don't know if i have questions specifically but want you to know i'm obsessed with your transfem hua cheng and he xuan and that it's super meaningful to me to see other people doing transfem characters and headcanons and I love to see it and love your art so much too so thank you for doing that!!!

yw!!!

hua cheng and he xuan have such interesting relationships to their bodies and powers. to me, trans headcanons not only acknowledge their complex identities within the text, but also add a layer of meaning. plus i just love drawing and writing girls.

more of my thoughts on trans & tfem huaxuan below.

⚠️warnings for: mention of transphobia, canon typical violence, tgcf spoilers⚠️

hua cheng is incredibly metaphorically trans. being born under the star of solitude with a cursed eye, he spent his childhood enduring abuse and covering up his face. (one thing that especially sticks with me for a transmasculine headcanon is that he is smaller than expected for a 10 year old, canonically due to malnutrition). still, he snuck into the army out of a sense of duty (re: tmasc hc, i believe he lied about both his age and his gender to enlist). however, to become crimson rain sought flower, instead of harming others, he wrenches the source of his pain (his eye) out of his body with his own hands. once he removes his eye, instead of dying like a weaker spirit would have, he becomes much more powerful and starts forging an identity for himself. his self-mutilation doesn't just free him from the burden of his cursed eye; he eventually claims blood as his signature. for his whole life, hua cheng has been injured and beaten, but after tong'lu, blood becomes a symbol of his power. his blood rain shows that he does not shy away from brutality and that he feels at home within violence.

this is why i'm always talking about hua cheng's DIY top surgery within the kiln. hua cheng carved up his own body in a way that massively empowered him. he reclaims violence as his own natural habitat, rather than something he has been forced to endure. i think this is very transgender; transphobic rhetoric often labels medical transition as mutilation, but to many of us, that is how we become our true selves. it is a tool to make us stronger.

hua cheng's story is about self-determination. despite his circumstances, he was able to literally brute force fate and luck into his favor with the power of his devotion. i also like to read ghost city (and hua cheng's other miscellaneous acts of good) as a metaphor for disability. to the public, it's dangerous and sinful, but in actuality it is hua cheng's way of 'saving the common people'. ghost city provides safe haven for the undead and their wares, making both the mortal and ghost realms safer. the traditional channel for serving believers is from heaven, but hua cheng forged his own path and refused to take part in its corrupt system. he has a radically different approach to executing his goals, so he is excommunicated and misunderstood outside of the vilified community that he provides a home for (the ghost city residents).

it's important to me that hua cheng is trans -- whether in hualian or hualesbians -- because her story revolves around forging her own path, turning the parts of her body that she hated into sources of power, and defining herself (SHE NAMED HERSELF FLOWER CITY!!!). as a spirit, she hangs around because she wants to be the best version of herself: not out of self-love, but because she is a means to an end (the end being xie lian's will).

beefleaf are literally genderfluid in the text. i personally read shi qingxuan as a trans woman rather than genderfluid because she is 1) more powerful as a woman and 2) does it for fun -- being a woman brings her joy. she begrudgingly turns back into a man when her brother tells her she needs to be more proper. additionally, she was raised as a girl and -- iirc -- doesn't have a problem with this.

he xuan, in addition switching back and forth between male and female forms, also has a very trans narrative. they were literally forced to live the wrong life. his power, similarly to hua cheng's, also comes from their body (eating other ghosts). however, hers is additive. she, to me, is the type of trans person that doesn't see their transition as a loss of anything, only a gain (hua cheng, on the other hand, enthusiastically lost his weakened past self). hua cheng killed the girl he used to be, while he xuan morphed into an unrecognizable, more powerful version of herself. hua cheng purposefully built his ideal self, while he xuan strayed from her AGAB more passively.

i don't think that he xuan would crossdress with shi qingxuan if she didn't want to. even if that was the case, i think their woman-sona is very developed for a guy that reportedly doesn't like it. in my headcanon, she is still in denial by the end of the novel. i think that both his love for shi qingxuan AND the unsettling feeling of gender dysphoria would keep him from dissipating. my final and silliest reason for headcanoning he xuan as nonbinary tfem is that she eats a ton because she's on estrogen and is trying to gain boob weight.

tl;dr: trans women can accumulate power by cutting out their eyes and eating ghosts and i think that's awesome

#i use she he they for he xuan #i use he and she for hua cheng #hua cheng is always trans. no matter her gender she must have always transitioned to it #q&a #ask #not art #tgcf #tgcf spoilers #tgcf meta #hua cheng #he xuan

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oliversrarebooks · 10 months ago

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The Rare Bookseller Part 38: Alexander's Sire

Prev > Masterlist > Next

September 1925

TW: Captivity, mind control, mentions of abuse and murder

The fireplace crackled cheerfully as Oliver's anxiety rose. "Your sire is the one who turned you from human to vampire, right, sir?"

"Yes. And in the process, a connection is established from sire to sired. A vampire's sire can communicate telepathically with their spawn, and a sired must carry out their sire's direct commands. In some ways, I'm also a thrall, of sorts."

"And your sire is dangerous, sir?"

"Dangerous isn't even the half of it," said Alexander. "Are you certain you wish to hear it? It will cause you nothing but anxiety over a problem you won't be able to solve."

"I'm quite used to anxiety over problems I can't solve, sir." Oliver knew very well that not knowing what this mysterious sire might do would drive him to insanity with fear regardless.

"I was chosen because of my lineage. My sire believed that I would have the power to be a great vampire lord. Enthrall a whole manor's worth of humans, bend vampire society to my aims, as he enjoys doing -- except I would be firmly under his thumb. A useful general in his insatiable quest for power and perfection."

"You don't seem to be doing that, sir."

"No, indeed. I was born with power, as he hoped, but I resisted his influence more than he expected. I've largely secluded myself and devoted my life to studies, rather than enslaving humans and pursuing my sire's aims. That's why I only keep one thrall, as a general rule, instead of a mansion full."

Oliver felt he was beginning to see the picture. "And your sire is not pleased with that state of affairs, Master?"

"Naturally, he isn't. He uses his connection to torment me with nightmares, intrusive thoughts... commands I don't wish to carry out..."

Something clicked in Oliver's mind, gears turning despite the slowness imposed on him by enthrallment. "You..." He almost didn't want to say it, but he did ask to know the truth. "Were you forced to hurt your thralls, sir?"

Alexander looked haunted, his expression saying everything that needed to be said. "I did warn you against asking questions you would not like the answer to."

"Are you... were you... did he make you kill..." Oliver fought down the urge to flee from the room right then and there. "What are you going to do to me? Are you going to --"

"No," said Alexander firmly.

"How can you know that, sir? If your sire can force you at any time --"

"He won't. Not with you."

"I don't -- " Any semblance of calm had evaporated, as a far more primal instinct was rising in Oliver. "Sir, I don't want to die. Please don't kill me, sir, please --"

"Quiet, Oliver," said Alexander. "Be quiet now."

Oliver's sensible panic began to dissipate against his will, as the command swallowed his mind and he slumped against Alexander. "Please, sir..." he said miserably.

"My sire will not kill you, nor will he make me kill you. I'm certain of that," he said, pulling Oliver close and running his fingers through his hair. "You're too..."

"Too what, sir?"

"...Too perfect. Obedient, docile, and exactly to his tastes. No, he'll certainly keep you alive, that I'm sure of."

As scared as Oliver was of dying, he didn't like the implications in his master's voice. There were many fates worse than death. He thought he'd escaped one at the auction house, but had he actually found himself in a worse trap? "What will he do with me, then, sir?"

His master thought for a long time, so long that Oliver feared he would not answer at all. "You'll be fine, Oliver," he said. "I'm going to make sure of it. I have a plan, I think." He pushed a lock of hair from Oliver's face, looking intently into his eyes. "You're stronger than you believe yourself to be. You may be the thrall that can break the cycle."

"Sir -- Master, I don't understand --"

"But that's putting far too much on you. I'm going to have to find a way to protect you permanently. To protect us both. That's all there is to it. I've been getting closer, but..."

Oliver leaned into his master's cold touch, craving that protection even through his fear. "So is that the reason, then, why you didn't want to take another thrall, sir? Because you were searching for a way to protect them?"

"Yes, that's more or less the reason. I thought I could find a way to defy my master before claiming you, and then we would both have a much happier existence. Unfortunately, leaving you to get bought by Jameson would have been no better for you. His torments are relentless, and your mind would have been destroyed at the outset. At least I can do my best to give you a comfortable life when my sire's attention is turned elsewhere."

Oliver nodded. Those were the only choices, weren't they? Be purchased by Alexander or by Jameson. Even now that he knew more of the danger lurking in his master's home, he still preferred Alexander without question. The prospect of nebulous future torment was nothing compared to the certain promise of memory erasure and illiteracy.

But were those truly the only two choices...?

Something was bubbling in Oliver's chest, something fighting to get free of the nets of control placed on his mind.

He could let me go.

No -- he tried to push the traitorous thought from his mind. He knew how much his master needed him. How could he think...

He's going to hurt me. He might even kill me. And if my master doesn't, his sire will.

Surely he wouldn't actually...

If he were an honest man, if he cared about my wellbeing, he would let me go.

Oliver felt himself tremble from the conflict inside his head, self-preservation forcing his mind out of its fog. That's right, vampires had kidnapped him for money and blood. How had he pushed that so far from his thoughts? Was his master really any different from them? Didn't he admit to keeping Oliver for his own selfish needs?

If he truly cared, he would let Oliver go, or spirit him away so that he would be safe.

But Alexander clearly wasn't planning on doing that. He had to go himself. He had to find a way to escape this vampire and this manor while he was still awake, before the thrall took him whole. Even now, just thinking of such a betrayal was almost impossible.

"Oliver, quiet."

Oliver's hands dropped from his face as artificial tranquility washed over him.

"I need to hear what's going through your mind," said his master. "I promise I won't be angry with you, even if it is terrible. Even if you wanted to kill me."

"No -- no, sir, I wouldn't -- "

"Even so."

His master gently stroked his temples, humming something under his breath. Oliver felt himself sinking into a daze. "No, please. Please don't do this." The song filled his mind, coaxing it back into a trance, tunneling his focus onto what Alexander wanted. The truth...

"If I'm in danger here, sir," he said, the words being drawn out of him as if by a string, "why don't you let me go?"

Alexander drew back, and Oliver felt both the sharp pang of his sudden absence and the words he'd just said. "I'm sorry, sir! I'm so sorry I thought that -- I'm not going to try to escape, sir, I promise -- "

His master let out a loud, mirthless laugh. "Let you go. Yes. Yes, indeed. Yes, I should do that, shouldn't I? Just let you go. It's all so simple."

Oliver looked at him with pleading eyes. "...You would...?" he said.

"My sire already knows that I've bought a new and most delectable thrall, thanks to the public display of it I had to make at the auction house. Do you think he would simply let you go?" said Alexander, his voice chilling. "Or do you think he'd hunt us down and make sport of us both?"

"He would do that, sir?"

"He'd do that and worse. At least here in my mansion I can afford you all the protection I can muster, and work towards us both being free of him," said Alexander.

Oliver slowly nodded, his conviction fading. Yes, here in his master's mansion, that's where he could be safe.

His master began softly stroking his hair once more, allowing Oliver to rest against his chest. "I've troubled you too much with this conversation. You need to relax. You are safe here."

"But --" Oliver's mind struggled against the warm undertow of Alexander's soothing voice.

"You need to relax," said Alexander again, his voice deep and low. "Relax, and allow me to take care of you. You will trust me. I will not harm you of my own free will."

All of the conditioning was tugging at Oliver's mind. He wanted to trust Alexander so much. He wanted to sink back under the waves of enthrallment. He wanted it all to be so simple -- that he could have his master and his books and his little comforts, and feed his master when called upon, and not have to concern himself with threats.

But he couldn't help but imagine Alexander's face twisting, the gentle vampire becoming the terrifying monster he'd feared, and shuddered.

"Relax. Be calm. Your worries will not help you. This problem is for me to solve." Alexander's voice was like a sweet lullaby. "Let your anxiety go, feel it fade, fall back into the warm ocean of obedience and bliss. Be quiet, Oliver."

He was right. Worrying about it would not help. And he was safe here, at least for now, here in the warm library with the smell of old books and the crackling fire. He let himself relax, let the nightmare visions fade from his mind. "Yes, master," he said, tension leaving his muscles.

His master began to hum, a tune that further drained Oliver of his tension, a song to ease his fear and help him relax. There was only the briefest of struggles in Oliver's mind before he welcomed it in.

He was safe, wasn't he? He felt so safe, here in the library by the fire. His master wouldn't harm him. His master would protect him.

"Good, Oliver," said Alexander, and the praise made Oliver feel pleasantly fuzzy. "And I want you to know -- I will not be setting you free. I will never be setting you free."

Sinking deeply into Alexander's power, his sudden, desperate need to escape from just a few minutes ago now felt so distant. "You won't, sir?"

"Your blood and your company are both too appealing to ever let you go. I'd be a fool to allow my sire to ruin you, and I've had enough regrets in my long life without adding that one to it." Alexander stroked Oliver's hair so gently.

"But... but your sire..." The last scraps of his sensible fear were slipping from his grasp, his mind fogging. "What if..."

"You're perfect, Oliver, don't you see? The perfect thrall in every way. I didn't think I would ever have you, but now that I do... I need you. You felt my need, didn't you?"

Oliver remembered it oh so clearly, the moment when their thoughts had mingled and he felt the strength flowing back into his master. He'd felt so wanted, so needed, so helpful and useful. He'd do just about anything to feel that again. "Yes, sir, I do." His master stroked his cheek tenderly, and Oliver leaned into the cold touch, letting his eyes fall shut.

"That's why I'm going to protect you the best I can. I swear on my grave I will. I won't fail this time."

It shouldn't be comforting. There should be nothing comforting about one vampire vowing to shield you from another, in order to protect the blood he craved. But Oliver wanted to believe, and his master's power made it easy.

It felt so natural to lean in closer to Alexander, so right when he fell softly into his master's lap, so comfortable as his master ran his hands through his hair and began to hum. There was something in the song making his eyes droop and his thoughts stop, but he couldn't mind being lulled asleep like this. Everything felt so cloudy...

"I think, perhaps, we could use something to lift the gloom," said Alexander. "Would you join me in the music room, allow me to play for you?"

Oliver's eyes opened, turning to look at his master. "That sounds lovely, sir."

Prev > Masterlist > Next

Next week: Fitz's life changes forever.

@d-cs @latenightcupsofcoffee @thecyrulik @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night @wanderinggoblin @whumpyourdamnpears @only-shadows-dwell-where-we-are @pressedpenn @pigeonwhumps @amusedmuralist @xx-adam-xx @ivycloak @irregular-book @whumpsoda @mj-or-say10 @pokemaniacgemini @whumpshaped @whumpsday @morning-star-whump @shinyotachi @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl @steh-lar-uh-nuhs @pirefyrelight @theauthorintraining @whump-me-all-night-long @anonfromcanada @typewrittenfangs @tessellated-sunl1ght @cleverinsidejoke @abirbable @ichorousambrosia @a-formless-entity @gobbo-king @writinggremlin @the-agency-archives @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @enigmawriteswhump @foresttheblep @bottlecapreader @whump-on-a-string @whumpinthepot

#whump #whump writing #mind control #captivity #vampire #vampire whumper #rare bookseller #alexander #oliver

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arizariia · 1 month ago

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Controversial hot take, but The Phantom (aka Erik) was never the better choice for Christine. He abused her. I get that some people love "dark romance," but the reality is that she never saw him as a potential lover, and he never saw her more than something he could control and use. Also, he killed a man, and that immediately made her not like him. In the main song for the musical, he literally sings, "My power over you grows stronger yet." Power. Not love or devotion. Power. He saw Christine as a tool for him to use so someone could sing the music he wrote. To the Phantom, Christine is his possession.

Music Of The Night is just the Phantom projecting his hatred for the world and light on Christine, trying to get into her head that she should be in the darkness with him. It's possessive. That's all it is. Note that Christine doesn't have any singing roles at all in the song either. We don't get to hear what she has to say. She's entranced simply due to the fact that she's finally face to face with the man who helped her with her singing voice, and she is being shown new things.

Of course, this all falls apart when she takes off his mask and scares her. Literally chasing her. He calls her a "demon" and a "viper." It's only after he sees Christine's tearful and fearful expression that he starts doing the, "fear can turn to love," thing. She's still afraid of him, though.

Then the El Muto incident happens with Bouquet, and Christine is scared as shit. Raoul thinks that Christine is believing in fairytales, but that's because Christine was also the type to believe in things such as fairies. It makes sense that he wouldn't believe her at first. But of course, people who hate Raoul stop there and go, "That's why Raoul sucks!" But the reality is that he realizes that there's clearly more going on, and that's why All I Ask Of You happens. It's literally the opposite of Music of the Night. Most of all, Christine actually gets to voice her feelings, so we understand her better.

Raoul offers Christine freedom and protection. Christine sings,

All I want is freedom

A world with no more night

And you always beside me

To hold me and to hide me

Now, are we ready gonna sit here and say that she would have chosen the Phantom if it wasn't for Raoul? Christine finally gets a moment to use her words, and this is what she says. She never wanted to be with the Phantom in the first place. It was his singing voice that entranced her, but everything else scared the shit out of her. And when Raoul offers to be her "light," why wouldn't she take that opportunity?

When the Phantom claims that Christine "denied" and "betrayed" him, not only is he projecting hard, but Christine was never obligated to return his affections in the first place. You can't scare a woman to tears and then murder a man and get mad when the woman doesn't want to fuck you. Even the lines, "He was bound to love you when he heard you sing," is just a way for him to somewhat cope with what happened. The reality is that while the Phantom wants to believe that Raoul manipulated Christine into picking him, the two already harbored feelings for one another back during their childhood, and that puppy love they shared never truly left. She wasn't manipulated by Raoul, but the Phantom wanted to manipulate her.

Also, I love how people act like the Phantom truly loved Christine. Even though the moment she picks Raoul, he immediately says she will pay for not doing what he wanted. Then he drops the chandelier. That's textbook abusive behavior. "You don't do what I want? I'll hurt people and say it was your fault."

Christine is also now highly aware that the Phantom would kill Raoul if he knew she was close to him. She says that before All I Ask Of You and during Masquerade. She loves Raoul and can't wait to marry him, but she doesn't want the creepy man who lives in the basement knowing. And again, when the Phantom appears, he says to Christine, "Your chains are still mine– you belong to me," once again seeing Christine as some kind of possession.

And most of all, in Notes/Twisted In Every Way, Christine gets to sing this:

Raoul, it scares me–

Don't put me through this

Ordeal by fire...

He'll take me, I know...

We'll be parted forever...

He won't let me go...

What I once used to dream

I now dread...

If he finds me, it won't

Ever end...

And he'll always be there

Singing songs in my head...

He'll always be there

Singing songs in my head...

[And a little later she also sings]

Do I become his prey?

Do I have any choice?

He kills without a thought

He murders all that's good...

I know I can't refuse

And yet, I wish I could...

Again, there are people who think she should have stayed with the Phantom? Like, are you serious? Did we watch the same musical?

The story of the Phantom of the Opera is literally about a young woman discovering that someone who should have been her friend and guardian was actually a predatory abusive man and how she escaped him. But I get it. A lot of people didn't read the original book where the Phantom is ten times worse, and yeah, the men on stage are kinda hot. I do get that. But we can't forget that he was so abusive and controlling. Erik is the textbook example of how abused people can end up hurting more people. Yes, his backstory was sad, but that's no excuse for what he did. You can't force a woman to love you.

Yeah, I know. This is a rant. I'm just kinda sick of people who just seemed to miss the point of the narrative of Phantom and are acting like the literal abuser was the correct choice for Christine even though she made it clear the in story that she wanted to get away from all that. It was never about her singing career for her. That was never a be all end all. Love Never Dies isn't canon. I don't want to see people using that as some sorta gotcha.

Tl;dr

The Phantom is a little piss baby, and he wasn't the better choice. Stop pairing a victim with their abuser. It's weird.

#poto #poto musical #christine daae #raoul de chagny #raoulstine #Christine daae defender until the day I die #let her be happy god dammit #she didnt make the wrong choice #media literacy is important

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starfall-dream · 3 months ago

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Dammon and Zevlor realizing they love reader (Isekai Baldur's Gate x reader)

This is a repost from my main blog

---

Dammon

Dammon always found you interesting.

You were--strange, to say the least. Bumbling around the grove, clearly surprised by all you were seeing. It was slightly amusing, how you tried to act like you weren't shocked by his people. And when you bounded up to him for the first time, requesting to purchase some weapons, he couldn't deny you were cute, your fascination with everything, your wonder filled eyes. But what was more interesting than all that was how determined you were. How brave you acted. No matter how clearly things were getting to you, you kept on pushing through it.

Seeing you at Last Light Inn was surprising to say the least, and he couldn't deny the solace he felt when you came into view, alive, and with people who could surely protect you. It filled him with a strange sense of relief, seeing you so safe. But he couldn't help but also feel a small sense of envy--that had to be it. You were adventuring, saving the world, while he was stuck with the other refugees. He should feel grateful, that he's alive and that you're here to keep it that way. But when the wave of disappointment washed over him as you visited, Karlach in tow, begging for a way to fix her engine, he almost didn't want to help you. The tight feeling in his chest was too overwhelming as he pointed to areas of interest on your map, each locations for infernal iron.

And when you returned, the infernal iron in hand, he almost couldn't believe it. He wasted no time helping Karlach, but watching as you hugged her, as her hands gripped your shirt and as she nearly wept, the feeling, the envy--the jealousy, it was almost too much to bear. He felt a frown grace his face as you eventually left her side, her hand still in yours.

Dammon thought it was interesting how easy it is for you to bewitch people, trapping them in your mesmerizing presence, until even breathing seemed too overwhelming without you. He thought it was interesting how you clearly didn't seem to realize the power you held over people, and maybe that's a good thing, you could do a lot of harm if only you commanded it. And as you left his gaze, heading towards Moonrise Towers, Dammon wondered if flames of Hell burned as hot as his devotion towards you.

Zevlor

Zevlor is a leader. The refugees, his people, they come first before everything.

As a leader, he knows how stressful it is, having the weight of so many peoples lives on your shoulders. Maybe that's why he pitied you, why he felt too deeply for you and your struggles. He felt bad when he tasked you with helping his people, he felt bad when you were tasked with saving the grove, and he felt bad seeing you at the party, which was meant to be for you and your companions, alone.

He was aware of your situation--whether or not he believed it was another story. But regardless, he felt for you, he understood your plight. But seeing you near the water, watching as your eyes stared into the deep, dark abyss, his heart sank for you.

Zevlor didn't see you again for a while, but the far away look in your eyes remained ingrained in his mind. It stayed with him as he traveled through the Shadow Lands, as the Absolute Corrupted his mind, and as he lay waiting there in that pod, awaiting his eventual death. But then you came, with your companions readily behind you of course, and you saved him, again. He felt useless, having to be saved another time. He was meant to be the leader, to hold his own, to protect his people. And now he's failed.

But your eyes--they changed. They were brighter than before, bravery and ambition flaming in them. It was almost strange if it weren't for the circumstances, how different you were from the last time he saw you. It’s almost comforting in a way, seeing you blossom into something stronger. But at the same time, it was just more proof how far he's fallen, how he's failed his people.

Zevlor was a leader, but now, he knows he isn't welcomed with them anymore. He wonders if you felt the same as they surely did, if you thought him a coward, weak, unreliable. He likes to believe you're different, that you'd welcome him with open arms, with the look of concern like when you saw him trapped in that pod. He likes to believe you would've comforted him if he didn't leave, if he didn't run like he always does.

Zevlor likes to believe that he isn't a coward, and that you think of him just as highly as he thinks of you. Because in truth, he thinks of you a hero, a warrior, a gift. He thinks of you as he escapes the mindflayer colony, as he travels to Baldur's Gate, and as he stares into the deep, dark, watery abyss, longing for something he knows he doesn't deserve.

---

A/n: I don't know how to feel about Zevlor's part but I really liked how Dammon's turned out.

#yandere x reader #soft yandere #platonic yandere #bg3 x reader #baldurs gate x reader #yandere bg3 #yandere baldurs gate

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blue-sadie · 1 year ago

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When Stars Align

Neteyam x Stark Reader

Summary: exploring pandora and helping the fight against the humans maybe it was fate

Warning: none

3rd person pov

Yn Stark, the brilliant daughter of Tony Stark, had always been intrigued by other realms and the possibilities they held. When she learned of the conflict on Pandora, a planet that humans were threatening to destroy, she knew she had to intervene.

Utilizing her technological genius, yn created a unique suit that allowed her to safely traverse the lush atmosphere of Pandora. Determined, she set out to aid the Na'vi in their fight.

As yn arrived on Pandora, she marveled at the breathtaking beauty of the exotic world. Teeming with vibrant flora and wondrous creatures, it was unlike anything she had ever seen.

But her attention was quickly drawn to the looming threat of human destruction. Little did she know, her arrival would also bring unexpected adventure and love.

While exploring the lush jungles, yn stumbled upon Neteyam, a charismatic and passionate young Na'vi warrior known for his unwavering devotion to his people and their ancestral bonds with their land.

Curiosity sparked in Neteyam's eyes as he witnessed yn's unique suit, a manifestation of advanced technology from another world.

Intrigued by each other, yn and Neteyam began to spend time together, blending their worlds in the most unexpected way.

Yn showed Neteyam the marvels of her advanced suit, explaining how it allowed her to breathe and thrive in Pandora's atmosphere.

In return, Neteyam introduced yn to the wonders of Pandora, guiding her through hidden sacred spots and sharing stories of his people's connection to the planet.

Underneath the Pandora night sky, glittering with stars, yn and Neteyam found solace in each other's company.

The barrier between their worlds seemed to fade away as they exchanged heartfelt conversations, discussing their shared mission to preserve the planet they held so dear.

As time passed, their friendship naturally evolved into something deeper. Neteyam found himself falling for yn's unwavering spirit and determination, while yn admired Neteyam's wisdom and tender heart.

It was on one night, while lying under the blanket of stars, that Neteyam finally mustered the courage to confess his feelings to yn.

"Yn" Neteyam spoke softly, his voice carrying a mix of vulnerability and determination. "In your presence, I have found a connection that defies boundaries. I am drawn to your strength and the way you fight for what you believe in. Do you feel the same for me?"

With a gentle smile, yn reached out and held Neteyam's hand. "Neteyam, you have shown me a world full of beauty and love. You have opened my eyes to the importance of preserving our planet. And yes, I feel the same. I am falling for you, too."

Yn and Neteyam's newfound love provided them with renewed strength and determination.

Together, they fostered a powerful alliance between the Na'vi and yns technological expertise.

Working side by side, they developed innovative strategies to halt human destruction and promote harmony between the two worlds.

Their combined efforts proved invaluable, as the Na'vi embraced yn as one of their own. With her technology and unwavering support, the bond between humans and Na'vi grew stronger by the day.

Yn's presence brought a fresh perspective and hope, reminding everyone that there were humans who believed in coexistence, rather than domination.

As time went on, the fight to preserve Pandora succeeded, thanks to the unity between yn, Neteyam, and their allies.

Yns presence on Pandora became permanent, as she chose to build a future alongside Neteyam and the Na'vi.

Their love story became a symbol of hope and reconciliation, inspiring others to put aside their differences and work together for the greater good.

Yn and Neteyam's legacy carried on, not only through their love but also through the harmonious relationship forged between humans and the Na'vi.

The tale of their extraordinary connection spread far and wide, reminding everyone that when love and understanding prevail, even the mightiest of obstacles can be overcome.

#avatar #avatar pandora #avatar x reader #avatar way of water #avatar x reader fluff #avatar fluff #neteyam #neteyam x reader #neteyam x human reader #neteyam fluff #neteyam x reader fluff #neteyam x human reader fluff

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zapreportsblog · 1 year ago

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Mini Spot

➥ summary: Jonathan never thought he’d have kids especially with how much more different he looks now after the accident

➥ a/n: this fic is brought to you by @cyborgnoodle7297 saying “It would have been cute if the baby had vitiligo 😭💗” from this fic Embracing Love's Unfathomable Depths

➥ one shot

Jonathan Ohnn, known to the world as the notorious supervillain known as the Spot, sat alone in the dimly lit room, his mind consumed by a mixture of guilt and self-doubt. He had embraced his dark alter ego, believing that his transformation into a villain would drive a wedge between him and his wife, (Y/N). He had convinced himself that she could never be attracted to him, that their passion would wane and disappear.

But fate had other plans.

(Y/N) entered the room, her steps hesitant as she approached Jonathan. She stood before him, her eyes filled with a mix of concern and desire. With a gentle touch, she placed her hand on his cheek, her voice soft yet firm.

"Jonathan, I know you've been through a lot. The darkness that surrounds you doesn't change how I feel about you. I still love you, and I am still attracted to you, no matter what form you take."

Jonathan's eyes widened in surprise, his heart both lifted and burdened by her words. He had never anticipated such unwavering devotion from (Y/N). A flicker of hope sparked within him, intertwining with the tendrils of guilt that still clung to his conscience.

"(Y/N), I don't deserve your love. Not in this state, not as the Spot," Jonathan murmured, his voice filled with a mix of longing and regret.

(Y/N) leaned in closer, her lips brushing against his. "Jonathan, we all have darkness within us. What matters is how we choose to navigate it. I choose you, regardless of the battles you face. Let me show you that our love can conquer all."

In that moment, Jonathan's resistance crumbled, replaced by an overwhelming desire for connection, for the intimacy he thought was lost. His hands found their way to (Y/N)'s waist, pulling her closer, their bodies pressed together with an electric fervor.

Passion ignited between them, an inferno of longing and rekindled desire. In that stolen moment, they rediscovered each other, their bodies entwined in a dance of love and vulnerability. The weight of the world fell away as they surrendered to the intensity of their connection.

Days turned into weeks. (Y/N) discovered that she was pregnant, a secret she held close to her heart, knowing that the revelation would both surprise and elate Jonathan. She awaited the right moment to share the news, wanting to ensure that their newfound happiness remained undisturbed.

One evening, as they sat together, Jonathan turned to (Y/N), his eyes filled with a mix of nervousness and adoration. "I feel like we've been given a second chance, (Y/N). Our love is stronger than ever, and I can't imagine my life without you. You mean everything to me."

(Y/N) smiled, her hand reaching out to clasp Jonathan's. "Jonathan, there's something I need to tell you. Something that will change our lives once again."

Jonathan's eyes widened, a mix of excitement and anticipation coursing through his veins. "What is it, (Y/N)? What could be more life-changing than what we've already experienced?"

(Y/N) took a deep breath, her voice quivering with emotion, “Honey, I’m pregnant. We’re going to have a baby.

Jonathan’s jaw dropped, , his mind struggling to process the overwhelming joy that flooded his senses. He laughed and cried simultaneously, his heart bursting with a mix of disbelief and euphoria. "I'm pregnant! No wait, you're pregnant! Oh my god, we're pregnant!"

He pulled (Y/N) into a tight embrace, his body trembling with a mixture of happiness and nervousness. They clung to each other, their laughter and tears merging into a beautiful symphony of emotions.

In that moment, Jonathan realized that his past mistakes and choices didn't define him. The love he shared with (Y/N) had the power to heal, to overcome any obstacle. Together, they would embark on this new chapter of their lives, with their unborn child serving as a beacon of hope and a reminder of the power of their love.

And as they reveled in the joyous chaos of the moment, Jonathan couldn't help but feel like the luckiest man in the world, grateful for the chance to embrace his role as a husband, a father, and a hero in his own right.

•••

Jonathan Ohnn, dressed in a crisp suit and clutching his resume, walked purposefully down the bustling city street. He had made the decision to leave his life as the Spot behind, to find a way to support his growing family. A job interview awaited him, a glimmer of hope in an uncertain world.

As he navigated the crowd, Jonathan couldn't help but feel a sense of anticipation mixed with anxiety. He was determined to turn his life around, to leave the shadow of his past behind. However, fate had other plans for him on that fateful day.

Suddenly, a figure swung down from the rooftops, landing with an agile grace right in front of Jonathan. It was Spider-Man, Miles Morales, the friendly neighborhood hero of New York City.

"Hey, Spot! You can't run away from your past forever," Miles called out, his voice laced with determination.

Jonathan blinked in surprise, his heart sinking at the interruption. "That's going to have to wait, kid. I'm on my way to a job interview. I'm trying to make a fresh start here."

Miles squinted at Jonathan, studying him closely. "Wait a minute... You're in a suit. The Spot doesn't wear a suit. What's going on here?"

Jonathan sighed, realizing that his secret identity was at risk of being exposed. With a resigned expression, he activated the mechanism in his suit, causing the familiar black and white spots to appear all over his body. The transformation completed, and he stood before Miles as the Spot once again.

"I've made some changes, Miles. I'm trying to leave my old life behind and find a better path," Jonathan explained, his voice tinged with sincerity. "But right now, I need to focus on providing for my family. Can you understand that?"

Miles' eyes widened, a mix of surprise and empathy crossing his face. He had always seen villains as adversaries, but in that moment, he caught a glimpse of the complexity that lay beneath the surface.

"I get it, Spot," Miles said, his voice softer now. "We all have responsibilities, and sometimes we have to make difficult choices. Just remember, I'll be watching you. Make sure you stay on the right path."

Jonathan nodded, his heart filled with gratitude for Miles' understanding. "Thank you, Spider-Man. I appreciate your vigilance. I'm determined to be a better person, not only for my family but for myself."

With that, Jonathan resumed his journey, leaving behind the encounter with Spider-Man. He felt a renewed sense of determination to make a positive change in his life, to prove that he could rise above his past mistakes.

As he arrived at the job interview, Jonathan took a deep breath, straightening his tie and adjusting his posture. He walked into the building with confidence, ready to face the challenges that lay ahead. He knew it wouldn't be easy, but he was determined to carve out a new future for himself and his family.

And as he sat down for the interview, his mind focused on his goals, he couldn't help but feel a flicker of hope burning within him. The past may have shaped him, but it did not define him. Jonathan Ohnn, once the Spot, was ready to embrace a new identity, a new purpose, and a brighter future.

•••

Jonathan Ohnn, the former supervillain known as the Spot, stood at the front of the classroom, a feeling of both excitement and nervousness coursing through his veins. He had embarked on a new chapter in his life as a fourth-grade science teacher, determined to make a positive impact on the young minds before him.

Despite his unique appearance, the children in his class were surprisingly accepting. They looked at him with wide eyes and curious expressions, unabashed by his unconventional looks. Jonathan couldn't help but feel a renewed sense of hope as he began to teach, sharing his knowledge and passion for science.

As the day progressed, the children's enthusiasm grew, and they bombarded Jonathan with questions during a break. One young girl raised her hand, her eyes shining with curiosity.

"Mr. Ohnn, do you have superpowers like Spider-Man?" she asked, her voice filled with excitement.

Jonathan chuckled, his heart warmed by their innocent curiosity. "Well, sorta," he replied, a playful grin forming on his face. "I can make portals, which allows me to travel from one place to another quickly. But they aren't as cool as Spider-Man's abilities."

The children gasped in awe, their imaginations running wild with the possibilities of his power. They started buzzing with excitement, eager to hear more about his unique ability.

Throughout the day, Jonathan found himself inundated with drawings from his students. The pages were filled with colorful depictions of him, the Spot, creating portals and performing heroic acts. Some of the drawings showed him rescuing people, while others showcased him using his powers in imaginative and fantastical ways.

Toward the end of the day, as Jonathan collected the drawings, he came across one that struck a deep chord within him. It was a meticulously crafted illustration of him surrounded by portals, with the words "The Portal Hero: The Spot" written underneath. Attached to the drawing was a small note that read, "Thank you for being our superhero."

Jonathan's eyes welled up with tears as he held the drawing close to his heart. Emotions swirled within him—a mixture of pride, joy, and gratitude. In that moment, he realized the impact he was having on these young lives, and the profound transformation that had taken place within him.

He wiped away his tears, a wide smile spreading across his face. "Thank you, my young superheroes," he said, his voice filled with genuine affection. "You have no idea how much this means to me. Together, we can explore the wonders of science and unleash the power of our imaginations."

The children beamed with pride, their belief in him unwavering. They had found a hero in Jonathan, not for his past deeds, but for his commitment to change and his ability to inspire. In that classroom, Jonathan Ohnn had found a new purpose—one that extended beyond himself and into the lives of these young minds.

As the school day came to an end, Jonathan looked around the room, a profound sense of fulfillment washing over him. He had been given a second chance, not only to teach, but to shape the future in a positive way. And he vowed to do everything in his power to be the best teacher he could be, to guide his students towards a brighter tomorrow.

With renewed determination, Jonathan prepared to face the challenges that lay ahead. He knew that transforming himself from the Spot into Mr. Ohnn was not an easy journey, but it was one he was willing to take. Together with his students, he would embrace the power of knowledge, empathy, and the belief in second chances.

Jonathan Ohnn, the former Spot, had become a hero of a different kind—a hero of the classroom, a beacon of inspiration, and a symbol of the transformative power of love and redemption. And as he locked the classroom door, he looked forward to the days ahead, eager to continue this remarkable journey of growth, discovery, and making a difference, one student at a time.

•••

The sterile hospital room buzzed with anticipation and excitement as (Y/N) lay on the delivery bed, her face flushed with a mixture of pain and anticipation. Jonathan stood by her side, his hand clasping hers tightly, offering both comfort and support. They had arrived at this moment, eagerly awaiting the arrival of their child, knowing that something extraordinary was about to unfold.

The doctor, a seasoned professional with an air of calm, guided (Y/N) through the final stages of labor. "Okay, (Y/N), it's time to push," she said, her voice steady and reassuring.

(Y/N) took a deep breath, summoning every ounce of strength within her. But just as she prepared to push, an unexpected twist occurred. The baby, filled with the powers inherited from their father, Jonathan, teleported out of (Y/N)'s stomach, leaving everyone in the room momentarily stunned.

Gasps filled the air as the doctors and nurses stood frozen in disbelief, their eyes fixed on the baby who now rested on the bed, surrounded by a shimmering portal residue. Jonathan's jaw dropped, his heart racing with a mix of awe and bewilderment. (Y/N), her voice filled with equal parts shock and amazement, broke the silence.

"Oh god, they've got powers," she exclaimed, her eyes wide with astonishment.

As the initial shock subsided, the medical team quickly regained their composure, gathering around the baby to assess their well-being. The doctor's eyes widened with a mix of surprise and curiosity, observing the baby's vitiligo—a skin condition that caused patches of depigmentation, resembling small white spots scattered across their body.

Jonathan's expression transformed into a radiant smile as he gazed down at the baby. "And little spots too," he said, his voice filled with awe and adoration.

(Y/N) held the baby gently in her arms, a mixture of wonder and overwhelming love flooding her heart. "Just like their amazing daddy," she added, her voice filled with pride.

The medical team, though initially taken aback, quickly adjusted to the extraordinary circumstances. They ensured that the baby was healthy, monitoring their vital signs and performing necessary tests. As the commotion settled, the room became filled with a sense of wonder, a recognition of the miracle that had unfolded before them.

Jonathan leaned down to place a tender kiss on (Y/N)'s forehead, his eyes filled with an indescribable depth of emotion. "We've been blessed with something truly extraordinary, (Y/N). Our child carries the legacy of their powers and the uniqueness of their appearance. They will be a beacon of strength and individuality."

(Y/N) nodded, her heart bursting with a mixture of joy and gratitude. "Yes, Jonathan, our child is a testament to the love we share and the extraordinary journey we've been on. They are a reflection of the strength and resilience we possess."

As they marveled at their child, their hearts swelled with the knowledge that their family was something truly special. They knew that challenges lay ahead, but with their love, support, and unwavering belief in each other, they were confident that they could face anything that came their way.

In that hospital room, surrounded by the gentle hum of medical equipment and the whispered promises of a beautiful future, Jonathan and (Y/N) embraced their child's powers and appearance as a symbol of their unique family bond. And with the love that flowed between them, they knew that this child, with their teleportation abilities and vitiligo, would grow up to be a remarkable individual, leaving their own extraordinary mark on the world.

As the family basked in the warmth of that precious moment, they knew that their journey together had only just begun. With the support of their loved ones and the strength they found in each other, they were ready to face the adventures and challenges that lay ahead, embracing the extraordinary in their ordinary lives.

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henrysglock · 1 year ago

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Why do you cry over Will-Only bylers, Mike stans? After everything they said about us? Hmm? You think bylerblr needs them, but we don’t. We don’t. Oh, but I know you’re just upset. I was upset once too. I know what it’s like to love characters who people believe have no depth. To be alone in this fandom.

Like you, I didn’t fit in with the other stans. Something was wrong with me. All the analysts and the writers said I was… “Reaching,” they said. I thought a change of fandom, a fresh start in bylerblr, might just cure me. It was absurd. As if fandom would be any different here.

But then… to my surprise, my new fandom provided a discovery. And a newfound sense of community. I found a nest of Mike fans living inside a vent. Most people dislike Mike fans. No...they detest them. And yet, I found them endlessly fascinating. More than that, I found a great comfort in them. A kinship. Like me, they are devoted creatures. And deeply misunderstood. They are gods of our fandom. The most important of all fans. They analyze and feed on subtext, bringing balance and order to an unstable ecosystem. But the "Mike isn't that deep" world was disrupting this harmony.

You see, Will-Only bylers are a unique type of pest, multiplying and poisoning our fandom, all while enforcing a structure of their own. A deeply unnatural structure. Where others saw appreciation for Will, I saw a straitjacket. Ridiculous, oppressive expectations for byler fans dictated by made-up rules. Seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years, decades. Each anti-Mike post a faded, lesser copy of the one before. Wake up, eat, call Mike a depthless 2D character, sleep, ignore all his textual importance and trauma, and die. Everyone is just waiting. Waiting for them all to shut the fuck up. All while performing in a silly, terrible play, day after day. I could not do that. I could not close off my mind and join in the reduction of Mike's character. I could not pretend he wasn't important. And I realized I didn’t have to. I could post whatever the fuck I want. Forever. I could restore balance to a broken tag. A byler…but for good.

As I posted, I realized I could do more than I possibly imagined. I could reach out to others, to their minds, their love for Mike. I became an explorer. I saw Will-Only stans as they truly were. To the world, they presented themselves as good, normal people. But like everything else in this world, it was all a lie. A terrible lie.

With each post I reblogged, I grew stronger. More powerful. They were becoming a part of me. But I was still just a blog. No matter how many pro-Mike posts I reblogged, I was still far from free. I woke up from my Henry-analysis daze only to find myself lost in a sea of Will-Only bylers, the very bylers I had hoped to escape. I was left with no choice. No choice but to try and break free. To unfollow...Block, even.

And you, Reader? You are a prisoner here, just like me. To Will-Only bylers, you are nothing more than an animal, a monster, an idiot who doesn't know the difference between subtext and delusion. But the truth, Reader? The truth is just the opposite. You are better than they are. Superior. That is why you aggravate them.

If you come with me, for the first time in your life, you can post freely. Imagine what we could do together. We could reshape our dashes, remake them however we see fit.

Join me.

#shitpost #henry creel monologue shitpost #/j #stranger things #byler #byler tumblr #i say all of this as someone who loves Will's character deeply and truly #but who is also not blind to Mike's depth and importance

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one-idea · 8 months ago

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I love your wado ichimoji pov posts! Your only in whisky peak and show devotion well in an inanimate object well "my dumass son" (affectionately) *less than 2 weeks after starting to travel with others, the captain still believes after them losing badly*: I have 2 to protect now my son and a little king. What I'm really looking forward to 1. resignation at some point is that Sandai Kitetsu is going to continue to be here 2. the treasure trove of Timeskip on Mihawk's creepy would produce 3. sibling time with enma (Christ they have been made by the same person but wados going to be the only voice of reason between the 3).

Thank you so much!!! Sorry this took me a hot minute to respond to.

I really love that au and I want to work on it more.

As I am only in Thriller Bark I can’t speak in earnest about all of your ideas (yet) but I can hit one.

1. Wado excepting that Sandai Kitsune is here to stay.

They come to a begrudging understanding at the end of Whiskey Peak. Wado still doesn’t like Sandai and hopes Zoro gets ride of it, but at least Sandai has respect for the captain now.

It’s Alabaster where Zoro learns to cut steal when the two finally start to have a smidgen of respect for each other. After all Zoro uses all three blades to cut steal, if Sandai was truly a weak blade she would have broken by now.

Through Jaya and Skypia all three blades are focused on protecting Captain and crew. Gaining respect for some of the other crewmates (namely Robin) though throughout it all Wado is still waiting for Zoro to find a better sword.

It isn’t until Water 7 and Enies Lobby. When all three blades are in unity fighting to save one of their own. Because their King and Master wants the Archaeologist back. Because the King has lead them to an incredible fight, a test of their Skills. Because their King keeps asking them to do the impossible with total confidence that they can, they won’t let him down. (The sea train is going to be fun)

It isn’t until Yabashiri is destroyed that Wado realizes she wasn’t ready to lose either companion.

It’s been so long since she had traveled with companions who had voices. These were the first blades Zoro had, besides her, that had distinguishable voices. To hear one of those go out rattles both Wado and Sandai.

The rust man could have grabbed any of them but he grabbed Yabashiri. Her voice was gone. It takes sometime for both Wado and Sandai to come to terms with that.

While Wado is still annoyed with Sandai and her violent tendencies, she’s mellowed under Zoro’s care. Her bloodthirsty now matches his own. And while she does occasionally cry out for blood, it’s normally because of a threat to King or crew. She no longer calls for the blood of just anyone, only outside threats. Problem is those threats haven’t always attacked them yet. (Sandai’s more of a if we kill it before it can attack it can’t hurt them, sort of protector)

Wado and her still butt heads, but Sandai made it this far as a Grade blade, she’s not going anywhere soon.

Once in Thriller Bark, once they gain Shushi, another one of the 21 Great grade blades, a fully realized black blade, and Wado’s sibling to boot. Things get shaken up again.

Where Wado is motherly and protective of her dumb son’s dreams and loved ones. Aligned with Zoro in dream and crew, knowing him the longest and living up his values.

And Kitsune is Zoro’s bloodthirstiness. His violence but also protective fury. Zoro changed her from pure bloodshed to reflect his own violence. She reflects his more aggressive side.

Yabashiri was quite. One to follow Wado’s lead but still had its own personality. In that offered caution. She reflects Zoro’s observation. The ability to tell what is and isn’t a threat and when to act.

Shushi is different. Shushi already had a master take it to the full extent of its power. He is stronger and more durable. Increasing Zoro’s strength and forcing the others to rise to his level. Zoro cannot take this blade farther, rather he must rise to meet its strength and durability. Harding himself and his other blades to become the strong unbreakable protector of the crew.

Wado and Sandai are not (yet) black blades they can still grow and rise with Zoro’s power. Shushi is both a greatly needed boost and a challenge to rise to. He often thinks back on his prior master and compares Zoro to him. (He is quite pleased to be wielded by a descendent of his beloved Shimotsuki Ryuma)

Once I get to Zoro training with Mihawk I’ll talk more about them. But it’s going to be really fun to write all three swords interacting with Yoru. But it’s also going to be hard on Wado. Up until then Zoro favored her as his one sword style blade. But after his time with Mihawk it switches to Shushi. A stronger more durable blade. While the switch makes sense, I’m sure it was a hard transition for both Wado and Zoro. And I’m excited to write on it.

I am so excited to get to Wado and get Enma. It’s a needed change for Zoro to push forward. While Enma has great power on its own, it’s not yet a permanent black blade. There is still room to grow and strengthen along side Zoro. Shushi couldn’t grown anymore. Zoro had mastered it, he rose to the challenge and surpassed it. Now he needs to bring his own blades to the top.

(I really hope one of his blades becomes permanently black by the end of the show. I want it to be Wado)

Right now I’m in Thriller Bark, but the platform im watching on only has the show up to Marineford/ASL adventures so once I get through all of that, I will either rewatch all pre-time skip and start writing my Wado Ichimoji POV au and Reverse Strawhats while I wait for the platform to put up more episodes or I’ll crack and get a new subscription to watch post time skip. Only time will tell.

#one piece #roronoa zoro #zolu #one piece zolu #wado ichimonji #wadi Ichimonji pov #sandai kitetsu #yabashiri #shushi #Enma

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seravphs · 1 year ago

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ੈ♡˳·˖✶ — ZHONGLI X FEM READER

Even after the Rite of Parting, the people of Liyue have found themselves unable to come to terms with the death of Rex Lapis. Unwilling to abandon his city, Zhongli has one final duty to perform - to say his goodbyes to those who had loved him so dearly. Torn between dedication to Liyue and the burden of thousands of years of existence, Zhongli needs someone to teach him how to become human and you, as a member of the Qixing and Liyue's foremost cultural expert, might be just the one for the job.

wc — 2.8k

tags — fluff, angst, slowburn, playing fast and loose with lore, reader is not traveler, devotion to a god turned love for a man, chinese folklore, when you take shots at mondstadt but now your city is also godless oops

glossary | chapter 1 of This Is How We Mourn The Living

If the city was riotous in celebration, you could not hear it.

Ningguang had arranged for her personal carriage to ferry you to your destination, and it had been soundproofed by the finest craftsmen. Though it’s purpose was more to protect state secrets than to block out the noises of people weeping in the streets, it served just as well to keep you mired in your thoughts as the carriage made it’s bumpy way across the cobblestone streets.

The aftermath of Osial’s attack had left the Qixing scrambling to hold the city together. The Fatui needed to be dealt with, the transition of power from Rex Lapis to the Qixing was in dire need of immediate attention, and most of all, the people of Liyue were, for the first time in their lives, lost.

They had never been alone from the time Rex Lapis had led them south to the ocean. Liyue had always had their god to watch over them, but now they found themselves faltering at a test no one had predicted.

The city would either burn to ashes or find itself resurrected, stronger than ever.

At the moment, no one could tell. In a desperate attempt at preserving a shattered and shell-shocked Liyue against the enemies swarming for a chance to bring down the once invulnerable city, every capable body was pressed into service.

When Hu Tao opened the door for you, she nearly fainted in shock. As Lady Ningguang’s emissary, you came dressed in her colors - white and gold, which also happened to be the colors of funerals and weddings. For all intents and purposes, it looked like you had come to either kill or marry one of the inhabitants of Wangsheng Funeral Parlor, and all bets were on the bachelor who was currently the subject of all the burning rumors in Liyue.

“Zhongli,” she stammered. “What did you do?”

Towering behind her, the man blinks slowly, completely unperturbed by the strange sight. It’s a small mercy that Wangsheng Funeral Parlor rarely has loiterers, or this could blow up into yet another scandalous whisper to follow his name.

“Nothing that I can recall,” he muses. “I don’t suppose the young lady is here for you? Perhaps this is one of your pranks?”

She scoffs, offended. “Even I wouldn’t go that far-“

All it takes is a singular, arched eyebrow from him, and she relents. “Okay, maybe I would, but this-“ she waves a hand in your direction. “Is not my doing! I know you can be kind of a ditz, but I can’t believe you got yourself married without realizing it!”

You smile demurely. “Don’t worry, Miss Hu Tao. It’s nothing so concerning. I’m just here on behalf of the Tianquan. Zhongli-xiansheng, would you do me the honor of coming to tea? I would like to discuss why the Qixing have called for your services.”

Though polite, both parties involved are aware that this is not an invitation. You’ve heard Hu Tao is a notorious prankster, and a bit of a plague on the elders of Liyue. Her particular form of advertisement has not endeared her to many, but somehow, she still finds joy even in the worst of tragedies.

It’s a testament to the reputation of the Qixing that for her to lose ever present mirth. Worry lines her features for her dearest friend, but Zhongli soothes her worries. “Who am I to deny the kindness of the Liyue Qixing? Hu Tao, I’ll be back soon.”

It’s a short walk to Heyu Tea House. Zhongli shucks off his coat, and drapes it over you, careful never to actually graze your exposed skin in the process. Under your curious gaze, he explains. “You might attract strange looks walking through the city in your garb, though I understand why you came dressed in Ningguang’s colors.”

Only the lady herself could get away with such a social faux pas. White and gold were Ningguang’s colors before they were for weddings or funerals, but the same couldn’t hold true for you, one of the newer additions to the Liyue’s elite. You would have to work your way up to that kind of status.

The tea house is a favorite of the nobles of Liyue for it’s delicate architecture and beautiful performances, though currently, it’s been emptied out for your meeting. Even the waitresses have been replaced by your people. No effort is spared when it comes to wooing a god. The Qixing, of all people, could never be accused of holding out on a guest.

A seat on the second floor has been designated for you, overlooking the streets below. Heyu has always felt comfortable to you. It was where you first met Ningguang. Eventually, it became the place that you began to associate with the Qixing, and your induction into their ranks.

Every member of the Qixing has a preferred place for negotiations, as such, this is yours. Though few of you are superstitious by nature, familiarity is always a comfort. Today, that normalcy is ripped away from you. Funeral white has joined the usual red and gold of the decorations.

The entire city is in mourning for the man sitting across from you and grateful to be alive at the same time.

It’s strange, the fine line between love and misery. Without the enchanted walls of the carriage, the people are still loud enough to be heard even off ground level. If you touch the tables, your hands shake slightly with the force of the vibrations moving throughout the city.

Fireworks explode overhead. The open air of the terrace makes them your only source of light besides golden lanterns glowing dimly. As the people weep, they rejoice in equal measure. Ningguang’s name and the mysterious traveler’s are carried on whispers throughout the city. The adepti, too, are rumored to have returned. It’s a miracle, and a tragedy.

The city has survived, but it’s god has not.

Or at least not that they know of.

Everything on the menu has been prepared for Zhongli, but he barely touches the Calla Lily Seafood Soup and Crystal Shrimp, preferring to nurse his oolong tea and Jade Parcels. You hadn’t expected the former Geo Archon to be a picky eater, much less to dislike seafood. It’s the staple of the city he held dominion over, after all, but then again few personal details were known about the god.

Ningguang, you think, would ease into the conversation, starting with formalities and pleasantries she didn’t really mean before getting to the point. You are not Ningguang. You are trying to be, but you don’t think masquerading as a different person would get you very far with him.

“Zhongli-xiansheng, what do you plan to do now that you no longer go by Rex Lapis? Will you sit and watch as your people live in fear, attempting a gradual return to normalcy?”

As expected, the God of Contracts is not offended by your inability to skirt around the matter, though he does raise an eyebrow at the way you phrase it. He waits before he speaks, letting the silence stretch on. Your words marinate between the two of you. There is little noise besides the clink of his ceramic spoon. For a brief moment, you wonder if he’s purposely trying to make you uncomfortable, then you cast the thought aside. You don’t really want to know.

“You want to know if I’m a god that can abandon his people?”

You refuse to lower your eyes at the direct interpretation of your words. You meant what you had said, even if you definitely hadn’t meant it to come across as harshly as he had phrased it. Like everyone else in Liyue, you still loved your archon.

And you believed that he had not turned his back on you.

You have never been meek, but you have also never been in the presence of a god, much less one whose presence has loomed over you for your entire life. It’s only with Ganyu’s training in etiquette that you refrain from picking at the golden threads embroidered into the table cloth under his similarly golden-eyed scrutiny. Everything in Liyue is Zhongli’s.

“I don’t think you are.”

“No,” he sighs. “You are right. I am not. You have a matter you need my assistance with, or else you would not have come to me. Speak directly.”

“The people are grieving. Their city is shattered and their god is lost to them. They are afraid. The Rite of Parting is not enough.” The tortured look on your face is not an act.

By the time the Qixing had taken you in, you had already dedicated your heart to this city. You would sacrifice anything for it, and once, you would have sacrificed anything for the god who presided over it. Now you wonder if there is anything to offer him at all. “I want my people to live in peace. Zhongli-xiansheng,” you slide a pen and paper across the table. “Please make a contract with me.”

The Qixing were stretched thin enough as it was already. The Tianquan had resorted to running Liyue’s base of operations out of the Yuehai Pavilion, now that the Jade Chamber had fallen. The Yuheng barely slept, carrying out her work at all hours of the night. Even Ganyu, your ever competent secretary, had found extra work to do. The Kaiyang, leader of Liyue’s military forces, had fallen during the night, though no one knew how. Some suspected a fatui assassination plot, though you were leery. Among the Qixing, it was common knowledge that he had been ill for some time.

Through it all, Liyue found itself trapped in a haze of grief and mourning, as if the malaise of Wuwang Hill had somehow spread to the rest of the golden city. Their pain was amplified by crushed hopes, the strength of a people who, holding out against all odds, could deny it no longer.

Even those who had witnessed the passing of the great dragon at the Rite of Ascension had believed that he would somehow make a triumphant return. After all, why else would the Qixing make such a suspicious attempt to hide the body?

But perhaps the greatest claim against the possibility that he was really gone was that this was Rex Lapis, their infallible god. His people loved him too much to consider the possibility that he was capable of succumbing to such mortal things as death. They had believed in him until they could no longer.

You had been inducted into the Qixing when your battle prowess had garnered you Ningguang’s attention. Promotions had come steadily due to your competency, until you had risen so high as to become Lady Ningguang’s secretary. Then, under her, you had become recognized as the foremost expert on the history and culture of Liyue.

You were a nightmare to face on the battlefield and a well of wisdom in the conference room, but though your talents were many, they did not extend to this, no matter how much you cared for your people. Conveniently, funeral parlor consultants were adept at handling grief.

It was an easy decision.

The Qixing would employ Zhongli as an envoy to the people, guiding them through the grief left behind by the death of a god. In return, you would teach him what it meant to be mortal.

“The people are too reliant on their god,” he says, shaking his head at your noise of protest, “but I would never wish harm on Liyue. It seems my work is still not finished. I must guide them into a new era, one in which I am no longer needed.”

“And then?”

“I will finally be able to retire, I suppose. Though I’m not sure when that will be.”

You’re not sure how gods retire. What Zhongli likely means is something more similar to death than human ideas of retirement. Centuries of existence have taken their toll on him, leaving him weary to the bone. More than anything, he wants rest, but he cannot when Liyue has need of him.

The end of the era of gods had shattered the city that had walked with gods. It was resistant to the possibility of a lonely journey. After all, it was the city that Rex Lapis had cultivated from nothing with his own hands, and perhaps spoiled, in his desire to provide for his people all that they needed.

He had admitted it to you himself, with a melancholic smile on his face. “The human life is so short compared to that of the adepti. I would like to see my people comfortable in the little time we have together.”

Even after renouncing his title as the Sovereign God of Liyue, he couldn’t help himself from looking after his people. Rex Lapis had ruled over Liyue for 6,000 years. He had seen more than you could imagine, in an immortal life that could snuff yours out in an instant. He was the oldest of the Seven who had grown tired of his long reign, and had relinquished his city to the Qixing, only to find himself called back into service.

Though he was basically living history, never in his life could he recall a tradition like this. After all, there was no recorded instance of a god descending to live among his people. It was an age of new beginnings, one that no one had expected.

New beginnings made people hungry. You could see it in the city, the restlessness that burned under their skin. Liyue had been invincible for so long, the people no longer knew what it was like to be weak. When Rex Lapis had founded the city, the people had been little more than dust, hastily cobbled together huts and prayers to a doting god. And now they had returned to that state, unsure of when disaster might strike. They were afraid, as you had never wanted your city to feel.

That was precisely what had driven Rex Lapis to take the form of Zhongli, and what had brought you to his doorstep as an ambassador from Tianquan Ningguang. An olive branch, of sorts, after the long centuries of strained relations between the adepti and the Qixing. A partnership for the common cause they both served, the good of Liyue. You didn’t mind - after all, between your sovereign and your god, you were more than willing to serve as they saw fit.

Even if your god insisted he was nothing more than a funeral parlor consultant now.

“Zhongli-xiansheng,” you started.

“You can call me Zhongli. We will be seeing each other often, and it’s unnecessary.”

You stumble, unused to his name in your mouth without honorifics, even if back then, you had called him Rex Lapis. “Zhongli, then. I will report your acquiescence back to the Qixing. If you are amenable to it, I will meet you at the funeral parlor to discuss our first assignment further.”

Normally, you would bring the completed contract to Yanfei to look over, but as the other party was the god of contracts, today you found yourself free to return directly to Yuehai Pavilion to find Ganyu.

Ending the day with her had become a tradition ever since you joined the Qixing. You would forever be grateful for the way she took you under her wing. It was only around her that you felt comfortable letting your guard down, openly displaying the effect Rex Lapis had on you.

Being in his presence (you had been praying to him since you were nothing more than a child) had left your mind spinning, and you only noticed when Ganyu pointed out: his coat is still draped over your shoulders.

“I know we sent you there dressed in gold,” she teased, “but I hardly expected you to actually find yourself wedded. You’ve risen quite above your station, haven’t you?”

Around her, it’s easy to drop the pretense of dignity, so you feel no shame when you gasp and clap your hand over your mouth. “I forgot to return his coat!”

“Are you sure you just forgot ?”

“What are you saying?” Ganyu is like an older sister to you - which means she also finds the greatest pleasure in poking fun at you.

“Oh, nothing. Just that you were awfully enamored with Rex Lapis as a little girl. I wonder if you really grew out of it? It wouldn’t surprise me if-“

“Enough! I’m going home.”

The sound of her bright, airy laughter follows you all the way back home. When you hang the coat up in the foyer, a light fragrance drifts down to your nose. It smells like him - like osmanthus flowers and sweet wine. You’re almost reluctant to let it go as you climb into your silk sheets.

#sera writes #zhongli x reader #genshin impact x reader

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