#tw treating people as lesser

[rubberduckyrye]

I fell down a rabbit hole about Italian heritage and I think I've hurt myself in confusion--

[mochatsin]

WHEN MC COMES HOME INJURED

There are a lot of issues that you can come across as a human in Devildom and sometimes, the brothers aren’t really prepared for the worst case scenarios. One day they find you at home injured from other demons, how will they respond to this?

TW: Implied Bullying, Violence, Torture, Injury

sometimes I wonder if MC is a bit desensitized to violence (but not to a level where they’re no longer bothered by it). Think about it, the brothers have war-level fights all the time in the house. Plus MC lives in a realm full of devils.

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Lucifer  

His patience has never been so tested, all he can think about right now is going straight home. He heard that there was a  commotion that happened in one of your classes, so everyone was excused to leave early.

He never heard any of the details, and he would’ve asked the teachers or anyone in your class but it was better to hear from you instead. The wellbeing of the exchange student is his responsibility after all.

Lucifer was about to knock on your door but he heard a sniffle coming from your room which made him start panicking. “MC? Pardon me, but I’m coming over.” 

He found you by the bed, clutching your arm that’s poorly bandaged. Seeing the tears in your eyes broke his heart as he ran to your side. 

You told him that things got bad during your potions class. You don’t know how it went wrong when you followed the instructions correctly, but the cauldron exploded and gave you a bad burn. The teacher even scolded you in front of the class despite being in pain, making you an example of a foolish student before dismissing everyone.

Lucifer knows you’re not one to make clumsy mistakes like this, yet he keeps quiet to himself about that. His focus for now is to treat your wounds properly. But boy, he could feel his blood boil through his veins. How dare they make a fool out of you?! 

He promised to find something human-friendly for your skin as he applied a spell to numb the pain before going back to RAD. 

On his way, he overheard two students snickering to each other. Lucifer recognized them from your class. 

“Who knew adding fire newt tongues would’ve made it that explosive?” “You should’ve seen the look on their face when the teacher got mad. I knew the teacher hated them but it was hilarious when they looked like they were gonna cry!”

Lucifer had this sinister smile on his face as he walked up to the students. “Meet me in my office. We need to have a little talk.” 

It takes him an hour before he can come back to you with a healing salve. Gently applying it to your skin, you were astonished at how it was instantly restored!

Before you can comment about your amazement, Lucifer brings you in for a tight hug. “I’m so sorry… I’ll make sure you won’t get hurt like this again. I promise.” He tries to act calm but with how his hands held you so firmly, you can feel that he really was worried.

You could say that Lucifer keeps to his word when you find the demons, even your teacher, hung up by their legs in the potions classroom. They were beaten beyond recognition, you can’t even tell if they were still alive because the brothers lured you away from the scene before you could inspect them further. 

The whole school got the message, to never mess with the Morningstar’s human. The punishments are beyond what they could imagine, it’s not worth the few moments of satisfaction from making you cry.

Those people were dragged away by Barbatos to the castle’s dungeon, never to be seen again. Diavolo had to make arrangements for a replacement, and Lucifer ensured that you have at least one brother for every class to watch over you. 

He was strict and a bit more overprotective to you than usual, so it took a lot of time for you to reassure him that you’ll be fine.

Mammon 

To lesser demons, it’s a wonder how his denial with his problematic gambling and theft still made him think that he’s amazing and great. 

The stacks of reports about Mammon in the student council room can break records. He would ask Grimm that he would refuse to pay back, steal things he considers valuable, and his money-making schemes have caused lots of problems for other students. 

Despite the punishments from Lucifer, some demons think that it’s not enough. They want to hit him where it hurts. 

Mammon has been waiting for you, spamming your D.D.D. with several messages. You both planned to spend the night watching a movie together once you get home, but you’ve been running late and he’s getting impatient. 

When he hears the main door open, he rushes with the intention of complaining about what took you so long, until he finds you limping your way inside. 

“HEY MC I– huh… MC? What’s up with you? HEY!” As soon as he realizes that there’s more injuries on you, he instantly carries you to the bathroom and treats your wounds as best as he can.

He doesn’t speak, but he can’t hide the trembling of his fingers when he applies gauze pads and disinfectants on your wounds. 

You tried to explain what happened to him to the best of your abilities. You were cornered by some demons you didn’t even know on your way back home and they picked a fight. When you described what they looked like, Mammon instantly knew who they were.

“How about you rest first in the room while I go handle something yeah? Maybe report this to Lucifer” He lied of course. As if he’s going to waste a single second not hunting down these bastards. He lets one of his brothers tend to your wounds, he has other matters to attend to.

Mammon would send those demons a message, saying that he’s ready to repay them if they meet up. He was ready to give them back 10 times the pain they gave you. Break their legs for making you limp, even. 

You wake up in your bed to find him asleep next to you, holding your body close. The small tear stains on his cheeks made you pout and… well, you don’t tell him about the red stains left on his hands.

He walks you back to your classroom only for you to find it trashed. Broken chairs and desks, holes in the black board and the walls, and the demons from yesterday looking so bruised and wounded that they could barely shrink back in fear when they saw you and Mammon together. 

Lucifer would’ve punished Mammon for wrecking school property until you explained to him what happened. Given the nature of these circumstances, he didn’t tie up his brother from the roof like usual, but made him clean up the classroom he trashed.

Even with his goofiness around you, that incident was a reminder for the school that he’s still the second most powerful brother and the wisest thing is to never touch Greed’s treasure. 

Levi

Levi noticed that you haven’t been yourself lately when you come home. You’re always too tired to watch his shows and when you do, he finds one thing odd. 

When the anime he was watching showed a scene about bullying, you would flinch or turn away. You were never like this before and now Levi is suspicious. What has been happening in RAD when he’s not there?

Lucifer called him in to catch up on his classes since he’s been slacking off due to his games. He stayed a bit behind and when he finally finished, all he could think of was finally getting his hands back to his controller but then he stopped when he saw you in one of the empty classrooms. 

You were being cornered by a large demon, probably the size of Beel, who taunted you. About how you’re nothing but a weakling without the brothers, and calling them here would just prove his point. 

He was raising his fists to land another blow so you used your arms to protect yourself, but it never came. Instead, you find Levi kneeling down next to you with a sad look on his face.

He was in his full demon form, his tail holding onto the demon’s fist and won’t let go. “MC… why didn’t you tell me? Or at least any of us?” He seemed hurt because he didn’t know you’ve been in so much pain, especially when he saw the bruises on your skin as he tugged your sleeves down. 

He wrapped his jacket around you and wiped away your tears, trying to calm you down. Though it’s hard when Levi’s tail now has a death grip on the wrist of the demon who’s now screaming in pain and begging to be let go. 

“Shut up!” He hissed, his fangs bared out when he turned to the larger demon. 

Levi snaps his fingers and the demon disappears. The demon finds himself in the depths of the deep sea, struggling to breathe and swim up. He was spared from the agonizing suffocation by the sharp teeth of Lotan who swallowed him. 

He shifts back to his regular form and waits until you’re okay to be held. He tries to be gentle with you given the amount of bruises you’ve gotten. Since he’s not good at magic, maybe one of the angels can do something about this.

He doesn’t leave your side while Simeon tends to your bruises, all while he calls Lucifer to inform him of what happened.

“You’re my player two, we’re supposed to help each other out you know? That’s how the game works. S-so rely on me more MC!” 

He didn’t want to let you watch some anime that has bullying in the story, out of fear that it might remind you of what happened. The last thing he wants is to accidentally make you upset. 

Levi started attending school more, waiting for you outside your classroom every dismissal. You’d spot him gaming on his phone and if you’d ask why won’t he go straight back to the house, he’d just stutter way beyond comprehension. 

His cute flustered look as he struggles with the slightest physical contact, no one would guess that he’s the reason for the disappearance of the biggest bully in your class. It’s all game over when you mess with the Grand Admiral after all.

Satan 

Despite being just a new exchange student in a realm with little to no knowledge, you still somehow make it through the academic year and even get better marks than half of the demon brothers who lived for centuries. 

Some demons in class find it infuriating to see a lowly human do better. ‘Maybe they’ve just cheated.’ ‘Perhaps they use spells to see the answers’ ‘the wizard knows some sorcery, maybe this one does too’ ‘how wicked.’

Those were rumors you hear when you enter a classroom before a lecture. You try to not let it bother you because they’re not true. It’s from the combined effort of your hard work and the brother’s teaching you from scratch. 

Satan has been waiting for you in the house since you told him that your lesson from today was a bit difficult to understand, so you both set up a small study session for when you get home. But it’s been about an hour ever since your last message. 

No amount of reading has calmed his nerves since you’re not one to be late for no reason. It’s been raining really hard so he thought that maybe you’re stuck in this weather, but the lack of messages is still concerning. 

When he heard the door open, he closed his book with the intent of questioning why you were late, but he saw how soaked you were from head to toe. 

He grabs your arm to help clean you up, but you hissed and yanked it away. He looked at you confusingly before he noticed the puddle of rain water was mixed with something… red. 

Without haste, he sits you down in the living room and rushes to get the first aid kit. He’s thankful for learning about first aid, but never did he think that he would have to use it on you like this. 

He focused first on calming you down, placing soft kisses on your head every time you’d whimper. It worried him a lot, but he didn’t want to ask you about your tears until he’s sure you’re okay. 

It took half an hour, and a whole lot of pain relievers until you’re okay. Satan went to grab your things left at the door, only to see a lot of your books and homework torn to bits. Connecting two and two together, he knew what happened. 

When you slept, there was only one thing racing in his thoughts. To hunt. He’s heard of the rumors about you, and he’s had enough of staying passive about it. 

He practically interrogates every student he comes across until he gets his answers. When he finally has a name, he would turn each stone in the realm until he finds them. 

The moment he does, the demons are facing the most agonizing cat and mouse chase of their lives. Satan would follow suit behind their tails, and each time they ran across him they would shed more blood and tears. 

He would’ve killed them on the spot with one snap of a finger, but that’s too easy. He wanted them to feel the fear, let it consume their soul until they go insane and give up. Only then did he grant them the release from this torture by burning them in green fire that not even the storm can put out, until there’s only ash. 

He comes home, covered in blood and ash. He smiles as he places a kiss on your head when he finds you still asleep. After that, Satan offered to help you get some spare books and do something about your ruined homework. 

He became much more aggressive afterwards, no longer tolerating any ill intent directed towards you. Mutter something under your breath, he’ll make sure it’s your last. That’s how they’ll pay the price. 

Asmo

Asmo has so many admirers that are not limited to adoring fans online, but even famous celebrities that had the luck of working with him in magazine gigs and product commercials.

To him it doesn’t matter what kind of attention he gets, whether it's healthy or parasocial, he’ll bask in all of it as long as he’s the object of their affections. 

He wouldn’t normally care when his brothers would get crowded with his fans who wanted them to deliver their love letters and gifts, despite all of his brother’s complaints or protests. However, you’re the exception. 

Asmo doesn’t really hide how he feels about you. He would post your pictures with him on Devilgram or brag about you online. It did harbor some jealousy, but there are some that dealt with this worse than others. 

‘It’s unbearable to see him with such a lowly human!’ a demoness thought as she found a new post from asmo’s page with you in the background. Her nails could crack through her phone at the sheer rage and she plans to do something about these feelings.

Asmo has been calling you nonstop since you two were supposed to meet up at the house to go to a salon together, after your shift ends of course. However, you’re running late and the salon would close in half an hour. 

He was by his room when he heard your door open and closed. Asmo had the full intent to be extra whiny about your tardiness when he went to your room and opened the door. 

He was in the middle of complaining but trailed off when he saw you clenching your cheek and turned away quickly from his gaze. You were trying to make him leave, saying that you’ll change first, but he’s not buying it. “Let me see, please?” 

He moved your hands away from your face and gasped at the claw marks that ran across your cheeks. It hurts him to see that you try to hide the face he finds so adoring, so pretty. And he wants to find out who dared to ruin it.

He sits you on his lap while he applies any sort of healing skin that can restore it. He’s not going to allow a single scar caused by some low blood demon to rest on your face. He looks at you with a pout on his lips as he asks “... who was it?” 

You can’t help it, so you explain that the demoness that was also in the magazine cover with him the other week, stopped by your work and slapped you across the cheek. About how a human should not have her place next to the Avatar of Lust. 

For a quick second, he was wrath and you felt it. But he gave you a smile and held you close “you know that’s not true right darling?” and whispered sweet words to you.

Asmo spent the next few hours asking Levi and Solomon for help. The demoness instantly lost thousands of followers online, each and every scandal anonymously  exposed for the whole realm to see. He was hell bent on ruining her life with all the power he has as an influencer and a demon.

You never see the demoness again, you just know that she lost every connection and supporters she had overnight. If you ask Asmo about it, he’ll just shrug and smile “It’s just how it works honey. But don’t worry about that thing, why don’t we go to the spa like we should’ve done a few days ago? I booked a new appointment for us” 

Only Asmo, and maybe Solomon, knows the truth. So if you see a pink toad at the side of the road, pay no attention to it. 

Beel

Beel has been regarded as the star athlete when it comes to Fangol. Other than his towering height and unbelievable strength, it’s a product of all his hard work and training. He’s been doing more every time you promised to watch his games. 

He treats you like your lucky charm, and every time you’re there he would always do so well in his games. The other team doesn’t like that, they’re tired of the constant loss. Maybe if they do something about Beel’s lucky charm, he would be demotivated to play.

They’re demons after all, so cheating is not exempted in their nature. They’re willing to do what it takes to get Beel down to his knees, even if it means they’ll get their hands dirty.

There’s two days before the big game and Beel wanted to get a family-sized snack as usual from the fridge to calm his nerves. That’s when he found you rummaging through the freezer. 

Maybe you were trying to get some hellfire ice cream, so he thought. Until he saw that you pressed an ice pack against your head. “MC? Are you okay?” He walks in to check on you. 

He gasped when he saw that you looked a bit roughed up. There’s a bruise slowly forming on the corner of your lip, and some dried blood from the side of your temple. 

He knows that this was no accident when he found more bruises by your arm. Since he got a bunch of those during Fangol, he knows how to treat them. You’re no player though. After putting two and two together? He’s starting to get an idea what might’ve happened.

You did eventually open up about why you were hurt. You were going home and felt someone throw a Fangol ball to your head. You recognized that they were from the opposing team of the upcoming match and they continued to use you as target practice as you ran all the way back to the house. 

Beel was holding onto a bowl of cold water with a damp towel to treat you and as soon as you finished your story, the bowl was nothing but shards on his palm. 

His deathly aura must’ve alerted the whole house, especially Belphie who suddenly woke up from a nap as he came running towards the kitchen only to find his twin already in demon form. 

You’ve never seen him this angry that was outside food (or Belphie) and you tried to calm Beel down, but he left you in Belphie’s care while he walked out of the house. There was no way he was going to let this pass, not when you’ve already gotten hurt.

It doesn’t take Beel a long while to find the opposing team, especially when they always wear those ridiculous jersey jackets. Despite their large sizes that almost compare to him, they’re nothing but flies to Beelzebub himself. 

“Heard you had a bit of target practice earlier… I wanted to go easy on you, so if you drop out of the game and never show yourself again I'll spare you.” 

One of them scoffed and tried to throw a punch at his face. Let’s just say… never aim so close to his jaw. That player was no longer capable of holding a Fangol ball anymore, and the whole team got the message. 

You received a notification online that the upcoming Fangol game has been canceled, as the team captain is suddenly incapable of playing anymore. 

Beel comes home with a smile on his face while he has takeout of your favorite food. Mammon would comment about how it’s a miracle that he didn’t eat it on the way home, and all Beel said “It’s okay, I already grabbed a bite somewhere else.”

Belphie 

If demons would cower under the sights of Lucifer, the exact opposite can be said about the youngest. Not everyone can find the demon who does nothing but sleep to be intimidating, despite his status and power. 

Belphie doesn’t really care about trivial things about that. As if the demon who was willing to go against the royal prince himself was actually going to get bothered by mere rumors, even though it was all true.

He wouldn’t mind being called ‘a heavy weight’ when it comes to doing work, since he’d rather exert the least amount of effort if that’s what it takes for him to sleep faster. Sometimes he would forget important meetings because of his 8-hour naps. 

Today was one of those days where Belphie overslept while you were waiting for him in the library to do work together. He woke up and realized that he was almost an hour late so he was rushing towards the door but surprisingly bumped into you. 

“MC! I’m really sorry I didn’t mean to make you wait so long…” He was a bit panicked because you looked upset, though you told him that you’re fine and tried to walk back to your room. 

He grabs your arm and you wince, pulling it away from him. He looks at you confusingly, before he notices a slight cut on your cheek and how your clothes look a bit dirtier than usual. So he gets worried and asks what happened to you. 

You explained that while waiting in the library, you overheard some demons talking so badly about Belphie and calling him names. You confronted them, trying to defend his name, and the demons gave you a certain lesson for trying to sermon them. 

Belphie whines and pulls you in for a hug, trying to provide any sort of comfort he can give. “You didn’t have to do that for me MC… but thank you. Go get some rest, you deserve it more than I do.” 

His touch with you is so gentle when he makes little circles on your back as he hugs you. He lets you rest on his chest, feeling calm and safe in his arms. But Belphie was far from that. 

He could feel himself close to popping a vein, the only thing stopping him from shifting into his demon form was because he was holding you. When he puts you down on your bed as you sleep, he stares at you for a while before whispering “... I’ll repay you for your kindness, MC” 

The demons were laughing as they left the library, talking about the human they just picked on earlier. Too busy in their own merry to notice the pair of eyes that’s been following them.

Such carelessness would be their demise when they ended up getting thrown down the alley by the very demon they’ve been speaking ill of. Belphie stares down at them with no mercy in his eyes, despite the blood and screams. Unlike his twin, he was not as merciful. 

“I can tolerate the nasty things about me… but if you hurt my MC, then you deserve eternal sleep.” 

He comes home and immediately after dealing with the trash and starts walking back to your room. He’s glad to see that one of the brothers must’ve healed your wounds since your skin has been restored. 

‘... if they really see the best in me, maybe I should put in more effort.’ he thought to himself, hugging you close as he drifts off to sleep. You wake up only to find that, surprisingly, Belphie has done all the work for the both of you.

[depravitycentral]

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.

[solspina]

Hi! May I ask what you think serf life would be like with Guilliman, Sanguinius, and Fulgrim? Maybe possibly a few on the smuttier side 🥹

Absolutely! And absolutely on the smuttier side too! At this point im convinced you guys know that i’ll write anything as long as the angel is in there somewhere, and you’re completely right. first, let me define that i view a serf as an unfree peasant, someone forced to work for little to no pay and merely a place to live.

tw: lil bit of nsfw

─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───

Roboute Guilliman might have a personal servant, but I don’t believe you’d be considered a serf in his eyes. He was one of, if not the only primarch to experience true human love since childhood and allowing you to serve the entirety of his army for nothing but a place to live and the denial of your rights and autonomy felt wrong. Sure, you took on the title of serf, but if you ever mananged to encounter a merchant planet, Guilliman was quick to buy and gather whatever you asked for.

War is brutal, it’s horrible, it’s unkind, yet you hadn’t stopped smiling since he took you out of your previous situation of servitude and brought you under his arm. He’d do anything to keep that smile on your face.

This slowed down immensely after he had returned from death. He seemed to only ever strategize, to plan, to engage in war. Things were still bought for you, but only what you asked for, no more pleasant surprises, no more gentle pats on the back or awkward yet loving side hugs, just cold, dead gazes and eyes fogged with smoke from the battlefield. He still appreciated your company, but many would say he no longer loved as he used to.

─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───

Fulgrim was… incredibly arrogant to say the very least, for he was definition of perfect. He’d strived for perfection from the very beginning, stopping at nothing and often forgetting that he had a baseline human to care for. He treated you with the same nutrient care as he did the space marines, which led to you eventually becoming quite malnourished as you had needs that they didn’t. You weren’t as artificial as they were, not as genetically modified, much more fragile.

Fulgrim seemed to only pay mind to your delicacy when he was balls deep within you, and even this was only when he began to transition into the unwavering grasp of Slaanesh, your master had chased nothing more than perfection and pleasure for what felt like years before succumbing to his desires. Perhaps it was within his final days of humanity that he finally realized just how human you were, and he chose to use that time to take care of you, perfection becoming a desire that fell to the back of his mind.

He kept you even after he became a daemon primarch of Slaanesh. now, after years of being cast aside, he put your perfectly human body before his own. You would embody perfection if he couldn’t, and he would squeeze every last sensation, moan, and orgasm from your fragile human body until you too understood the beauty of Slaanesh.

─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───

Sanguinius never needed a serf, and it wasn’t until he encountered the horrible conditions of a planet he had liberated that he decided to take a group under the supervision of the blood angels. Most of the group would be moved to the care of the emperor of mankind, but he’d keep one for himself, and his choice was based entirely off of the fact that you offered him relaxation in the face of war.

No hands in the universe had managed to press into the knots and muscles in his back like yours did, and in turn he offered you comfort and warmth when you dreamed of your brothers and sisters leaving your sorrowful gaze one last time to join the emperor. You had all struggled together, and now you, the strongest and most resilient of your group, had submitted to the angel like a dog trembling in fear. You’d become something much lesser than fighting for your people, they were liberated now, under the care of the emperor only because you had begged the angel to let them go somewhere safer with your full submission as a cost.

He had your quarters situated right next to his, but you slept in his bed more often than not, because of the nightmares often plaguing your mind. You didn’t want to be alone, but heavy wing draped over your body was nothing less than suffocating. Sometimes you were unable to wake up from your own nightmares, the bite marks in your neck invoked sharp and stinging pain, enough to jolt you awake and allow you to catch your breath. He’d wake you up from your trembling fear so that he could hold you in his arms and stroke your hair, a comforting gesture, a reminder that you were with him, a prisoner.

But sometimes, when you dreamed not of your brothers but instead of the cold and relentless grasp of war, you remember how you prayed for a savior, how you would’ve given your life to be wrapped in his arms and blanketed by his pure white feathers, and give your life you did. Perhaps he’d let you go if he knew that you felt the way you did, but you’re too afraid to tell him. Please do, he only wishes to be your comfort.

[hana-no-seiiki]

Hello! I hope you are doing well, I have an idea, feel free to ignore but I hope you like it.

Yandere Male Deliquent x GN Ex Bully

Like he tried to make them explode and being their “true self”, because in the past, when they were younger, they defend him and he became a delinquent just to see them again.

Sorry if my English is bad.

Bye!

YAN! DELINQUENT OC x GN! EX BULLY! READER

Also your English great anon! Dw about it.

AAAAAAA I’ve meaning to do more Yan! Delinquent recently anon!! You read my mind. For those new to my account. I already have a Yan! Delinquent OC named Mori Ban (see tag: hns.moriban) who was the first to really blow up from my yan! ocs. I always loved this trope with yan stories hhh

tw/cw: DDNE, mention extreme bullying, assault, and harassment. (brought out my trauma for this one). i imagine reader to be amab/masc for this one but there are no explicits allusions to that.

Uttering the name [L/N] [Y/N] was enough to strike fear in the hearts of men. Literally and figuratively speaking, your voice was enough to make even the highest of authorities piss their pants. Not only were you capable of destroying a person’s physical body with your very own hands, you were able to dismantle everything from their relationships and reputation to their financial situations in life.

People predicted you to grow up and become an even more menacing, ruthless person. You had the potential, and with the way you were it was simply the natural trajectory.

But like you always did, you broke everyone’s expectations.

You were like the delinquent version Serena Van Der Woodsen. Mindlessly strutting in as if you hadn’t put several companies to bankruptcy because the owner’s kid looked at you the wrong way. Nonchalantly eating your lunch in the same vicinity of your old victims as if you hadn’t shoved their face into the toilet as a way to pass time. Cheerfully waving at the student council president as if you hadn’t constantly blackmailed and assaulted them for several years just so they’d do your homework and projects. No one was safe from you. You had no code. As long as you felt like it, any life could be destroyed.

Standing opposite to your current path was Mori.

He used to be the punching bag of your lesser goons. Known for being weak and poor, only good for his academic excellence.

He grew up to be almost as fearsome than you. Where-areas you were coldblooded, revelling in the pain you brought upon others. He was a lot more morally guided. Sure, his enemies often suffered worse fates physically, but he wasn’t like you in the way he picked his battles. He only brought hell to those that deserved it. Those that hurt other people first.

And then there was the way he treated you.

You technically belonged to the category he dealt with. You ruined dozens, maybe even hundreds or thousands of lives in a whim. You were the devil in a pretty suit of skin. Despite your lack of hostility nowadays, you never apologised or took accountability, never attempted to atone for your mistakes. The only reason why others haven’t confronted you about it was because of fear. They didn’t want to potentially anger you and set off a bomb.

But Mori? Mori could handle you.

After all, he dedicated his whole life to being your equal; serving you, aiding you.

In fact, he was just so disappointed to see you this way. All disgustingly docile and horridly disciplined. What kind of monster tamed you to be like this? Mori chuckled at the thought. No one but him can match you. You must have started behaving yourself for the sake of appearance. All of this was just a façade. If you had truly changed you would have begged for forgiveness to those you’ve wronged. If you had become a better person then you wouldn’t be discreetly glaring at him when you thought he wasn’t looking.

If someone had truly taught you to be a goody-two-shoes he would have killed them ages ago.

“Hey, [N/N]. Sweetheart. How ya doin?” Mori leaned forward. He grew to be quite a ways taller than you and had to lean over to meet you face to face. Much to your chagrin.

“Fine. It’s so nice of you to ask Ban. If you’ll excuse me.” You adeptly moved to the side. You had dealt with this man-child several times throughout the semester already and knew to just avoid him at all costs lest you lose braincells and precious energy talking to him.

However, you could only take two steps before his hands grappled unto your wrist.

“Woah woah woah there. We’re not done yet.”

You don’t look back, and firmly yet calmly stated, “Yes, we are.”

“It’s a little late but we have yet to give you a homecoming party. That wouldn’t be fair for the great [Y/N].”

You turned back. Eyes wide, not of surprise or anger, but from sheer awe of this man’s audacity.

“I know what you want, and you’re not getting it from me right now.” You scowled at his beautiful pink eyes and effortlessly yanked your arm away from him. You didn’t know it yet back then,

but you had already lit the match.

©️ hana.no.seiiki - yun | 2023

[epigstolary]

Lecture

TW: References to medical fatphobia and health conditions.

Your eyes dart nervously back and forth, from one side of the lecture hall to another. Surely they’re not going to see you like this and just sit there? Surely someone is going to step in and help?

But your hopes are disappointed. You’re met, to the extent the audience looks you in the eyes at all, with blank or half-bored stares. The uncaring look of people who see you and the half-ton of lard filling your body as a technical exercise, and little more. The lecture drones on next to you, and after a few minutes, you’re finally able to focus on what’s being said.

“…recall that yesterday’s subject exhibited signs of severe morbid obesity with excessive deposits of adipose tissue almost exclusively at the anterior abdomen. Today’s subject, by contrast—” at this, you feel the lecturer’s gloved hand grasp one of your bulging love handles, squeeze a solid handful, and lift as he continues “—supplements this distribution with deposits throughout the inguinal, gluteal, and posterior thigh regions, and to a lesser extent, in the pectoral and inframammary regions.” You feel one of your tits being lifted as the lecturer holds it in the palm of their hand, pointing out further details with the other. “So as you see, adipose distribution can vary significantly, based on a number of factors…”

The audience continues listening and taking notes. Occasionally, you see two of its white-coated members whisper to each other, gesturing at some point or other on your expansive body. Your mind wanders from the lecture again, and you begin to look around the room, to the extent the restraints on your bariatric exam chair allow. Despite the audience’s lack of direct attention to you, you’re keenly aware of how exposed and on display you are.

The angle of the chair allows your wide, doughy belly to spill down your lap and between your knees. It spreads your lumpy, shapeless legs into a split that leaves the bulging sacs of fat on your thighs and calves in full view. Likewise, because of the backward tilt of the seat, your head is also tilted back, bringing your chin level with your triple chins and emphasizing them along with your wobbly cheeks and jowls. Restraints tie your arms against padded extensions on either side of the main chair, holding them in a T-pose that causes the flab on your forearms to hang down in puckered globs and the bulk on your upper arms to pool around your shoulders, further squeezing the fat around your face. It’s a position in which, if there were any doubt, you’re shown off as the thoroughly, completely, and probably irrevocably fattened blob you are.

Eventually, the display screens on either side of the hall catch your eye — specifically, the unfamiliar shape appearing next to some inscrutable pixelated numbers in black and white. Then, suddenly, something in the lecture strikes you and the image clicks into stark comprehension.

“…86% body fat, with the result that additional strain on the musculoskeletal structure produces the characteristic bend in the vertebral column to compensate…”

The ill-defined shape on the screen, viewed through the lens of an MRI machine, is a person — is you. You knew you were huge, of course, but your breath catches in your throat to see your gluttony presented in this way — the cross-section showing the muscles and organs and skeleton of a normal person, but floating, buried, smothered in a sea of white-yellow tissue, spreading out shapeless in all directions. Hundreds of pounds of fat, dominating your body, captured with the indisputable precision of medical imaging. You are an anomaly. A curiosity. A pathology. A disease, needing to be treated.

You barely have time to process all of this before you feel two attendants beginning to undo the restraints holding back your arms and legs. You feel your feet spring forward slightly, no longer held down and now pushed out by the bulk of the fat hanging off your calves and thighs. Your arms fall immediately to your sides — or, at least, as close to your sides as the tremendous piles of rolls fighting your bingo wings and forearm flab for space will allow. You slide down from the tilted half-chair/half-gurney to a standing position, and feel a hot ache radiate through you, your body crying out at your full weight being put on your frame for the first time in a long time.

“We’ll see if we can get a demonstration of mobility. Clearly, physical activity isn’t this subject’s strong suit.” A stifled but derisive laugh ripples through the audience at this first flush of color commentary from the lecturer. You turn to look at the lecturer, standing at the lectern, and they gesture to the far side of the hall. A set of double doors, wide enough for you to go through, with a bright “Exit” sign above them, stand about thirty yards away.

Is this it? Are you free to go? After being fattened and poked and prodded for so long, are they finally going to let you just walk out?

You have to try. Slowly, deliberately, and with a shock of pain at every step, you lift your blubber-laden legs one at a time, putting your bare foot down with a wet-sounding plop, as you work your way closer to the door. You look around from the door to the audience to the attendants, eyes widened almost to the point of panic. You see all the audience now paying close attention to you, many of them looking back with genuine surprise, apparently somewhat impressed to see a person as fat as a small cow able to walk at all. But seeing nobody move to stop you as you continue your degrading waddle forward, you try to pick up the pace. Your flabby arms swing in a wide circle, trying to counterbalance the movement of the vast bulk hanging off your midsection, the belly and tits and side rolls wobbling chaotically with each step forward.

“As you can see, mobility is diminished as a result not just of the added weight, but also the severe limitations on range of motion caused by the excess adipose tissue.”

Barely halfway toward the door, you can hear the sound of your heart beating over the drone of the lecture, pounding as if it’s about to burst out of your chest. Sweat dims your eyes, and the heat radiating from your body — but, it feels like, especially from your florid face — makes you realize how fatigued you already are from walking just this limited distance. Walking this distance — but with an extra eight hundred pounds or so more than you’re used to, you think to yourself.

“Note, too, the compounding effect of the excessive weight and the lack of resiliency in the subject’s cardiovascular and respiratory systems due to a prolonged deficit in physical activity. Blood pressure and body temperature rise precipitously, stamina diminishes, breathing becomes labored, blood oxygen plummets. Hence, the elevated risk of cerebrovascular accident, embolism, myocardial infarction…”

You barely have the energy to feel angry at the lecturer’s patronizing indifference by the time you reach the door. Breathing ragged, soaked with sweat, barely able to concentrate and on the verge of collapse, you stumble into a lean against the door frame, desperate to catch your breath so you can finish your escape. It’s right there — you can reach out and touch the push bar, hear what sounds like street noise outside — but your body won’t let you. Your clouded mind won’t focus, your bloated legs won’t lift, your wobbling arms hang limp by your heaving, flabby chest. Exhaustion and despair rise within you in equal measure as you hear the gurney chair being rolled across the room, feel your body being jiggled and manhandled back into a sitting position, and see the exit doors and all hope of help receding as you’re rolled back to center stage, defeated.

Numb and indifferent now, you offer no resistance, sensing the tube and mask being fitted into your mouth as if watching it happening to someone else from a distance. You utter little more than an involuntary groan of complaint or protest — it doesn’t concern you, any more than does the flow of something cold you can feel pooling in your stomach.

“…typical example has a maximum capacity of barely two to four liters. However, consistent overfeeding with a diet that includes a sufficient volume of fiber at appropriate intervals has demonstrated the ability to reliably expand stomach volume to a maximum capacity of 14-16 liters, with p of .05 in our internal studies…”

The sound of the lecture flows past you, mixing with the buzz of the pump filling you with more and more of the chilly slop, and the low creak of the gurney as it takes the added weight. Your eyelids droop, drowsy with the food and your exertions; and you drift away to sleep, the gaze of the audience trained on the slow, relentless expansion of your tumescent belly the last thing you see before your tired eyes close shut.

Credit to the incomparable Mairari/@hyenaddict for the original post that inspired this story

[harwinsgirl]

Healing - Aemond Targaryen x Reader

After Aemond is injured during a jousting tournament, you have been selected to tend to his wounds. The prince is not prepared to awaken to a feisty, unknown woman in his chambers who claims she’s there to care for him.

(Listen, Ser Harwin still owns my heart but this devilish war criminal has been plaguing my thoughts. I must banish him with a fic. Since some of you have asked to be tagged in Harwin fics I’m not gonna tag anyone here since it’s Aemond but please feel free to let me know if that’s something you’re interested in for the future! Some slight angst and fluff, tw for some brief trauma mentioned by the reader)

Prince Aemond had just beaten his twelfth jousting opponent in his father’s nameday tourney and he hadn’t even broken a sweat.

Despite his prowess, he did not have the same reputation for celebrating that his uncle was known for. It was common knowledge that the Prince felt that these events were beneath him and were a waste of his time. However, every now and again he would be persuaded to participate. The silver haired prince would defeat his challengers with speed and efficiency, earning raucous roars from the crowd each time a young knight or lord fell flat on his back.

The men that were pitted against him were of little consequence to him. All from lesser houses, just serving as entertainment to King Viserys amongst the other events and festivities. Aemond would resent being subjected to playing such a role as well, but would never say anything to confirm his feelings. Truthfully, his scowl said enough.

Over the loud cheering from the crowd, the prince could not hear his opponent stirring from his place on the dirt track. Aemond had approached the booth where his family was sitting. His father was grinning and clapping while his mother had a joyful smile of her own. Only when he acted the part of the good son did he receive such affection from his parents. Bowing politely, Aemond willed away the feeling of acid in his stomach and plastered on a smile as well.

And then he felt a sting.

The young lord has stumbled forward and drew his sword up the prince’s back, cutting at the tunic that peeked from under his armor. The sword continued its path and left a noticeable scratch on Aemond’s cheek.

The arena was stunned into silence. The king’s voice boomed and filled the air, demanding the boy drop his sword and back away from the prince. Aemond turned swiftly on his heel and clicked his tongue in disapproval, watching as the heir to House Jhorr lost his nerve, his posture folding as he cowered in fear. Whatever anger that had driven the poor soul to attack him had subsided.

“Pick up your sword boy.” Aemond demanded.

“Please, your grace! Forgive my actions.” Lowering his voice, the sandy haired boy trusted the prince with more knowledge. “My betrothed sits amongst the spectators today. I was embarrassed that I lost. I treated you like a brother and not my lord prince. I am dreadfully sorry.”

Aemond couldn’t help but glance over at the area where the boy’s eyes were hovering. A beautiful blonde lady was clutching her chest, panic marring her graceful features.

Too many people thought the prince was a monster already, with his jagged scar peeking from under his eyepatch. Too many men whispered about him in the corridors, too many ladies cast their eyes down when he walked by, too many children gasped and hid their faces in their mothers dresses.

He was not about to prove their suspicions right.

A handful of the kingsguard interrupted his conversation, scooping the boy up by his arms and holding him in place.

“Please.” The boy whimpered.

Aemond closed his eyes and shook his head, mainly at himself. It would be completely justified if he slashed the young lad’s throat in front of his father’s guests. It would be more than appropriate to have him dragged to the dungeons for further interrogation, never to see the light of day again. But he would see that woman’s face in his dreams every night, her bright eyes spilling with tears.

“All is forgiven.” Aemond said firmly. “Release him.”

The prince’s act of grace elicited gasps and murmurs from the crowd. But Aemond was having a hard time focusing, his vision growing grey and hazy with each passing moment. He saw the boy’s lips move quickly, his expression relieved and his arms animated with movement, but he could not respond.

Prince Aemond had collapsed.

~

Your quiet shop at the edge of King’s Landing had been invaded early in the afternoon by several members of the kingsguard, who were requesting your presence and expertise for an unnamed patient within the Red Keep. You packed several ointments and herbs with you amongst other tools that could be helpful in treating an injury or illness, for they had not told you what was afflicting this person you had been tasked with treating. You were hastily helped into a carriage that took off down the cobblestone roads as soon as the door behind you had shut.

You were a healer that operated a small business in Kings Landing. Unable to study at the Citadel and earn the title of maester due to being born a woman, you did what you could, turning an abandoned home into a place where people could seek treatment if they were unwell. Things had been relatively stable in the capital and you were very cautious with who you let through your doors. You had fled twice from other settlements when talk of witchcraft began brewing (heaven forbid a woman be knowledgeable in subjects like science and medicine). But armed guards firmly escorting you out of the premises and taking you to the royal palace was a sure sign that your activities were not as discreet as you’d hoped they had been.

Just as quickly as you’d been thrust into the carriage, silver gloves reached for you and pulled you out swiftly, placing you on the ground. You were jostled forward and forced to keep up with the fast pace of the guards who were leading you up the steps into the Keep. Without even looking at you, one of them began detailing your assignment as you marched onwards, your glass bottles rattling as they clinked together in your wicker basket.

“You are treating Prince Aemond. He suffered from several injuries that he sustained during today’s tourney. You are responsible for his care during this time.” The guard finally turned to look at you, stopping you in your tracks. “If his condition worsens, you will be at fault. Any mistreatment will be seen as treason.”

“Why are the maesters not attending to the prince?” You asked, a hint of annoyance in your voice. You couldn’t help but find it very ironic that you had been sought out to administer aid to the prince, and yet somehow weren’t fully trusted to do so.

“There is an illness that is plaguing our maesters. We cannot risk exposing the prince. And that is all you need to know on that subject.” He said gruffly.

Several flights of stairs later, you were just outside of Prince Aemond’s bedroom chamber. The guards posted outside of his doors nodded at you as they had been expecting your arrival. The door creaked open and you slipped inside.

The room was ginormous. Soft, velvet furniture adorned a sitting area that was set up around a grand fireplace. The walls were filled with overflowing bookshelves. Aemond had two desks that were scattered with papers, writing implements, and scientific tools. That area was an organized chaos, where the layout of such materials made sense only to him. The corners of your mouth twitched upwards into a smile. Your own room looked very similar in that regard.

The windows were huge, but the drapes were shut in nearly all of them, depriving the room of good lighting. You were too busy looking around and taking note of things that you almost failed to hear a pained groan come from the large bed in the middle of the room. Wisps of pale hair were peeking out from under satin sheets.

“M…m-ma…maester…M-maester Ry…Ry…” Aemond mumbled dryly.

“Do you need some water, your grace?” You asked, making your way over to his side table.

The body underneath the covers stilled. He did not recognize your voice. And your voice was that of a woman’s. The prince sat up sharply, wincing in pain immediately after he had done so.

“Who the hell are you?” He demanded, squinting at you. You paused and gave a slight curtesy before flashing a smile at him.

“I’m not here to kill you if that’s your worry,” you joked, “in fact, I’ve been contracted to do the opposite.”

“You’re a woman.” He stated plainly.

You looked at him wide-eyed, fake shock washing over your face. You slipped a finger under your gown and peeked down at your own chest.

“Good heavens, so I am.” You said in response.

Aemond had to bite his lip to suppress a smile. Who the hell were you?

“You can’t possibly be a maester.” He said, trying to keep his voice as flat as possible.

“I never claimed to be, your grace. But as luck would have it, all of your maesters are currently indisposed, fighting off some illness. So here I am, a world renowned healer in your very own chambers.” You took your eyes off him for a moment to start rummaging through your toolkit, but stopped as soon as you heard him clear his throat.

“I can’t have you tending to me, my lady.” Prince Aemond said.

“I managed to make out some details of your ordeal on my way here.” You said, ignoring his statement entirely. “Your subjects are whispering about it, your grace. Apparently you fainted after you were struck with a sword by one of your opponents?”

“I did not faint,” Aemond said bitterly, “I merely grew tired.”

“An interesting place to choose to catch up on your sleep, your grace.” You quipped.

Aemond rolled his eyes. “Despite what you may have heard, it was not as terrible as it sounds. I will rest here until one of my maesters is available and I’m sure my recovery will be quick. I’m sorry that my family troubled you. I’ll make sure you’re compensated.”

You couldn’t help but notice how hoarse his voice sounded. The idiot never took you up on your offer for water. You strode over to him and poured two glasses of water from the pitcher on his night table. You handed him one glass and downed the other, reassuring him that you had not managed to poison it in the short time you had been in his chambers.

“Let me get this straight,” you said, staring hard at the wiry prince that was still mostly covered by his bedsheets, “you’d rather die than be treated by a woman?”

“Who said anything about dying?” Aemond asked, raising his eyebrow at you.

“Any type of laceration is dangerous. You never know what sickness is waiting to take root in your blood. By dismissing me, you’re courting death.” You set the glass down on the table and sighed, shaking your head at him. “That’s too bad then. You were so young. I’ll be sure to send my condolences to the King and Queen. What color roses would you like at your funeral, your grace?”

Aemond looked at you incredulously. It was as if you had no fear. Here you were, freely discussing his death without any regard for the consequences. You could have your tongue cut out for speaking such unkind things about him. And yet, he had a feeling you would simply resort to hand gestures instead if that were the case.

“Fine,” he said, shaking his head at you. “You have ten minutes.”

“Thank you so much, your grace.” You said with an abundance of sarcasm.

With deft fingers, you went to work cleaning the scratch on his cheek and the gash that was still seeping from his back. You murmured soft words to him and rubbed his skin every time he winced or made a sound of displeasure. Despite immediately vexing you upon your arrival, you couldn’t help but feel sorry for the state the prince was in. He was undoubtably in pain. You also failed to disclose to him that what most of the gossip that you had heard on your way to his chambers was about his uncharacteristic generosity in sparing the young boy’s life. Any other man would’ve cut him down and made an example out of him.

“That lord shouldn’t have acted with such recklessness, your grace.” You said softly as you bent over the bed, hovering over him as you dabbed at his cheek. “You’re lucky the wounds are not that serious.”

“Not that serious?” Aemond said, taking the rag from your hand as he peered into your eyes. “A moment ago you said I was at death’s door.”

You swallowed nervously. It was easy to act aloof and jest with him when you were farther apart. From this angle you couldn’t help but take in his chiseled features, the scent of evergreen that seemed to blanket his skin, and the way his chest rose and fell with each gentle breath.

“Dear, sweet healer?” Aemond pressed. He definitely noticed your eyes wandering.

“I…suppose that’s just because you have access to such wonderful care.” You said, trying your hardest to lighten the mood again and cut the growing tension.

It wasn’t working.

It’s as if Aemond was studying you now. Watching your every movement and enjoying the way you stumbled or stuttered when you caught a glimpse of his piercing gaze. You almost wondered if it would have better if he had been successful in getting rid of you.

You had nearly finished your treatment. The wounds were cleaned and properly dressed. You were in the process of giving him a once-over, checking to see if there were any marks or bruises when you noticed a red line peeking from underneath his eye patch.

“Your grace, if you would be so kind to remove your eye patch, I believe when you fell you must’ve received another injury.” You said gently.

Aemond’s mouth formed a tight line. All the playfulness that had been your doing and the thick energy that had been growing between you two seemed to vanish in an instant.

“I will not.” He said angrily.

“Your grace, I insist. It may require my attention.” You pleaded, moving to place a hand on his cheek. Aemond’s hand moved swiftly to catch your wrist before you had the chance.

“I said I will not.” He repeated, his tone still quite harsh.

You furrowed your brows in annoyance. “I am your healer. I need access to all of you. If I don’t perform proper treatment, I could be punished.”

“I am refusing this treatment.” He said lowly as he dropped your hand.

“Why?” You questioned, your hands on your hips as you stared down at him. He was no longer looking at you. You waited for a response, but Aemond continued to avoid eye contact with you.

After a moment, he cleared his throat and then looked at you again. “You may go now.”

“I will not!” You fumed, pointing your finger at him. “I need to take care of you!”

“Can you take care of this?” He bellowed, ripping the eyepatch from his face.

A dark blue sapphire rested in his eye socket. He glared at you, his chest heaving from his fury. For a moment neither of you spoke, your expression unreadable as you stared at him, the gemstone twinkling ever so slightly when sunlight hit it from a crack in the drapes.

Aemond didn’t know what to expect. You merely stood there, taking him in. Most women would’ve gasped or even screamed. Disgust would’ve been evident on their faces. And yet, you hardly had a reaction. He didn’t know if that was a comfort or not. He was about to command you to speak, but you finally addressed his outburst.

“You think the world doesn’t know about your scar?” You said quietly, your eyes never leaving his. “Prince Aemond One-Eye. You must despise that name. And yet, you hardly know how beloved you are. How people talk of your skill as a swordsman. How men lament that they will never look as handsome as you do, and will never be as well versed in histories or sciences. There are still women that would be lined up to take you as a husband if given the chance. I’ve heard children beg to be you as they play in the streets, for Prince Aemond rides the largest dragon in the world.”

Your fingers moved to the strings of your dress. Your eyes grew heavy from the tears threatening to spill from them. Slowly, you pulled at the fasteners of your garment until your dress fell from your body, revealing a large scar that ran from your hip all the way up between your breasts.

“There is no love for a peasant woman that looks like this. Every man who catches a glimpse of this ugly red mark beneath my gown turns their head in disgust. Every jagged corner of my skin reminds me of how unloved I am. Remember that, my prince, the next time you decide to wallow in self-pity.” Your voice wavering slightly, you tilted your chin up again and glared back at him. “I am very sorry you lost your eye, but you will always be a prince. You will always be loved. Others are not so fortunate.”

Aemond rose from the bed and made his way over to you. You had bent down to recover your gown but Aemond’s hands found yours. He interlocked your fingers with his, squeezing them gently in a silent plea to get you to look at him again.

“When you first came into my chambers, I wanted you to leave immediately. I did not want the burden of looking at me and tending to me to fall onto a woman. Especially one such as beautiful as you,” he murmured, tracing small circles on your palm with his thumb. “And when you asked to see under my eyepatch, I resisted. I have never met a woman who can stand the sight of it. I hide it for good reason. The ladies that you speak of who would marry me surely only would in their desire to reach a higher status. The men who admire me still would not trade their lives to live a day as me. There is a difference in being beloved and being loved as who you are. Scars have such a terrible way of alienating you from the world.”

He dropped one of your hands to place a hand gingerly on your hip, tracing the beginning of your scar lightly. “May I ask who did this to you, my lady?”

You nodded your head, blinking away stray tears. “A suitor of mine who I had rejected countless times cornered me in the gardens of his father’s estate. I told him I’d never marry a wretch like him. He told me he’d allow me to go, but that he’d bestow upon me a parting gift,” you sniffled. “So that he’d always be with me. And that no man would ever take me as his wife. I’d always be his.”

Prince Aemond was a man prone to anger. He had a low threshold for certain types of people, such as arrogant lords, fussy ladies, and the terrible excuse for a brother that Aegon was. But he especially hated abusers of women. Whoever this man was, Aemond closed his eyes and imagined horrible things happening to him. A faceless, nameless man who deserved to be roasted alive by Vhagar, flayed by menacing criminals from fleabottom, cut down limb from limb by the prince himself. He deserved a thousand deaths for ever hurting you.

“One more question, if I may,” the prince asked softly, trying to rid his head of such images. “Why did you choose this profession? Does it not cause you anguish when you think back to this event?”

“No one was there to tend my wounds. I remember the loneliness of that feeling. I never wanted anyone else to feel that way.” You admitted, looking down at the pink lines that ran across your belly. “I never wanted anyone to feel lesser for something they did not ask for, something out of their control. I’ve lived with this a long time, and I’ve loved myself fully. But sometimes it still knocks me down like a wave. It’s hard each time but I’d never choose to do anything else with my life.”

“Lay down, my lady.” Aemond commanded softly before you could speak any more.

“What?”

“If you do not wish for my affections, you may tell me so. But if you’d allow me, I’d like the chance to take care of you. You’ve already taken such good care of me.” Aemond whispered, nuzzling his face against yours. He was drawn to you, mesmerized by you. The smart, fiery woman with a heart that still needed mending. He felt the pangs of jealously stab at him when he imagined anyone else but him stepping up to that task.

“It was my job.” You said sincerely, smiling at the prince. You leaned forward and gave him a kiss on the cheek. Aemond’s eyes fluttered closed at the contact.

“You should be fully healed within a day or two. I’ve left some ointment with instructions for your servants on your study desk. I shouldn’t take up more of your precious time, your grace. Thank you for being so kind to me.”

Again, you reached for your discarded gown but Aemond reacted too quickly, scooping you in his arms and gently resting you on his bed.

“You shouldn’t be lifting anything!” You said, slightly frustrated.

“And you should allow me to compensate you in my own way.” Aemond responded, joining you on the bed.

Before you could protest, Aemond reached for the covers and pulled them up to cover the two of you. He snaked one arm underneath you and rested the other on your abdomen, gently tracing the outline of your scar.

“I will not force you into anything you wouldn’t want. And even if you had the same desires as me, I know my healer would advise me against any strenuous activity today,” Aemond said with a grin. “Allow me just to hold you, my lady.”

You gave him a perplexed look as the prince settled next to you. “I do not understand what is happening.”

“What is happening is that I am enjoying the company of a very smart woman. Who is gifted in the fields of science and medicine. Who has hair that smells of lilies and eyes that shine like the sun’s reflection on the emerald seas. A woman that entered my chambers and immediately disarmed me with her wit and personality. Who tended to my wounds with genuine care and love. A woman who is not afraid of my trauma and felt comfortable enough to share hers with me. I want you to stay. You are a fascinating creature who seems to be hellbent on capturing what is left of my heart.”

Your heart leapt at the prince’s words. Carefully, you moved to rest your head on his chest. The two of you laid still for a moment, simply resting together and enjoying the quietness of it. Absentmindedly, Aemond began playing with your hair as his eyes struggled to remain open.

“Didn’t I annoy you when I first entered?” You asked, leaning into his touch.

Aemond opened his eyes and gazed down at you. “Was that your attempt at distancing yourself from me?”

“Not at all. You were being an idiot and I responded naturally to your behavior.” You said matter of factly.

Aemond moved to hover over you, his arms planted on either side of your shoulders. “How is it that you have a penchant for saying things that if spoken by any other would have me seething with rage?”

“You’ll learn to love it.” You said cheekily.

“I’m afraid I already have,” Aemond said, placing a kiss on your forehead.

[gremlinmodetweeker]

Stars Whisper Prophecies into Waiting Wells

Okay I love cannibal king!König. He's so... I dunno. He's not baby, that's for sure, but... He's pretty weird, but he's not fucked up like kidnapper!König. He just... I think i's been a while since he's loved like this before. Also, reader learns something very important about our man, so look forward to that!

TW: cannibalism, can be interpreted as treating foreign cultures as lesser

Wordcount: 1k

Art from This Post

Story below the cut

Stars Whisper Prophecies into Waiting Wells

The stars above twinkled with jubilant delight. They swirled and danced, trapped in an eternal cosmic waltz in the heavens. How you wished to join them.

You looked to your side, where your king rested beside you. From the sounds of it, he was still awake, but you couldn’t be sure. You wondered what he was thinking.

He was a simple creature to you. He barely spoke, and when he did he roared or barked or spat. His voice was always a second option to his fist. He was quick to lash out at his people, slam them into their place and tear them apart both physically and literally. He was cruel, he was violent, and unfortunately, he was yours. Or were you his? A part of you balked at the notion that you were subservient to such a lesser creature. You could speak eloquently. You could read and write. You were a civilized human being. He was… He was nothing, you determined. He was nothing and he never would be. He was less man and more and more animal. You could never let yourself be subjugated by him.

But you didn’t run from him. You could have left many times by now, but you stayed by his side. You told yourself it was strictly for survival purposes, but you’d come to appreciate your cannibal king. Sometimes he disgusted you, but on nights like tonight, you could pretend he understood you.

“Thank you.”

Your voice was a whisper in the wind, washing away with the whistles of wind in the waves of long grass.

He grunted in response. You pretended it meant, ‘You’re welcome’.

You stayed by your king’s side, but you couldn’t help but feel a crushing weight in your chest. You thought about the three soldiers again. You hoped that they had each other. You wished you were with them instead of here, trapped by your king.

Said king raised one long arm into the sky. His hand was visible only by a wreath of moonlight encircling him, a loving embrace from the night. You tried to see what he was pointing out, but you knew nothing of the cosmos. Instead, you watched as he whined and dropped his hand back to his chest. When you turned to face him, you were stunned by how beautifully the moonlight glinted off his golden mask, ran up his stolen antlers to paint his crown in light. You thought he looked almost innocent in the moonshine. The thought startled you.

Without thinking, you stretched out your hand and gently ran three fingers along his bicep. He flinched under your touch, whimpered boyishly.

“I wish you understood me,” you sighed.

He whined from the back of his throat.

“I don’t even know your name.”

The man coughed something out earnestly and hit his chest. You snorted and turned away. As you rolled onto your back, you felt a hand grab your wrist and pull you back to face him. Your eyes widened in horror as he hit his chest once more and made those syllables again. You glanced down at his hand, then his silhouetted face. He said it again and hit his chest to emphasize his point.

You watched him, listened to him, but you couldn’t understand what he was saying. You could tell he was trying to tell you something, but what? Was he upset by something? He didn’t sound angry, he sounded sad. Why did he sound sad? What could he-

The thought flashed through your mind like lightening.

“König,” you whispered.

He nodded like an ecstatic puppy.

Your jaw dropped. You tried to search for anything to tell you otherwise, but nothing happened.

“Your name is K��nig.”

He nodded again.

You pointed at your chest and quietly told him your name. He repeated it back with snarled vowels. You didn’t need to see his eyes to know how he looked at you.

You reached out, letting your fingers tangle with his in the grass between you both.

This man, this beast, he knew what you said. He understood you. All this time, all these curses and cries, he understood you. When you begged and pleaded for him to stop before, he’d understood. All this time, all the curses and cries you’d sent up to the heavens, all your nights of sobbing in the blankets, he bore witness to it all. He understood you the entire time. You’d yearned for a companion, but he was always there.

If you were someone else, maybe this would’ve been when you asked questions. This would have been when you asked how long this animal man understood your words. You might have asked how he was civilized enough for a name. Most importantly, you would have asked how a man cut off from the rest of the world understood your language, understood you. If you were a more worldly woman, maybe you would have asked how a cannibal king came to have a German word as a name.

But you were not such a person. You were starved, cold and afraid. You’d been alone for so long that you hung onto that one single world with both hands and dug your teeth into the meat of it. You never knew you needed one word so badly. It wasn’t even a word, it was a name. But that name was so much more than a name. It was all you needed to know that you weren’t alone.

At some point, you started weeping. You only noticed when dirty fingers brushed the tears away from your puffy eyes. He tried to pull away from you, but you held onto his hand and pressed your cheek into his palm. It didn’t matter that his hand swallowed your entire head, it didn’t matter that these hands smelled of iron and sweet rot.

Your tears washed his skin. His skin, rough and leathery, was like merino wool. His breath, rotten and putrid, brushed over you as he shuffled closer to your side. You let yourself be pressed into his dirty skin. You could feel his thick body hair matted with blood. You tried to gently untangle it in your fingers, comb him like a lost lamb. 

He was a monster, but for the first time, you finally saw the cannibal king as a man.

Konig Dump

Alternate Universes

[puppycak3s]

Girlie this is just straight smut mkay? I left a post on a cliff hanger but people heard me out so here we go. If you just wanna read the smut pls be my guest, but if you want the build up it is on my page. Love u fellow old man fuckers🫶 TW: for dubcon

You could feel your breath catch in your throat. It wasn't intentional, mostly a biological thing, but in all of your years of treating people you had never come across anything quite like this.

Your mind kicked into overdrive as you felt your cheeks start to burn. He- well maybe he was in pain but it wasn't what you were expecting. The groans and gasps you heard before suddenly shift into a different light. Your thoughts were abruptly interupted by a breathy keen. Your eyes darted to its source and you felt a familiar heavyness start to build in your stomach. A part of you was absolutely mortified at the fact that your friend was in obvious pain and discomfort and you. You were getting turned on by it. But another part, sickly, didn't mind that much. His eyes still dialated, red and brimming with tears? Dear god have mercy on your soul.

He tightened his grip slightly on your wrist and your stomach flipped when you realized you hadn't moved your hand. "I-" his voice was wavering either with embarrassment or maybe just the plants toxins, whatever they were. "I'm so sorry" he choked out a sob and it made you worry for him all the more. He hung his head as tears started to fall onto the floor. He gritted his teeth again and his hand squeezed your wrist tighter. "I tried to- but I couldn't and I- hah it hurts so bad, god" his whimpering quieted slightly as he pressed his forehead against the floor again.

Your mind was racing a mile a minute. He was in obvious pain. Not only that he was your close friend, and it hurt you to see him suffer like this. You only had an idea of what you could try, if he would let you.

"Ford sweetie?" You moved closer to smooth his hair on the back of his head. You thought- no you knew you felt his cock twitch when you did, and his little whines didn't go unnoticed either. "I have an idea of what might be able to help you" His eyes were screwed shut, eyebrows furrowed in a pitiful way. You could see his chest heaving and honestly it scared you. If you didn't do something quick, you didn't know what would happen. He still wouldn't look at you.

You knew he must feel embarrassed, mortified even, but you did care for him, maybe there was a way to soothe his worries before dealing with the task at hand. "Ford, honey, I don't know what happened, but I'm here now" you said softly, taking his face in your hands. You leaned closer to him and he buried his face into your shoulder, tearstained face wetting the fabric. You soothed him, continuing to pet his hair as his whining and heavy breathing reached a lesser but steady pattern. You were relieved that at least he wouldn't hyperventilate.

"Your body is just having a physical reaction to the plant you encountered earlier, as scary as it may seem, it's nothing to be ashamed of." He shifted himself closer to you, craving comfort, support from one of the few people he trusted. He was practically in your lap now, hands fisted into your shirt as if you were the only thing grounding him. "I thought I could- I never intended for this to, for you to" he gasped out muffled from your shirt. You shushed him, holding him tighter as his body shuddered against you.

"Ford I'm a medical professional, I've seen people in all sorts of states, did you really think this would scare me off?" He nodded his head weakly against you. You ducked your head down to his eye level and held his face again. He looked at you, his eyes were slightly bloodshot and his lips were parted to accommodate his rapid breathing. He trusted you, he would not have let you hold him, tell you of such an intimate problem if he didn't.

"Just take a breath for me, okay? Let's start with just that" He nodded his head again, not loosening his grip on your shirt. You could feel the tension decrease if only minutely. It was a start at least. He gathered a bit of courage to look up at you and speak softly. "You don't. Don't have to do this if you-" "Ford" you interupted him sweetly but stern. "I wouldn't be here if I wasn't willing to help you, whatever help that may be, I need you to understand that".

He let out another shaky breath, and nodded his head. "Okay- okay what should I... do?" He was searching your eyes like a lost puppy, needing a command. You smiled a bit, finding his inexperience endearing. "Just let me take care of it Ford, take care of you."

His breath hitched as one of your hands reached to unbuckle his belt, which was surprisingly difficult to do with one hand but you managed. He bucked his hips into you involuntarily when you undid the zipper to his slacks. "Oh fuck, I- I can't.. I need you to touch me" he whined trying to bury his face in your neck. You let him. "I know Ford, I've got you" you soothed, your free hand continuing to pet his hair. You had a feeling it had been a while since another person had done this to him.

He gasped as you pulled his cock free from his boxers, not even bothering to pull his slacks down past his hips. No time. His cock was absolutely drenched with himself, had he been trying to get himself off over his slacks? He must have been. He was shivering against you as you felt him throb in your hand. You don't think you've ever seen someone so pent up, so desperate for human touch. It did something to you, but that would wait. Your attention was on him.

He cried out sharply as you began to move your hand. "Is this okay, is it too much?" You whispered to him as you could feel him pant against you. "Please please please just, fuck!" He let out a breathless whine, akin to a dog. "Just- just use it however, no one's ever- please just keep going, pleaseee". You had never heard him like this before, breathless and whiney, and a part of you wanted to hear him like it again. Hopefully. "Shh, it's alright I've got you Ford, just focus on the feeling f'me." His hips continued to chase your hand as he chased his high, fuck he was so cute like this. "Mmnn, i, shit... i can't- i'm gonna, hah" his voice usually so deep, had entered a higher, truly pathetic whiney cadence as he panted against you, hands gripping onto your shoulders. You prayed he would leave bruises on you.

"That's it that's it, let go f'me honey it's alright" you trailed your free hand up and down his back softly, reassuring him. A broken cry that sounded like it was torn out of his throat as you felt him cum against your stomach and hand, hot and dense. It dripped down to the floor, onto your jeans, christ it probably was on the walls in some places. How could a man possibly have that much? His breath was still hot against you as he trembled in your lap. He looked, sounded wrecked the poor thing.

He stifled a sob against you as you held him closer to you, careful to avoid brushing against where he was most sensitive. "Thank you, thank you, thank you" he choked out, chanting between sobs. You shushed him again softly as you rested your chin atop his head. "It's okay, Ford, it's okay I'm right here". You stayed like that, holding onto him until his breathing evened out.

You lifted your head, brushing his hair from his eyes "how are you feeling?" He laughed a bit at that "that maybe Gravity Falls botanicals are something I should stay away from". He let out a sigh as he settled his head against your chest. "Although I- well I suppose with some engineering the plant could prove itself... useful". You playfully batted at his shoulder. "Ford Pines, I swear if you scare me like this again I will leave you on the floor." He chuckled again at you, meeting your eyes with a warm smile. "I'd deserve that, but" he reached his large hand up to cup your face, a mock stern look upon it. "Truly you have my deepest thanks, maybe I could, show you my appreciation?" You blinked slowly.

"Ford as much as I would like that, and I mean really really like that, I am not letting you touch me without you getting at least 8 hours of sleep" you said tucking his half hard cock back into his pants. His face grew red again. "Doctor's orders". He raised a brow at you. "I'm so sorry my dear, but I believe I am the only one here in posession of a PHD." You sighed hanging your head with a smile. "What am I going to do with you Pines."

Okay girl it is rushed and im not used to writing smut so I hope this is alright?

[theoihalioistuff]

In the post you made debunking the claim of Ares being the protector of women, you have written that secrecy and disposal of the child born point to rape. Can you please elaborate a bit as I'm having a hard time understanding how exactly? Especially with the latter, is it because the conception of the child happened without the permission of the father of the woman (I've heard even if woman slept willingly, without her father's assent then it would have been considered rape)?

TW for Rape and Infanticide. (My eyes actually started watering and I had to stop several times while researching this ask)

There's a lot to discuss in here, and I'm afraid a Tumblr post from someone who's not a classicist won't cover all that needs to be addressed, so for further reading I recommend Rape in Antiquity (1997) edited by Susan Deacy and Karen F. Pierce, and their follow-up Revisiting Rape in Antiquity (2023), Edited by Susan Deacy, José Malheiro Magalhães and Jean Zacharski Menzies, a series of collected essays regarding Sexual Violence in Greek and Roman Worlds.

Broadly speaking, our modern concept of Rape (criminal act defined by the lack of consent during sexual intercourse) does not have a strict ancient greek equivalent (bearing in mind that "ancient greece" covers large periods of history where attitudes almost certainly differed from time to time and from place to place). Nor is there a greek match found for the english word 'rape' – derived from the latin rapere "seize, carry off by force", which was used for both people (in the sense of abduct or kidnap, only rarely denoting sexual violence) and objects (in the sense of plunder). The latin words most commonly used to denote rape were stuprare "defile, disgrace, rape," which is related to stuprum "illicit sex" (also to stupere "to be stunned, stupefied", origin of the word stupid) and violare "maltreat, profane, infringe, violate".

In ancient greek several words could be used to denote what we today would call rape: Biazomai (βιάζομαι - inflict violence, force, constrain), Harpazo (ἁρπάζω - snatch away, seize, carry off; from where the Harpies get their name, later used to refer to the christian rapture), Hybrizo (ὑβρίζω - outrage, dishonor, affront, treat as an inferior; related to hybris, a complicated word), Moicheia (μοιχεία ‐ adultery, illicit sex) or Phthora (φθορά - ruin, damage, destroy) were all words that, to a greater or lesser extent, were used to refer to violent or illicit sex. These last two concepts, though intimately related to our definition of rape, can be considered distinctly, especially when approximating a definition of "rape" in the classical world: e.g. the forcing of a slave was not morally wrong or illegal, while consorting with a free married woman was. Willingness did not define the crime, rather status and ownership did.

Regarding this last point, women's sexual and reproductive rights belonged to their kyrios (κύριος - guardian, master, head of the household), generally fathers and husbands, but failing that brothers (e.g. Apemosyne and Althaimenes) or sons (e.g. Penelope and Telemachos). Moreover a woman's virtue and reputation were primarily linked to her sexual activity: chastity, modesty, shame and obedience being her main ethical concerns. Therefore, when it came to sexual relationships outside of marriage, it was narratively "preferable that a woman should be raped [be unwilling] rather than seduced" (The Portrayal of Rape in New Comedy, Karen F. Pierce), thus preserving the moral virtue of "respectable" characters like goddesses or heroines. This is not to say every sexual interaction in greek mythology is presented as a rape, that obviously varies from telling to telling and depends on the myth, but it explains the narrative predilection for it. It should also be remembered that plenty of these unions are ambiguous as to whether rape or seduction take place, primarily because it's not usually of interest to the narrator unless the virtue of the women is being discussed (e.g. the centuries long discussions on Helen that survive to this day, and even then the distinction can be dismissed as irrelevant or nonexistent; "We think that it is unjust to carry women off. But to be anxious to avenge rape is foolish: wise men take no notice of such things. For plainly the women would never have been carried away, had they not wanted it themselves." – Hdt. Histories 1.4.2).

When it comes to panhellenic myth, sexual unions between gods and women are primarily framed as extramarital (beffiting a monogamous culture where gods' official consorts where to be found elsewhere), without the κύριος knowledge or consent (for a reversal see Hyg. Fabulae 129), and therefore under the umbrella of illicit sex (i.e. Rape). Recurring motifs are attached to these kinds of stories, which give us narrative context to identify (or at the very least be suspicious of) similar accounts in other myths where no explicit word denoting rape is used (as is most common in surviving works of mythography, that prioritise genealogy and gloss over instances of sexual assault). One of the most common tropes is that of exposure.

Myths of exposure in greek mythology usually come in three flavours. Either the child is exposed because of some prophecy (e.g. Paris or Oidipous), because it is born female (e.g. Atalanta or Iphis) or, in the majority of cases, because it is the product of rape (see below). As you noted the most frequent reason given for the exposure is fear of the κύριος discovery, who, in instances where he does find out about the rape, either does not believe the victim or is indifferent to her plight, and in either case kills her or attempts to do so (some examples below):

[Apemosyne: killed by her brother Althaimenes after she is raped by Hermes] "Not much later he became the murderer of his sister. Hermes loved her, but she ran away, and he could not catch her (for she was faster than him at running). So he spread freshly stripped hides along her path, and when she was coming back from the spring, she slipped on them and was raped. She told her brother what happened, but he thought the god was just an excuse, so he kicked her to death." (Apollod. 3.2.1)

[Auge: sentenced to death by her father Aleos after she is raped by Herakles] "After Auge was raped by Herakles, she concealed her baby in the sanctuary of Athena, whose priestess she was. But the land remained barren, and the oracles revealed that there was some ungodly thing in the sanctuary of Athena, so Auge was found out by her father, and he handed her over to Nauplios to be put to death. Teuthras, the ruler of the Mysians, received her from Nauplios and married her." (Apollod. 3.9.1)

[Psamathe: killed by her father Krotopos after she is raped by Apollo] "Psamathe the daughter of Krotopos got pregnant by Apollo [in Statius' Thebaid 1. 562-669 she is explicitly raped beside a river] and because she feared her father she exposed the child, whom she named Linos. The shepherd who received him raised him as his own, and one day the kings sheepdogs tore him apart. Maddened with grief, she was detected by her father, who [after she had bared her breasts and told him all] sentenced her to death, assuming she had been a harlot and lied about Apollo." (Conon. Narrations 19)

[Alope: killed by her father Kerkyron after she was raped by Poseidon] "Since Alope, daughter of Kerkyon, was very beautiful, Poseidon lay with her, and from this embrace she bore a child which she gave to her nurse to expose, since she did not know its father. When the child was exposed, a mare came and furnished it milk. A certain shepherd, following the mare, saw the child and took it up. When he had taken it home, clothed in its royal garments, a fellow shepherd asked that it be given to him. The first gave it without the garments, and when strife rose between them, the one who had taken the child demanding signs it was free-born, but the other refusing to give them, they came to king Kerkyon and presented their arguments. The one who had taken the child again demanded the garments, and when they were brought, Kerkyon knew that they were taken from the garments of his daughter. Alope's nurse, in fear, revealed to the king that the child was Alope's, and he ordered that his daughter be imprisoned and slain, and the child exposed. Again the mare fed it; shepherds again found the child, and took him up, and reared him, feeling that he was being guarded by the will of the gods." (Hyg. Fabulae. 187)

Not every account of exposure explicitly denotes rape (as mentioned before the nature of the union generally goes uncommented), and sometimes depending on the version seduction is to be better understood. Though both are interchangeable narrative-wise, frequently other details lead may us to suppose the stock character of the unwilling (raped) maiden is being portrayed, I'll use the example of Phylonome again:

"Phylonome, the daughter of Nyktimos and Arkadia, was wont to hunt with Artemis; but Ares, in the guise of a shepherd, got her with child. She gave birth to twin children and, fearing her father, cast them into the [River] Erymanthos. By some divine providence they were borne round and round without peril, and found haven in the trunk of a hollow oaktree. A wolf, whose den was in the tree, cast her own cubs into the stream and suckled the children." (Ps. Plutarch. Greek and Roman Parallel Stories. 36)

1. Phylonome is explicitly mentioned as a huntress companion of Artemis (presumably sworn to chastity). The sexual vulnerablility of Artemis' companions is a common trope; see Kallisto, Daphne, Arethousa, Britomartis, Kyrene, Syrinx, Nikaia, Pholoe, etc.)

2. Ares transforms/disguises himself to approach her (perhaps the most common trope of all), and conceals his identity in the guise of a shepherd (a disguise otherwise used by Zeus to approach Mnemosyne; Ovid. Met. 6.103-128, Clement. Recog. 22)

3. After giving birth she casts her children into the river Erymanthos. The reasoning is the typical stock example, fear of her father, though in this case the form of infanticide is much more direct than exposure: she casts them into the river to drown. As usual with these stories the children are saved by divine intervention, and are nursed by an animal and later raised by shepherds.

Again, no verb denoting rape is ever explicitly used, yet the context of the story is enough to reasonably suppose it was considered as such. Other examples of myths where babies are exposed are listed below, many of them are explicitly rapes, almost all the rest can be inferred as such (I can't for my own sake provide references for all of them, so those interested must do their own research):

Koronis exposes Apollo's son Asklepios on a mountain near Epidauros according to a local legend, Psamathe exposes Apollo's son Linos, Antiope exposes Zeus' sons Zethos and Amphion, Alope exposes Poseidon's son Hippothoon, Akakallis exposes Apollo's son Miletos, Tyro exposes Poseidon's sons Pelias and Neleus, Kreousa exposes Apollo's son Ion, Pelopia exposes Thyestes' son Aigisthos, Auge exposes Herakles' son Telephos, Evadne exposes Apollo's son Iamos, and Phylonome "exposes" Ares' sons Lykastos and Parrhasios (this list is by no means meant to be exhaustive).

My post confronting fake claims that Ares was the protector of women can be found here.

[joestarkisser]

tw// fatphobia, abuse, pregnancy mention

This fat pride day, I want to give a shoutout to fat selfshippers who..

Are getting pressured to diet, fast, or restrict food from friends, family, or even society.

Are trying to gain weight, but only find weight loss recipes when searching for tips.

Are unable to find any clothes they like in their size.

Are being stared at and treated as lesser as they go about their day today.

Are having weight loss surgeries pushed on them. Again.

Are being pushed around and bullied for their size.

Are being denied gender affirming surgeries due to their size.

Are too afraid to stand up to abuse because they want to be a 'good example', lest they cause people to hate fat folk more.

Are being fed fear-mongering stories about fat pregnancy, fertility, and virility in their reproductive journies.

Are being told they won't be good parents because they're fat.

Are losing their jobs and careers because of their size.

Are having their disabilities blamed on fatness.

Are being ignored and pushed aside by doctors, with their symptoms being chalked up to 'fat'.

Are having trouble loving their bodies because of their size.

Are struggling to think their F/Os would love them in their fat bodies.

And so much more.

Your F/Os love you. They see you. They understand your pain, your struggles, the injustices you're facing in a fatphobic society. They adore you, adore your body, and will care for and protect you. They'll give anything to keep you safe from this oppression, and they'll be doing their damndest to make this fat pride day special for you. ❤🎀

[dearest-painter]

Yandere Johnny with Gary’s Sister reader (with a platonic yandere Gary)

TW/CW:unhealthy behavior, unhealthy relationship,abusive behavior,abusive relationship,Gary has his twisted way of loving his sister in a platonic way,Johnny and Gary threatening Lola,Lola’s bitch ass,already established relationship,Johnny calls you his ‘queen’ or ‘my girl’,It’s not specified if Gary and reader are blood siblings so you can imagine yourself however you want!,Reader has to deal with Gary’s bullshit and is the reason he hasn’t fought anyone yet,Tell me if I need to add more!

-First things first,we all know Gary is very manipulative and has almost all the teachers and students wrapped around his finger or enough for them to not care about his activities. He makes sure it’s the same for you,no one will be allowed to annoy you

-Gary found out about your relationship with Johnny when Lola was bitching that Johnny “left me for some crazy man’s sister!” Or “Broke up with me for someone lesser then her!” Along those lines. He knows that not many people are as crazy as him so he connected the dots early and was pissed!

-You and Johnny were hanging out in town because you two wanted to buy each other something then hang out. It was going good…until Gary showed up.

- “Gary!?” Gary just glared at your boyfriend as he pushed you behind him. Johnny wasn’t going to let this stand because your his girl! “What the fuck do you want from my sister!?” “Just to love her!” “Bullshit!” “It ain’t bullshit! She’s my girl and I’m her fucking boy!” Johnny softly pulled you to him not wanting to harm you as you smiled up at him. Gary growled a bit. “Gary,my dearest brother…how about next week we set up a day for you two to actually talk normally” Gary rolled his eyes and scoffed while Johnny just glared at him. “Fine…but only for you Y/N” “what he said” “thank you both! Now we’ll be on our way!” Gary rolled his eyes again walking away while you and Johnny went to calm down more so Johnny…

-they hate each other completely yet they stick it out for you.

-They have a..truce in a way,they don’t fight or argue as much around you but they will attack or badmouth anyone who tries shit against you.

-Gary loves you in his own twisted way,your parents know that and was the reason you were sent here with him! Without you Gary is a complete maniac,he’s more insane and attacks much more so they sent you with him for others safety.

-He doesn’t treat you as a possession more so his sister that he won.

-Johnny loves you a lot! You were his safety net and crush as long as he can remember but dated Lola do try and hide it,it truly never worked.

-If they heard Lola was bitch talking more then usual and it was about you they’d definitely jump her ass,I’m bullworth everyone fights each other no matter what gender but will get punished harder so they’d stop and make someone else do Itzaes

-Gary gets Johnny to spy on you or hang out with you so he can at least keep an eye on you no matter what. Johnny gets annoyed but hey Gary’s rich and pays him well!

-Johnny gets some of his buds to watch over you. He says “So no one can steal my Queen!” Which is cute until you realize he’s unhealthy obsessed with you. They don’t get annoyed as Johnny’s the boss but also because they like you!

[cursedvibes]

tw // rape and sexual assault

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-

-

Can I be honest about something. I feel like Kenjaku fans are really dishonest about their sexual assault and rape.

I know that they didn’t directly rape Choso’s mother themself, but they still orchestrated it and oversaw it and made sure the cursed spirit raped her.

And then there’s Kaori. Is it not rape to have sex in a dead person’s corpse? She couldn’t consent to having her body used like that. It’s rape. And if you try to defend this and say that her body wasn’t hers anymore…that’s beyond vile.

I’m not saying that Kenjaku fans can’t like them or think they’re an interesting character or whatever. But I think it’s deeply harmful that I’ve seen so many of you insist that they’re not a rapist. Too many of you are like “hehe my criminal wife who commits all the crimes XD” and if you’re going to like a character who’s a rapist, could you at least not talk about them like that?

I mean, I can understand being uncomfortable with that and with what Kenjaku did, that's what you're supposed to feel after all. I also don't think Kenjaku fans have the obligation to bring up every single one of their crimes every time we talk about them, even if it's light-hearted. I talked about Kenjaku being a rapist before here and for the most part still agree with what I said there. While from what we know, the way the mother was impregnated wasn't sexual, I can understand calling it rape. It's like if someone was inseminated with a syringe against their will. Technically not sexual, still a violation of the body and reproductive autonomy.

So yes, what they did to the Death Painting mother is vile, so is them killing infants and and exploiting people's bodies in all kinds of ways. In case of Kaori I'm also heavily side-eyeing Jin's involvement there, especially after the reveal about his past. I don't particularly like it when some Kenjaku fans minimize what they did or say it didn't happen at all/excuse it in some other way, I honestly only see that very rarely though. Not nearly as much as people painting Sukuna as the perfect husband for example or him just being deeply misunderstood. Many Kenjaku fans are very much aware of their atrocities, just don't bring it up at every occasion because there's a lot more to talk about. What annoys me much more is people breaking all this down to redundant and tired "backshots" memes.

Still, I don't think all that prohibits you from making jokes about them in general like "my evil wife" etc. You have every right to be uncomfortable with that and I'd advise to block people who you think go too far, I do the same thing myself, but I think in itself it's not a bad thing. We're still talking about a fictional character here after all. As long as you don't lose sight of what they actually did (like I'm getting the impression with many of the backshots memes besides them often being very trans- and homophobic), I don't see the problem.

A lot of that has to do with how jjk engages with these things too. Like the Death Painting experiment isn't treated quite as lightly (and personally, I've never seen anyone joke about that specifically, but maybe I was lucky), but Kenjaku's treatment of Choso for example is and so fans see it as an opening to find the humor in a terrible situation. It's much harder to make jokes about Seiko from Blood on the Tracks, despite her having committed far lesser crimes than Kenjaku because the nature of the story is different. More realistic, you experience the horror of her abuse first-hand and the characters don't make a lot of jokes themselves either. There is much more of a comedic element to Kenjaku, they can be quite a quirky character, so people feel a lot more comfortable making jokes about them. Based on the target, severity and content I don't think that's bad, just a different way of engaging with the media.

When I write about the Death Painting experiment and from the perspective of the mother for example (in fanfic or just my blog), I usually draw upon experiences of rape recovery together with medical trauma. It's not for everyone, but for me, exploring this topic in the safe environment of fiction is interesting and in a way comforting. The horror of the infanticide, worming their way into the Itadori family, their whole relation with Yuuji, the Death Painting experiment is what got me so invested and keeps me invested in jjk in the first place. That's not everyone's reason for engaging with it or Kenjaku, just my perspective. And yeah, I do make jokes about them too because despite all that they can be funny. I mean, they literally just did a comedy show.

[traumasurvivorshelpingsurvivors]

Hi, the context is childhood trauma though I don't think there is much of a TW. It is more about recovery.

I have been in therapy and been doing my best but recently I felt some barrier inside of me and explored it. My therapist and I were working on some specific happenings from my childhood - minor ones yet. And I found out my issue:

I can't imagine being healthy. The ordinary life seems so overwhelming, I can't imagine working a job all day, socializing all day, this is so beyond me. I can't see me ever being able to do this. But what if I overcame all my trauma and would still be the same person, but then people would expect me to live an ordinary life? And I would expect too. My mental illness is my excuse, for now. I am afraid to lose it.

And second, not the lesser one: In a way, holding a grudge is the only power I have. I feel if I overcome these memories, (I won't forget them but they will be worked into the grand scheme of memories, I guess) then they got away with it. I know it is silly and people say "Overcoming it and living your best live is good revenge" but that doesn't resonate with me. Holding a grudge until the end of time seems like good revenge! It was the only power I had for so long, something in my blocks, when I try to do like the last step to overcome it. Idk. Any ideas?

Hi anon,

My therapist tells me that holding grudges and resentment gives the other person power over you because it means you give them the opportunity to live rent free in your head. You give them permission to use your time and energy towards being angry at or upset with them. Being angry or upset at someone indicates that you believe they should or would behave differently. But if you believed that the behavior that led to your resentment is perfectly within their character and not surprising, that resentment melts away. If you expected them to do that, it almost becomes laughable.

There are ways to respect the damage done and also live a happy and fulfilling life. The real power is making an active choice to enjoy yourself and not let someone else's behavior have power over that. Trauma has been such a core part of my identity for so long that I forgot how to focus on my life as it was happening. I was made to believe that my experiences weren't real which further enforced my own resentment and rumination on said trauma. I struggled to allow myself to be happy because then I felt like I was ignoring what happened. Despite mourning the person I could have been, I've come to realize that I can still give myself, to the best of my ability, the life I know I will never have. I can still try to be the person I could have been, as close to it as possible. I am treating my child self, and I hope that you can too.

-Bun

[leastdatablebracket]

ROUND 4, MATCH 8

Propaganda under the cut! (tw rape)

Alfani

Propaganda

He is also part of the Brothel route (he and Dorain Grey share it). He is a prostitute at the Oscar Wilde brothel, and he has absolutely no problem raping MC under his bosses orders, not letting her leave and overall assists his boss in turning MC into a brainwashed sex slave.

Cullen Rutherford

Propaganda

stupid racist cop creep whose fans cry about how hes "changed" and "you can't judge him he was addicted to magic drugs" nah he still chose to be a racist cop and abuse his power over innocent people and i hate him. the writers making him romanceable in da:i after how blatantly horrible he was in da:o and da:2 is baffling but i guess they had to appeal to the part of their audience who watch those "mafia boyfriend" videos on tiktok or whatever

He's creepy in origins, though still 100% willing to kill the female mage pc he's crushing on, as well as all the other mages trapped in the circle with him. He's the second-in-command in an even worse circle in 2, listening to and defending the increasingly obviously insane meredith until literally the end. He's one of the people still pushing for the circle system by inquisition, and yes he's going through withdrawals and working through the traumas of previous games. And to be brutally honest his was the first romance i took and while i don't remember much from it, its not worth all the girls going absolutely nuts over knockoff terrible alistair.

He's basically a cop who thinks being born a certain way can revoke personhood and by Inquisition still thinks mages are monsters to be controlled, not people. He gets a fairy tale cutesy romance that focuses on his personal struggles with addiction while showing absolutely no regard to the atrocities he committed and still thinks were justified. He can be romanced BY A MAGE and his actions and beliefs are just glossed over. He believes mages are 'not people like you (Hawke) and me', but if the Warden was a female mage he canonically had a crush on her and would deliberately hang around her despite the fact that he was her *jailer*. If that Warden romanced Leliana, there is war table dialogue in which he pesters Leliana for news of his 'former' crush despite her repeated statement that she doesn't want to talk to him about her. All this shitty behavior and lack of introspection gets swept under the rug by the game, not even giving the PC the chance to really challenge his beliefs. Like damn even Fenris could apologize when he lashed out due to past trauma with mages, and if anyone has a reason to hate mages it's Fenris. If you want an ex Templar hottie Alistair is RIGHT THERE. Tbh I know Cullen is a popular romance and I'm not here to tell anyone what they can or can't do or like in a video game, I'm just saying I think he is deeply undateable

Spends the first two games as an antagonist, fervently devoted to the cause of subjugating mages, then a bunch of "character development" happens off screen and the games treat him like he's completely reformed. However he's actions make it clear he still sees mages as dangerous and lesser. Not to mention if you romance him with an elf he doesn't pay your culture more than lip service respect like most of the devout characters 

He was a total villain in the first two games who was violently prejudiced against mages and uses one single bad experience as an excuse for it (a bad experience that is pretty much exactly what he in his job subjected graduating apprentices to, mind you, but this is never brought up). Now he says he's changed, but his words and actions say otherwise. He still distrusts mages, sympathises with the rebel Templars trying to kill them, and he never owns up to the terrible stuff he did and helped others do in the past two games. He totally knew what Meredith was doing and says he doesn't, and he still tries to defend her intentions. And you have no option to call him out on it. If you romance him as a mage, he angsts about how he might have seen you as subhuman in the past but NOW you're one of the good ones, and when you ask him if he'll kill you if you get possessed, he dodges the question. And the PC is written as being almost sad that she's a mage? Like 'can you love me despite what I am??' Also if Leliana romanced a female mage PC in the first game who is still alive, he asks her creepy questions about their relationship. Fitting considering his original purpose was to be creepy to the female mage Warden. 

I hate him and want to cause chaos. Plus his VA is an asshole.

Cop

I think you covered almost everything but don't forget that beautiful moment in DA2 - Act 2 where you find out some templars had a petition to lobotomize all mages and Meredith, THE HARDCORE TEMPLAR LEADER, rejects it, but Cullen says they got a point. Despite the fact that we just found out that those templars were using lobotomy (or the threat of) to rape people and get away with it. And then Cullen in DA:I is whining that anything that happened it's not his fault because Meredith kept the worse away form him so he didn't know, but also that anyway Meredith had a point and did what she had to do. Meredith does not go mad until Act 3, before she was of sound mind and Culllen was her second in command BECAUSE he hated mages as much as (or even more) than her. What the FUCK did she even hide from you, Cullen. Oh, but he changed! Because the writers make A VICTIM OF THE TEMPLARS say so. And anyway he only says so BECAUSE HE READS MINDS not because Cullen did anything to show it. Also the narrative wants to sympathise with Cullen for his drug problems while Cullen is openly attacking the only other character with the same problem for...having the same problem. And he's the antagonist, so there were OTHER things Cullen could be mad about. But he is mad about the drug problem. Also I'm not an expert on writing characters with addictions but he is an addict only when it's time to have a cut scene where you pity him. Otherwise it has zero impacts on everything else.

[sarith-kzekarit]

Hiya! Thanks for all your comments/tags on my Sarith arts! Would it be okay to ask how his story went in your campaign? I’ve heard so many cool ones over the years!

Hi!! I'm a perfectly normal amount of insane about Sarith and am always on the lookout for more content of him and OOTA in general (I've found very few other fans, sadly). I love your stuff, including your Sporeblood comic, and it always makes me really happy to see anything you share. :)

Anyway, I'd be happy to share some info about our Sarith!! I'm our group's DM and we are currently in the second half of our OOTA campaign, where Sarith is alive and well.

His background (that my party is aware of):

Sarith belonged to a lesser noble house of Menzoberranzan. They aren't a ruling family.

He attended Melee-Magthere and prefers stealth and ranged fighting.

Due to certain experiences, he privately questioned Lolth's propaganda early on and doesn't subscribe to her ideology.

Partially out of a desire to spend as much time away from Menzoberranzan as possible, he pursued a career in cartography. His job was to explore across the Underdark and map out new areas. He's very passionate about his work and once stabbed a man for ruining a map by marking it with a knife.

So far, the above points are unique to us and not in the module.

(MODULE SPOILER) This is how he ended up in Neverlight Grove. In our campaign, he and a traveling partner discovered the previously-unknown myconid colony. Sarith gained a strong appreciation for it and deliberately didn't mark it on his map. During their stay, the myconid Stool grew attached and followed him when his journey continued.

(MODULE SPOILER) Sarith and his partner were infected without knowing it, and it was only a matter of time before one turned on the other. Sarith lost control first and murdered said partner in front of witnesses at a trading post. He doesn't remember the act.

Sarith was arrested and taken to nearby Velkynvelve, where he met the party.

The story so far:

Early on, Sarith was sullen, guarded, and distrustful, but he was fiercely protective of Stool. After observing their relationship dynamic, the PCs told Stool what a father was and how to refer to Sarith as "dad" in Common.

Sarith's health was slowly deteriorating throughout the early campaign, and he made significant efforts to hide this weakness out of fear of being left behind or killed off.

He cooperated with the party for survival, but he also went out of his way to refuse any attempts to help him personally, expecting that he would owe the others something in return.

Despite this, the PCs were determined to befriend him, and slowly but surely managed to break down his defenses. His personality began to shine through: that of a shy, quiet man who preferred being in the wilderness over being around people, and who would ramble passionately about his interests if you could figure out what they were.

As he grew to trust the party enough, he started encouraging them to travel to Neverlight Grove, which he considered to be a safe haven. It would have plentiful food and water to sustain them, and was mostly unknown by outsiders.

(TW terminal illness) As they got closer, Sarith got sicker, and he was prepared for the grove to be his final resting place; this way, at least he would die free, Stool would be returned home, and the people he'd grown fond of would be safe from their pursuers.

(MODULE SPOILER) Thankfully, the PCs were smart and picked up on the hints I sprinkled along the way. They were wary of all the strange behavior, kept a close eye on Sarith, and sent a very small PC-only team to investigate deeper into the grove. After experiencing The Horrors™, the party fled and vowed to find a cure for Sarith.

With more knowledge of exactly what they were dealing with, the PCs found small ways to help manage Sarith's symptoms until he could be properly treated by healers at a major location.

(MODULE SPOILER) As the party got closer to reaching their goal of the Surface, Sarith began to fear what would happen to him when they reached it. There was no place for him in the world above, nor did he have a place in the Underdark. But to everyone's surprise, the least likely person stepped up to offer him a home: the dwarf Eldeth, who he'd previously had a lot of tension with during Part I of the campaign. She had gained a lot of respect for him in the past months (especially from one particular event) and now considers him "one of us."

(MODULE SPOILER) During the Intermission - which the PCs spent on the Surface - Sarith and Eldeth stayed in Gauntlgrym and grew surprisingly close. The PCs insisted on keeping in touch via letters, and when the time came for them to be summoned by King Bruenor, Sarith was fully prepared to follow his friends back into the Underdark.

Present day:

Though Sarith is no longer terminally ill, he did develop a chronic illness as a result of the internal damage done to his body. Old habits die hard, and he's doing his best to hide this so he can be useful to the party.

Two of the PCs are currently in the process of courting Sarith into a poly relationship. It's going well. :)

I love this man so much and have a lot to say about him, but this is by no means exhaustive lol. I'm actually writing a private fanfiction for OOTA (which may or may not ever see the light of day) exploring his character and various themes more in-depth...

Anyway, thank you for asking!!