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depravitycentral · 9 months

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Yandere! Gyutaro General Profile

Yandere! Gyutaro x fem! reader

Tw: kidnapping, violence, mentions of non-con, mentions of masturbation, nonconsensual touching, semi graphic descriptions of violence, murder, mentions of catcalling and objectification (not by our lovely disturbed Gyutaro), poor nutrition, descriptions of Gyutaro consuming human flesh, lack of vitamin D in the underground lair, Gyutaro is cripplingly insecure and it shows, threats of violence against you, yelling, deragatory language, Stockholm Syndrome, mentions of reader being non-traditionally pretty, 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:

Motherly

The feelings he holds for his darling are, of course, not platonic, but there’s a part of him that craves to be cared for.

Daki cares for him, true, but he needs more – a sort of love that will leave his cold, empty heart racing, a love that will make his pessimistic views of himself and the world just a bit softer, someone to hold and warm his bed and tell him that he’s enough.

It’s sad, really; he’s so painfully insecure, so full of self-hatred and loathing that the moment his darling shows even an ounce of kindness or care for him, he’s done for.

He’s latching onto them, desperate for any ounce of love or attention they can give him, greedily taking and taking and taking, needing to feel cared for and wanted in a way he’s only ever dreamed of.

His darling is addicting, the feelings they give him becoming something he needs in order to simply just function, and a darling who can help foster these feelings and continually care for him would be very, very attractive to him.

He needs a darling who pities him, really, though he doesn’t want this to be obvious – they need to feel for him, to want to help him and stop all these horrible self deprecating comments, to help give him even just the slightest bit of confidence.

And just these efforts alone will have him gulping, his claws sinking into their sides in an effort to keep them by his side, safe and secure and trapped, so that they can never leave him.

Patient

He’s emotionally stunted.

Having been turned to a demon from a difficult, horrible human life, he’s never had any experience with romance or how to properly woo someone. He’s rough around the edges and short tempered, easy to set off in a fit of anger with very little reason.

He’s genuinely quite difficult to be around, and the constant negativity he spews about his life, humanity, and himself can be hard to tolerate.

As a result, he has to have a darling who is patient; they need to be able to handle all of the foul words and complaining he sends at them, just nodding along and comforting him, letting him clutch onto them and curl around their body, nearly suffocating them as he pours his heart out, relishing in the feeling of someone being there for him.

They need to be able to sooth him when his emotions get out of hand, running their fingers through his spindly hair and slowly rubbing his back, whispering his name and telling them that it’s okay, I’m here now, let’s try to get some sleep.

He needs a steady figure in his life, someone he can fall back on, someone to depend on and keep by his side as his rock.

He's too reclusive and standoffish to have had anyone prior to his darling, and the moment that his obsession forms, he’s latching onto them and never, ever letting go, akin to a parasite.

They become his sounding board, and while he does come as close to love as his twisted heart can get, at the end of the day they’re a possession of his, and they must be able to handle him.

Things will ugly very quickly if they can’t; a fate both he and his darling want to avoid.

Submissive

Gyutaro likes the idea of a darling who will revere him. He doesn’t want someone who is feisty or stubborn; he likes the idea of a darling who is submissive and nurturing, kind and patient and utterly willing to do everything he wants.

He has such trouble being vulnerable, and a darling who challenges him in any way will immediately force him to backtrack any sort of progress he makes in this field, his shell closing in on himself and cutting him off from any further emotional contact with his darling.

He’s sensitive, and he needs someone who will simply nod and allow him to hold them, even if his hands are deathly cold and he’s so awkward about physical affection that it hurts.

He needs someone who will smile when he asks them to, the apples of their cheeks plumping up and their pretty teeth on display, the smile – even forced – making his heart ache in a way he simultaneously adores and makes him nauseas.

He needs someone who will let him rant and rave into their ear, his grip on them slowly tightening as he details all of the horrible injustices in the world, complaining about humans and how vile they are.

(He’ll always begrudgingly bury his face against his darling’s back or stomach when he does this, his voice small and weak as he says but not you, you’re different, you’re the only good one of those miserable, filthy beings…)

He just needs someone who will support him, even if that obedience comes from a place of fear and self preservation.

It doesn’t matter, because all that matters to Gyutaro is that they’re with him, warm and alive and pliant in his arms, listening to him and touching him and running their fingers through his hair.

He just needs someone to love, and is that really so much for a creature like him to ask for?

Not traditionally pretty

While this isn’t a requirement, Gyutaro finds that a darling who isn’t the classical beauty everyone idolized when he was a human is preferable.

He certainly doesn’t find his darling ugly - absolutely not, but the idea of having a darling who has an insecurity regarding their looks is very, very attractive to him.

He doesn’t want his darling to be perfect in others’ eyes – no, they can only be perfect in his eyes, because he’s the only one who seems them for who they truly are.

He’s the only one who understands that they’re more than just their beauty, that they’re sweet and smart and gorgeous and intriguing and so, so very warm.

It makes him feel like he and his darling are connected if they don’t fall under the mainstream category of beauty, like they share something secret and primal, like they understand the suffering and horrors he’s experienced.

It convinces him further that he and his darling are bonded, that it’s some sort of twisted fate that they end up together – the monster and his love, the freak and the only one who could ever love him. It’s oddly poetic in his eyes, and so while this isn’t an absolute necessity, it definitely encourages his attraction towards his darling.

They just grow more beautiful to him day by day, their imperfections becoming the things he loves most about them, and while it sounds almost sweet and innocent, it really, really isn’t.

He’s hyper fixating, and while he doesn’t mean to be rude or prey on his darling’s insecurities, he’ll often comment on these perceived imperfections, telling them that they’re different, unique, weird, but in what he hopes is a comforting, awe-filled tone.

(It’s not, and it will take his darling quite some time to figure out that he’s being honest – he really, truly loves these features. It’s not a lie, even if he sounds like he’s belittling you – truly.)

GENERAL YANDERE TRAITS:

Stalker

Gyutaro is, tragically, not the most confidant creature on Earth. He’s internalized every bit of negative treatment he’s experienced, fully believing himself to be repulsive, disgusting, a freak.

And this doesn’t exactly instill confidence in his ability to interact with you – he’s convinced he’ll somehow royally fuck up if he approaches you, whether that be by scaring you, accidentally hurting you, or making you hate him.

He’s sure you’ll find him ugly and strange, that you’ll stare at him in horror and try to run away from him, only to leave him with a broken heart and anger simmering through his veins because how dare you reject him?

He’s convinced things will go awry if he tries to interact with you in any normal, healthy manner and so he falls back on a less consensual, less perilous position – that is, there are many, many benefits to stalking you.

He can observe you much better this way, watching you at your most vulnerable, when you think you’re alone, when you’re comfortable and at ease and utterly unaware of the violent monster sitting on your windowsill as you sleep, or the shadow in the corner of your bedroom as you dress to get ready for the day.

(You’ll sometimes hear this ragged sort of gasp, so quiet you’ll think you’ve made it up, but it’s real, his cheeks on fire and his hands shaking because god, even just the sight of your bare shoulder is enough to bring him to his knees.)

He’s watching through Daki as he resides inside of her, taking in the way your lips move when you speak, your tongue darting out to lick at the dry skin, your employer feeling the way her brother’s emotions spike upwards the longer you talk.

He watches the way your fingers skillfully move as you fold and sort the laundry piles of Daki’s clothing, your eyes glimmering in the light of the ornate House room, your lashes looking perfectly curled, the urge to count each individual hair making him urge Daki to slowly creep closer, dangerously close to bridging the too-big gap between your bodies.

He takes in the sound of your voice; sweet, like honey, something that makes him close his eyes and bite his lip, his brows drawing inward, the idea of you saying his name making him have to grasp onto the nearest object to keep his composure.

He’s hanging on to every word you say – your replies to Daki’s commands, your words of appreciation when she treats you like a slave, how relentlessly kind to her you are. It’s odd, and frankly he doesn’t understand it – why would you be so sweet to someone treating you so poorly?

It almost makes him mad, as he lays dormant, wishing he could escape his sister’s body and carry you to another room, to wipe the somewhat sad look in your eyes away, to maybe even hold you like he’s seen humans do, pressing you against his bony chest and feeling your warmth and seeing your pretty eyes look up at him and maybe even kissing you –

He’ll always stop himself with a miserable wail when these thoughts get too out of control, confusion coursing through him because what is he thinking? You’re a lowly human, weak and disgusting and obsessed with trivial, horrible things like beauty and greed – you aren’t worth his time or energy, even if your skin looks smooth to the touch, even if your body looks warm and soft underneath the layers of your clothing, even if he swears that you sometimes even seem to see him through Daki, as if you can sense his presence.

The denial slowly begins ebbing out of his system, however, as time goes on – and instead, he replaces it with an increased sense of desperation for you.

He starts spending more time outside of Daki’s body than inside, wishing to be independent so that he doesn’t have to merely observe and hope that Daki will be in the same room as you.

Now, he can freely follow you; tracing your every move to different rooms in the house, around the district. He can see who you interact with, learn what makes you smile and laugh, what makes you cry, and see how you grow uncomfortable when strange men leer at you and ask to see what you’re hiding beneath your kimono.

(Rarely does Gyutaro kill non-slayer humans with purpose aside from eating or petty revenge for reacting badly to his appearance, but that night those men died in the most excruciating way he could think of, their voices ringing in his head. C’mon pretty girl, a good bitch like you is only good for one thing. Aw look, she’s scared. That just makes me even more excited, little girl. The rest of the night he spent on your windowsill, yellow eyes fixed on your peacefully sleeping form, trying to engrave the sound of the men’s screams into his mind.)

He likes being your shadow; of course, he fantasizes about the day he’ll get to interact with you himself, but for now this is enough. He's terrified you’d reject him if he were to try to speak with you like a human, and if he tried to confess his feelings for you and you were to reject him?

Well, Gyutaro isn’t afraid of many things, but he’d rather insult Muzan than see the disgust and hate in your eyes directed at him.

So, he satiates himself with simply watching you, always keeping a healthy distance between you, one that makes him equal parts relieved and frustrated.

It’s easy to pretend like he's in your life this way; he’ll imagine you saying his name, imagine holding you while you sleep, brushing away stray strands of hair from your face while you smile at him. He runs his fingers over your pillow when you’re not in your room, brings your toothbrush to his lips as he slowly, deliberately licks across the tied bristles, eyes rolling back because is this what you taste like?

It’s easier to pretend like you actually know of his presence this way, like you’re happy that he’s watching out for you, like you want him to stare at you, like you want him to just be there, to be by your side.

He won’t be content forever to simply follow you, but before he steals you away to Daki’s lair, it’s enough. Just barely, but it takes Gyutaro so long to gather the courage to actually interact with you that this is the only way to save himself from potential embarrassment and rejection.

After all, he feels like he’s getting to know the real you this way – too bad you know nothing of the looming, violent presence sticking onto you like fucking glue.

Clingy

Gyutaro has a difficult time expressing his feelings. With his limited romantic experience, he’s very much not adept at human emotional communication. He struggles to properly display how he feels for you, especially towards the beginnings of his obsession.

At first, he’s incredibly resistant to the idea of growing attached to you. You’re just a human, and a weak one at that – you’ve been blessed with a pretty face (gorgeous even, he might say, though the barrage of scratching at his eyes that follows that statement deters it), you’re kind, you’re everything he claims to hate.

And yet, he can’t stop thinking about you – it’s infuriating, and at first he finds himself idly wondering if he should just kill you to get all these confusing, uncomfortable feelings to go away.

He doesn’t like how he’s not in control when he thinks of you, his heart racing and his palms growing sweaty, this weird, foreign sense of urgency fluttering in his stomach because he just needs to see you, to let his eyes settle onto your figure, to hear your voice or watch as you bite your lip in concentration or peacefully sleep.

He wants to kill you, but the more he thinks about it, the less sure of that he becomes – there’s this sour taste in his mouth when he imagines your dead body, and it makes him scratch at his neck to imagine you not being alive and therefore not watchable.

So, begrudgingly, he decides he shouldn’t harm you – not out of cause for your safety, but rather out of selfishness. This is, of course, just what he tells himself – in reality, it’s very much because he can’t stomach the thought of you getting hurt.

He doesn’t want a single scratch to mar your pretty skin or a single hair on your head to be touched – you’re perfect, and you’re his little bit of perfection, one that he’s never had before. He’s never had someone make his heart race like this, nor has he ever had someone be so unintentionally kind to him.

Originally, you’d caught his attention because you’d seen a shadow of him in Daki’s room in the house, and as her servant, you’d quickly closed the door and begged her forgiveness for interrupting, only to offhandedly compliment the colors of his hair as you attended to her.

Gyutaro, having been resting within her, had heard your compliment, and immediately was bristling, his heart fighting between extreme anger that you could be making fun of him, and a smaller, pathetically hopeful piece of him that was wondering if you’d meant it, if he’d really just received the first compliment of his life.

And from then on, he’s lost – his obsession festers quickly and strongly, his dependence on you growing with every minute of every day as he relives your compliment over and over, slowly finding everything you do endearing and interesting and – dare he say it – cute. And so, simply put, any time that Gyutaro is not sealed away inside of Daki, he’s diligently by your side, stuck to you like glue.

Once he develops feelings for you, he becomes much more independent than his previous self – rarely does he reside within Daki anymore, unless he needs to rest. He doesn’t like being trapped and separated from you, because while he still retains a level of consciousness of what’s going on around him when he’s sealed away, residing within her limits his ability to communicate with you.

And god, does he love to do that – once he’s stolen you away, he’s always, always talking to you, his gravelly voice ringing in your ears even when you try to sleep. He’s always asking your opinion on things, questions that seem pointless about your favorite foods, colors, activities, even personal questions about himself.

(What is your favorite thing about me? And don’t lie, I can sense when you lie; your lip trembles slightly, and I’ll sense your heart beating faster. It might be hard to answer, I’m so ugly…)

And of course, when he’s got you trapped in his thin, inhumanely strong arms while you both reside in Daki’s nest as the sun beats on the ground above, he’s reaching deeper, the questions becoming more personal.

Hey, what’s your biggest fear? What makes you the happiest? How does it feel to be so misfortunate as to have me as your lover?

He’s not always looking for answers – though most of the time he is – but rather he just likes the way you look at him while he asks. Your eyes are wide, your rapt attention given to him, and the way you hang onto his every word has him feeling important, understood, even if your answers aren’t what he wants to hear.

He’s never punished you for a wrong answer to these questions, though it’s easy to read his disappointment. Mostly, he absolutely hates it when your compliments fall flat, or if you aren’t as kind and loving as you normally are to him.

If you don’t give as heartfelt of a compliment to his appearance as you did yesterday – instead of praising his collarbone as being defined and curved like a bird’s song sounds, you’re telling him his eyes are pretty – he’ll pout, like some child, though the repercussions and feeling of terror you’ll experience are anything but childish.

He’s frowning, a scowl pulling at his features because he wants more. Tell him how his eyes make you feel – do you get nervous butterflies in your stomach from them? Do you lose yourself in the amber depths, getting lost in the way he gazes at you with such ardent adoration and lust?

Gyutaro is needy, really, and you’ll very quickly learn this. It takes a while for him to allow himself to touch you (he’s nervous at first, though he’d never ever admit it – he’s killed and injured too many, never having known how to be gentle and loving, and the thought of accidentally hurting you has him scratching at his face and chest, agony blooming in his heart), but once he crosses that mental barrier, he’s suddenly never taking his hands off of you.

The touches are small at first – a hand at your cheek while his thumb traces your cheekbone, the sharp nail unbearably close to your eye as you stay as still as you possibly can. He’ll run his fingers over your hair, the texture growing familiar as that strange, dazed look overtakes his features.

He’ll try to have you in his arms as often as he possibly can, whether that’s leaning over your body while you stand before him, or forcing you to sit in his lap as he runs a finger up and down your spine, marveling at how soft and warm and pliant you feel in his grasp.

(You’ll be able to tell he’s in awe, too, because there’s always something hard pressing against your lower back and the breaths he wheezes into your ear are strained and uneven and gaspy.)

He grows a penchant for simply watching you, his eyes fixed on your form as you bite your lip and shiver, the freezing temperatures of Daki’s lair making your skin burst into goosebumps.

He’ll occasionally bring back human items; you’ve woken up to a ratty woolen blanket covering your form before, a thin pillow under your head while Gyutaro’s face peers at you from a mere foot away, his own body lying down beside yours. You’re sure he was watching you sleep – as he often does – but you can’t deny the warmth the blanket offers you, and you’ll even whisper with a soft voice, thank you, Gyutaro.

(You hadn’t been aware previously to him that demons could blush, but the soft pink that envelopes his cheeks is difficult to ignore, as is the way he warbles and rolls over to face away from you, curling in on himself and violently scratching at his chest, the embarrassment and influx of something warm and sweet and good in his heart making it hard to look at you.)

Generally, Gyutaro’s main goal is to always be around you, whether that’s being in the same room, you in his arms, or simply just staring from aware.

He’s needy, absolutely desperate for you to acknowledge him and validate every insecurity still left over from his time as a human, and while he doesn’t believe you most of the time, it’s still euphoric to hear. So please, please tell him you love the way he holds you so delicately and carefully. (Don’t mention the way his protruding bones dig into your skin, causing your discomfort and making it hard to spend the hours laying with him that he wants.)

Tell him that you enjoy the way he says your name, that it sounds sweet and romantic and loving. (The odd lilt that sounds just a bit too much like a moan isn’t important, of course, nor is the way you sometimes see his eyes roll back just slightly, as if the mere thought of you is enough to get his knees weak and blood rushing south. It is, but again, it’s not important.)

Tell him that you wish he’d be with you forever, that you’ll never leave his side. (And when you’re forced to drink Muzan’s blood – and Gyutaro’s, too, because he wants to feel more connected to you - and you become a demon, don’t be surprised when he says with a gleeful smile that now we can truly be together, stuck with me for all eternity, clutching onto you with all the force and strength he’s been yearning to for months.)

He just loves you, or as much as a demon can, so just take it, yeah?

Protective

Once his feelings for you begin to form, the residual urge to protect Ume that resided within his human self comes into play.

Of course, he still protects and prioritizes Daki’s safety, but you’re equally as important to him, just in a different way. With Daki, it’s about survival – he cannot live without her, and she cannot live without him. They’re siblings, bonded by something deep and intangible, something that can never be broken.

But you?

Oh, it’s different with you – you’re something he wants to protect, his own sweet, naïve little human that he gets to keep as his own for all eternity. He wants to keep you pristine and healthy and detached from the vile, horrible human world, because he wants to feel like your protector, to feel like you need him, like you wouldn’t be alive today without him stopping all sorts of threats.

(He’s the only real threat facing you, of course, but it’s not like that – of course not, because he loves you, and why would he ever hurt you? He’s already decided not to eat you, so why do you still seem so uncomfortable around him, always flinching away from him or breathing hard when he comes near you?)

Despite his mantra of balancing the inequalities of misfortune he’s had to endure, he sees you as his sole light. You’re the only thing he’s been given by the heavens, and how could he squander the only good thing he’s ever had?

The prospect of you dying or becoming horribly injured makes his eye twitch and his fingers grasp onto his scythes so tightly that his knuckles turn white, his bloodlust palpable in the air. And so, Gyutaro takes your safety very, very seriously.

He himself only eats human flesh, but he knows (begrudgingly), that you won’t partake in this particular diet, so he scrounges up stolen food from the various shops in the district. He’s not quite sure what all you like, and he’d never gotten the opportunity to try most foods when he was a human, so he relies solely on smell to guide his food picking.

Everything he brings back is either extremely healthy (earthy materials with a residue of dirt on them, likely pulled directly from the ground out of someone’s home garden), or extremely unhealthy (boxes of pickled candies with minimal nutritional value).

He doesn’t remember what humans need in order to survive, so while the constant supply of food is good, the food itself is not.

And yet, there’s something oddly endearing about the way he watches while biting his lip (his sharp teeth drawing blood along with the nails that scratch at his biceps), eyes trained on you as you chew and swallow, watching every movement like a hawk. He’s so focused, the nervous question of do you like it rolling off his tongue before he can help himself, shame eating away at him because he sounds so damn pathetic. He’ll watch you eat, making sure you don’t choke, with his fingers shaking slightly as he holds himself back from reaching out to touch you, to make sure you’re real.

He’s always asking you if you’re feeling good, hoping that you don’t fall ill, because he remembers nothing of human medicine and he can’t exactly take you to a doctor with his condition.

And while his protectiveness in terms of your needs as his captee are admirable for a man-eating monster, the level at which he obsesses over your safety in other ways is less than ideal.

He’s so, so scared of you harming yourself that he does nearly everything for you. He’ll call you weak as he helps you bathe, his hands running over your naked skin with strokes that are much slower than they need to be, but he doesn’t mean what he says.

(You’re not even sure he's aware of what he’s saying – the way his eyes bulge out of his head every time he sees your bare ass tells you as much, as does the way his breathing gradually picks up as he bathes you, uneven breaths turning into labored pants until it reaches a fever pitch and oh – was that a moan of your name?)

He’ll tell you that you’re pathetic for needing his help walking around the lair, though you very much never asked for his assistance; nonetheless, his arms wrap under your armpits regardless, helping ease some of your weight off of your knees, the lack of exercise you receive from staying underground all day long making your muscles tired and weakened.

He’s condescending, really, though it’s painfully obvious he doesn’t mean to be. There’s malice in his eyes when he tells you these things, though you’ve learned he always has malice in his eyes, so is it really aimed towards you?

If he really hated humans and the blessed as much as he claims, would his grip on your delicate skin be as gentle as it is? You don’t think so, and while it hurts to be called weak and incapable every day, his insistence on helping you with the most trivial of tasks tells you that he cares about you more than he’s willing to admit.

And – heaven forbid – if you were to ever be in danger from another man?

Well, Gyutaro’s never enjoyed a kill so much, even against pesky Hashira. Because when he eventually tears out the man’s eyeballs, his teeth bared as he growls and groans at the fresh corpse, obliterating the body in a more graphic and violent way than usual, Gyutaro can’t help but feel smug because he saved you, he made sure this vile excuse for a life never laid a hand upon you.

And if it’s another demon that’s threatening you? Gyutaro’s an Upper Rank for a reason, and while this battle is significantly more terrifying for you to watch, he's torturing the demon as slowly and painfully as he possibly can with two main goals in mind.

Firstly, he’s making a point to the other creature, showing him that only he can lay eyes upon you, and only he can have and hold you.

And the other reason? Well, he can’t deny the way his heart races when you praise him for his power, telling him he’s so strong, I – I feel safe with you, Gyutaro…

He feels needed when he protects you, and so your best course of action is really to just let him baby you. Daki and you both might hate it, but Gyutaro needs to take care of you – he needs to hear you praise him and thank him for his hard work, and with every compliment that slips from your lips he only grows more and more obsessed.

DEALING WITH RIVALS:

Quite honestly, the likelihood of anyone else giving you the attention or time of day that Gyutaro is afraid of is extremely low.

The only people you’ll really ever see are himself and Daki; your lone companions for the rest of your life. Being kept hostage in Daki’s underground lair makes it very, very difficult for you to receive visitors, and unless you’re able to crawl at a steep upwards incline for miles through tunnels, you have very little hope of ever escaping. Consequently, the chances of you ever interacting with someone that could spark jealousy within Gyutaro while you’re under his thumb is very low.

But that’s the key part – while you’re under his thumb. He doesn’t act on his obsession very quickly, instead preferring to simply stalk you for months on end, watching and observing and letting his feelings fester, growing stronger and stronger until they eventually bubble over and he can’t not be with you at all hours of the day.

But that period of a few months between his feelings for you forming and when he eventually steals you away are wrought with jealousy and frustration on his end. He’s constantly, constantly paranoid that another man will come and sweep you off your feet, that you’ll fall head over heels for some lowly human man, that your heart will be stolen and possessed by some weak, pitiful human that doesn’t even deserve you.

(Not that he feels he deserves you either, but it’s different for Gyutaro – at least he can protect you, at least he can keep you safe. What can this man do? What could he possibly offer you, aside from perhaps a more pleasant face?)

He’s monumentally terrified of you ever finding someone else to love, the prospect of you leaving him behind, your feelings (whatever they may be) for him withering away into nothing while another man holds your attention and love being more painful to him than anything else he could ever imagine.

He doesn’t want to lose the feelings you give him, so he resigns himself to knowing he has to do something to stop all these men from potentially stealing you from him. He doesn’t like how weak this all makes him feel, the paranoia churning in his gut and forcing him to act in ways he'd never expected to, ways that disgust him, ways that embarrass him when Daki asks why the hell he seems to be going so far for some stupid human woman.

He’s never even totally sure himself, only guided by the knowledge that he has to keep you his, that he can never go back to his life before you wandered into it. All he knows is that when he hears your voice (so pretty and sweet, something he could listen to for hours if you’d let him) accompanied by a more masculine, male one, he’s seeing fucking red.

He’s never felt this angry before; Hashira have come and gone, made his sister cry and landed a few good hits on him, but he’s genuinely enraged in that moment, honestly livid at what’s happening right before him.

The idea that you could be talking to another man haunts him from that night forward, the jealousy brewing in his gut difficult to identify but horrible to harbor. Gyutaro gets jealous extremely easy during this time period between the formation of his feelings and eventually kidnapping you; he’s so terrified of another man grabbing your attention, and can he honestly be blamed?

He’s a monster, and his self esteem is so low that he’s sure every other living being on the planet is more attractive than him – so why would you ever choose him?

Gyutaro gets very, very angry when jealous.

He’s naturally quick to kill, but in the context of him being fearful of your attention wavering from him, he’s even more trigger happy. He’ll kill without a second thought, slashing at the heads of any man he thinks has even the merest idea of potentially pursuing you.

So when he’s coming back from a kill one night, with blood already staining his fingers and his stomach full, the last thing he expects to hear is your voice. He’d hated having to leave you alone; normally, he’s following you like a shadow, never more than a few feet behind you, following your every move and staying with you for hours on end.

You’ve never really noticed, as his skills of deception and hiding are high, and being this far away from you for a few hours has taken its toll on him. He’s exhausted, and every muscle in his body is taut and alert – ready to see you, to smell your now familiar scent and gaze at your beauty in whatever working kimono you were wearing this evening.

However, your voice brings him out of that reverie – you’re laughing. And so is the man you’re with. Immediately, Gyutaro’s face twists into an ugly scowl, his claws scratching at his cheeks and chest as he begins muttering under his breath, trying to pinpoint where the sound of your voices is coming from. He growls as he finally decides on the direction, before sprinting off, already arming himself with his sickles.

His shoulders are more hunched than usual when he lands on the balcony of the room you’re currently in, the man in question sitting across from you over a small table. Gyutaro’s eye twitches, his gaze raking over the man in question. He’s tall, he can tell; a brunette with soft hazel eyes, his physique decent underneath the black robes he wears. Immediately Gyutaro finds himself hating him even more – he looks rich, happy, handsome.

For a moment Gyutaro is frozen, simply watching the scene play out with wide, panicked eyes, his pulse racing dangerously, before the man’s reaching hand caressing yours over the table snaps him out of his daze. He growls lowly, charging into the room as quickly as he can and snatching the man into his arms, thrusting him outside and disappearing before you have a chance to register what just happened, everything happening in the blink of an eye.

As he runs through the crowded, loud backstreets of the Entertainment District out to somewhere more private where he can probably dispose of this scum, he hopes that he was fast enough that you didn’t catch a glimpse of him. He’d heard your confused calls of what he assumed to be the man’s name, but that only made him angrier, his steps faster and faster as he neared the woods.

Soon he’s surrounded by trees, their shade darkening his body, only allowing his eyes to illuminate. Gyutaro throws the man to the ground, the dirt of the forest surely staining his robes an ugly brown color. The man hacks as he touched the ground, the force knocking the air out of his lungs, but Gyutaro doesn’t wait.

No, instead he throws the man against a nearby tree with a scythe, the sound of cracking making a wide, gleeful smile cross his features. The man’s back is broken, surely, but it’s not enough.

You think you’re special, don’t you?

He warbles, eyes narrowing while the smile stays spread across his lips. The anger in his veins is so potent that it forces him to take staggering steps, his mind too hyper focused on killing this man to walk properly.

You think you can have any woman you want, don’t you?

The man gasps something, though his body isn’t moving from where the scythe has him pinned against the bark.

Gyutaro spits at him, a glob of saliva landing on the man’s cheek.

I may be the repulsive one, but you’re pretty pathetic too, huh? Letting someone as ugly as me kill and devour you…

Gyutaro cuts himself off with a giggle, his fingers once again coming up to scratch at his face and neck.

Then I’ll make you suffer… you’ll watch as I feast on your flesh.

And with that he charges forward, his fingers wrapping around the man’s forearm and pulling, hard, the resounding sound of tearing flesh making him grin. As he brings the severed arm up to his mouth, blood streaming down his arm, Gyutaro can only shake, the thought of eating the man that dared touch you and steal your attention making a strange sort of euphoria dance through his veins. Not a piece of the man is left by the time Gyutaro is done an hour later, his stomach sated as he scowls down at the bloodstains left by the stranger.

(He’d paid special attention to truly savor and enjoy the hand that had touched you – licking at the skin, a moan tumbling from his lips because this is the closest he’s ever gotten to touching you himself, and even if it was the disgusting man’s arm, the experience was still intimate, sweet, enough to force him to have to lean against the nearest tree so as not to fall to his knees when they buckle.)

He spits once more at the ground, cursing the human, before sprinting off to the room you’d been in, hoping with everything he has that you’d still be there.

Maybe he could watch you for a while; you always looked prettiest when you were unaware, and maybe you’d even fall asleep so he could come closer, so he could smell you, touch you ever so lightly, listen to the way your heartbeat beats again, and again, and again…

The rage subsides slowly as he places himself outside the window of your home in the House, his harsh breathing slowly returning to normal, until a light pink flush coats his cheek and he coos your name, wishing you’d turn around and smile at him, that you’d cup his face and tell him I love you Gyutaro, no one but you.

TAKING HIS DARLING AWAY:

Because Gyutaro’s feelings for you take a while to accumulate (mostly through watching you while he’s dormant inside of Daki, or stalking you from the shadows as he grows more and more fascinated with you), he’ll slowly come to the conclusion that you can’t be left alone.

He discovers he fucking hates not having you next to him; you’re the one thing he looks forward to every day.

Seeing your smile ignites this odd sense of happiness inside his chest, a feeling he’s not sure he’s ever experienced before.

His fingers shake when he’s around you; nerves eating him alive, because as desperately as he wants you to give him attention, he’s also terrified you’ll find yourself repulsed by him, that he’ll do something that causes you to hate him or be afraid of him.

He needs your focus on him, but he’s just so, so scared that you’ll reject him – which, in combination with his jealousy, leads Gyutaro to an odd dilemma.

On the one hand, he always, always wants your presence near him – you’re like his drug, the one he’s hopelessly and happily addicted to, and to be without you would mean death to both the small grains of humanity still within him, and any sense of self he possesses.

And on the other hand, he’s terrified that you’ll find someone better than him, that you’ll replace him and leave him in the dust behind you, heartbroken and enraged that you’re gone.

And so, he does the only thing he can think to do – if he’s afraid of losing you and your gorgeous, bright smile aimed at him, then taking you before you can leave is the only solution.

He’s not particularly regretful about stealing you away from your life; you didn’t love the world you were in, he knows that. He knows that despite now being stuck with a grotesque monster, you’re in a better place now.

Because despite his flaws (both internally and externally), the one thing that Gyutaro can do better than any other man on Earth is protect you. He’s strong, capable, destructive, and thoroughly able to take care of you.

Thus, don’t you belong fully under his protection, where the world can get at you (and you can’t get at it)?

Gyutaro believes so, and stealing you away not only keeps other men away from you, but now you’re fully his. Daki’s lair is empty most of the time anyways, and maybe in the dimness you won’t see Gyutaro very clearly.

Maybe then the compliments that come from your lips will feel more real – and maybe then, Gyutaro can will himself to believe that you mean it when you say you don’t think he’s ugly, simply special.

Of course, Gyutaro is a demon. He’s by no means an ideal captor – he’s only marginally aware of what humans need in order to survive, and despite his intense devotion to you, he’s not fully changing his personality just because of your presence.

He becomes much softer around you; less harsh around the edges, more like a nervous teenage boy because fuck does he want to impress you.

He doesn’t want you to be disappointed in him, so he tries his absolute best to keep you comfortable and happy, though he isn’t always successful. He doesn’t fully understand that insects and scraps of food from various shops in the district aren’t your preferred meal, but don’t mention it to him. He doesn’t realize that the one kimono he’d stolen you away in has grown to be caked in mud and dirt since you’ve been ‘living’ in this lair of his, but you won’t say anything out of fear that the alternative is wearing nothing.

Don’t ever say anything even somewhat negative to him about his actions; he’s extremely sensitive, and one small critique of him in any way has him caving in on himself, scratching at every inch of his skin as warbles away about how you don’t love him, you’re lying to him, how he knew there was no way you could love such a disgusting monster.

He’ll close himself off, the anger and hurt making his head spin, and after a long few minutes of him wallowing in his self pity, he’s suddenly up, staring at you with wide yellow eyes and a tear or two, his hands shaking as he lunges at you.

However, while he’s somewhat stand-offish at the start of your captivity, he slowly warms up to you.

Mostly, he’s just terrified that you’ll confirm all of the insecurities he possesses; he’d die if you were to call him ugly, his heart cracking into a million little pieces while tears well in his eyes and his lips spread into an ugly sneer, bitterly telling you he knew it, I knew a spoiled whore like you could never love a monster like me.

Of course, you know well enough not to do that (you’ve seen Daki and him smeared with blood too many times to fear how they’d deal with your resistance), but the fear is very present in his heart.

He’s always nervous you’ll turn back on your compliments, that your sweet words and touches are born out of trying to trick him into being falsely secure, then tearing the rug out from under him, leaving him a shell of what’s left of himself.

However, as you don’t morph into the monster he secretly half-hopes you’ll become, Gyutaro slowly grows more trusting of you, more believing of your kind words.

He starts touching you softly – his fingers brushing over your skin, over the fabric of your kimonos. He’ll throw an occasional smile at you under the guise of being teasing, though despite the stinging, rude comment he likely uttered, the quirk of his lips looks strangely genuine.

Eventually, he’ll allow himself to hug you, your softer body against his making his knees feel weak, his heart leaping up to his throat.

And as his physicality grows more lenient with you, as do his words – instead of only teasing, crude remarks made towards you, he slowly begins complimenting you as well. He’s used to hiding behind his mean words as a defense mechanism, but when you’re looking up at him with your watery, scared eyes, how can he call you a pathetic excuse for a human?

You’re beautiful; every imperfection and blemish on your body is gorgeous to him, and how could he ever make you feel terrible about yourself?

And so, instead of telling you that you’re really pretty sad, you know? Laying on the ground scared like a worm, a poor excuse he’ll instead say you have some dirt on your cheek, you’re so messy.

It’s not that much better, but as time passes his words slowly grow less harsh and more appreciative, until he’s pulling you close one night and whispering into your ear that he thinks he loves you, that he needs you, don’t ever leave me alone, I can’t live without you.

Aside from the way he acts around you, your living conditions will be painfully unchanging. You’ve been relocated to Daki’s lair, deep underground. A few lamps were brought in by Gyutaro so that you could see, the warm light making you feel slightly better as the chill of underground seeps into your bones.

He’s collected a number of human items for you in an attempt to get you feeling more at home; a collection of blankets sits at the end of your futon, a makeshift pillow sitting on the other end. A few novels have been delivered to you, and while you’re not a particular fan of any of the genres present, you’ve read them cover to cover more times than you can count during your time with Gyutaro.

He brings you human foods (though they’re marginally considered food), and he’s placed an instrument he stole from the House down there as well, as entertainment for when he can’t be with you.

(When he’d brought the instrument, he’d set it down in front of you and scampered back, his shoulders hunched in slightly, nervously glancing at you as you appraised his gift, his heart racing wildly because do you like it? Are you happy he thought of you and stole this for you? Are you appreciative? Will you give him a kiss as a thank you?)

Daki is hardly ever around, and while her belt can be annoying when it speaks, a quick conversation with Gyutaro about not bothering you had Daki reluctantly relenting to keeping her belt mute, only furthering her irritation with you.

Gyutaro is always in the lair with you unless he’s directly needed by Daki, or to feed. As such, you’d better be prepared to constantly be stared at, watched, poked and prodded, your sleeping body waking up to a different position than the one you fell asleep in, nail marks still imprinted on your skin.

Gyutaro just really, really likes having you in close contact, and while he knows you likely aren’t extremely pleased by your forced relocation, isn’t this better?

Because now you’re safe – with him, where he can keep every man and demon away from you, keeping you selfishly all for him.

PUNISHMENTS:

As a captor, Gyutaro is a delicate balance of gentleness and abrasiveness.

Of course, he’s a demon. He’s naturally violent, crunching human flesh between his teeth often, and the strength in just his pinky is more than every muscle in your body combined.

And as a demon, his temper is rocky, at best. He’s extremely temperamental, and it takes little to nothing to set off his anger.

When it comes to you, he’s marginally more in control, but for the most part you need to exercise extreme caution once you’re in his captivity.

Gyutaro isn’t the best communicator, which often times lands you in the unfortunate position of having to guess what makes him mad; you’ve built a list as time goes on, mentally noting any time he seems to get agitated, when he starts scratching more at his neck or his voice gets tight and curt. The list is vivid in your mind, something you diligently avoid bringing up in conversation or doing, if only because you’re still terrified that one day it’ll be your blood staining his teeth or splattered across the metal of those scythes he carries.

And the list is long – he’s easy to set off, whether it’s from mentioning the name of another man, or even just slightly flinching when his hands begin travelling all over your body, his breath ragged and deep.

But you’ve found, through experience, that there are three things he tolerates the worst, one of which being any mention of your past life before meeting him and Daki.

It’s not that he’s not interested in knowing about your hobbies and the people you knew (and, frankly, all that stalking makes you having any habits he’s not aware of extremely unlikely), but rather that he gest so, so jealous when you talk about former friends or important people in your life.

It pisses him off to hear you talk so familiarly about anyone that isn’t him, and each jealous thought is immediately followed up by worries about what they do better than him, if they’re more attractive (he’s sure they are), and just how much better than him they must be.

He’ll also get upset if you mention anything about wanting to escape or leave the lair. He takes it as a sign that you’re not happy here, with him, that you don’t think he’s doing a good enough job of taking care of you.

And lastly, while he knows you’re stuck with a demon like him and are understandably terrified, he doesn’t tolerate your nervous twitches and flinches when he comes near you, or your hurtful words insulting him in any way.

He views it as you rejecting him and his presence, and that’s a sure fire way to find letting a deep scowl settle across his features, his fingers tugging at his hair while he runs off to find some human to kill and feast upon to release his anger.

It’s easy to set him off, yes, but while Gyutaro is by no means gentle, he won’t often actually physically harm you.

He might, potentially, begrudgingly, to prove a point, but the worst he’ll do is break an arm or a finger, something to scare you but not actually threaten your life. And even then, this will take a huge amount of anger on his part to actually follow through on. He’s still hesitant to hurt you in any way, too afraid he’ll accidentally lose control of his strength and kill you, and so frankly these situations are often just as painful for him as it is you.

He avoids these physical punishments, though, unless he absolutely has no other choice – but as a general rule, a twisted arm or swollen joint isn’t the repercussions that await you when you anger him.

No, instead Gyutaro does something much worse – his punishments aren’t planned, purely emotional outbursts that end up warping your view of him, damaging your perception of reality until you’re so unsure of how you real feel or what he really is that you’ll blindly cling to him, the Stockholm Syndrome festering and growing until you become just as dependent on him as he is you.

Generally, any negative comments towards him set him off, but any comments specifically referencing his appearance will bring out a very specific type of rage, and this particular brand of anger is very, very scary.

What makes it so dangerous is that Gyutaro is not only pissed, angry, livid, he’s also incredibly hurt. He hates allowing himself to believe your kind compliments and words, but every once in a while he’ll let them settle in, letting hope bloom in his chest that maybe you mean it.

(He’ll delude himself into believing that you really like his eyes, or that you think his facial birthmarks are endearing, that you aren’t just saying that so he won’t kill you. And it makes him feel good, a sense of belonging and bashfulness making him struggle to meet your gaze and instead tug at your kimono and ask you to say it again and again and again, committing the sound of such sweet words coming from your lips to his memory.)

And the main reason for his anger when you lash out and call him hideous is because he should have known.

It’s a slap in the face – how could he have allowed himself to be so foolish and naïve? How could he have allowed himself to get comfortable, to forget his cursed appearance, to forget that he’s a monster in every sense of the word?

He’s frustrated at himself for not seeing this coming; there’s no way you’d ever like someone like him, and it was stupid of him to even entertain the notion that you don’t see him as a grotesque, terrifying predator.

And so, as the words slip past your lips, he’s immediately freezing, his shoulders going slack and his jaw hanging open slightly. Don’t touch me, you monster!

The lair is eerily silent for a few moments, your words processing in his mind as he stares at you, the only sound filling your ears being your own heavy, nervous breaths.

But soon a small, nearly breathless giggle echoes in your ears, the sound making you suck in a sharp breath. The chuckle soon turns into quiet laughter, rising in pitch and volume until Gyutaro is cackling, his voice cracking and hiccupping as his eyes go wide, his hands scratching welts so deeply into his sides that it almost concerns you.

His whole body is shaking, shoulders violently jumping up and down at the force of his maniacal laughter, but eventually it subsides, his hair hanging forward to cover his face.

Do you think that I’m a monster? You think I’m a freak, huh?

His voice is more unsteady than normal, you note with a sense of fear. He tilts his head up slightly, peeking at you from underneath his bangs, his lips pulled into some mixture of a grimace and a grin, the sight making a shiver crawl down your spine. It’s only now that you notice his eyes are red rimmed, his cheeks wet, as if he’d been laughing so hard he was crying – or, perhaps, he really was crying.

Huh? Answer me, dammit!

He’s screaming now, the grimace getting tighter. He takes a step forward, and you shuffle backwards, scooting the backside of your kimono across the dirt as you shuffle back against the wall, trying to get as much space between the two of you as possible.

Answer me, you bitch!

You squeeze your eyes shut and whimper out a n-no, but that only makes him angrier, taking another step forward, the sound of his foot crunching against the dirt making you sob.

You’re a liar! A filthy, disgusting liar!

His words hurt, though you can’t explain why. They make you flinch, your hands balling into fists as you bring your knees up to your chest, trying to become as small as possible as he takes another few steps towards you.

You’re nothing without me! He’s screeching now, his voice unbareably high, raw emotion shining through as the words start tumbling from his lips. You’d be dead without me! Imagine that? Something as beautiful as you needing a monster like me to keep you from getting devoured by some demon or some human. You’re pathetic, are you ashamed of yourself?

You’re crying now, fat, ugly tears streaming down your cheeks, but he’s too blinded by his rage to notice.

Does it make you feel good to think you’re better than me? Does it make you feel important? You’re a liar! How dare you do this? How dare you lie to me and tell me that you love me, when you just think I’m ugly and horrible!

His voice is close now, too close, and as you peel open your watery eyes, you see his own yellow ones mere inches from your face. His teeth are bared, every muscle in his neck and chest flexing as he struggles to stop himself from reaching out and clawing at your face, destroying your face until he can no longer recognize you.

You’re speaking before you can help yourself, fear and panic and a cold, gripping sense of regret climbing into your throat.

I’m sorry, I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, I don’t think you’re a monster, I’m just – I’m just scared Gyutaro! I’m scared of how you make me feel! I’m sorry, please don’t hurt me, please…

You cut yourself off with a sob, fingers digging into your palms, and as you close your eyes and wait for something to happen, all you’ll be met with is the sound of a gulp, his breath still huffing against your skin. It’s silent for a few moments, before you brave a peek to look at him.

His eyes are wide, the yellow bright and still tinged with red as he stares at you. His chest is heaving, breaths falling heavily, and he’s biting his lip. Blood wells up against the wound, but he doesn’t seem to notice. No, he’s staring too intensely at you to notice anything.

Scared of how I make you feel? He questions, moving a few centimeters closer to you.

You nod shakily, swallowing down as much fear as you can manage as you whisper out that he makes you feel wanted, in a way I’ve never felt before, and I don’t know how to deal with that. I want to hate you, but I can’t.

He makes a sound then, like a wounded puppy, deep in his throat as his brows quirk up. Something in his stomach twists, a pleasant feeling settling at the base of his ribs.

You can’t hate me? You can’t despise me?

You nod, biting your lip, and Gyutaro stares at you for a few moments, before his arms are suddenly wrapping around your waist, his body closing the distance as he pins you against the wall, his face buried into your neck and his waist worming its way between your thighs.

You love me, you love me.

He’s chanting against your chin, a bit of his saliva getting onto your neck. His grip on you is tight, soffucating even, making it difficult to breath. He doesn’t seem to notice, though, and with a small, unsure swallow, you try your best to rub at any skin of his that’s available, soft petting motions that make another little whimper muffle against you.

You love me you love me you love me you love me –

It’s a mantra, like he’s trying to convince himself, but as he spends a good forty minutes repeating this to himself, keeping you trapped in his arms against the dirt wall, you’ll find yourself wondering if he’s really even lying – do you love him?

You hadn’t been lying when you said you aren’t able to hate him. He’s a monster and has killed countless people, kidnapped you, keeping you locked up and always touching you and forcing you to look at him, but do you love him?

Maybe you do, because as you find yourself relaxing into his arms, finding comfort in the feeling of his hot warm breath against your skin, you almost feel at ease. Maybe it’s survival instincts, maybe it’s something else – it doesn’t matter though, does it?

Because you’re stuck with him, and he’ll never, ever let you go.

OVERALL DANGER:

9/10

Gyutaro is less dangerous to you and more dangerous to those around you.

He’s by all accounts shy in the beginning of his obsession with you – stalking you relentlessly from the shadows, watching and waiting and never leaving your side for even a moment, content to simply see you as you smile and sleep and live your life.

He won’t ever hurt you – at least, not often – and in fact protects you to a fanatical degree, but the same can’t be said for the other people in your life.

He’s very, very willing to eliminate anyone he deems as competition for your attention and love, enjoying devouring them and ending their miserable lives in the most painful, drawn-out way possible. He views himself as your protector, watching from the shadows and acting as your twisted guardian angel, until suddenly it’s not enough – he needs more.

He needs to have you looking at him, acknowledging him, your pretty voice saying his name and your soft hands on his calloused, rough skin.

He needs to have you fall asleep in his arms, your breathing even and steady and so very precarious, your unaware and vulnerable state making him lick his lips and slowly, carefully, timidly press a clumsy kiss against your lips, immediately pulling back with pink tinged cheeks because oh, he wasn’t expecting your lips to be so soft and warm.

If you can look past the kidnapping, murder and invasions of your privacy, Gyutaro is honestly not the worst – he’s temperamental and difficult to handle with all of his triggers, but if you can find yourself balancing and managing to placate him, life with him won’t be too terrible.

He'll care for you as best as he knows how, keep you company whenever he can, drown you in physical affection once he musters up the courage, and over time his harsh comments will eventually morph into honest, genuine compliments about things so specific that you’ll feel seen, understood, perhaps even loved.

Because while Gyutaro may be rough around the edges and difficult to understand, he really does love you in some twisted, fucked up way – and if you’re to be stuck with him for the rest of your life, isn’t it better that you accept it?

Wouldn’t it just be easier for both of you to let him hold you, to whisper to him that you’re happy with him?

Just accept your fate – you’ll be much, much happier that way.

#yandere kny #yandere demon slayer #_gyutaro #_kny #_lee's profiles #yandere gyutaro

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burningtheroots · 10 months

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Hey, I'm a cis lesbian and I used to be a radfem. I was sexually harassed by a man during my middle school years and it made me so angry at the world, and thus I started hating all men and thinking they were evil and they should die. Despite the fact I had male relatives and friends who were nothing but kind and supportive and loving to me.

After some therapy and reflection, I realized that I was just taking the easy way out. It's easier to turn your trauma and fear into hatred and anger towards a scapegoat group instead of actually doing the hard work of self reflecting.

Are there evil men? Of course. Is the patriarchy a problem? Definitely. Are there transgender people who are only trans to pray upon others? Inevitable.

But just as there are bad people in every group of people, that doesn't define them. Most trans people I've met know genitalia preference is a thing and respect that. The ones who don't are just full of themselves. Most of them just want to live their life the way they want to live it. In such a short amount of time on this earth, why waste it being hateful to others?

Continue to fight for female-sex rights, that is important. Fight for gay rights, fight for women rights. But all of these can be achieved without fearing or hating all men and transgender people. If anything, that just gets in the way of achieving real change.

Sorry for sending such a long ask. I'm not trying to be rude or mean. It's just, I worry sometimes about the young people in this community because I see myself in it, and how scared and unhappy and angry I was all the time because I refused to actually work through my trauma....and of course, like I said, this is not me saying there aren't things wrong with the world. There are. But not everyone is out to get you, this world is beautiful.

I'm not trying to invalidate in feelings you may have. As women we are dealt the short end of the stick from birth, and it is important we keep fighting. But fight against the real enemies; the lawmakers, the corporations, societal expectations. But "men" and "transgender" as a group as a whole are not your enemies...and using intentionally proactive language like that, it harms your chance of people wanting to listen since you're insulting people based on something as fundamental as their gender or sex. I think all of you could achieve great stuff for women if hating the "other side" wasn't in the equation.

Anyway, sorry again for the length. You might think I'm being ridiculous and this may never change your mind. And that's fine. I just felt sharing my perspective as an ex-radfem may be interesting or helpful, or something.

Hey! I‘m sorry for the late response, I wanted to have enough time to reply throughoutly & was quite busy this week.

First of all, I‘m sorry that this happened to you and I‘m glad that you had support from your family and friends.

However, I think the assumption that radfems, and me in particular, blindly turn their trauma into hatred is incorrect and doesn’t take into account that radical feminism is a feminist theory which analyzes, exposes & fights systemic oppression.

It‘s a fact that every man is complicit in & benefits from misogyny and patriarchy to a certain degree, which doesn’t mean that we think every man is an evil predator. As for me, my standard is that a man has to be 0% misogynistic — which is the minimum, I expect further allyship — to be "good". Somehow women are looked down upon when they have such "high" expectations when it comes to members of their oppressor class, and I‘m aware that it‘s nearly impossible to find a man like that in our current world, but does that mean I should tolerate even 0.00001 of misogyny from a man? No. It means I‘m perfectly justified to center women & particularly like-minded women in my life.

As for transgender people, I don’t hate any dysphoric (!) person for being dysphoric and trying to live their life. I actually care a lot about the well-being of dysphoric people, but I‘m also well-aware that the TRA ideology (which doesn’t equal individuals with actual dysphoria) blatantly attacks women‘s rights & protections, and while many trans-identified people respect sexualities as they are, my criticism of the movement is still valid.

And I understand & respect where you‘re coming from, though I think that radical (=root) feminism is often falsely mistaken for extremism, which it is not. Since discovering radical feminism and other radfems, I actually feel much more understood and safe.

Women‘s rights & liberation don’t have to be palatable to men, and everything I share and say on my blog is backed up by facts. I don‘t "hate men", I hate misogynistic men — and it‘s on them not to be one of those.

Anyways, thanks for sharing your experience and being friendly. It‘s quite refreshing. xx

#women deserve better #radfem #radblr #radical feminism #feminism #radfems do touch #radfems do interact #radfems please touch #womens rights #sex based rights #anon

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beevean · 9 months

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Thinking about it LoI's cutscene with Mathias kind of clarifies why Dracula keeps being evil even after Alucard told him of Lisa's last wish and he himself even apologizing to her for his actions.

When Leon calls him out on his bullshit claiming that Elisabetha would never approve of his actions Mathias....just ignores the question

He simply states that she was a kind woman and that's why he's pissed at God and then proceeds to ask Leon "Hey you would've done the same don't judge me"

But inadvertently he kind of answers Leon's question by claiming that Elisabetha was kind which means that, on some level, he knows that what he's doing would disgust her yet he represses that truth so that he can keep walloing in hatred.

Dracula knows that Lisa would hate him for his actions yet he keeps doing them because he can't let go of hatred. When he apologizes to her it's probably not just for what he's done already but for not being able to meet her wish in general

Similarily, in DoS, Soma knows full well that giving up to his dark self would be awful yet he tries to go along with Celia's plan anyway upon thinking Mina died, even apologizing to her for what he's about to do

Yep! Dracula is a selfish bastard. He claims to love his wives, and yes he certainly saw something in them and was fond of them... but he didn't actually care enough to put their wishes above his own.

That scene with Mathias himself is also very telling. My man just finished confessing to having ruined Leon's life, to having used him and Sara for the sake of his plan, and then he offers Leon to join him in immortality and pulls a surprisedpikachuface.jpg when Leon understandably tells him to go fuck himself. He's been swallowed by his rage against God for "taking Elisabetha away from him", he appeals to Leon's grief by saying "after what you've been through, you should know" probably expecting him to renounce God as well, but didn't expect that he would feel the same towards Mathias for pretty much doing the same thing. The lack of empathy is astounding.

"Elisabetha was a kind, honorable woman. She was concerned only for me to the very end… That is why I hate Him! Am I wrong?!" You can nearly see Mathias starting to think "huh, yeah, my wife was a good woman, she'd probably be concerned for me for what I'm doing"... until he retreats in his anger again and chooses to blame God once again. I mean, he just ruined so many people's lives and absorbed Walter's soul to become a vampire, a little too late to accept that he fucked up.

And this is baby Dracula. It's easy to imagine that, by the time of SoTN, sunk cost fallacy more than applies. He died and got resurrected so many times, he killed so many people, he spread so much misery... and for what? For him to realize that his loved women would hate him? No, he can't go back now.

As for DoS, the line "If it means getting Mina's revenge, I'll do it. Make me the dark lord" really hurt the first time I played :( all this time spent rejecting his fate, and he's aware that he'll lose himself and become the sworn enemy of his friends... but he just has enough of seeing his loved ones die. celia is so fucking dumb

Needless to say, NFCV barely touches this point, despite the whole "appeal" of N!Dracula being that it expands upon his grief. S2, through Godbrand and Carmilla, insists on the point that Dracula's plan was stupid, that he won't think about how vampires will feed, that he only wants to die, and why didn't he just turn Lisa into a vampire, but IIRC no one among the heroes (and yes I'm talking about Alucard in particular) points out his sheer hypocrisy and lack of respect towards the woman he's supposed to love.

(although, to be fair, I love the line "Kill for the endless lifetime of hate before me". He also knew that he would never recover from his rage. until he did but shhh)

#castlevania #dracula castlevania #mathias cronqvist

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cookiecomics · 1 month

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⭐⭐⭐ give me that directors infodump 👀

Hehehe I'll give my director's cut on Futaba's awakening!

So I am super in love with the day Persona 3 did their second awakenings. The idea that events in the characters' lives independent from the protagonist caused a shift in their psyche that caused them to develop as characters was appealing for me. Without Ren as the driving force behind the change, they had to change on their own which led me to try to brainstorm what events might push different characters to the brink.

For Makoto it was having everything about the police and justice stripped away with both her own actions, the actions of her sister and how it all culminated into getting a full view of what the justice system she craved to belong to can do to those with no power to do otherwise, it changed her in a way that she can't come. back from. That in my eyes, was the tamest of the bunch.

Then we had Akechi, someone who, at every turn, refused to free himself from his own mental shackles of the situation he's been in. How he viewed his mother and her complicated life. How he viewed himself in relation to his father and in relation to the world. He never really went after what HE wanted, only what he thought was what he was destined to do. To him, finding meaning in life meant finding some sort of balance that would be worth the cost of his mother's life. Bringing down Shido was that for him. A monster through and through and just like the stories and legends that Akechi is no doubt familiar with, that kind of karmic justice may not be "worth" his mother's life, but it's worth his. It's penance for what she had to go through. He wasn't living for himself, not really.

There's a saying in Naruto that really spoke to how I developed Ren and Goro in this fic. Sasuke said Naruto couldn't understand him because he's been alone from the very beginning vs Sasuke who lost everyone he loved. Those are two very different types of loneliness and two different sources of anger that feel like they should be the same, but they aren't. Fundamentally, they aren't, and that's why Ren was unable to reach him in that way.

From the very beginning, I knew Futaba and Cog Akechi were going to be the mechanism for Goro's second awakening. Goro's ultimate villain after all isn't fully Shido, it's always been himself. His perception of himself, his past, his inability to let himself have that love and adoration he craves now that he's found it. The person who could reach him was the only other person who would understand his very unique brand of pain in Futaba.

Being told it wasn't his fault his mom killed herself from someone that in his eyes, has every reason to despise him, to curse him, to see him fall, meant something to him. It reached him in a way that Ren couldn't in this side of the fic because Goro never tried to kill Ren. Not really, but he did ruin Futaba's life in the exact same way that his was ruined. That's why Futaba was the only one who could reach him.

She knows what it's like to believe and be told by others that your life was a burden on your mother, that self hatred, that hatred for the world at large, that need and desire for some sort of justice for your mother. Futaba gets all of that and she says as much in the game. She doesn't have to forgive him, but she can give him what he needs, and show him first hand, in action, that love is complicated.

As for Futaba's awakening, considering the deadly sin being explored in the palace was pride, neither Ren nor Goro was wholly equipped to deal with the palace at large.

They both wanted different things and were reluctant in their own ways to compromise the whole way through. It wasn't until both of them learned that they needed other people- that they could get saved by the person whose shown the most humility in the story thus far, Futaba.

Humility can be defined as having a realistic view of yourself and self-importance. Goro and Ren both put their goals above others, repeatedly.

Futaba is one of the few people in the story who never tries to sacrifice those around her for herself. When given the option to abandon Makoto to save herself when Goro takes everyone hostage, she rejects that. When given the choice to leave Goro to Cog Goro, she rejects that too. She stands up for Ren against the phantom thieves, and even against Sojiro. Time and time again, Futaba shows that humility when everyone else especially Ryuji, Ann and Makoto often fall to their own instances of pride or anger.

And most importantly, as much as Ren's whole life was turned upside down by Shido. The person who suffered the most at the hands of Shido were Akechi and Futaba and Futaba deserved to smack her dad (lol at my fav hc) in his stupid bald head as vengeance for her mom. I was disappointed the game didn't give her a moment like that, but alas, condense storytelling.

Throughout the story, Futaba constantly desires to have the power to save those around her. With her awakening and her turning the tide against the big bad, she does just that.

#ATOTT

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nothingtolosebutweight · 10 months

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A little (fast-written and not thoroughly proofread) something for the Summer Solstice Event hosted by @vikingsevents. I combined day 4 (Sweet, Salty, Metallic) and day 5 (Moan, Whimper, Scream) and created a Vampire AU (doesn't every writer need one at some point xd and JRMs role as Dracula gave me the perfect pic). I'm a little late, but I'm here :) Pairing: Heahmund & Ivar Words: ~4000 [AO3] Warnings: Mention of Blood (what a surprise), M/M Blowjob, Mild Smut

If his heart would still be beating in his chest, he was sure it would have stopped the moment he finally put his lips on the soft pillows he had painfully longed for weeks. Or rather, for centuries. It felt like a gentle death, and in a way, he actually died the second their lips touched, uniting in a kiss.

In an instant, he felt as if he had been reborn. His old self ceased to exist. The suffering self, driven by pain. All the pain of the past centuries, all the suffering that had accumulated during that time, slipped away from him, peeled off like a skin that no longer belonged to him, making way for the hope of a future in which love and passion would once again become his driving forces.

Caught in the maelstrom of his sensations, he gave himself completely to the feeling that the lips, which at first only hesitantly pressed against his, triggered in him. He would have loved to take possession of them directly, to feast on them like a wild animal that had had to wait too long for new prey. He was hungry, wanted more, but he held back. He mustered all his willpower to do so. Even though it was difficult for him, he instinctively knew that he had to give his counterpart the time to slowly get used to the feeling he was most likely experiencing. It was probably unfamiliar to him and overwhelming at the same time. Not the kiss alone, but the wave of emotions it unleashed. He was sure that he wasn't the only one feeling this way, but that the boy in front of him was also stirred up inside. He felt the uncertainty and probably also the disbelief about what was happening in his tentative approaches, heard it in his fastened heartbeat and shaky breaths.

Sweet - was the prevailing thought that burst upon him, unannounced like a storm on the high seas, as soon as their lips parted a crack, clearing the way into a world full of new sensations. He felt as if there was a slight hint of caramel, or perhaps honey, on these soft pillows, which further enraptured him. He wanted to devour every last trace of this delicious taste, chased after it like an addict after his favorite drug.

A smile formed on his lips, and had he not disturbed the kiss with it, he would have shaken his head in disbelief at his own surprise at the beguiling taste. Of course, his sweet prince still tasted like the sweetest temptation he had ever tasted. He hadn't gotten that nickname for nothing. Back then, a very long time ago.

He caught himself thinking that he could do without blood for the rest of his life if only he could sip on those very lips every waking minute. They were the elixir he needed more to live, the loss of which had made him an empty shell.

A stupid thought, perhaps, but he was far from being wise. Not when he was close to the one person he love the most and which he had believed he had lost forever.

The fact that he was here, unarmed, and without even having thoroughly checked his surroundings beforehand, was already proof enough that he might not be in his right mind.

The boy, who so willingly allowed himself to fall into his arms, was Ivar - the youngest scion of the Lothbrok family, whose roots as famous hunters went back a long way. Hunters who had tried for several generations to banish him and his kind from this earth, yet they had never been successful. At least in his case. Many of his kind had fallen victim to them, which had only magnified his anger and hatred toward those people, and perhaps it was now up to him to fall into the easiest of all traps that would cost him his survival.

He was walking on dangerous ground, but this kiss alone was already worth the risk. With not a fiber of his being could he imagine that the Lothbroks knew what old soul was slumbering in this boy when not even Ivar himself seemed to comprehend why he too was drawn to him as well. Ivar could have killed him already. He had several opportunities to do so, since he was too careless when near him, but Ivar hadn't done it, instead, the boy surrendered to the kiss as well, letting himself be guided by something hidden deep inside him.

Gently he let the tip of his tongue trace this sweetness and silently begged for further entry into this paradise-like cave.

He had fought many battles in his life already, had brought down many enemies who were begging for their lives on the brink of death. During those times, he also faced many weapons that were specially created to cause him pain and the most suffering before his ending. But never before had he felt anything like fear or a sense of weakness. Never had he felt defeated or unable to fight against something life-threatening.

However, the soft moan that escaped Ivar's lips when he opened his mouth a little wider, which led him to take possession of it immediately, made him feel a sense of weakness for the first time. He felt weak to the bone, on the verge of crying because he couldn’t believe his luck.

Ivar could stab him right in his cold heart, he wouldn't mind right now, but apparently, his luck hadn't run out yet. No wooden peg dug deep into his chest, but a shy tongue invaded him now, began to circle his, and nestled against it. Another moan sounded. This time from his mouth, and he could feel how it was working its magic on Ivar as well. He could hear his heartbeat increasing, could feel the tremors dancing across his skin.

His sweet prince pressed himself closer against him, wrapping his arms around his waist. Seeking hold, he was more than willing to give it to him.

Of the many battles he had already fought, none was as difficult as this one he was now fighting with himself internally.

Triggered by the sweetness that had overpoweringly anchored itself in his senses, he was overcome by the urge to want to possess Ivar, with every last molecule that made up his existence. He wanted to have him all for himself in fear of losing him again.

It was easy to say that continuing life without him would be unthinkable for him. Exaggerated poetics for most, but he knew that these were not just empty words. He had already had to live through it, knew how bleak his existence had been for the last centuries.

He had already lost him once. About 300 years before. Hunters had ripped him away from him in a brutal way. They had used Ivar as bait to lure him out of hiding, driven by the painful screams of his beloved. Pain caused by consecrated silver arrows that had been drilled into his legs in various places.

At that time, he had not been able to free him and thus had not been able to save him. In the end, he had only been able to watch in horror from a distance as they had beheaded his most loved one. Thus destroying a love that had lasted over 200 years. His existence thereafter was marked by hatred. His drive was revenge against all those who had been involved in this cruel event. Including their descendants. No one should be allowed to walk the earth who carried the blood of those people who had taken the dearest from him.

The dark time seemed to be over now. Although darkness was still his accomplice, needed for protection, it no longer ate through his insides.

Ivar was back. Even if so far only as a shell, he was sure that also his consciousness, his soul would soon push back to the surface. He was as sure of this as he had been at their first brief eye contact that this young man was his Ivar.

- His eyes, those azure depths, had been the first thing that had given him away. Back then, a few weeks ago, when they had run into each other in the twilight. A brief crossing of their eyes had been enough and he had lost himself in those familiar eyes. Had lost all sense of time, overwhelmed by all the memories that had burst upon him at that moment. They both had stopped for a moment as if they had been forced to stand still by some supernatural force and just looked at each other in silence.

That brief moment had been enough to trigger a realization in him, and when his senses had returned and with them, Ivar's heartbeat had reached him, he had been absolutely certain. Many people were nothing special. They were lost in the steady rhythm of the faceless mass, but there was something special about his sweet prince. A striking unevenness that sounded to his ears like the most beautiful classical song, whose tonal perfection no one had yet put on paper. He would recognize his heartbeat among millions and millions, had never heard a comparable one since he was robbed of his beloved.

Only briefly had he been able to catch a glimpse of Ivar's legs, trapped in metal braces, before the young man had awakened from his stupor and continued on his way, turning around again a short time later and eyeing him once more with interest.

The sight of the maltreated legs had triggered sheer rage in him and only with difficulty had he been able to suppress the scream that had been brewing inside him. Just like the memories that rose along with it, at the same time. -

Flatly, he pressed his tongue against the warm skin on Ivar's neck, licking over it with relish. The throbbing of his heartbeat made itself felt as a gentle vibration on his tongue. He heard the rush of blood flowing through the human shell and the thought of wanting to taste it overwhelmed him. Greed took over. When already on the outside such a foretaste of the sweetest nectar was waiting for him, how delicious would Ivar's blood be then?

His grip around Ivar's waist tightened, his nails deformed into claws almost leaving small holes in the fabric. His sharp teeth grew, scratched over the sensitive skin while he alternated between licking it and covering it with kisses. He was seconds away from plunging his teeth into the thick vein, ready to satisfy his curiosity and hunger, but the tip of a sharp object pressing into his side, right below his rotten heart, made him pause.

Carefully, he licked over the tempting spot once more before lifting his head and looking Ivar in the eye.

Already as he moved away, the pressure at his side also eased, even though the sharp end still lingered menacingly close to his body. Nevertheless, he was not afraid. He could read in Ivar's eyes that he had no intention of driving the peg deeper. It was merely a warning. The marking of a border that should not be crossed.

Devoutly, as if it weren't only Ivar's legs that seemed fragile, he enclosed his face with both hands and examined it for a moment, putting all the love he had for him into his gaze.

"I promise that I won't harm you. More than that, I promise that no one will ever hurt you again. No one will ever lay a hand on you again and cause you pain. From now on, I will protect you. No matter what it costs."

He saw Ivar frown as he let the words sink in. They didn't seem to make any sense to him. How could they, if he didn't remember?

"I don't need protection. I can stand up for myself."

The same pride as before gleamed in Ivar's eyes. The same confidence that almost bordered on arrogance, which had fascinated him even way back then. He smiled at him and nodded in understanding.

"I know. And yet I will protect you. I am your loyal servant and anyone who harms even a hair on your head will die. Like all the others before. That is my promise to you." He kept his voice soft, almost a whisper, even when no one was around to overhear.

"No one has ever hurt me."

"Your legs tell a different story."

He watched Ivar as he looked down at himself for a moment as if he had to see once again what had been done to him. Something so terrible that even centuries later it was still manifest in his body.

"I was born this way. It's nobody's fault, it's just the genes." Ivar sounded puzzled. Partly unsure maybe if this was actually the reason.

He stroked over the soft skin on Ivar's cheek, felt the first stronger hairs forming on his jawline under his fingertips. He left it at that. It was obvious that Ivar didn't remember the details and that he was struggling with himself inside. He could see it in his inquiring gaze, could almost hear the questions that Ivar was surely asking himself inwardly, undecided about what he was actually doing here. But his interest seemed to be stronger, his desire for closeness far from satisfied.

By initiating the following kiss, Ivar also made a statement that he was not here to talk. While he had been shy and cautious before, he now took what he thirsted for more confidently. Willingly, he opened his mouth, welcoming the foreign tongue into his realm.

He could feel the warmth of Ivar's breath mingling with his own cold one, creating an electrifying current that surged through their bodies. The touch of his lips was soft, yet firm, their movements synchronized in a passionate dance. Their tongues and lips met with a hunger that bordered on desperation. Breathy moans and sighs that echoed in the air were like a symphony, created by their desire and need, a testimony to the intensity of their connection.

Once again the heartbeat of his once-lost love accelerated, his skin became warmer, exuding a pleasant fragrance that crept into his nose, taking hold of his whole being. Everything around him was once again forgotten, declared unimportant. His world was Ivar and Ivar alone and he took this place as self-confident as ever.

His hands roamed over Ivar's back, possessively, yet tenderly tracing patterns along his spine, further igniting the fire that burned within them. Ivar's fingers clawed into his hair, pulling him closer, deepening their kiss even more. They only separated to get rid of each other's shirts. In a hurry, they tore them off their bodies and threw them carelessly on the floor, where also the wooden peg had found its resting place in the meantime.

The air crackled around them and fire blazed in their eyes as they looked at each other breathlessly for a moment. Their bodies yearned for more, their hands could not leave each other, slid exploratively over naked skin. Once again their lips found each other, sealing their testament of passion anew.

He started to open Ivar's pants, slid his hands in the sides, wandered to his butt, and dug his fingers into the plump cheeks, kneading them while he pressed Ivar closer, letting their hips gyrate against each other. Another moan was breathed into his mouth, unleashing another storm of desire to unfold. Without effort, he lifted Ivar up and helped him wrap his legs around his waist before walking to the bed on the other side of the room, continuing to kiss as if Ivar didn't need oxygen either.

When he reached the bed, he bent down and let Ivar slide gently onto the mattress. He propped himself up with his hands, and bedded himself on top of him, gyrating his hips again. Their moans mingled and Ivar leaned his head back to catch his breath, thus invitingly presenting his seductive neck to him. Without hesitation, he let his lips slide back there, kissing his way over the throbbing vein. He didn't linger there long, feeling how Ivar was tensing up again. Purposefully, he slid to his collarbone, licking his way down to one erect bud, nibbling on it, causing Ivar to voice his delight.

The scent that emanated from Ivar wrapped him in an invisible cloak. It had changed in the last few minutes, had intensified, and he felt like he was lying on the softest pillows, carried by the warmth that poured out of him.

The hands that ran through his hair, clawing almost painfully tightly into it, unmistakably pushed him deeper. He let Ivar guide him, but still took the time to explore his upper body first with tongue and lips, spoiling kisses here and there.

A tremor ran through Ivar's body and a sound of relief escaped his mouth as he opened his pants further and hastily pulled them down to his knees along with his underwear, freeing that part of his body that craved attention the most.

Desirously he looked at the wet shimmering tip, which stretched towards him. The witness of Ivar's lust was emblazoned on it, arousing in him the need to taste it. Turning his head sideways, he licked the hot flesh with the flat of his tongue, saving the best for last, when he finally absorbed the drop with the tip of his tongue, letting the salty taste melt on his tongue.

Ivar whimpered as his lips closed around the tip, begging for more with the next gasping exhale. He was only too happy to comply with this request, given that his own hunger for more was far from being satisfied. Nibbling, he let his lips glide over the head, savoring each new drop of pleasure as it rose to the surface. He relished the deep sighs that were coming from Ivar's mouth, bathed in the knowledge that it was he who was giving him this pleasure, these moments of absolute bliss.

Once again he licked over the entire length, noticing the trembling that flowed through Ivar's fragile legs, before he opened his mouth and placed it around the tip, this time taking it deep inside him. Immediately the grip on his hair tightened, urging his head deeper.

Sucking blood was a necessity for him to stay alive.

Sucking Ivar's cock was like a revelation that made him feel alive again.

The pulsing that spread through his mouth made him feel like he had a heartbeat of his own. He took Ivar deeper inside him, letting the sensation penetrate further down his throat. The sounds emanating from Ivar became more and more indignant, his hips reared up, his movements became desperate. He tried to follow the rhythm, willingly letting himself be used for Ivar's own pleasure, not letting the roughness deter him. He let it happen, enjoying the satisfaction he could give Ivar with a little sucking and bobbing his head up and down. He hadn't felt this fulfilled in a long time.

And something else distracted him, making his thoughts wander off.

The buzz of Ivar's blood sounded loudly in his ears. Two thick veins on his lower abdomen sought his attention. They stood out clearly. He saw them pulsing, and he could almost see through the skin how the surely delicious blood was pumped into Ivar's lower body at a hurried pace. His hunger for it grew with every second. A growl came deep from his throat as the urge finally overcame him, bouncing as a vibration against Ivar's cock, eliciting an equally guttural moan from his sweet prince.

He freed himself from Ivar's hard grip, sucked the tip of the shaft again intensely, and then let the cock slide out of his mouth completely. His tongue slid one last time over the length, made its way to the thigh on which he breathed fleeting kisses. Kissing and licking, he approached the lower belly, took Ivar's cock in his hand in the meantime, and continued pumping it in the same rhythm as he had previously spoiled it with his mouth. He increased the pressure around the head, sliding his thumb over the wet tip, rubbing the juice of their lust into both their skins.

Licking his lips, he came closer to one of the pulsating veins, firstly, just pressing his tongue against its pulse, letting it pass over him. He felt how the greed turned his features animalistic and how his teeth extended. It took all his strength, but he raised his head briefly to take a look at Ivar. A smile flitted across his features as he once more realized how gorgeous he was. His beloved had his eyes closed, his features tense with pleasure, his lips slightly open, breathing heavily. His fingers clutched at the sheet to his left and right, and his hips continued to thrust toward his hand, demanding.

He is mine was the prevailing thought as he lowered his head again. Forgotten was the previously made promise.

A scream fought its way through Ivar's lips, triggered by the shock when he couldn't hold on any longer, sinking his teeth into the soft skin of Ivar's lower abdomen. The metallic taste of his blood immediately filled his mouth, increasingly befogging his senses. Greedily he sucked the juice of life into himself, was overwhelmed by its delicious taste which he now well remembered.

Ivar reared up briefly, trying to push him away, but his resistance was only half-hearted, disarmed by his hand still pumping Ivar's arousal in a steady rhythm. He continued to drink, feeling the twitching in his hand grow stronger until he heard Ivar moan loudly. The feeling of warm drops landing on his cheek caught his attention and out of the corner of his eye he saw how Ivar slumped limply back onto the mattress, trying to catch his breath.

Weak hands tried to push him away once again, but he hadn't had enough, kept sucking the delicious blood into his mouth, intoxicated.

"Heahmund, please don't."

The soft, almost brittle voice of Ivar reached his ears and with a jolt he came to, jerked his head up and pressed his palm on the small wounds to stop the bleeding, but also to avoid being overrun by lust and hunger again.

He hadn't heard that name for a long time, had never used it again after his biggest defeat so far. The memory that came with it was too painful.

They looked at each other. Silently, yet he read so much in Ivar's eyes. Realization shimmered in them, accompanied by tears that tried to flood out. With the back of his hand, he first wiped his mouth, removing the bloody residue from his lips, before leaning down to Ivar, stopping just before his lips. With his thumb, he collected a tear that had made its way out of the corner of Ivar's eye as a glittering pearl.

"My sweet prince," he whispered before sealing their lips again, encouraged by the hand that had settled on his neck, pressing him closer.

The taste of his own blood didn't seem to deter Ivar. Much more it spurred him on, made him become more impetuous again. It was going to be a long night. Of that he was sure. A night in which he would hear his old name even more often, breathed and moaned and accompanied by sweet sounds.

It was time for a new identity anyway and Heahmund knew exactly which one he wanted to revive.

#heavar #heahmund x ivar #ivar x heahmund #ivar the boneless #vikings #vikings fanfic #vikings fanfiction #bishop heahmund #ivar vikings #summer solstice #smuttyvikings #vikingsevents #my writing #my stuff

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archangelofthestars · 6 months

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Lark and Sparrow Classes

I'm doing a little dndad's meta and I have a lot of thoughts so I'm gonna separate the boys into their own posts starting with the oak-garcias. But here is what i, as a dnd nerd and person who's job is partly dnd, think that their dnd classes are.

Sparrow Oak-Garcia

Sparrow is a Druid like his dad. Full stop. I just agree with Anthony on this this makes the most sense to me. Love Wolf Sparrow rights. I have more thoughts about sparrow narratively (i'll prob write something up ab the swallows-oak-garcia family later) but class wise this just makes sense.

Lark Oak-Garcia

Lark, Lark, Lark. Where do I begin. I could see Lark going a few different ways depending on what part of his story you wanted to play on. The main classes I think work best are artificer, warlock, and paladin.

Working backwards, let’s start with paladin. Paladins gain their abilities from their oaths. The subclasses are defined by these oaths. Looking at these oaths, the one that most feels like it applies to Lark is the oath of vengeance. Lark is seeking vengeance against himself. Him pursuing the death of the doodler, especially after what we learn from seeing Dood and seeing what normal sees at the church of the doodler, is so reflective of his own self-hatred. He is seeking his own destruction and penance for the acts that he has committed and the things that were the consequences of actions he took.

Warlock as a class for Lark is one that was presented by my friend @marzue. From a narrative standpoint, his summoning of the doodler and spilt blood of the unsung hero nicely mirrors that of the contract of the warlock. Of a contract gone wrong. The question here would be who his contract was with. Willy would be a good option, as he is the one who presents the fact of the unsung hero’s identity to Lark. The doodler, however would also be narratively satisfying, as the lord of chaos (Lark) summoning the Doodler through spilling the blood of the unsung hero could be read as a contract being formed between Lark and the Doodler, and feed into Lark’s anger and upset and desire to destroy the Doodler.

The last class I’m drawn to for Lark is that of artificer. While I was initially drawn to Ranger due to the crunchy vibes of the Oaks, I think artificer exemplifies Lark’s opposition to his father and the type of things he does as a dad/uncle. For those of you who are less dnd nerds and more dndads nerds, artificers were initially a subclass of wizard in 5th edition but were changed to their own class with the release of Tasha’s Cauldron of Everything (a dnd source book with new classes, subclasses and some rules additions). Artificers are known for their craftiness, magical gun wielding, and ability to infuse and create magic items. From episode one, we see Lark practicing this by putting a bulletproof vest into the Teeny costume, and his penchant for firearms. Artificers are typically depicted as the industrialist archetypes and are typically city dwellers as they invent and create magic items. I would argue that this craftiness and industrialness is a result of Lark’s relationship with Henry, and his resistance to the kind nature-loving temperance of his father, as well as his desire to work around his father and his time with walter builds Lark into a Artillerist Artificer so well.

While I clearly have a bias towards Lark as an artificer and I think it makes the most sense in canon’s combat, I love the idea of him as all of these.

Other kiddad class meta: Grant, Nick, Terry Jr.

#dndads s2 #dndads #dndads meta #angel's dad thoughts #lark oak garcia #sparrow oak garcia #lark oak #sparrow oak #lark and sparrow #look i have a lot of thoughts about lark #that rogue card really has just #completely altered my brain chemistry #sparrow i have thoughts on just not class wise #that boys a druid

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alfredsolos · 1 year

Text

BATKIDS FROM A STRANGERS PERSPECTIVE

Dick Grayson: From the eyes of a stranger, Dick Grayson looks troubled. He is of course very handsome, but that’s not what they focus on when they get a closer look. He doesn’t have eyebags per se, but dark lines that make him look angry. That’s why most people hesitate interacting first, but then call themselves an idiot for misjudging -obviously- a very kind man. Although it wouldn’t be far off saying he is a troubled man. It wouldn’t be shocking to say that once you get to know about his life. Maybe then they’d understand how unfair life has been to him. What he sacrificed, things he willingly let go just for the sake of people he never met. He covers his scars well. Both the physical and mental ones. Dick Grayson didn’t deserve to go through this much pain and loss, yet there is nothing to do. He will continue on this path of self-destruction, and one day will be consumed by it. But ‘till then, he’ll get up and continue fighting. Dick Grayson is hope but sometimes even he knows better not to wish for it. The death of his parents was not the start of it however. It was responsibility. Responsibility of Batman and Robin, of his siblings and friends, of the death of his loved ones. Them dying and coming back. Again and again. Until it becomes meaningless. How most people including himself coming back but not his parents. As if everthing was some kind of a sick joke. Dick Grayson feels as if fury and hatred are what he truly is. The happy is anger, so is the excitement and the sadness and the grief. And he can feel himself fade quicker by the second. He’s worried. He’s worried for himself and wishes that someone will see it before he’ll need to say it out loud.

Jason Todd: From the eyes of a stranger, Jason Todd looks peaceful. His eyes soft and skimming the pages of a book you can’t see the title of. Jason Todd looks as if he achieved everything he ever hoped of in life. Normally a man of his size and height would make people change sidewalks and lanes. But somehow he’s different. He looks like the most gentle person you’ve ever met. And it is true, that Jason Todd is gentle. But he’s also scarred. He’s disturbed, anxious, insecure and scared. Jason Todd is scared, scared of life. Of it being happy. He’ll look content but he knows something’s wrong with him. Inside of him there is a monster crawling and begging to get out. Jason Todd is scared of himself. He’ll never be content and enough and full. There will always be something he wanted to have but couldn’t. Time. Jason Todd lost his time a long ago. He’ll never get to be a kid again, he’ll never get to go to school and stress over the homework due the day after. It’s too late and soon he’ll be dead again. He’s getting old but Gotham is becoming crazier. One day he’ll slip and make a mistake and it’ll cost him his life. He won’t come back again. He’s not sure he wants to really. Jason Todd wants to go back to the bright lights of heaven and the tickling feeling of the clouds. He remembers Heaven. And every morning when he wakes up he desires it. Sometimes he closes his eyes and pretends that nothing is real and he’s just another soul looking down onto the mess that is life. Jason Todd doesn’t crave life because it’s chaos. Jason Todd craves death, because it’s the tranquility he barely got to feel.

Tim Drake: From a stranger’s perspective, Tim Drake looks tired. Which isn’t far off of the truth. Yes, he’s tired. But it wouldn’t be fair to generalise it like that. Tim Drake is tired of life, of loss, of work, of duty, of promises, of his family. Of himself. He knows this really, but he’ll never admit it out loud. Not when he’s not yet enough. Never enough. Tim Drake has his hair up to his shoulders that swish side to side from even a slight breeze. He has thin hair. The stress makes it thinner and it fall of in clumps. He always has a small frown on his lips, from not being content with anything. Nothing is perfect. And there’s no one better than Tim Drake to see the flaws. No answer is ever good enough. But no, not for him, but his world. His family. He’ll never rest until he finds the right answer. An answer worthy of his family. Tim Drake cares nothing more than his family. Not even himself. That’s the reason why he looks so tired. The world is filled with endless questions with multiple answers. Maybe that’s why he’s such a good detective. Tim Drake looks cold and calculative, with questionable beahaviour, but they don’t understand him. They never will. He’s obsessed with answers and he just can’t stop. Everything in life is a question born from an answer. That’s why it’s endless. His family worries that one day the answers will swallow him up and he’ll become but a shell of his former self. Tim Drake can’t understand. And it’s slowly becoming unbareable. Tim Drake is a self-detonating bomb and he doesn’t know which cable to cut. Red, Blue, Green? Yet another set of questions.

Damian Wayne: From a stranger’s perspective, Damian Wayne looks bored. He looks bored of life, and the people around him. As if one day he’ll wake up and decide to leave. Damian Wayne’s supposed to be a child, he looks joyless. His eyes dead, yet there is this tick on the corner of his lips. You can’t see it from far but it’s there. A slight lift of lips, so ill matched with the rest of his face. Almost amused. It looks arrogant and inconsiderate. You can’t really make assumptions based on his physical self. Not even his family seem to fully understand him. Some think that he finally changed from his previous ways, some say he’s the same as he was but just learned how to act better. You wouldn’t know Damian Wayne even if you were his friend for years. Even if you were born next to him. The only one who knows the real him, is himself. Does he enjoy the murders, or is he repulsed by it? What does he really think of his family? Is every move he does is carefully calculated to get the result he wishes? Or he just doesn’t know how to socialize and is actually anxious? Questions, questions, questions. So many questions yet no answers. Maybe that’s why him and Tim Drake don’t get along. Who knows, really? Damian Wayne is fearless and that’s why he’s so bored. He was stabbed, burned, shot at, bruised, broken, and killed. And then there was Hell. Then another death. Then a third one. The fourth and fifth were barely days apart. First and Second was murder. Third was himself (and Hell). Fourth and Fifth were the ones he seeked for (they were statements). Every single one one them changed him so much that it was better to just smile and let them take. Little did they know, Damian Wayne had nothing left to give.

#batfamily #batfamily headcanons #damian wayne #dick grayson #jason todd #tim drake #tw mention of death #tw sucidal ideation #tw mentions of trauma #tw mentions of abuse #my hc

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f3rry-m4n · 1 month

Text

The Killing Kind

Chapter 3

Getting To Know Each-Other

Charon stayed by Hidras’ side for weeks, desperately trying to get it to like him. Hidras did not comply as the creator was harsh and rude. Charon had no shame calling Hidras mean names and being abusive towards it. Despite not understanding english, Hidras could recognise acts of violence and tones in voices, Charon’s tone was obviously full of hate, which the creature didn’t like. The ferryman made no effort to improve his attitude.

“Stop yelling for once in your goddamn existence!” The creator screamed at Hidras, starting to get fed up with its attitude.

“I’m tired of your constant whining, quit being a crybaby! I get it, you’re in pain, now shut up!” Charon said in anger. Hidras would not tolerate such behaviour and tried biting on Charon’s forearm, to no avail as the individual was liquid.

“This is obviously getting nowhere.” The creator sighed. For the first time, Charon considered a different approach. This would not please him at all but he didn’t have a choice.

He had to be nice.

Charon took a deep breath, it was the first time he had to do this. He prepared himself and crouched down to match Hidras’ height as it was on four legs. He tried to put on the sweetest tone he could mutter out, which didn’t sound that friendly.

“Hey, Hidras ? I know we didn’t start on good terms, but I wanted to tell you something… I’m so… so… sor-”

Charon gulped, this felt weird.

“Sorry.”

He felt sick to his stomach, that was his least favourite word. But he meant it.

Turns out the creator did this for nothing as Hidras could not understand the meaning behind this word. Although, Hidras was still able to comprehend the less threatening and more inviting attitude Charon used. Hidras was wary of Charon as this was unusual for him to act in such a caring manner. This demeanor was new for the both of them, settling an awkward tension between them.

This interaction declared a staring contest between the two. Hidras won as Charon looked away in shame.

This word.

This ridiculously disgusting word.

It came out of his mouth.

The worst part ? He meant it.

Charon hated himself for that, for saying such bullshit like it meant anything special to the creature. His efforts were in vain, that angered him. He was trying so hard to be nice and all of that for nothing only because the dumb animal could not speak english.

The days passed, Charon kept talking and talking to himself, verbally expressing his hatred and anger towards Hidras.

What Charon didn’t know, was that his monologues were slowly training Hidras like a toddler. Hidras was slowly learning this mysterious and unknown language the creator was speaking, associating words with emotions and concepts and slowly forging and opinion of its own.

It took a few more years but soon, Hidras became self-aware. She only chose to remain silent, taking all the time in the world to learn more about the creator and using this newfound knowledge to comprehend his feelings. For the first time ever, she was able to understand how the ferryman felt towards her. It took a toll on her ego.

She silently endured the treatment, until she could no more and snapped. She spoke up, her tone rough and commanding.

She stood up on her hind legs confidently, and made her way to the blob.

“Stop speaking, you’re annoying me.”

Hidras let out a long sigh.

“You sure are ungrateful, aren’t you ? You stand here, you finally have a chance to end this unbearable loneliness of yours, and what do you choose to do ? Insult me ? Belittle me ?”

Hidras chuckles, enjoying the look on Charon’s face as he realised his mistake.

“Oh please, spare me the bothered look! Look at me. Look at me really closely.”

She took another step towards the creator.

“You are to create great things, but out of anything you will create, nothing will ever come close to my perfection. Nothing will ever be as aware, beautiful and complete, as I am. You are bound to creating repulsive creatures, you should be grateful you ever managed to make somebody as pretty as I am because you’ll never ever will achieve this again. I am the original, a part of you. I came from your very being and yet you treat me as a stranger, a barbaric slave. You see me as a pathetic bug you can crush under your boot whenerver you’d like when you should treat me as an equal. I am more than you can believe, I am more than you can ever be. Remember me. I am and will always be the peak of your cretions, embrace it while it lasts.”

Charon stood there amazed. He had no idea Hidras could speak, let alone have this level of consciousness. He took the time to choose his words carefully, now aware one mistake in his speech could lead to trouble. He gulped and cocked his head to the side. He felt a bit sheepish after being lectured in such a rude way. He stared down at the floor, muttering what resembled an apology.

“That’s what I thought.” Hidras said with a roll of the eyes. “You should really learn your place, Charon.”

Charon sat down, contemplating what just happened.

#books #creative writing #writing #beginner writer #original book #book #young writer #writers on tumblr #literature #writers and poets #Charon #Hell #Underworld #mythology

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yaimlight · 2 years

Text

When You Need It Most

Rating: G

Pairings: Bakugou Katsuki x fem!reader x Todoroki Shoto

Part of the Twos Company Threes a Crowd series. Masterlist can be found here.

Katsuki knows that your past weighs heavy on you sometimes.

He’s not talking about the times when those assholes who think they know everything open up their mouths and start harping on about shit they know nothing about or understand. Or the times when those shitty magazines and fan sites like to drag up your past like it’s their fucking right to air out those horrific and traumatic years you spent under your old man’s control. No, he’s talking about the times when you get quiet. When you shrink into yourself and get lost staring into space, your eyes dull and empty. You might be in the room physically but mentally you have checked out, lost to whatever guilt and hate you’re subjecting yourself to this time.

He doesn’t always know what sets you off, either not there to witness it or not having seen the connection between an off-handed comment and your constant feelings of guilt and self hatred. Sometimes though he can pinpoint the exact moment he loses you down the rabbit hole. It’s normally always a throw away comment, something not intended as a jab at your past or even directed at you but it still brings everything crashing back to the forefront of your mind, as fresh as the day you had committed the crime.

Your friends know by now what things to avoid and he and Shoto have a system in place for when something slips through. You don’t like to talk about it, hate it if he or Shoto try to convince you that it’s not your fault and that you shouldn’t be carrying the blame and guilt around with you. They learnt that the hard way. One to many of your down days turning into full on arguments that had you storming out and disappearing for a few days like you didn’t have a job or responsibilities. Like you didn’t care how worried it made them to lose you like that. Neither he or Shoto knew where you went or what you did when that happened and you never offered any kind of explanation when you finally came back. The not knowing and worry chases away any lingering traces of anger, the relief at having you back safe and in one piece so all consuming that they tend to forget the argument that had caused you to disappear in the first place.

What you needed then was to feel wanted, loved and that wasn’t exactly a hardship because Katsuki and Shoto loved you so fiercely that they had been willing to make a life together just so you would be part of it. Falling in love with each other had just been an added bonus that neither of them had seen coming. They would slot you between the two of them, both he and Shoto cuddling you close and whispering their love for you against every easily reachable inch of you, following it with kisses and gentle touches as they held you through the tears and shaking. There were always blankets involved, the three of you hidden under mountains of the fluffy things like they were trying to weigh you down and keep you from running off. Everything was gentle and quiet, soft and full of love as they held you together and tried their best to ease your pain.

Katsuki would never admit to being that gentle with anyone and he knows you and Shoto wouldn’t speak about it to anyone else either. Not because you're trying to protect his or your own images but because these moments are meant just for you and no one else. He’s only like this with you and Shoto. Only this open and vulnerable with the two of you. Because he feels safest with you. Because he trusts the two of you more than anyone else in the world. Because he loves you.

When you’ve calmed down. When the tears have stopped and you're no longer trembling in their arms you allow them to ease their tight grip on you but they don’t go too far. The three of you stay in bed, he or Shoto only escaping the warm cocoon they had made to get food and drink, as well as the occasional need to piss. The rest of the time is spent curled around one another, Katsuki reading out loud whatever book he’s currently working his way through as Shoto gently strokes his fingers through your hair and presses kisses against your neck and shoulders. The day passes like that, the gentle rumble of Katsuki’s voice joined with the rustle of the sheets as they shifted until finally you fell asleep, your gentle breathing and soft snores a welcome sign that the worst had passed.

He and Shoto would have a whispered conversation over you, trying to work out what had been the cause of your bout of guilt this time. Sometimes they could figure it out, discussing plans on how to prevent it in the future or making threats against whatever asshole that had managed to worm their way into your head, spitting poison and hate until something stuck. Sometimes though they wouldn’t be able to work out what had gone wrong this time. They didn't have the right information to piece it all together and undo the damage that had been done. On those occasions it was whispered promises to do better, both Katsuki and Shoto vowing to be more vigilant, to make sure you knew how much they loved you, villainous past and all. There was no escaping the things you had done, no way to undo the damage you had caused but you had served your time, had spent the years after your imprisonment trying to atone for your crimes and it was cruel of people to bypass all the good you had done and only focus on the bad when you had been nothing but a kid trapped under a mad man’s tyrannical god complex. You were a dammed good hero and it made Katsuki so fucking mad when those useless extras made you forget it.

When morning rolled around you were always muted, soft. You were more affectionate, constantly touching Katsuki and Shoto as if you were checking to make sure they were real. For the most part you went about your day as normal, almost acting as if the last few days hadn’t even happened. Neither Katsuki or Shoto would deny you when you sought out their affection, whether that was your ingers brushing together or shoulder bumping, maybe a quick and gentle kiss or a long and lingering hug. Whatever it was you needed from them it was given freely along with dozens of decorations of love from the both of them, though Shoto was more blunt about it then Katsuki, his weird personality seemingly leaving no room for embarrassment. It always got you smiling though, something small and private, full of gratitude and love and just for them.

Sometimes you would talk about it. Sometimes you wouldn’t. There was no way of telling if you would or not and if you did it could be days or even weeks later. Sometimes he can tell it’s coming, you're hesitant and a little nervous, sometimes even frustrated but Katsuki never pushes. He waits for you to come to him or Shoto or sometimes to both of them and when you do he always listens like you’re speaking gospel. Sometimes it comes easy, the words flowing from your mouth like a river and reminding Katsuki of how shitty the world can actually be to leave you feeling like you are monstrous trash that should be behind bars. Other times though it’s a fight to get the words out and you get angry and frustrated quickly when you can’t say what you want to. It’s normally these times that you cry, your frustration adding to the pain and guilt you were already drowning in.

Katsuki’s not known for being gentle. People wouldn’t look at him with his constant glare and somewhat harsh and cruel words and think him capable of being gentle or soft and for the most part they would be right. He wasn’t like that with most people but you and Shoto were different. The two of you were Katsuki’s world and he wasn’t afraid to be open and honest and fucking vulnerable with you so he doesn’t even so much as flinch when you break down in tears, moving slowly but surely to pull you into his arms and hold your trembling body against his chest. If Shoto’s there he always comes to, pressing up against your back and wrapping his arms around you, the two of them holding you tight in an attempt to make sure you don’t shake apart in their arms.

It’s difficult not to get angry when listening to you explain what it was that had caused your downward spiral and how it made you feel, how you still felt about yourself. Katsuki wants to hunt down every single one of those rude and ungrateful extras and set an explosion off in their faces whilst tearing them a new one. He also wants to shake you vigorously as he screams at you about how good you are, that you are worth something and you shouldn’t listen to people who know jack shit about you or what you have been through. He doesn’t though. Knows that it would only make the situation worse and that’s the last thing any of them want.

So Katsuki holds you and Shoto presses kisses against your face and neck and between the two of them they try to make it better the only way they know how. Katsuki likes to remind you of the times you had laid down your life in order to save someone, the epic battles that any average hero would have run away from and how your catch rate was one of the highest in the country. Shoto would remind you of the times you hadn’t even needed force to stop a villain, of all those times you had talked a scared and angry person down from taking that last step and becoming a full blown criminal. Shoto would talk about how gentle and understanding you could be, the only hero with the perspective of a villain and the desire to help instead of judge and imprison. In their own ways they were both inspired by you, in awe of you and everything you had overcome to be the person you were.

It’s easy to say it because it’s true and it’s always followed by yet another declaration of love along with the promise to be by your side for as long as they breathed, to be the thing that grounded you in the here and now instead of letting you get lost in the dark twisting shadows of your past. When the crying stops and when your trembling body goes still and only then will Katsuki call you an idiot, taking your tear stained face in his hands and making you look at him. Katsuki always gives the same speech, about how he’s the best and would settle for nothing less than the same. He tells you that you're the goddamn best at what you do and that there’s a whole generation of kids out there that looked up to you, to the fearless and unstoppable hero who always stands their ground and never leaves a person behind whether they’re a civilian, a fellow hero or even a villain. Katsuki looks into your eyes and tells you that you're a hero through and through and no angry and selfrichous extra can tell you otherwise.

His worlds hold conviction, not a single waver to his voice as he talks and talks and talks until he can see his words sticking. Until that detached glaze in your eyes fade and you are looking up at him like he’s some sort of prophet delivering a divine prophecy to the brainless masses. It’s like no one’s ever praised you before and sure that had been true way back at the beginning but not now, not after everything the two of you had been through. Sometimes you lost your way though, forgot who you were and Katsuki was ok being the one to remind you, to be one of two people who you trusted so completely that you would let them see you at your worst, broken and haunted and suffocating under the weight of your own actions. To be one of the only people you trusted to get you through the darkness and back into the light, your fragile heart and mind held securely in strong hands.

He wasn’t stupid, knew that the life you had lead before your incarceration and subsequent rehabilitation would haunt you for the rest of your life but Katsuki had hope that over the coming years, with him and Shoto at your side, you would be able to come to terms with it and move forward with your life. With them. Until then though Katsuki would give you space when needed, hold you tight when you needed that to and he would do his damned best to make you see yourself how he and Shoto saw you. Powerful, beautiful, compassionate, sexy and human despite the jokes you liked to make.

Katsuki would spend the rest of his life reminding you if he had to because that’s what you did when you loved someone and Katsuki did love you with every fibre of his being and nothing was ever going to change that. Not the press with their pointed questions and poorly disguised criticisms. Not his so called fans and pointless extras who spewed venom and hate online where they were safely hidden behind a computer screen and free of the consequences of their actions. Not even you with your self doubts and insistence that being with you would only drag him and Shoto down. Katsuki was stubborn and headstrong and this was one thing he would never be persuaded from. Not now, not ever.

The three of you were in it for the long haul and honestly, Katsuki wouldn’t want it any other way.

Twos Company Threes A Crowd Master List

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gyubby99 · 7 months

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@disneyanddisneyships ok so-

MALAPONI = REPUTATION AND LOVER

Okay let's discuss this.

Aponi = Lover

It might be a shock considering her edits, her songs, her fics of revenge, but she IS lover. She EMBODIES lover. Here's why I think Aponi is Lover.

First of all, she is the overlord of WHAT?? Love. Ofcourse Lover is a happy song! Lover is so happy, right?

No. If you look at the songs on the album, it is considered one of the saddest albums by swifties. We have songs like the archer, death by a thousand cuts, afterglow, SOON YOU'LL GET BETTER!!

I think the emotions each song represents, can all be found in Aponi. The anxiety of afterglow, wanting your lover to love you even if you lose your mind, even if you make mistakes, even if you sometimes cause them pain. The scathingly beautiful pain of death by a thousand cuts, the calm golden love of daylight, the sassyness of I Forgot That You Existed, the frustration of The Man, the beauty of Lover, and many many more songs. They all scream one name and that is Aponi Wings.

First off, Lover is more of a sunlit album. An album of love.

"But why are there songs about anxiety and breakups and cancer? If it's all about love?"

Well, it's to show that love isn't always all pink and happy and rainbows and sunshine, which most overlords and demons think about Aponi. That she is HARMLESS. Would never hurt a fly because she is the overlord of Love. Love comes with different things, different emotions. With love, there can be pain, frustration, anger, anxiety, agony even. We should not underestimate what love can do, and we should definitely not think of aponi as weaker than mal just because I in my very own opinion think that Aponi is Lover. A common misconception is that love is weakness, when in reality, it is one of the most powerful forces in the world. Without love, what would happen to the world?

The album Lover expresses the things that come with love aside from being happy. It also expresses something like self-hatred, abandonment issues, and overthinking which Aponi seems to have. Aponi, while being the overlord of love, can also go for blood. Aponi is flawed as well as love can sometimes be, and that is okay!

(Side note that she would fr marry alastor with paper rings)

Aponi to me is a woman that loves, but also knows better. She can love, but she also knows when to stop loving, and when to stand up for yourself. That makes her one of a kind in hell. She is what hell needs. Sure, it doesn't have songs like "dear john" or anything about sa but it has the gut-wrenching feeling like in the lyric "my heart, my hips, my body, my love. Tryna find a part of me that you didn't touch." From death by a thousand cuts. It's not the exact story but the spite, the hurt, the pain is similar.

Let's not forget that Aponi is popular in all the right ways! She is so nice and believes anyone can change for the good and that those who can does not deserve hell and deserves a second chance! She doesn't care what you did in the past, except if they're unforgivable.

And the fact that she takes care of her dancers at a club, her performers comfyness is her first priority, their equal pay, like she takes good care of them. Like, she is radiating this kinda glow that if you're a moth next to it you wouldn't be burned. Like she has a flame that wouldn't kill you but warm you. Like a safe place.. the feeling of a fireplace after walking through a snowstorm for hours.

Aponi as Lover makes total sense and I absolutely stand by my opinion.

Now let's move on to my daughter being REPUTATION.

MAL.

Reputation.. what comes in your mind first when you hear me say "Reputation album by Taylor Swift"?

Hm..

Could it possibly be.. a revenge album full of snakes? A clapback from the hate? A totally badass and fierce album?

Well, from the aesthetic, I can see why you thought of that. All black and white, snakes everywhere, angry songs..

But Mal.. what makes Mal reputation-coded?

Look, on the outside, it's a revenge album. Hell- even the cover is like some dark, badass, angry, out-to-kill vibe. (Who has those same vibes? Right.)

Look at the songs, though!

..Ready for it? End Game Delicate Don't blame me Gorgeous King of my heart Dancing with our hands tied Dress Call it what you want New year's day

Half the album = love songs

Okay maybe rep isn't that scary at all if you really listen and know the album. You know those swiftie videos of "what reputation actually looks like" and it's all photos of Taylor smiling widely on her tour, interacting with fans, looking into the crowd with that glint in her eyes.. just her being happy.

I think that this resonates with Mal, because I think she was fairly well-feared in hell, (especially venice) and while she likes it, she revels in other demons' misery, there's more to it than that.

I'd like to think she was meant to be a lover, but HAD to be a fighter. She was a really nice person who would never wish upon anyone what current Mal wishes on other demons and mortal humans themselves. Ofcourse she was a little mischevious and a troublemaker in her own way, and still is! She now realized she can be both, though.

Most people either hates mal or fears her. All they know about her is that she is two sides of the same coin when it comes to her promises and deal making. She's a trickster, an overlord out for blood in her hands taking on more than she can chew. She lives for the thrill of hell and how one big of a circus it is, and how much fun it is compared to the tight rules of heaven. It feels like she truly belonged here and the gods have decided that fate on her. She feels like this was meant for her. To bring bad luck was something she detested but at the same time was something she half-fully owned.

But I did say the same coin has two sides.

If you're someone like aponi, vox, anyone close to her, you'd know there's WAY more to it than a woman who likes being a literal gremlin who causes chaos and loves lying. Look at how she treats them! People who are important to her and makes her feel special. Mal is very putty and almost melts in vox's arms which is least expected from someone like her, she's helped aponi get throigh shit because she's as stubborn but like 5x more. Aponi says "No." She says "N O !" Velvette is her other soul sister that supports her a lot, Al is like a brother to her now, and they like talking about murder and witchcraft. Emma has the best mom she could ever ask for, Emilia (her bb cousin) had her soft spot, the hotel crew being treated like the found family you'd have a booze with snd laugh at their jokes. Her "lover" side shows ONLY with those people. Only with the people that can be trusted with it and SHE KNOWS they can be trusted with it.

She's caring, kind, honest.. in her own way. In a way that people consider a luxury. Once she lets you in that circle, you'll be treated so right. Kinda like how these love songs show a sense of loyalty, devotion, and just.. pure love and adoration for those people. Although she's not perfect and can anger you, irritate those nerves of yours on the brink of snapping, makes yiu cry sometimes, if she says she loves and cares about you, she's not going anywhere. That's the good luck you get.

So why I think all of this correlates with what swifties say about reputation is that we are the ones that Taylor loves and prioritizes, she's very protective of us, she looks at us like we're the ones who got her to where she is, she always says that swifties changed her life, and that there's nothing we cannot do for her. The revenge songs arent for us obviously. Those are for the rest of the world who watched and laughed as she mourned her reputation, but she slowly rose again, and better than ever.

So I do think that reputation is more of a love album than lover.. which is ironic because of what people think these two albums are based on ONLY aesthetic and name. There's more to her albums than their titles and themes. Hell, speak now is like a princess-like album and then you get songs like dear john and better than revenge. She threw a damn CHAIR during sparks fly!

So uh I guess my little brainrot rant ends here?

#aponi wings #mallory #ocs #malaponi

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morvaris-archive · 2 years

Note

crave + aleksandr 👀

; NO PRINCE, NO KING, NO GOD

characters: aleksandr (oc), candy (oc)

word count: 6522 🤡

warnings: oof mentions of blood, death, also of burning and scientific experiments (all of this is described but not overly explicit), negative self-talk, a lot of negative thoughts in general, thoughts of self-harm, but he doesn't harm himself physically in any way. please, let me know if i missed anything.

also note: some lines (a few) are in russian, because sasha's first language is russian, and so is the person's speaking to him. the translation is under the fic, and i know it might ruin the experience, but it's more real for him this way.

He is in a trap he could never escape– it threatens to close on him, but it never really snaps shut, and the anticipation, the fear of it finally doing so when he least expects it is so much worse than the sharp pain shooting through his body; the concrete walls are closing in on him, the smell of chemicals in the air is so strong he can taste it on his tongue.

Sasha’s sitting in the pool of his own blood; the edges of his lab coat are torn, the pieces of it are drowning in the red liquid that covers not only the floor, but the walls as well. It seeps through the cracks, clinging to his back, his legs, his face.

The green of his eyes is lifeless, dull. He grips a scalpel in his hand without realising that the blade is digging into his hand, breaking skin, tearing him. Open and raw. The blood from the newly made wound drips down, and he paints the whole place red one more time.

Sasha has no one to blame for ending up like this other than himself. The thought causes him to swallow a lump in his throat, and it feels like he’s chewing on glass. Failure after failure, and the progress has gone nowhere since day one, but there's no resentment, no anger and sadness as strong as it was in his early days. Instead, he feels dreadfully empty.

Empty and rotting on the inside, the living corpse with the single purpose in his life that he can't achieve, can’t even grasp. It would be a funny joke, if it would’ve been about anyone else. He's nothing, and he will always be nothing, even in death.

And why did he think death would change everything? After all, it’s not the turning point everyone thinks it is– it’s bleak, and it feels like falling and freezing mid air, never reaching the ground. Being stuck is just another kind of torture.

He wants to fall finally, to see the ground getting closer and closer, to feel his breath stutter as he nears the end. To feel something change. But he is stagnating, has been for over fifty years now, and it became a struggle to pretend otherwise, for putting up an act gets old at some point even in one’s long, long life. It’s not a routine if it makes him terrified of what he’ll see next time he looks in the mirror.

Something clatters on the ground as he tries to stand up, but his foot slips on the blood, his and the dead man's on the operating table, and he falls down again. Collapsing onto the many tools that were supposed to help him reach his success, to achieve something he craved for so long, but now they lay on the dirty floor with him. The lab that once felt like haven, now reeks of failure.

Defeated, all Sasha can do is watch and be watched and judged by his many, many mistakes in the face of the vampire laying in front of him. His legs are still strapped, but one of the hands hangs free, claws glinting, covered in Sasha’s vitae. His mouth is open, teeth bared in a silent threat even after the final death has taken him, but it’s not what has Sasha’s attention. It’s his eyes.

Open wide, staring, full of hatred.

There was a fire in him, and as Aleksandr was planning to use him as his playground, the man managed to strike, to catch him off guard because he got too cocky. It has never been a problem before. They've never put up a real fight for he could bend their minds however he wanted. But it seems that he fell victim to his own delusions– his own mind deceived itself, twisting the reality to fit Sasha’s desires. And now he paid the price, but it’s not the physical way that matters.

The wounds will heal as soon as he gets some blood in his system. He doesn't feel pain, however, he feels nothing, and he lets out a helpless snort. It echoes in the hollow room, bouncing from one wall to another. The snort quickly turns into a quiet broken laugh, which erupts into a fit of laughter as the void expands within him, consuming his still heart.

He laughs and he laughs until his vision is clouded by tears, and he feels his cheeks getting wet. Sasha can’t help it– the irony isn’t lost on him. The man, who thought himself a king, has fallen to his knees in front of those he considered were lesser than him. He's no king, he’s no Prince, he’s just dirt under someone's shoe. Nothing has changed, no matter how much he tried to pretend otherwise.

Ты просто трус, Саша.*

What?

The voice strikes him like an electric shock, and the pain he wasn’t feeling before hits him in a sudden crashing wave. His muscles and sinews tense, the lab becomes a mix of red and white with black clouding the edges of his vision. Maybe it’s his delusions, or frenzy creeping in, but he can hear a frantic heartbeat in his ears. The pang of fear makes his hands shake, he needs to get away, away, away.

“Я не..” His protest is weak, voice laced with terror, and Sasha isn’t even sure if he really said it out loud, but it doesn’t matter, because it does nothing to soothe his mind– it only makes his attempts to calm down fail, makes everything much more real.

Ты был готов бежать, как только он вырвался.**

Gritting his teeth, he throws his head back, banging it against a wall hard. In an attempt to wish everything away, Sasha raises his hands to his face to rub his eyes until he sees white spots behind his eyelids, but he halts his movement mid way once he sees the blood on them. His blood, when it was supposed to be other's. He wasn't supposed to bleed anymore, he has the power in his hands to make sure of it.

Or so he thought. Foolishly.

Ты был готов бежать, когда твоя попытка убить Кэнди провалилась.***

Candy.

He snaps his eyes away from his hands, pulls his mind away from falling into a trap as he hears their name. It’s familiar, and he uses this familiarity as an anchor to snap out of the paralysing fear. Sasha grips on to their name, trying to claw his way out as the remainder of his consciousness clings into it, frantically.

He needs them near, needs to hear their voice, grounding him, bringing him back to reality, assuring him that the last six years were real, and he didn’t make it all up to hide from his past. Patting the pockets of the lab coat weakly, he ends up with yet another disappointment as he finds nothing.

With his throat tight, he lifts his eyes, trying to locate the phone, but the hiss slips past his lips when he is blinded by the bright lights of the lab. They force him to keep his head low and bowed, suppressing the fight that ignites in his system.

Sasha slumps further, shielding himself from the main source of irritation. He tries again, just barely raising his head to look over the room again, ignoring the broken glass and the dead kindred. It’s hard to find a single thing, when everything spirals so fast, but he manages to spy it laying on the other side of the room.

Encouraged by the barely there hope, Sasha jolts upright too fast, causing his head to spin and almost falling again in the process. His legs are wobbly, and his knuckles are pale as his grip on the table he used to get up tightens. Slowly, moving one feet in front of another, he stumbles towards his destination.

Ты умер трусом - трусом и остался.****

But once he stood up, he quickly realised his mistake. His condition becomes so much worse; the dull headache erupts, and his head is just about ready to explode– the buzz in his ears, the dull ache where the vein in his temple throbs almost makes him scream, and maybe he does yelp for mercy, but it gets stuck in his throat as he chokes on his own blood.

The hunger overwhelms him completely, and for a moment Sasha is convinced everything is lost, and the Beast will take over when the black in his eyes turns red. He is starving, and it’s spreading through his body like an infection, making his veins itch. Getting under his skin, twisting his guts, brutal shocks rattle his brain to scratch it away, to hurt, to open his skin wide until it’s all gone.

Forcing these thoughts away becomes harder and harder by the second, but he drags his weak body forward, to the only lifeline he has at the moment. Sasha tries to reason with himself to not give up– Candy will help him, they won’t leave him like this. Right?

When he finally reaches the table, his body has become so heavy that his limbs feel like useless blocks of ice, and he must’ve bitten his tongue at some point, because the taste on it is strong and coppery. Sasha can barely fight the hunger as his mind surrenders piece by piece.

He grips the phone tight, vision going dark as he barely manages to dial Candy’s number from memory. The ringing echoes in his ears loudly like klaxons wailing in his skull, and it’s downright agonising– the sharpness of it sets every nerve in his body on fire, makes his skin crawl, and he is half-prompted to hang up just to stop this, but his thoughts are pleading.

Pick up, pick up, pick up.

Then, finally. “Who the fu–”

“Candy.” Sasha’s voice is broken, choked in his throat. It’s nothing more than a pitiful croak in the thunderstorm that is taking place in his head, and he has never felt so small, so weak. Pathetic. But he doesn’t care how he sounds to them right now– there’s not a second of silence in his head, and it’s like sirens going off and off. One after another.

Sasha hears them moving on the other end of the line, Candy’s tone quickly changes from one of annoyance to one of urgency. It’s sharp, heavy with concern and concealed emotion. “Sasha? What happened? Are you hurt?”

“I–” Sasha stops mid-word, hypnotised by the splatter of scarlett on the surface of the table. There’s blood, and it’s not his. The hunger roars, screaming at him to take, to have that blood on his tongue, to lick it away with all the dirt and glass. To swallow it, and hurt and hurt and hurt. It pains him physically to draw his focus away, gritting his teeth with so much force they might shatter. “I am at the hospital. Can–”

They don’t let him finish, and he thinks he can make out the sound of them putting their jacket on. “I’ll be there in ten.”

Sasha can’t understand half of the words they are saying as all of them blur together, but he still focuses on the sound of their voice, firm and secure with a slight edge of anxiety to it. He lets it pull him in, and it’s gentler than the other sounds, not as deafening. He wants to say something to urge them to keep them talking, but they beat him to it. “Do you need me to stay on the phone while I’m on my way?”

“Yes,” Sasha breathes the single word out even before Candy finishes their sentence. The weight drops from his body as Candy doesn’t mention how pleading his own voice is, almost on the verge of begging, how vulnerable. They simply continue to talk, bringing him to the current and keeping him there as best as they can.

“Yeah, okay.” Candy doesn’t wait too long to say something else, probably sensing how easy it is for Sasha to lose the fragile control he has. He’s pushing everything back even if it threatens to send him spiralling again, even if surrender would be so much easier. “Just stay where you are, I’m already in the car.”

He doesn’t know if he replies when everything goes fuzzy again. Sasha hears them at the edges of his consciousness, talking about something– nothing and everything. They call out his name occasionally, to ground him by saying something familiar, something fundamentally his.

The world around him sways, – or maybe it’s him sinking to the floor again – his knees hit something sharp, causing his teeth to close on his lip, tearing the skin. The feeling makes him wince and take a sharp intake of air, which burns through his lungs.

But why is he even breathing? He doesn’t need to, but the shallow breaths he lets out only prove that fact that he doesn’t want to admit to himself– he is scared. So, so scared. He presses the hand on to his chest hard, almost feeling the bone shift and crack, but he doesn’t care. He needs to stop breathing– he shouldn’t be scared anymore.

Blood trickles down his face and neck, under his collar, on the floor, and with each breath he takes it gets into his nose and mouth. Sasha feels like he’s about to collapse completely, face down on the floor, and it takes all of his remaining willpower to stay somewhat upright on his knees.

As he waits for the Beast to take him, all he can do is wrap his arms around himself. Everything around him goes dark; Candy’s voice is drowned by the cacophony in his head.

He isn’t scared, no.

He is terrified.

He doesn’t remember much from there. Which is petrifying on its own– feeling the control sleep between his fingers, trying to latch onto it, but failing again and again and again. Sasha can only sit still as he’s losing the only thing he was sure of before with calm acceptance.

The lab was clouded by the fog of pain and exhaustion, the strong metallic taste in the air keeps his mind afloat even when he wants to succumb to sweet nothingness. Cruelly keeping him half-awake, half-unconscious, it repeated the events of the day like a movie for him to watch until he’s sick of it. And he is, but it still doesn’t stop. It never does.

At some point it got too tiring to fight for control over his mind. Desperately clawing on to the whatever is left of his humanity with bleeding fingers and broken nails became too much too soon. As he let go, his vision that was hazy around the edges was now completely black; the sounds that had been tortuously loud for so long seemed to dim after another minute passed.

Surrender didn’t feel as harrowing as he thought it would, instead, it felt like he was floating in the endless freezing space. No stars around, no light– only cold and darkness. Falling into the arms of the beast was mind-numbing: he couldn’t think, he couldn’t stop. Sasha was ready to be eaten alive by his own mind, but – fortunately or unfortunately – it never happened.

He was taken by the collar and pulled back to reality, cruelly and fast, too fast, please leave me be, please, when Candy entered the lab like a tempest. The veil over his eyes lifted, and he saw them reaching out without sparing the dead vampire a single glance. They put themself between him and the embodiment of his failure, blocking his view completely. Candy was saying something to him – or was it him who was talking? – but he was still submerged in the nightmare that was way too palpable; he wanted to listen, but he couldn’t bring himself to.

Next spark of consciousness rattled his brain when he felt the insipid blood breaching his lips; he opened his mouth for it at first like a man starved, but as soon as he swallowed the first drop of it, the nausea overtook him– it tasted like cardboard and chalk. Bile burned in the back of his throat, and he almost spat it all out, but Candy persisted. They brought the blood pack to his lips again, forcing him to drink it no matter how much he wanted to kick and push it away.

Sasha heard Candy’s reassuring but commanding voice, there was no anger in it, no malice or censure, but it was an order, and in the end he obeyed. As he always did, he was beaten into obedience long before they came into his life. Gripping their wrist tight, he drank and drank until the pack was empty.

After the blood made it through his body, everything became sharp again. The cold bite of metal, the excruciating feeling of his bones getting in place, the itch from his flesh knitting itself back slowly; wound after wound, his skin healed. His mind, however, was still slippery; the supernova of sounds and thoughts made him press the heels of his palms to his ears in hopes of everything finally being quiet.

The storm died down slightly as Candy’s fingers ran across his jaw, down to his arms, checking for any remaining injuries. It was the only truly solid thing he remembers. Their hold was supportive, secure as they threw one of his arms across their shoulders, helping him stand and keeping him upright.

The ride home was a hurricane of blue and orange lights, and it almost made another wave of long forgotten memories to surface– the deep destructive orange of flames, the blue of the sky that was painted grey by the suffocating smoke. The heat, the scars, the grinding bones and burning flesh would make him tople in anxiety if not for his body feeling so heavy, so numb.

In search of an anchor, Sasha found the blue of Candy’s eyes in the rear-view mirror, their eyes were bright, too bright, too blue, but it wasn’t the same deep cobalt that made his fight or flight instinct act up again. Rather the light colour of the sky after a summer rain, cool and refreshing.

He watched the lights dance across their eyes, closing his own peacefully.

When Sasha awakens fully it’s to someone else’s hands on him, leading him somewhere. It makes his wake less than gentle– it’s as if a bucket of freezing cold water is dumped on him. The million questions invade his brain; where is he? With whom? And where are they taking him?

He’s like a panicked animal, ready to fight and claw, scrape the walls to get away, to escape, to run. Sasha knows there’s no other way to do so other than engaging in a fight, physical one. The powers of his blood are worthless at the moment, and using them will leave him in a worse state than his opponent. With that in mind, the muscles in his body tense as he readies himself to strike, and if he manages to attack at the right time, to catch them off guard–

“If you punch me now, we’ll both fall down the stairs, and I won’t drag your ass up them again.” The person’s voice is unimpressed, and when Sasha lifts his head he’s met with the glare Candy’s throwing his way. They raise an eyebrow at him, and despite the hardness in their eyes, he instantly feels better. Though he doubts he knows what better feels like at the moment. “One time is more than enough.”

With a groan, Sasha tiredly moves his legs along with theirs as they support him, but they at least listen to him now, and he can take a step without falling like a ragdoll. Even if it was the case, Candy’s arm around his waist is strong, and they would catch him if he stumbles.

He opens his mouth to say something, but it’s too dry, and all that he can manage is a coughing fit. Patiently, Candy stops to let him find his footing again. When speaking doesn’t feel like a challenge anymore, he wets his lips before trying again, completely ignoring the way Candy’s thumb is stroking soothing circles through his clothes. “You know, laying down anywhere sounds pretty good right now.”

Candy snorts at that, and Sasha looks away with a small tired smile. He tilts his head to the side, and it gives him the chance to finally look around. His previous panic was pointless as it turns out, because he actually knows this place– they are near his apartment door. Sasha immediately relaxes, the feeling of familiarity eases the nerves. They are home, he is safe. Or as safe as he can be at least.

When they reach the door, Candy rests him against a wall carefully, hovering their hands over him for a second more, just to make sure he won’t fall again. Sasha scowls, jaw set stubbornly.

He hates this helplessness and the ache of despair that makes his stomach twist. He loathes how pitiful he must look right now. He despises how he still longs for them to support him, to take him in his arms. Their embrace is lighter than the one of the Beast inside him.

When he glances at them, he sees no pity, only the furrow of their brow– are they concerned? Or as confused as he is? Sasha isn’t sure.

Candy banishes the expression of their face as quickly as it came, and they distract themself by looking around for the keys. Their movements are slow, methodical, like they always are– they know for sure where the keys are and which one opens the lock. Once they get them out, Candy spares him one last look before they open the door in a smooth motion.

Once it’s done, they make sure he sees them approaching him, outstretching their arms to wrap them around his lean body again. He just nods absentmindedly; the uncertainty ties a knot in his stomach, he doesn’t know how to feel about how careful they are with him– they are never this deliberate, but they also don’t treat him like he’s fragile.

The apartment is silent, the air is cool against Sasha’s damp skin. It’s dark inside, the dimmed light that is coming from the kitchen does nothing to illuminate the room. Because of that, both of them almost trip on the shoes that are tossed around near the entrance.

Sasha’s lips quirk up as he realises they were in a hurry to reach him. He knew they would.

“Home, sweet home.” He croaks, trying his best to appear flippant as if he wasn’t curled in a ball on the dirty floor just an hour ago. He knows they see right through him – it’s not hard to do so right now with how emotionless his voice is – but they still chuckle as they kneel in front of him to take his shoes off.

“Just don’t get blood everywhere again.” Candy bites back as they always do, and it’s not entirely mean-spirited– there’s a spark of amusement in their eyes, but their muscles are tense, movements rigid.

He barks out a quiet laugh at that, but it’s different from the fit of laughter that took hold of him earlier, when he was in the clutches of his own mind– it’s gentler, more genuine, and it helps to keep him in the moment. This talk brings a sense of normality, and he revels in it, throwing his head back, exposing his throat. “Wow, Candy, what a way to greet someone home.”

“Well excuse me for not professing my undying love for you the second I dragged you here all bloodied.” Candy retorts without missing a beat. Both of them know this game, and right now Sasha is grateful that they are here with him for he can almost pretend that the previous accident has never happened. “I'll do better next time.”

“You better.” He agrees with a grin, earning a light smack on the leg.

Candy stands up, helping Sasha to his feet. He leans into them harder than necessary, but they don’t complain, so he stays like that. When they guide him to the bathroom, Sasha avoids his reflection in the mirror; the sharp, pale colours of the room help him with that as they sear his eyes. He doesn’t want to see a ghostly look in his eyes, the ashy skin.

He’s grateful when Candy ushers him to sit on a bathtub edge, interrupting his trail of thoughts. They gently reach to his neck to take off the jewellery that sits around it– a small silver feather on a thin chain. Sasha doesn't protest when they do; in a way it feels like a weight was lifted off his shoulders. Everything around him holds some sort of connection to his past, and he just wants to be in a vacuum with nothing else around.

Candy’s hand on his arm brings him back. As they pass a critical once-over his roughed up figure, their mouth turns downwards. Sasha’s not injured anymore, but he looks like hell– all bloodied with clothes torn.

After another moment of silent examination passes, they finally speak. “Take your clothes off.”

Now, he could just silently obey, and do as they asked, but it wouldn’t really be him, would it? Sasha might be beat up, but he didn’t have a personality switch; he absolutely can’t let the opportunity like this slide; so he glances at them, his lips twitching. “You just want to see me naked, don’t you?”

“Relax, pretty boy. You can barely stand.” Candy rolls their eyes, the slightest smirk graces their lips, but they don’t linger on it too long. Always moving, always fidgeting when nervous, they settle on drawing him a bath.

“Yeah well,” Sasha shrugs, grinning sharply. This close, their shoulders are brushing slightly, and they don’t move as he chases them some more; they just glance at him out of the corner of their eyes, gaze strangely unreadable. “I don’t need to stand to show you a good time.”

Candy actually laughs at that. A short, harsh and rasping sound from low in their throat. Whatever heavy thoughts were plaguing them before, seem to have gone away. “If your definition of a good time doesn’t involve you taking a shower any time soon then I’ll pass.”

“You are breaking my heart, I’ll have you know.”

“You’ll live.”

The banter dies down as they shut the water off; eerie silence settles over the room with single droplets of water interrupting it occasionally, but it’s anything but silent in his brain. Loud, running thoughts are bouncing off the walls of his skull, and they haven’t stopped ever since he brought the man down to the basement.

Weighted down by his thoughts, Sasha doesn’t notice when Candy starts to remove his shirt. He goes to help them, but his fingers are so numb it’s hard to undo even a single button, but he still persists, gritting his teeth. At some point he wants to just take it off over his head, but Candy insists they unbutton it, saying something along the lines of you’ll whine about that shirt being ruined tomorrow, you and I both know it.

When the clothes are taken care of, Sasha gets into the bathtub with the water just about reaching his waist. It's pleasantly warm, but to his freezing body it seems hot, suffocatingly so. The heat makes his chest raise rapidly, and he makes a mistake of glancing down.

The water turns pale red – more pink than scarlett – from the blood. It bubbles to the surface, small waves carry around the streamers of blood. The light overhead flickers, and for a moment he is in the lab again, staring in the black abyss of the man’s dead endless eyes.

Sasha tenses, curling forward into himself, trying to run away from it all. Instead, it all comes rushing down onto him again– the dimly lit space with more than two shadows around, the shattered glass and dreams, the large sharp claws tearing his skin, the feeling of him taking deep gurgling breath, feeling his own blood going down his throat.

“...okay?”

There’s a voice echoing around him, and Sasha raises his head violently, looking like a deer in the headlights, pupils blown and gaze slightly manic. For a moment he sees the dead body on a stretcher, but now it’s him who’s lying there. Lifeless, rotting.

The words - or is it a scream? A shout? - get strangled in his throat, and all that leaves his lips is a choked cry. He blinks the vision away, and he sees Candy with a washcloth in their hand.

Their eyes are warry, with a spark of urgency to them, but they make no attempt to get closer. They sit back on their heels, simply watching him, a faint furrow between their brows as they lower their hands slowly as if afraid to spook him.

He wonders what they see. How does he look to them now? Weak? Pathetic? Unable to take a beating?

When Candy speaks next, their voice is soft, but they still keep their distance, and he’s more than grateful even if he curses himself for reacting in such a way. Sasha doesn’t know what he would do if they touched him now without any warning. “Are you okay?”

He doesn’t know. “Yes. Fuck, I–”

There’s something pleading in his voice, and he isn’t even sure what he wanted to say– maybe an apology or maybe an excuse. But his eyes express everything his mouth can’t; he seeks, begs for understanding, and Candy is merciful for they grant it to him.

They lift a hand in the air, signalling him that he doesn’t need to explain himself. “Don’t. Just– Can I touch you? I want to wash the blood away.”

Sasha nods slowly, letting out a breath he didn’t even realise he was holding. Candy makes a low approving sound in the back of their throat as they get closer again. Their movements are slow so he would be aware of everything they are doing, but he doesn’t feel alarmed. Not this time.

Gently, Candy brings the washcloth to his skin. He still flinches at first, but soon after his body starts to melt under their touch. Taking a shaky breath, he relaxes, the tension in his limbs slowly leaves, vanishing into the dark, scarlett water.

As their fingers trace over his body, they leave a trail of comfort, solace. Sasha lets himself close his eyes, lets himself simply be in the moment, focusing on the feeling of soft fabric of the washcloth, on their smooth skin against his.

He’s weightless when they take his hands in theirs to clean the dried blood and skin behind his nails; it’s not uncomfortable, but it’s unfamiliar– they’ve been close before, they’ve seen each other’s naked bodies, but this is the intimacy they have never shared earlier.

And how much he enjoys it is even more unexpected.

He cracks his eyes open when he hears the shower being turned on; his hair getting heavier when Candy wets it carefully. The water lingers on his eyelashes, slowly falling and trickling down his cheeks. They take some shampoo in their hands and massage his scalp, untangling the knots in his hair, wary of pulling on it too harshly.

The sheer gentleness of their touch, their smell, their presence make him finally feel secure. It’s a dangerous feeling for he has taught himself to be ready for an attack, for a knife in his back, so he would always have an advantage.

He doesn’t want them to let go, but all good things end eventually no matter how much he wishes otherwise. As they rinse the remaining shampoo and clean his body one final time, Sasha can feel them leaving his side. He wants to stop them, but he just slamps back, twisting his hands together.

As Candy gets up, they silently offer him a helping hand. He accepts just as silently, gripping their hand and using it to stand up. They can handle his weight easily enough, and the world is momentarily spinning when Candy hauls him to his feet.

The floor is icy against his feet, a puddle of water forming underneath him. Candy turns to take some fresh towels, placing one over his shoulders. Another one they use for drying his hair. Sasha leans into their touch, tilting his head forward and clasping the towel in his hands tightly.

They step back, passing an examining look over him. Satisfied with what they see, they nod, mostly to themself, as they say. “I’ll go get some clothes for you. Dry yourself off a bit.”

The peaceful silence that covered him like a comforter evaporates the second Candy exits the bathroom. The blood comes rushing in his ears, thoughts cloud his mind like a swarm of deadly insects, stinging him again and again. Sasha grasps the bathroom edge so hard it might crack under pressure.

He looks down, shaking his head with a tight-lipped smile crossing his face. It wasn’t just a delusion in the clutches of the Beast, it wasn’t the strike of adrenaline in the face of a threat of hunger overtaking him. Sasha truly was scared. He still is.

Frozen in place, Sasha remembers the voice that was speaking to him through the veil of frenzy. He tears his gaze off the floor and turns to find his reflection. The mirror is slightly foggy when he looks in it, his shape is distorted, shadowy almost, but he can still see his eyes glistening in the bright room, and for just a second he stares in the eyes that are not his own.

Taunting, cruel eyes stare at him across the pyre, screaming at him a single word– coward.

No. Sasha's not a coward anymore, he's not the person he was, not the person he had to be before to survive. He fought, he killed to earn the place he has now, and he will have much more. And he will burn everyone who stands in his way, watching their flesh peel off their bones, slowly and agonisingly.

He did so once, he could easily do so again.

He might not be a Prince, but he has never wanted to be one. He might now have the power of a King, but it doesn’t matter– Sasha doesn’t need it, he’ll have so much more with time. Why settle for something so insignificant, when he'll be able to achieve the might that will rival the Gods’.

He won’t be at the feet of those at power again, never again. His sire has paid the price and so will the Camarilla– he will make them all bow to him, every single one of them; his face will be the last thing they see before they die at his hands. Before they see what he has become.

Submerged deep in his thought, Sasha doesn’t hear Candy enter the room at first; he sees their silhouette in the mirror next to his, tall and dark, they stand there and they fit. The puzzle in his head clicks.

He can share his future triumph– he’s not that selfish after all, but not with everyone, no; he’s worked too hard to just throw it to the world. But Sasha will offer it to Candy, and if they agree to work with him, then it will be their victory. Both of them went through enough, and existing only to survive won’t be their final point, they will feast and feast and then they’ll thrive.

Greed is something that can be shared.

The pile of clothes in their hands reminds Sasha that he didn’t dry himself as they asked, but they don’t question it, simply laying the clothes on the washing machine near him. Giving him some privacy, Candy turns to clean the bathtub from the red still sitting at the bottom, clinging to the white of the room. As they clean it up, it feels like the events of the night are being washed away as well.

Clothes are more than uncomfortable when Sasha finally puts them on. The remaining water on his body makes the fabric cling to him, making him purse his lips. It’s like he’s caged again with how constructive it is. His fingers dig into both the clothing and his skin, his grip is threatening to rip it apart, fibre by fibre. Sasha’s almost set on doing so just to drive away that feeling, when Candy’s hand on his wrist interrupts him, tugging it away.

They are gentle, painfully so– there’s no usual force to their touch, no biting words and taunting jokes as they reprimand him, no harshness in their eyes as they look over him to make sure they’ve cleaned all of the blood from his exhausted and fragile body, to make sure he is alright and safe.

Sasha blinks, swallowing the lump in his throat and looking away the second Candy meets his eyes. There’s something in the way they are looking at him, in the softness of their hand as they lay it on his cheek like they are trying to reassure themself that he is real and he is here, with them. Like they were scared for him.

Candy’s fingers trace the outline of his lip, delicately removing a droplet of water, and Sasha’s grip eases as he leans into their touch eagerly, chasingly. His body relaxes, mind calms; the storm is gone and now they are here to see the sunrise.

Sasha reaches for their waist, hands wrapping around Candy tightly, bringing them to him, needing them as close as possible– under his very skin, into his ribcage, making his dead heart beat. He feels himself drowning in them as he grazes his lips against their pulse point, and he doesn’t want to emerge to take a breath, instead he wants to sink to the bottom of their embrace and stay like this– together.

His world is zero focused on them now, on how they stand in front of him, shielding him. Protecting him. Sasha’s mind is set, clear for the first time tonight– he’ll ask them tomorrow, he will show them everything he’s been doing, they won’t turn on him, he’s sure of it.

Candy reaches for his hair, softly running their fingers through it, tracing the skin on his neck, prompting him to close his eyes and all but stumble into them. They let him fall, but they’ll be there to catch him. Pressing their lips to his temple, they whisper softly without breaking the moment. “I am here, you are safe now.”

Sasha’s nose is cold against them as he nuzzles the skin of their neck, and he tilts his head some more, tucking himself under their chin. He presses into Candy almost desperately, nails digging into them; Don’t leave glows against their skin.

“Thank you.” Whispered in the dark.

TRANSLATION:

*You’re just a coward, Sasha.

**You were ready to run as soon as he broke free.

***You were ready to run when your attempt to kill Candy failed.

****You died a coward, and you remain a coward.

#my poor little meow meow is in a situation #there's so much hidden lore in this besties omg #like why did he freak out the way he did? why is he so scared of going into frenzy? what happened to the sire? why the fire is mentioned so #often?👀👀👀#ANYWAYS DON'T COME ONTO ME AFTER THIS I DON'T MAKE HIM SUFFER FOR NOTHING I PROMISE I PROMISE #nico.fic #my oc: aleksandr #steelport

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