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bbygirl-aemond · 1 year

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If you consider viserys a creep, then I hope you realize Daemon is also one just slightly less so, laena was young when daemon married her and rhaenyra was even younger when to took her too a brothel and kissed her, plus he asked for her hand in marriage, he would have no problem sleeping with rhaenyra if viserys had agreed to marry them. Daemon just has pretty privilege, so people aren't willing to see that his more problematic than viserys

CW for CSA, grooming mentions

Okay so first of all, let me remind everyone that my posts that only talk about Viserys shouldn't be taken to mean anything about completely unrelated characters like Daemon. Now, this post isn't going to be an apology for Daemon, and it shouldn't be taken to excuse his actions. But I will be making the argument that what he's done isn't as bad as what Viserys has done.

In the books, Laena is twenty-three years old when she and Daemon meet for the first time and get married. There's still obviously an age gap, and I personally hate age gaps in real life, but Laena's very much a grown woman here, even by modern standards.

And I've discussed before here that I very much DO think Daemon's treatment of younger Rhaenyra is problematic. As for adult Daemyra, there are a few things that I think are important here:

During the brothel scene, even though Rhaenyra is acting willing, Daemon doesn't have sex with her. Also, Rhaenyra is seventeen. Obviously we rightfully take issue with this, but by Westerosi standards she is technically capable of consent. Again, we know this shouldn't be the case and it doesn't excuse Daemon's actions, but it does provide context for them.

I could make a whole separate post about how Daemon's interest in Rhaenyra as a child wasn't about her, but was entirely about her being an extension of Viserys. Daemon doesn't genuinely want Rhaenyra when he proposes to wed her; he's feeling rejected by Viserys and is trying to get close to him in the only way he knows how.

Daemon then distances himself physically from Rhaenyra, and explicitly says this is because she was a "child," implying that he didn't feel it was right for them to have a relationship and felt that he needed to remove himself from the situation to allow her to grow by herself.

When Daemon and Rhaenyra DO start a relationship, it is when Rhaenyra is twenty-seven years old and unquestionably an adult. And it starts on Rhaenyra's terms. Now, this isn't fully okay, because we know that their dynamics when Rhaenyra was younger impact what she wants as an adult. But I do think this is still significant when comparing him to Viserys.

Finally, Daemon's relationship with Rhaenyra is about as healthy as a Targaryen relationship can get. Rhaenyra maintains the upper hand in every single scene with him-- even in the choking scene, she laughs in his face and he is ultimately rendered impotent in the face of her confidence. Daemon unquestioningly supports Rhaenyra's decision-making skills and her power as a ruler. When she asks him to do something, even if he clearly doesn't want to do it, he always backs down. Daemon obeys Rhaenyra at every turn, never the other way around.

Daemon's relationship with Rhaenyra is obviously still problematic, and Emma D'Arcy has said it counts as grooming, and I won't argue against this because I agree. I also don't think Daemyra should ever be used to excuse these dynamics in real life, ever. But it's not quite comparable to what Viserys did with Aemma and Alicent, for all the reasons outlined above.

TLDR: Viserys raped a 13-year-old girl and a 15-year-old girl, the latter of whom he saw as a daughter. His relationships with both of his wives involved mistreating them and sacrificing their physical safety, comfort, and wishes for his own whims.

Daemon had sex with a 23-year-old woman and a 27-year-old woman, the latter of whom he saw as a niece. His consummated marriages were amicable and he always allowed his wives autonomy, even at the detriment of his own personal desires. You can see how these two things aren't 100% the same, yes?

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ladyimaginarium · 5 months

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mini gangsta fandom rant bc im&. annoyed bc i& remember seeing a bunch of hcs back in the day of how like. striker never cared about beretta at all whatsoever & only ever cared about marco. or ppl just blatantly erasing or removing her autonomy & influence & power in the storyline & reducing her as a prop to be used for the male characters' angst or otherwise she's just there to look pretty instead of being. yknow. a villain. or g-d forbid a person. & ignoring & erasing beretta both as an individual character but also as a major person in striker's life. or that striker's lowkey violent or abusing beretta w/ her almost always being on the receiving end of all kinds of abuse or people implying that she's just plain stupid or dedicated enough to striker to be just his toy to be used for his own pleasures or that they're not equals in any way. despite canon indicating nothing of the sort & im& just like. are. ARE WE READING THE SAME FUCKING MANGA LMAO

like. striker literally NEVER, EVER, reacts negatively to her. striker CARES for her, he RESPECTS her, he PROTECTS her, he TAKES CARE of her, he TREATS HER LIKE A PERSON. striker NEVER abuses her. he NEVER swears at her. he has NEVER told her to mind her own business, he NEVER silences her or even worse, NEVER swears at her & NEVER hurts her like he had with spas when he told striker & beretta that he wouldn't be returning to the second destroyers. he NEVER said or did anything uncouth like that to her.

if anything, it's the exact opposite.

maverick literally tells spas that beretta is striker's weakness. which, coming from someone like striker, that's a hell of a compliment. she clearly wants to fuck him & expresses sexual interest & desire for him. they're almost always touching. she reaches out to hold his hand. after she "gifts" him constance, he tells her that she's incredible.

now. does any of that look like abuse or beretta being mistreated. lol

okay cw for upcoming gore & nonexplicit discussion of csa & creeps.

he PROTECTS her. he AVENGES her. he DEFENDS HER HONOR. he CANONICALLY MURDERS HER ABUSERS. i.e chau who's a grown ass 30 year old man when beretta is. literally 13 years old. a CHILD.

the night before CURSED happens, he fucking SNAPS the minute beretta tells him that three men attacked her & kills the mfs instantly.

& VIOLENTLY at that, particularly the one that threatened to kill her & after he previously said she "came onto" them, aka, beretta, a clearly visible 13 year old child, led three grown ass men on, & he keeps beating the guy even after he's dead into a bloody mess. good on striker. & seeing how unfazed beretta is, this has likely happened before. & that realization paints a very dark & sobering picture for beretta; this is a girl who grew up too fast & striker knows this & it's because of this that he's so viciously & violently protective over her.

he saved her life before. look at the look on his face when he tells her to get the FUCK out of there. that's pure unadulterated desperation.

now. do they have issues with marco?? yeah ofc !! but. yall. yall mean to tell me& that. HE DOESNT CARE FOR HER AT ALL ????

literally look at how gentle he is with her. he doesn't just throw her ass on his back then yeet her onto the stairs, he gently places her down. then he leaves her momentarily to rest & recuperate bc he cares about her rather than selfishly going on with their plan together to... do whatever the hell they were planning on w/ daniel monroe.

when the flare happens, beretta comes to get him & he's pissed because 1) he wants to go after daniel monroe & 2) he's pissed in like that angry protective bf way that she's even there with him.

he even apologizes to her. he does so right away in fact & he does so sincerely & in a teasing, loving, lighthearted way, putting himself in a position we, the audience, never see him be willing to take ( not even in situations where it was more than warranted ) because striker is just. simply not the type to feel he owes anything to anyone & much less the type who admits when he's wrong. but most importantly, he apologizes to beretta bc he genuinely WANTs to, with not a single thought to her abilities, having no ulterior motives & no personal gain. he apologizes bc he knows he was in the wrong, that he hurt her feelings by staying away a bit from her for too long ( maybe clingy, but they're like 13 & 14 respectively here guys what do you expect y'all lmfao ), regrets that & wants to offer at least that much. & he always says "we" when referring to their plans; he includes her in their plan.

with that said, it's. VERY obvious that beretta seems to trust only striker with the softer, more vulnerable parts of her personality since he was a source of strength for her in overcoming her trauma as a child experiment & he lets her cling to him so he can comfort her & vice versa. & keep in mind the above scene is all happening while striker is holding a decapitated head & neck & shoulderblades clean off. this is from STRIKER of all people, y'know, the guy who casually choked a man to death in front of his son while on the phone with beretta simply to kill time, the guy who deadass hulk smashed his way through a building while laughing like a maniac & wiped the floor with ergastulum's high ranking twilights. this guy is soft for someone like beretta, that has to mean something bc that's impressive tbh.

he literally lets her bodily drag him around by the arm. lmao

& that doesn't change not even as grown ass adults. lmfao

literally look at his face is when he realizes that she's hurt/in danger.

& he is literally ALWAYS near her afterward to make sure she's okay & acting as a source of comfort for her when he clearly doesn't have to.

& that's not to say beretta's a weakling, no, she faced several high ranking twilights even as a tiny 13 year old girl & caused so much death & destruction to ergastulum & by the end of CURSED, all she gets is a tiny cut on her right shoulder. all of that was a game to her. striker doesn't protect her bc she's weak, he protects her bc he Wants to. we don't have a full backstory for striker or beretta for that matter yet, but i'd& bet my& money that beretta, like the other destroyers, that she struggled & was experimented on & was traumatized in the government laboratories by scientists who treated her like she wasn't even human & that she had to work her ass off to get to where she is. like. this is only one example of how horrifying their treatment was.

LITCHERAL STRAITJACKETS, WALKING ON COLD TILED FLOORS BAREFOOT & STRIKER LITERALLY HAS A MUZZLE ON HIM. that's literally so dehumanizing for anyone let alone a CHILD where they look about 6-8 years old here & even moreso for a BLACK child & just how horrible those implications are & how black boys are so often treated & it doesn't make it better that nobody else from the destroyers were seen with a muzzle on them & i& think the reason why striker cares about & i'd& argue loves beretta so much is that she never once thought of him like a monster like literally almost everyone else in the series has or as a rabid dog to be treated like the government or as a weapon to be used; to beretta, he's a person. so there's this underlying undertone & there are many canonical implications in the series that, precisely BECAUSE they both went through hell and back together as children growing up, they have an unbreakable bond that's unparalleled with anyone else in the series. & y'know, for being villains, they're actually in a healthy relationship.

beretta would do literally ANYTHING for that man & it makes me& wanna tear men in half & go clinically insane. & some ppl might find that crazy but like. if you're genuinely in love with someone & go through the same circumstances that beretta has, who wouldn't. if you haven't been abused your entire life & someone comes along in your life & they're the first person to treat you like you were an actual human being? you'd do anything for that person without question. so beretta's not "stupid" or "too devoted"; she makes her own choices. they both grew up together & witnessed unimaginable horrors & governmental abuse together, they really didn't have nothing but each other for a very long time. & then spas betrayed them, & minimi & maverick are both dead. & now only striker & beretta remain.

this is one of my& favorite scenes in the entire series. there's no dialogue shared between them, but it carries one message: I'm here for you when the whole world stands against you. they don't Need that dialogue, the way they feel for each other is in their actions. it's a really heartwarming feeling despite the tragedies & crimes they both committed. don't get me& wrong, they're both horrible people who've done horrible things to both good & innocent people & tbh overall shitty horrible people, this isn't me& justifying any of their actions or trying to woobify them ... but the fact that beretta still metaphorically, symbolically & literally stands by & behind him is just so beautiful & it shows how much she loves him ( & by doing so she's saving worick's life bc let's face it striker can very well still kill him with one arm be for fucking real ). so striker's publicly humiliated by everyone, he's called a failure to his face, he's just freshly lost his arm & his eye & he'll likely live the rest of his life disabled, mocked & shamed by everyone else, after spending his entire life trained to fight & kill for a cause that he was brainwashed by the government to believe in ... but beretta still keeps her arms around him in his moment of greatest need, & if that's not genuine love, then i& don't know what is. even after he's hurt her by possibly making her think that he values marco over her despite all she's done for him, she still holds onto him to let him know that in his most vulnerable moments, she is right there beside him holding him. she still supports while knowing that won't get her anything in return & putting his needs before hers... that's something incredibly heartwarming coming from someone as cruel, cold & cunning as beretta; this is a side of her that only striker gets the privilege of seeing. because her love for him isn't shallow, it's not based on looks, power, glory or lust alone, because if it was, she'd have left his ass right when he became disabled, it's because she loves him as a PERSON despite how fucked up he is.

regardless, they have mutual development, i'm& not necessarily confirming whether or not their relationship is mutual & romantic in nature but it's definitely obvious they're in some kind of relationship. they have a significant amount of substance ( meaningful moments from both ends, interactions, they're literally almost ALWAYS by each other' side & almost ALWAYS touching, it's heavily implied & then confirmed that they've had sex, subtext, focus, backstory, remarks from other characters, etc. ). the most selfless acts they do ( as surprising as that sounds, coming from people like them ) that we have seen them have been directly related to their feelings for each other, like saving each other's lives & putting their lives in jeopardy & throwing aside any fear in order to courageously run to each other's aid & save each other's life to do so when no one else did... & that speaks volumes. & regardless of what happens next & regardless of whether or not you ship them yourself, you have to at least recognize that they do care deeply about each other, beretta is a MAJOR person in striker's life, striker has never ONCE abused her or treated her violently, they are EQUALS although she's happy to follow his lead but isn't afraid to make her own decisions, striker PROTECTS beretta, he murdered her abusers & there is no canonical evidence for any of the aforementioned headcanons & to suggest otherwise is an insult not just to the ship but also to their individual characters. & all this coming from a CANONICALLY QUEER BISEXUAL INTERRACIAL PAIRING? that's a MASSIVE deal in animanga.

#arcana.txt #fandom: gangsta.#& like. on striker's behalf that's not even getting into the stereotypes of black men....#& how black men especially QUEER black men which striker canonically is are simultaneously oversexualized & demonized #like. please think why you would think striker's abusive towards beretta. there's literally no canon evidence for it. /nbh #idk ive& been thinking of making this for the longest time & here it is #fictives.#bellatrix belladonna / beretta.#THEY R LITERALLY CRYING SCREAMING SHITTING THROWING UP & GOING FUCKING FERAL FOR EACH OTHER & DAS FAX #& if sb dont love me& Like That then i& dont want them AT ALL !!!!#reposting this bc i tried to insert a video into the last one & couldn't edit so DFGGHFHGGJHGJHHHHJHJHHHGHHHJ #BUT W/E W/E THEY'RE INSANE FOR EACH OTHER

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angie-words · 2 months

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The Way (2024): content warnings

One of the things I noticed while watching The Way is that the BBC content warnings left a little to be desired (scenes of a sexual nature and upsetting scenes). There wasn't anything on Does the Dog Die last I checked either. During a group watch, I pulled together some content warnings for folks. If you're interested in watching The Way (which I definitely recommend), but want an idea of what may come up, I've put CWs for each episode below. Obviously, spoilers as well.

Episode 1: self-immolation, accidental death, mental health issues/episode, divorce, misuse of prescription medication, drug-dealing, depression/anxiety, dysfunctional family relationships, suicide (act not graphically depicted, but discussion of and brief visual of deceased person), police violence (including real footage of police violence against striking workers), mob violence, xenophobia, racism, sex (no genitalia shown), guns/weaponry, gun violence/shootings (heard not seen), blood/injuries

Episode 2: Submersion in water/drowning, brief scene of self-immolation, brief scenes of protest suppression, dysfunctional family relationships, detainment camps, surveillance state, medication withdrawal, mistreatment of detained people, use of pepper spray, home hospice care, hallucinations, child endangerment, generational trauma, drug addiction, people escaping concealed in lorries, drug dealing, brief scenes of suicide aftermath, abandonment of family (unintentional and intentional), alcohol consumption, use of a stun gun, threat of gun violence, xenophobia, violence/injury to detained people, forceful separation of children from families, sleeping rough, arrest, family drama relating to paternity

Episode 3: alcohol, discussion about food, xenophobia, lockdowns, physical intimacy, swinging scene, jump scare, dysfunctional family relationships, brief visuals of suicide aftermath and impact on family, generational trauma, submersion in water, hallucinations, discussion of trafficking and border control, violence, injury/blood, surveillance state, brief scenes of protest violence, collaboration, police profiling/AI profiling, mention of civil war, traumatic boat crossing, separation of family, suicide, implied drowning, discovery of drowning victim, major character death, threat of gun violence, migrant pushbacks

#the way #michael sheen #adam curtis #bbc 1 #content warning #spoilers #bbc tv

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wellwrittenevilbitch · 7 months

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I'd like to submit the original Shen Qingqiu (aka "Shen Jiu") from the Scum Villain’s Self-Saving System. Sorry that this is darker than just being a bitch, but he is also. A bitch (neutral)

(CW for child abuse, slavery, sexual abuse, attempted murder)

Shen Jiu is one of the best cases - if not THE best case - I've read of a well-written character who is just. A bad person. He never directly appears in the main story since the main character transmigrates into his body, but in the original novel (that the MC transmigrated into), Shen Jiu is the "scumbag villain" who grows jealous of one of his students, the original protagonist Luo Binghe, and his talent, so Shen Jiu abuses and mistreats Luo Binghe until he eventually tries to kill him by throwing him in the Endless Abyss (filled with monsters).

Anyway, it's later revealed that he was a slave pretending to be a beggar alongside the current Sect Leader (which is a whole other can of worms) until he was bought by Qiu Jianluo, who abused him. He didn't escape until he was 15 and didn't join the cultivation Sect the story takes place in until he was 16, meaning his cultivation was significantly lower than any of the other Peak Lords & other disciples due to his late start (hence the jealousy of the talented Luo Binghe).

When he did become a Peak Lord (before he was Luo Binghe's teacher/shizun or any of the main story), he received the name "Shen Qingqiu," which contained the same character as his abuser ("Qiu"), and he gained a reputation for being "lecherous" due to being seen exiting a brothel (he is unable to sleep around men due to said abuse, which was implied to have included sexual abuse -> Qiu Jianluo didn't want his sister to know he was abusing Shen Jiu, I believe, so whenever she was there, Shen Jiu was "safe") and for favoring a female disciple (who I think it was written in an extra or something that he views her as a daughter).

Just. Shen Jiu is an incredibly tragic and well-written character, which means he has a lot of apologists, but he's also a Child Abuser, so you know.

("Shen" is his last name, while "Jiu"/"Qingqiu" is his first name. The novel was originally written in Chinese & takes place in a variation of Ancient China, so the surnames of all characters come before their first names)

In!

#Shen Qingqiu #Scum Villain’s Self-Saving System #Submission

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grizzlyofthesea · 1 year

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Heather Duke Appreciation Post

I'm going through a Heathers (the musical) phase right now, and I just want to talk a little bit about my favorite Heather: Heather Duke.

I will preface this by saying that she did a lot of cruel things. Bullying Veronica and especially Martha, lashing out at Heather McNamara, etc. is ~not cool~.

But, but, but...

Just like McNamara, she has some stuff going on beneath the surface.

We all know that Heather Chandler pushes her around disproportionately, and that she becomes a tyrant after Chandler's death. People say Duke's tyranny after replacing Chandler is motivated by envy toward the other Heathers, but I think that's only part of it. I think her actions are also fueled by wrath. Now that she isn't under Chandler's thumb, she can lash out and let everyone else know just how that mistreatment felt. McNamara faces the brunt of the abuse because (1) she was not abused as much by Chandler, and (2) she just stood by as Chandler bullied Duke. Duke was resentful of McNamara's "favorite" status and refusal to defend her, so when she got the chance, she didn't hesitate to knock McNamara down a peg. It's not right, but the rationalization is there.

The adoption of red into Duke's wardrobe, whether it's just the scrunchie or a full outfit change, is also a slight to Chandler just as much as it is a symbol of power. She gets to wear Chandler's favorite color--her favorite color as well, if that detail from the movie has carried over--and the former queen of the Heathers can do nothing about it. No one is there to tell her to shut up. If there's anything I like about the West End production, it's "Never Shut Up Again." This new song takes Duke's vendetta against Chandler and runs with it.

It's also important to consider her implied insecurities.

CW for the following paragraph: body dysmorphia, EDs

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In "Beautiful," Veronica mentions that Duke has breast implants, courtesy of her mother. Implants can be a purely cosmetic choice, but I don't think that's the case here. Take into account Duke's struggles with bulimia, and her remark that Veronica could "stand to lose a few pounds." Veronica, depending on the production, is either thin, average, or only slightly on the thicker side. Duke is projecting her weight insecurities onto Veronica. She is deeply self-conscious about her appearance and has a skewed image of what an "acceptable" physique is. Even her childhood friendship with Martha could be interpreted this way; she could be ashamed of it due to Martha's unpopularity, but also Martha's weight. She doesn't want to be associated with the word "fat" in any form--"curvy," yes, but not "fat." It's reasonable to think the implants are another step in achieving such impossible standards. Plus, she's seventeen. She may be devious and well-read, but she's still a child. She's sensitive to her peers' praise and opinions, even (or especially) as a member of the most popular clique at Westerburg. A rich, insecure child will probably do stupid things to impress her peers, up to and including getting illegal surgery.

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In conclusion, Heather Duke is a wicked, tragic monster. She is the bully who was bullied. She isn't an "uwu soft bean who did no wrong." Every Heather has done some messed up stuff, and Duke is a prime example. But the insecurity, the resentful rage... That is her damage.

#heathers #heathers the musical #heather duke #heather mcnamara #heather chandler #veronica sawyer #martha dunnstock #heather duke appreciation

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honeysuckle-venom · 1 year

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Emotional abuse cw

I'm thinking a lot about the sort of casual cruelty in my household growing up. Two of the things that hurt me the most were treated like jokes, they were said casually and with laughter.

The first is how my parents would frequently refer to me as "it," especially when I asked for assistance or sympathy. If I wanted help with something because I was too tired or whatever often one of them would say to the other something like, "look how pathetic it's being," with a little laugh. I would laugh along, because getting upset would just be met with "I was just joking! Stop overreacting" etc. But it was hurtful, to be referred to as a thing in such a mocking way when I was being vulnerable. Or when I couldn't do something they would say "look at how ridiculous it is." I was only referred to as 'it' when I was somehow not as capable as they wanted me to be. But it was always said as a joke, with laughter and smiles, and I wasn't allowed to be upset about it, and idk, it just...fucked with my head. It was demeaning and objectifying, to be talked about in the third person with it pronouns as if I wasn't there, especially because it was usually in the context of pointing out ways in which I wasn't good enough.

And then the other thing is that I was a really talkative kid. And it was made clear to me that I talked too much, but the way it was made clear to me was again with a little cruel joke that I had to play along with. Often I would be chattering about something and my parents would say "You know we're not listening to you, right?" Again often with a little laugh and a condescending tone. And I would have to say that I knew and keep talking and not get upset. It was always phrased that way, it was always implied that of course they weren't listening to me and I should know that already and I'm not allowed to be upset because I should just assume I'm not being listened to. That I should know inherently that my chatter is annoying and not worth listening to, that it's fine for me to talk but I shouldn't dare expect someone to actually pay attention to what I'm saying, and that if I dare to be disappointed about that it's on me for not knowing that people won't want to listen to me. And that was hurtful. It was hurtful to hear that all the time the way I did.

And I would always play along and laugh along because there wasn't really another option and it was just so...casual and normal. Even though it hurt my feelings sometimes I knew that was because I was 'too sensitive" and I knew my parents were joking. But like, what cruel jokes, you know? Like I don't actually think those were okay things to say. My therapist thinks they were fucked up things to say, and now that I'm older and have some distance I think I agree, even though I often still have the voice in my head saying it wasn't a big deal. But it was a big deal. It hurt me to grow up constantly surrounded by that kind of mocking. And it's okay to be hurt by that, it's okay if that was upsetting to child-me. I wasn't too sensitive, I was a kid who was being mistreated in a lot of ways including this weird casual mocking that reinforced the many different ways I was told my feelings and perspective didn't matter, and it's okay to be upset about that.

#text post #my post #emotional abuse cw #emotional abuse tw

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capricioussun · 6 months

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i feel bad for this but Drawn and frail for fellpap

I got really melodramatic with this one otl

Ao3

CW for reference to implied torture, imprisonment, "canon typical violence"

Prompt list

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The corridor felt longer than it ever had before. Longer even than the first time Asgore led her there, growing darker, colder with every step. A familiar, old door loomed at the end, groaning as she forced it open, rusty hinges crying a warning to any held captive in the cells beyond.

Barring some dust here and there she wouldn't waste time thinking on, all were empty. All but one.

She made her way on stiff legs to the farthest cell, every step echoing in the unnatural silence. Her body ached, exhaustion fighting to take hold after everything it'd taken to get this far. But it had all been worth it. The rebellion had finally taken the throne. The barrier was broken. After all this time, they were really, truly all free now. Or would be, soon.

Very little light found its way this far, but still, a ghost of her shadow fell over the heavy door. The key struggled to turn, the rotted wood cracking loudly as the door was raucously thrown open, and her shadow stretched out further, just shy of the prisoner. Even the dim light could not reach him where he lay, curled against the far wall.

He startled harshly at the sound, drawing in on himself and raising a hand as if it was somehow bright enough he'd need to shield his eyes. Faintly, his bones had begun to rattle – a chalky, hollow sound unsoftened by fabric, stripped and sallow.

Anger and grief swelled chokingly quick, making her dizzy, nearly blinded with rage. That the near unrecognizable monster before her, impossibly small and frail, trembling and holding himself close with not fear but resignation, could be the same as her once fellow Captain, her Lieutenant...her friend. It was unconscionable.

Suddenly, the shifting of her armor with every step on the stone floor sounded cacophonous in the small room. Her presence large and imposing before him, likely mirroring whatever scenes played out here before, on the rare occasion he was "tended" to. Closer now, his mistreatment became all the clearer.

The pale magic gathered at his joints was a sickly tan, thicker and partially dried at wounds left unhealed, discolored bruises marred at least half his body, and his bones looked thin enough to shatter if he so much as tried to stand on his own. She would've thought it impossible for a skeleton to look gaunt before today.

Papyrus – and it was, truly Papyrus –tilted his head, hand lowering slightly as he looked up at her, or maybe he was too weak to continue holding it up so high. His sockets looked sunken and somehow even darker than when he normally forwent using eyelights, but even that wasn't quite so haunting has his expression.

Soul-deep exhaustion. Weak and tired, teetering dangerously close to the edge of Falling. No fear, no acknowledgment, maybe a scrap of uncertainty, perhaps wondering what she was there for if not punishment, or why it was taking so long to start. Her soul twisted painfully in her chest, gloves creaking from hands clenched tight at her sides, nearly as tight as her jaw, sending a dull throb through her already aching head.

Without warning, she turned on heel, storming back out of the cell and down the hall. At the very least he deserved a shred of dignity preserved. She could give him that much. The trip back to the connecting corridor was brief, quicker still to tear a piece of the drapes from the window. She only slowed upon reaching the room again, though not as much as before, not allowing hesitation as she moved back toward her once fierce ally.

In a swift maneuver, she drew the fabric around him as she knelt. She could remember a time she'd threatened him for growing taller than her, but as he flinched away at the unexpected touch, he looked so very much like that small, anxious child she'd seen trailing behind his brother at the labs all those years ago.

Her hands shook with fury that had no place to go, carefully tucking the makeshift blanket around him as that lingering raised hand found their joint by his collarbone. Those despondent eyes wrested her attention and she'd known, she'd known from the start of this what she had to do. They'd both have died down here, rotting in this prison if Asgore had turned his wrath on her as well. How many others would've suffered alongside them.

The truth did little to assuage her guilt, hot and strangling not unlike the urge to cry but infinitely more wrathful. But of course it was him to make that sacrifice, of course.

"Told you I'd still save your scrawny ass," she managed in a ragged whisper. A bitter laugh choked her, forced to look away as Papyrus still showed no sign of recognition.

Her hands shook nearly in time with his tremors, clasped firmly around his fragile shoulders. There was no resistance when she pulled him forward with more care than she'd ever handled him in all their years together. He merely fell against her and she bundled him close, searching for relief beyond the rage.

Not ideal, no, but he was alive. They both were. She'd kept her word and they could finally both go home. Better yet, make new ones on the surface.

"Shouldn'a taken so long," her voice shook, gravel from days of shouting orders, strained from tears she couldn't shed, "I'm-" her voice cracked so she clenched her jaw tighter, "I'm sorry, Papyrus."

"You shouldn't have- this wasn't supposed to..." her words tapered off as she realized he'd stilled in her embrace.

Forcing panic aside, she pulled away only enough to see his face. At the movement, his sockets opened blearily, a stubborn tremble or two shaking him, but only a deep need for rest looked back at her. In the stiflingly musty air, she could still feel the pulse of his soul so close to her, the low crackle of his magic, still alive and flowing, as his eyes lulled closed again.

Easing him back to her shoulder, a shuddering sigh wracked her. The relief began trickling in then, at last. Despite his condition, he knew he was safe now. It wouldn't be long until she could get him the true help he needed, and then his recovery could begin.

As mindfully as she could, she pulled herself to her feet with Papyrus gathered securely in her arms, stirring briefly but already dozing again as she made their way back to the others.

Beyond a shadow of doubt, she knew if anyone could bounce back from months of this form of hell, it would be him. And she'd do everything to be there for him this time, every step of the way.

#cs follower fics #<- new tag I gotta update and put all the other ones in <3 #weia-yo #ty for the prompt!!! 💕 oh how I love tossing him in a wood chipper #underfell #uf edge #uf levi #underfell papyrus #underfell undyne #angst #hurt comfort #implied torture #overcast moonlight #lmk abt any typos plllsssss

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bibliocratic · 3 years

Text

I was going to write this for the Aspec Archives week, but I got overexcited, so here we are.

AU: Mythical creatures. OG Archive team.

Some CWs apply, see tags.

The sea is more than water, her elder brethren taught her, warned her, chided her. It is home and harm and hungry, and you should not face it alone. Her siblings were older, ever knowing better, boisterous and boasting braver, but even they worried, scolded and fretted when she swam out too far alone into deep waters.

It will love you, but it will not always be kind, her eldest sibling bit out, snapped to mask their anxiety. There can be no bearings, in the deep-deep down, no anchors to denote where the sky lies.

When her people sleep, they rest wedged into some secure rock or crevice, tails looped around tails so no one is lost while dreaming.

You cannot be a shoal of one, my dearest, my youngest and bravest, the oldest of their shoal had said, when she told her she was planning on taking the rising when the waters warmed. Ascending landward on the tide swell, letting the shimmering scales of her tail split into skin.

She had not used the name Sasha at that time because that was a landward name she chose with care. Her folk gather names like a garland of pearls, to be constantly strung longer through life as age advances them; names for qualities, for momentous events, for hopes and desires. Her first name, gifted by her shoal, was guttural. It starts at the back of her throat, trails off into a susurration through gills. Mer is a difficult language to learn, though not impossible.

Tim tried. There is no one singular language of those who skirt the deepwaters, so he attempts to mimic her dialect. His pronunciation stumbling, he makes tentative sentences with the butchered grammar of fry. Martin’s grammar is even worse, though he picks up the eddies and waves of the sounds easier.

Jon, like most things in life, takes it as a challenge. One day, almost stubborn with nerves, to perform his task to perfection, he pushes out a juvenile approximation of her first name. Clipped and textbook and the stress in the wrong places, but Sasha smiles, showing her sharpest teeth in delight. Instructs him where to hold the hum at the back of his throat, how to roll the third phoneme upwards like an air bubble. Jon repeats it and repeats it, quietly smug and pleased at his achievement, and the sea in her soul rocks fondly at the sight.

She broached landward in the rising two moons after her age of maturation. She was one of a handful to come to shore. A sibling in Brighton who she phones every week, another two in Holyhead. Her first shoal traverses to warmer waters when the season shifts, and she would feel the rock-hollow absence of them if it was not for Tim, inviting her to participate in a hundred-and-one inane activities that keep her from feeling swept out; Jon, with his libraries of questions and intrigues, his quick-silver tongue; Martin, who sometimes swims a little further out from them but who finds her small knick-knacks in charity shops and craft markets and leaves them on her desk for no reason other than he has thought of her.

She makes three necklaces, plain with a strong chain, a single pearl attached. And on a day where her folk traditionally string garlands of seaweed and mangrove roots and colourful plants from coral reefs in a celebration of family – there is no one word in her language for this idea; it poorly translates into hierarchies like sibling and brethren and elders, but these are not concepts that fit it exactly – she gifts them to the shoal that will anchor her in the depths of the sea, and bestows upon them names. Most Mer names are wishes for quick fins, calm waters, safe shores, and so she wishes these for them in a language they are not quite proficient in yet.

Her landward shoal is smaller than is traditional. But she loves them as treasures of her heart, and thinks she understands what her siblings told her, about anchors.

His parents, both harpies from local nests, are perplexed when his wings start coming in.

Must be a colouring from your mum’s side, his dad hums thoughtfully when Tim’s primaries grow in long and shining like struck bronze. He runs a careful finger down the central line of the rachis, and the wing shudders and jumps, the feathers still sensitive, and Tim complains that it’s ticklish. His wings are too small to fly away as his dad dives in, captures him in careful arms, corkscrewing upwards a little off the ground with Tim squirming and squealing and squawking in play, but they flutter and flap nonetheless.

The wing span’s from your dad’s side, no-one from my nest ever went more than five foot, his mother says, rubbing at the dark brown of his downy secondaries. Tim stretches them out wide, eager to boast at their length, the tips of his longest feathers reaching past his arms held out wide.

Danny’s wings are smaller. Magpie like, bold lines of white broken up by blue and black, the same as his parents. Tim’s wings, broader, a colour like beaten brass that tips into gold at the ends, draws attention, but he’s never been embarrassed. His family never treated him differently, so he didn’t dwell on it.

He can fly, though he doesn’t often. After his parents died, and after… after Danny, he moved to London, where there’s tighter airspace regulations and permits involved, so he mostly doesn’t bother. This doesn’t mean never, however. He has learned, while working in the Archives, that from the ground, his wings have enough lift to pick up both Jon and Sasha by at least a foot. He thinks he could probably manage Martin as well, if it wasn’t for the unfortunate fact that Martin is mildly allergic to a whole host of things, including feather dander, meaning he gets a bit watery eyed whenever he gets too close to Tim’s wings, and he’s a sniffing, red-eyed mess come moulting season.

Anyway, he can always fly when he leaves the city. When it’s been too long since Sasha’s scales touched seawater, she invites him out to the coast. Jon apparently has had enough of the coast to last a lifetime, and Martin gets funny about large bodies of water, so it’s often the two of them. She swims out, the greenish scales of her tail catching the sun-struck water, and he, above, feeling the breeze brush through his cramped wings, follows her wake. When she breaches the surface in a playful arc, he swoops down, trying to catch her at the same time as she tries to splash him.

“You never thought to look into it?” Jon asks. Always brewing with questions. Tim is obligingly holding out one of his wings, and Jon, who takes everything like a project, has books out and webpages up but with no further clue as to why his colouration and span differ so from his parents.

Tim shrugs. “Doesn’t matter really, does it?”

Jon hums, clearly not agreeing, and Sasha rolls her eyes fondly, and that is the end of that.

Marysia had hoped her child would not take after her husband. She’d lit candles and attended masses during her pregnancy, worn the beads of her rosary smooth. Her child had been born on land, miles from shore, and her husband had been a grounded man, who had folded up his pelt on their wedding night for her and swore to wear no other soul than his human one.

But then her husband leaves, the box where he kept his second soul empty, and Martin is eight years old, and he wakes up one morning glassy-eyed and complaining of nausea, his lip bleeding from where his sharpening teeth have ripped the skin, and she knows her prayers were not answered.

It is not unknown, for the second soul of some folk to flourish later. But it is a rough awakening, to have one’s body grow a new skin out of itself, and Martin is off school for over a week, riddled with fever and fervour, constantly parched, crying and sweating out salt-water.

She watches his skin prickle with grey and black fur, blotching with white over his stomach as he coils up under his covers, throws them off only for his limbs to reduce to shivering. His brown eyes have gone black-shot, his cries a mix of language and barks, and Marysia fears she will lose her only child to the sea.

It will be hard for him to fit in, she tells herself. It would be best to choose one, and he has his friends and family and her on land, and who knows where his father is now, and surely it would be cruel, an unnecessary agony for him to endure some other foreign pull away from all he knows.

She does what she thinks is a kindness, though that is neither excuse nor forgiveness. After nine days, his fur has come through, sleek and soft, his whiskers twitching, and she helps him peel it off as one would do clothes, revealing sweat-sheened limbs, his eyes slipped back into brown again. His gaze still distant and feverish, he tries to cuddle into her, and she soothes him while she finishes stripping off his pelt and folding it neatly.

While he sleeps, she burns it in a fire in the back yard.

When he comes back to himself, she lies and tells him that he’s been sick with a bad fever. And he trusts her, and never questions it. He doesn’t understand that she’s burnt a part of him up, scattered the ashes to the winds, but it was for the right reasons. To keep him safe, and happy, and with her.

He grows up human-limbed and cloven-souled, and she never tells him the truth.

Sasha floats in an ever-dark, stolen away and hidden. There is a knot, a cage-trap around her legs, which have fused into her tail although there is no water. The sea, far away, like the wail in a conch shell, throbs in her soul as she strains and shouts and snarls in the wrapping of spider’s webs.

The sea is the only thing with her in the dark.

Sound has a particular quality, underwater. She hears it first, an echo that shivers through her, like being thrummed on the backdraft of some shallow wave. And then it is a wash of insistence. A command.

The compulsion uses her names, landward and seaward and it pulls and demands her attention, and she shrieks and cries back, struggling in the depths. She is being called home, up up up to breach the surface, and she cannot help but answer.

There is a crack and the sea splits, and she is choking on cold and dusty air.

“Sasha!” someone is saying. “God, is she – she’s not – ?”

“Get that stuff off her, come on. Sasha. Sash, love, can you hear us?”

A series of thuds as she splutters. A twisting, gnarling screech, and several swear words.

“Jesus!”

“Shit – shit, get her out of the way.”

“Boss, move, give me the – ”

The screech degrades into a glitching, warping scream. There is the multi-layered sound of compressed air, and crackling fire,the woosh and stench of something burning.

In time, she cracks her eyes open to the punch of light. Her tail flaps weakly. Someone is pulling great strands of silk that has clumped like poorly soldered iron around her limbs, making visceral noises of disgust. She’s cold-stream shivering, surrounded by broken wood and chippings.

“Hey, hey, we got you. We got you. You with us, Sash?”

The faint scratch of feathers against her cheek. Furnace-warm arms are holding her.

Jon is kneeling down in front of her. Holding an axe and stinking of smoke, and she knows, she knows, that it was his voice she heard, although she doesn’t yet understand why.

Martin throws a blanket over her as she shivers, her tail shrivelling and bisecting into legs. He has silk in his hair, and his fingers are trembling, but his face is broken with a look of such relief.

“It’s you,” he says, and his hand touches at his throat, at the necklace she made for him. “It’s you. It’s really you.”

It’s Martin in the end that carries her out of the tunnels, tucking the blanket completely around her. He is talking in the scatter-gun way he does when he is anxious, babbling, and she can’t bring herself to listen. He smells of soot and saltwater, and she’s never noticed that before.

She falls asleep, curled up into his hold, drained and shaken, but feeling utterly safe.

Jon is human. Completely, one hundred percent, although Sasha had joked once that way way back there must have been some Spinx in the family. Tim’s long suspected that Martin’s not quite human, no matter how he presents, but that’s Martin’s business, not his. Some folks have lineages that are rare, or mistrusted, or misunderstood, and Tim’s not one to pry.

Jon, though. Human through and through. Which is why he’s so worried.

“I shouldn’t have been able to do that,” Jon says. Martin’s with Sasha, making sure there’s no nasty side effects to her imprisonment in the table. Jon’s had a face on him for a while which means he’s Worrying with a capital W, and it’s taken hours for him to untangle himself into a blustered declaration to the rest of the class, spiked with nerves. “That place, it had her. It shouldn’t have… I don’t know what I did, but I told her to leave, a-and she could. And she shouldn’t have been able to.”

“And you think that you did that?”

“I – I know I did that, Tim, I felt it, o-or. I mean, I felt something!”

“Ok, alright. Alright. Let’s, let’s calm down and look at this logically.”

Jon goes over what he said while they struggled to rescue Sasha from the deep. It was something he said, he’s sure of it, which is why he is sitting cross-legged on the floor of the main archive office space with Tim, his trousers getting dusty and his temper scraping frayed, getting increasingly frustrated when he tries recreating exactly what he did with his voice, going through questions and commands and instructions and inquiries. And while Tim answers, it’s clearly not what Jon’s looking for, and he’s rubbing the hair at the back of his head in the way he does when he’s getting increasingly frustrated and is too bull-headed to walk away.

Then Jon, rolling his eyes and seething in annoyance, asks him a throwaway question, one of many he’s been trying – what’s your favourite colour? (seriously, Jon, that’s what you’re going with?!); What did you do at the weekend? (you know what I did, you and Martin were with me!).

“Why did you join the Magnus Institute?”

They both sit, frozen and horrified as Tim’s mouth opens and his words trip over his tongue in their eagerness to leave his mouth. As his eyes grow wide and water with tears as he cannot stop speaking about Danny, about the Covent Garden circus and Joseph Grimaldi. As Jon sits, ramrod-backed and cannot stop listening, a muscle jumping in his jaw. His expression wars between frantic and panicking and hungry.

Tim feels wrung out and hollow once he’s finished. Jon’s manic with apologies. It takes both of them a long time to calm down.

“Maybe… maybe you’re a siren or something?” Tim suggests, but Jon is shaking his head.

“It’s this place, Tim. It’s those statements, when I read them. It’s … I – I think they’re doing something to me.”

Tim looks at Jon and the light strikes off his eyes in a way that it shouldn’t on a human.

He touches Jon’s arm.

“We’ll sort this,” he promises. “We got Sasha out, didn’t we? The four of us, we can get to the bottom of this, yeah?”

Jon nods, and gives a small fragile thanks, and that’s human enough for Tim.

Marysia told herself she was not a bad mother. That her son was simply a hard child to love, that he had all the worst trappings of his father, his brown eyes perpetually caught with a far-away look that doesn’t know where to place its longing. But even as she sickened, and he sloughed off every facet of himself in a pathetic attempt to please her, she couldn’t find anything but sorrow in her heart to look upon the man grown over familiar in face, a growth that grew deep-set and fungal into contempt.

She almost spat the truth out to him. Once or twice, with the thought that confessing might bring them closer. She wished he’d chosen the sea instead, so she wouldn’t have to look upon her amputated, half-formed child who would always be lost.

But she never did.

And Martin finds out alone, cornered in an unlocked office, his hands dropping the lighter as a thousand eyes open and watch satisfied as they pour his mother’s choices down his throat to choke him.

It starts when Martin starts sleeping in archive storage. When Tim watches worms burrow into Jon’s skin at the same time as they latch and gnaw and wriggle under his own. When they get Sasha back, and find Gertrude’s corpse and Jon leaves and gets hurt and hurt and hurt again, and the world around them gets smaller and meaner and there is nothing Tim can do.

He takes to storing food in their desk drawers. Nothing that will go off, or won’t keep. Tins and dried goods and non-perishables. He lines the walls of Martin’s storage room with fire extinguishers of different types, fire blankets, and spare first aid kits bulging with plasters and bandages and antiseptic wipes. He buys blankets and pillows and rope and penknives. He stress-moults constantly, and tucks his feathers out of sight, irritated and embarrassed at the sight of them, and it occurs to him that nesting is not a healthy way to deal with this.

He wants his family safe. He used to think it was such a small thing to ask for.

He thinks about that when the bomb goes off.

He burns, and he is dying.

His rage and fear burn off into a different fury. That it has come to this, his family so threatened, that all he has to his name is his sorrow and trauma and frustration and vengeance.

Tim wants nothing more than to live. To see them safe. To rail and rage against what seeks to harm them. So he burns and he burns and burns, his wings aflame and his mouth twisted in a scream, and does not die.

They dig him out breathing from the rubble. His skin stained grey with ash and soot.

His new wings stretch out red as the sunset.

#tma #the magnus archives #fic #alternative universe #mermaid!sasha #pheonix!tim #selkie!Martin #regularOGhuman!Jon #with added Beholding spicyness #cws for implied child mistreatment #cw fire #cw burning #cw canon typical violence #cw compulsion #ask to tag

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teacupfulofstarshine · 2 years

Text

hit the road, winston (and don’t you come back no more)

summary: what if winston had decided that logan needed physical correction when he was kicked out? what if patton and virgil finally got to go apeshit? what if they tore winston the new one he deserved?

(OR: an alternate version of chapter seventeen of @tulipscomeinallsortsofcolors fic "chipped tea sets" where patton gets to deck winston and tell him what a little bitch boy he is)

A/N: this is a gift for the amazing wonderful lovely spectacular @tulipscomeinallsortsofcolors and ly absolutely spectacular fic "chipped tea sets"!! there is a scene in chapter seventeen where logan kicks his abusive father out of the house and i reread it recently and thought "what if patton got to hit him?" and thus, this was born

WC: ~2100

CW: implied/referenced child abuse, verbal abuse from a father, attempted assault, blood mentions

read it on ao3!!

“You do not have to say yes.”

Logan holds Patton’s hands between his own, rubbing his thumb along his wrist. Patton loves touching Logan, loves providing him with the comfort that he needs, but every time Logan holds him like this his heart breaks a little. Logan holds him as though he’s holding back - even at his tightest, his grip is impossibly gentle. He holds Patton as though he wants Patton to know that he has the option to leave whenever he wants.

As though Patton would ever want to leave him.

“Honey,” Patton starts.

“I understand that it is an unpleasant task, although necessary, and I cannot predict or control how he will react. But it needs to be done, and I will do it.” Logan’s face flashes anger briefly before shuttering back to controlled concern.

(Another reason added onto the long, long list of reasons that Patton despises the Fitzroys: the fact that Logan feels his emotions are something to repress and hide and ignore, instead of something to share and process and feel to their fullest extent.)

“Logan, sweetheart, of course I won’t make you face it alone.”

Logan blinks in confusion. “But - he has never hurt you directly -”

“That man hurts me every single time I see the way he mistreats you and your siblings,” Patton says, squeezing Logan’s hands tightly. “He hurts me every single time you feel the need to hide from me because you’re worried about my reactions. He hurts me every single time I see the unholy amount of pressure you put on yourself to be perfect so that he won’t hurt anyone else. I love you, Logan. Let me help you.”

Logan’s eyes are suspiciously shiny, and Patton pulls his hands away from Logan’s long enough to open his arms. Logan shifts, hesitant, before pushing fully into Patton’s lap and burying his face in the curve of his neck. Patton strokes his back and cards his fingers through his hair and holds Logan like he can squeeze all of Winston and Josephina’s bullshit out if he tries hard enough.

Finally, when Logan’s shuddering sobs quiet down to the occasional hitching breath, Patton leans back to look into his watery, bloodshot eyes.

“I want to be there,” he says. “I want to help you, Lo, and you know that the others want to help you, too. Let us help you, okay?”

Logan nods, shoving his glasses out of the way to scrub at his eyes.

“Do you want a kiss, honey?”

Logan blushes, staring at the wall behind Patton’s left ear as he nods. Patton moves one hand from its current position braced against Logan’s thigh to cradle his jaw and pull him in.

Logan is so close to having both of his abusers out of his life, and Patton will do everything in his power to make that happen.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

In hindsight, Patton thinks that he should have expected this, if only because the one thing he can rely on when it comes to the elder Fitzroys is that they will always pick the worst option.

Winston is angry, as they knew he would be. Logan’s hand trembles slightly at his side, curled so tightly into a fist that Patton worries he’ll draw blood, but otherwise he maintains perfect composure. (Ironically, Patton thinks, Josephina and Winston are the ones who drilled this composure into Logan’s brain, so there’s no reason for Winston to seem so pissed off about Logan’s outwardly unflappable appearance.)

(Then again, the elder Fitzroys have never made any sense to Patton.)

“You,” Winston says, body vibrating in fury. “You pathetic, worthless, ungrateful little whelp of a boy. You have the nerve to stand here, in front of the only living parent you have left, and tell me off? As though you have any authority? As though you have any right to speak to me?”

“I am the Lord of Kenningport,” Logan says. “I inherited my position from the Lady of Kenningport. I did not inherit my position from you. Any power you may have had previously, you had because Mother granted it to you. I am revoking that power, as is my right, and you do not get to tell me anything anymore.”

Winston screams, wordless and full of fury, and launches himself at Logan.

The world moves in slow motion.

Patton takes in the entire scene at once - Winston, arm drawn back to slap Logan. Logan, bracing his whole body for impact, not even moving out of the way. Roman and Remus, flinching away from their father’s violent wrath. Janus, entire body tensing as he clutches Remus’s arm so tightly his knuckles are bone white. He looks at Virgil, making eye contact, and something unspoken passes between them.

The world speeds up again.

Virgil gathers the twins and Janus in one broad, sweeping arm motion and shoves them all behind him. Patton steps in front of Logan, who immediately begins to protest, and snaps his hand up at the exact right moment to catch Winston’s wrist.

“Let go of me!” Winston seethes. “This does not concern you!”

“You are attempting to physically assault my husband,” Patton says, tightening his grip and feeling a vindictive surge when Winston winces. “It absolutely concerns me.”

“This is a family affair!”

“Again,” Patton says, “Logan is my husband. Ergo, his family is my family, however unfortunate it is to be even remotely related to you.”

Winston yanks against Patton’s grip, trying to free himself, but Patton just tightens his grip and digs his heels into the carpet. “I do more manual labor in three hours than you’ve ever done in your entire life, Winston. You aren’t going anywhere.” Winston goes absolutely apoplectic at the use of his name.

“You will refer to me as the Lord of Kenningport!”

“The Lord of Kenningport is behind me, Winston, and you just attempted to assault him.” An idea pings in Patton’s head. “Hey, Virgil?”

“Yeah, Pat?”

“Do you think we could list ‘assaulting the Lord of Kenningport’ as a reason to kick Winny-boy here out of the manor?”

“Even better,” Virgil says. “I think we could get him arrested for it.”

“How dare you?!” Winston screeches. “That is a child! The only reason he is play-acting as the Lord of Kenningport is that -”

What Winston’s reason is, they never find out. Patton drops Winston’s wrist, letting the momentum of his frantic tugging carry him to the floor. When he recovers, he screams in wordless fury and launches himself at Patton. Logan tugs frantically on his shirt, trying to get him to back down, but Patton stands his ground.

Winston pulls his hand back. Patton takes a deep breath, curls his hand the way his mother taught him, and punches Winston squarely in the face, knocking him flat on his ass with a resounding CRACK.

Winston screams, both hands flying up to stem the red flowing from his nose. “You - you struck me!”

“No, I punched you,” Patton says, shaking his hand out. “It’s something I should have done a long time ago.”

“How dare you -” “Well, gee, Winny, I sure don’t know!” Patton drawls, leaning fully into what Winston and Josephina always called his “peasant” accent just for the pleasure of seeing Winston flinch in pain when he tries to scowl. “How dare you assault and abuse your children their entire lives and expect them to show you any respect at all?! You’ve gotten away with this for so long because you had your wife and her reputation to protect you, but guess what?” Patton crouches down, leaning in so that Winston has no choice but to lean back.

“Josephina isn’t here to protect you anymore.”

“There will be repercussions -”

Patton laughs. “There are more repercussions for accidentally dropping a bag of flour than there are for me punching you.” He grips Winston’s shirt, yanking him forward sharply, and drops his voice to just above a whisper.

“What -”

“You are going to gather whatever belongings you can scrounge together. You are going to load them into the shittiest carriage on your estate - which, might I add, is still worth at least three years’ rent in your city. You are going to leave this mansion, and you are never going to come back. Because if you do - if I ever see you around here again, if I hear so much as a whisper of you plotting something against your children - I will find you, and I will break more than your nose. Do you understand?”

Winston tries to snarl. It does not work.

“I said,” Patton says, low and dangerous, “do. You. Understand. Winston.”

“I . . . understand,” Winston grits. Patton drops him, stands up, and stands shoulder to shoulder with Virgil in front of the Fitzroys and Janus. Winston stands, still cradling his nose, and glares at Logan.

“You will pay for this. All of you, you will -”

Patton takes one step forward, and Winston flees the room with a whimper. “And stay out!” Virgil snaps, pumping his fist. Patton crosses the room and slams the door shut, locking it, before turning around to see Logan dropping to his knees.

“Logan! Baby, talk to me, please,” he says, kneeling in front of his husband and pulling him into his lap. It’s not the easiest thing to manage, given how tall Logan is, but Patton is nothing if not determined. “Are you okay?”

“He - h-he’s really gone,” Logan says, voice the faintest whisper. “He is - he is leaving, and he will not - he will never come back?” “He can try,” Virgil mutters. “Patton’s not the only one who wants to punch that asshole out.”

Logan looks up at Patton like a flower turning towards the sun. “You - you struck him? You kept him from striking me?”

“Oh, honey, of course I did,” Patton says. “No parent should ever strike their child. I wish I could have done it sooner, I wish I could go back in time and make sure neither of your parents ever hit you. Any of you,” he adds, looking around Logan to make eye contact with the shaken twins. “But I’m here now, and I will never let anyone else do that to you. Or you, Janus.”

“What Pat said,” Virgil adds. “If anyone tries to say anything to you guys, let me know. It’s my turn to punch out the asshole - I only need to punch one more and I get free drinks for a year.”

Remus laughs, and Logan leans in to hug Patton so tightly that he shakes. Patton holds him back just as tightly, exhaling as he rubs Logan’s back.

It’s going to be okay. He’ll make sure of it.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

“Patton?”

Patton blinks, grumbles sleepily, and reaches across the bed. He can’t see anything in the dark, especially without his glasses, so he feels across the unnaturally smooth sheets until his fingertips brush skin. Logan shivers slightly and slips across the bed, slotting himself around Patton.

“W’s wrong, honey?”

“I . . . I wanted to - I needed to - I just - I -”

Logan makes a strangled sound of frustration, and Patton wakes up a little more. “Take your time, sweetheart. Take a deep breath. I’m not goin’ anywhere, and I’m not gonna judge you for whatever you say.”

Logan presses his face into Patton’s hair, gripping his sleep shirt. “I . . . thank you.”

“What for, honey?”

“For standing up to my fa - to that man,” Logan whispers. “For protecting me from his physical assault. For sticking with me, even though you did not know what you were signing up for.”

“I knew exactly what I was signing up for,” Patton says. “I signed up for Logan Fitzroy, my wonderful -”

He kisses Logan’s forehead.

“Intelligent -”

He kisses Logan’s cheek.

“Amazing -”

He kisses Logan’s nose.

“Soulmate,” he finishes, pressing his mouth against Logan’s. “Your parents are shitty, but that has no bearing on how I feel about you. I wish I could have stood up for you sooner, but I meant what I told Winston earlier. You’re my family, you and Roman and Remus and Virgil and Janus, and I love you.”

Logan sniffles a little, and Patton lifts one hand off Logan’s side to touch his face. “I love you,” he repeats, soft and sure. “I love you, Logan Fitzroy, and your stupid parents can’t change that. They never could, and they never will.”

“I love you,” Logan says, pressing himself closer to Patton. Patton exhales softly, nuzzling into Logan’s neck, and slowly drifts off with his husband wrapped around him.

Everything is going to be okay, he thinks. Everything is going to be just fine.

#starshinewrites #violet tag!#chipped tea sets #logicality #patton sanders #logan sanders #virgil sanders #roman sanders #remus sanders #janus sanders

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starconsumer444 · 3 years

Text

Sakusa Kiyoomi (18+)

A/N: This is actually like??? Fucked up, but it’s stated that I write dark content (in my pinned), even then, I know it may still come as a shock to some people?? So, it’s only fair warning if I put this disclaimer here telling you its !!MESSED UP!! You’ll come to find out later on that this is fairly on brand for me tho...so yeah. I had fun writing this even though I’m sure the proofreading on this is jackshit.

(CW/TW: Yandere!Sakusa, “Master” as a Name You Call Him, Kidnapping, Semi-Stockholm Syndrome, Abuse, Implied Non-con, GN!Reader, Belting, Degradation, Being Forced To Wear A Maid Dress Regardless Of Gender [Forced Feminization??], Implied Enforced Line of Sight [Sakusa Doesn’t Typically Let You Look Him In The Eye], Abuse, A Knife [Wielded with... Murderous Intent], Lots Of Crying, Literal Drowning, Please tell me if I missed something...)

A rush of hot panic runs through your body as you hear the locks on the front door clicking open. You want to run, but it’s like your feet are cemented to the polished ceramic floor in front of the sink where you stand.

You still have so many unwashed dishes. The water still runs when it should’ve been done well before he got here, like it typically is. It sounds so loud along with your heart beat in your ears and the shutting of the front doors. You know you're in trouble-- know there’s no way out of it and still you press on in hopes that maybe he’ll have mercy when he see’s you trying to be good. You know it’s no use though, it’s always been no use.

You should be waiting for him by the door, on your hands and knees, but you’re not. You’re pathetic, tears starting to stream down your face as you anxiously scrub away at a sullied plate from last night.

He let you off the hook last time, he’s not going to do it again, you know. But you can’t do this anymore, you want to go home. You want to go home so bad.

You grab a large carver knife from the drying rack as you hear his footsteps behind you. You’re done with this; you’ve been trapped in this hellhole with him long enough. It’s time that you free yourself.

You’ve told yourself that so many times before.

“Can’t do simple tasks?” He sounds so close; dangerously close. You turn around to find that he is.

You hold the knife flat to your chest, or rather the fabric of your French maid outfit that he forces you to wear around the house when you're busy. His face is indifferent-- annoyed actually.

“You get one chance.” He huffs out. “Put the knife down now and I won’t factor that into your punishment.” His speech is slow, careful, like he’s talking to a child.

“You’re gonna hurt me,” You try to stable your voice, wiping away your still falling tears with one shaky hand and pointing the tip of the knife at your kidnapper. He only steps forward, caging you in between him and the sink, tip of the knife pressed to his chest. “Sakusa, please-” You say as he reaches behind you to turn the tap off, and you recoil out of habit.

“What did you just call me?” He stares down at you and you can only look down at the knife between you and him.

“I’m sorry, master.”

“Put the knife down.” He grabs your jaw with savage strength, pulling you onto the tips of your toes. Still you don’t let go of the knife, tip now pointed at his sternum. “Drop it.”

You shake your head as best you can, eye’s meeting his for the first time in a while, this can be your way out. It’s been months of his senseless torture. Days on end without eating, violating your body over and over, watching you shower, making you clean everything the way he likes it...you can’t stand it anymore. If you have to smell bleach for one more day, you’ll be sick. You can’t do it. Your body is worn out and you know you can’t fight him, but you have to try, right?

“Fine,” He throws your frail form away from him, effectively slamming your backside into the sink counter. “Stab me. Do it. Now.”

Your tears start to fall harder now, blurring your vision. You don’t bother wiping them though, you just reach behind you to sooth your lower back as your knees hit the ground with a painful thump. Your curl into yourself, body wracking with sobs, as you hold up the knife to offer it to him. You know he’s unaffected by your show, he’s probably looking at you with that same avidly disinterested gaze he always does, as he watches you crying into the skirt of your dress. You can’t help it though, defeat and shame run through your body like fire.

You feel him slide the knife out of your hand, and the sound of it clattering into the sink reasonates, bringing on a new type of heartbreak.

Why did you give up? This could’ve been your chance? Your chance to kill him. To run away and never look back. Why did you give up? Do you hate yourself?

You don’t bother trying to fight it when he drags you up by your hair, telling you how stupid and useless you are. You can hear the faucet running again and you can feel him jerk your head back uncomfortably.

“Where were you planning on going?” He prods in all his sick glory. “We’ve watched the news together, they’re not looking for you.” He says as he pulls you backwards under the flow of the water. You weren't going to answer anyway.

You thrash about violently and you feel him press his torso against you. At the very least you want your feet on the floor, but with the way he’s holding you it’s impossible. And he must’ve put the stopper in because you stupidly gasp for air and catch nothing but water in your mouth, too urgent to notice the water coming above your face. Now you’re choking underneath him with no escape, you’re desperate and trying your hardest to pull yourself out of his grip. He’s always been too strong for you.

You kick at him, try to scream, try to bring your head up from such an uncomfortable angle...everything. It’s all useless. You feel him latch onto your throat to hold you under even tighter and all you can manage to do while you flail about is dig your nails into his forearm.

Your lungs are burning, your stomachs empty, you’re stuck here, why are you fighting? What is there to fight for?

He holds you under for about a minute, barely even struggling against your incessant kicking and scratching. When he cuts off the water and finally drags you up, you’re coughing up water until you dry heave, falling forward once more when he lets your hair loose.

You fall on all fours in front of him, lightheaded and swearing to yourself that you’re gonna vomit. Nothing ever comes up, and for that you’re thankful. Stomach acid on his floor would’ve angered him more and you know it. You try to crawl away, to catch your breath, hoping that this is all over. He just drags you back by your ankles, telling you to stay on your hands and knees, and pushing up your dress to reveal your underwear.

“No one wants a dumbass like you, don’t you get it?”

You know.

“This is where you belong.” You can hear the jingle if his belt coming undone. “You’re not a bad housekeeper, it’s just times like this.” He sounds so far away, like he’s not destroying you more and more the longer this goes on.

“I give a worthless fuck like you, who doesn’t wake up on time to do simple tasks, purpose and you want to stab me?” He chuckles to himself. “Pull your underwear down.”

You comply, moving one shaking hand back to pull them down with several hesitant jerks filled with urgency.

“I fuck you, I feed you, I give you a roof over your head...everything... I give you something to do with your pathetic life and you want to run...” You know not to say a word back. “You can’t even wake up on time to get your work done before I get here and you think you can run?!” He laughs darkly before you feel a sharp stinging pain travel across your ass accompanied by a loud cracking sound.

The belt sends your body forward in pure agony. You don’t even scream, just let out an open mouthed whimper and move back into place for him to lash you again. You deserve it.

You can hear him snicker evilly at your submissive display.

“Count.” He demands.

“One.” You whine.

THWACK

“Two.”

THWACK

“Three.” And tears start to fall.

You reach twenty and by then you’re flat, faced down on the ground, begging for his mercy.

“Please, master,” You inhale, trembling from his harsh mistreatment. You’re sure you have bruising welts on your ass, and its going to hurt to sit. You just want him to stop. “I’m sorry. I’ll learn to do everything on time. Please just don’t hurt me anymore.”

Begging has never once worked on him.

THWACK

“Twenty-one” This time you scream and drag your aching body away from him using your forearms. Tears and snot stream down your face in a miserable display of defeat.

He relents. You know its over when you crawl over to him, not even bothering with your underwear (instead opting to kick them off), and hug his leg. Your body is quaking and you’re still begging for him to have mercy on you for whatever reason. You know he’s done.

You don’t even notice you're getting tears and snot all over his pants as you beg and beg for him to be kind to you. He just kicks you off of him, not caring to hear whatever you’ve got to say for yourself. You lean back into a cold cabinet door, hugging your knees to your chest silently.

“Clean up. When you’re done, take a shower and don’t come out of you're room for the rest of the day. I don’t want to see or hear you. Do I make myself clear?” He looms over you like the devil himself and you know to look at his feet.

“Yes, Master.”

#yandere sakusa #yandere haikyuu #sakusa x reader #sakusa smut #haikyuu x reader #tw: noncon #I'll figure out these tags later because...#sakusa imagines #haikyuu imagines #tw: abuse #sakusa kiyoomi #horrible horrible dogshit writing #please tell me if there are any errors

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magma-cjay · 3 years

Text

Lingering Fragments (cw: death, angst, implied suicide)

(foreword: ok MagmaCjay, you asked for it, don't say you weren't warned)

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They were all dead. Every single one of them.

With great effort Risotto staggered toward the headquarters, limping painfully, his right leg dragging, and barely attached to his body by Metallica's power alone. Torn nearly off and barely hanging on by a few strands of muscle and tendon, and the ability of his Stand.

He had barely escaped his encounter with the unassuming young boy. A boy whom he knew had ties to the Boss. Who had mistreated him and his team for far too long. Who he was a fool to have underestimated. But he was lucky to escape with his life. Especially when Bucciarati's team intervened.

If one can consider me lucky, by any definition, Risotto thought.

His whole team was gone. He was the last man standing. The rest of his men, his family, slaughtered like swine by Bucciarati's team, and for what? Hadn't they sought to betray the boss as well? Hadn't they sought the same goal? Weren't they two teams on enemy sides, yet united with a common enemy?

It was all so damn unfair.

It wasn't long until Risotto neared the Hitman Squad hideout, a small, shabby and unassuming apartment that lay secluded in the Italian suburbs. A place where he and his crew dealt their shady deals to survive and hid from the wrath of the Boss. A place that was what many would call the dark, ominous underground of Italy's streets, but was a shelter for his men and himself.

A place that was the closest thing he could call a home.

Barging into the door, blood pouring from his numerous wounds, Risotto stumbled painfully into the living room with a cry of anguish. A cry that echoed through the empty halls of the hideout and gradually warbled away into silence. A painful, deafening silence that hurt Risotto far more than Aerosmith's bullets ever could.

He collapsed heavily onto the kitchen table, breathing heavily and wincing in pain. His dark inky eyes darted down onto the table, which was empty, save for a newspaper, and a plate of long-stale crackers, which were beginning to attract ants from their time left unattended.

Risotto's heart sank like lead as the gravity of what those meant struck him harder than any blow from the Boss's stand. The newspaper was spread out at a crossword puzzle, the date: April 1st, 2001. Risotto wished this was all a fool's day trick, but the silence was all too real. All too agonizing to endure.

The crossword puzzle was half-finished, with angry scribbles and incorrect answers that Risotto recalled too well. Of the angry hollers of Ghiaccio, as he struggled to comprehend words, while Formaggio mocked him playfully for his incompetence while snacking on the table.

Now the remnants of Formaggio's last meal lay untouched, as if silently awaiting their consumer. But there was none. Once wise-cracking, prank-pulling, now just a charred, cold corpse on a street somewhere. Would he at least be laid to rest by whoever found his body? thought Risotto. Or would he be left to rot, be picked away by rats and roaches like garbage? Like the garbage he had always been treated as, by the world, by society, by the very gang they had found themselves trapped in?

The unfinished crossword puzzle also brought Risotto little comfort. He had always loathed Ghiaccio's rambling, his angry ranting at the most trivial of things. But now Risotto ached for that irate voice. He would have given anything to hear that voice one last time. Not that Ghiaccio's throat, pierced right through the spine and out his windpipe, drowned slowly in his own blood by Giovanna and his gunman, would ever make another sound again.

Risotto glared at the crossword puzzle, and the one word that Ghiaccio had managed to fill. "An eight letter word synonymous with forever."

Eternity.

Eternity. How painfully appropriate. Gone for eternity, never to be seen or heard from again. Forever. Just like the only family he ever had, with this one word, inked out in a sanguine red on the faded parchment, as if an ominous tiding of death.

The sight of these leftovers were too much for Risotto to bear, and despite the agony he heaved himself off the kitchen chair, stumbling to the living room and throwing himself onto the couch. His blood stained the faded, torn cushions, as he pressed his face into a pillow and muffled a scream. He breathed in through his nose, and caught a waft of a familiar scent. Prosciutto's cologne. His favorite pefume that he wore before...that mission. Risotto felt a lump in his throat.

Everywhere he looked, everywhere he went, the house was filled with little remains of everyday things, which like nails further hammered in the loss in his already wounded heart and soul. Scents. Sights. Sounds, or the lack thereof.

His knee accidentally pressed something hard on the sofa and with a static whirr the television came on. It was a dramatic soap opera currently on air. Melone and Illuso's favorite television show, featuring soppy tales of love and romance which they dutifully watched day after day, despite mocking jabs from Formaggio and Ghiaccio about their tastes in genre.

And now they will never know how the show ends. The last he had heard of Melone was a report from Ghiaccio claiming to have heard him scream on the phone and lose contact. And Illuso...was gone. Not just dead,��but gone: vanished without a trace, melted into thin air, with not even a hair or piece of clothing to remind the world that he ever was.

Would anyone remember them? Would anybody even care?

They were just criminals to the world, weren't they? The scum of the earth, filthy, cold-blooded killers. They were the monsters of society, and to anyone else? They'd say they deserved to die.

But to Risotto, they were family. His family. His brothers in a way, who were all dragged in this horrid life by the cruel twists of fate. He'd wished to have escaped from the trappings of this mafia, but they were mired too deep into the quicksands of crime. He regretted deep inside having turned them into this life of a gangster. Especially Pesci. He was too young, too naive. He never deserved a life like this. He never deserved to see his big brother crushed under the wheels of a locomotive, and be torn apart alive shortly after by that damn Bucciarati's stand to spend his final moments in pain and terror at the cold, freezing abyss of a lake.

He despised himself at not having been able to save them. Of having failed to free them from the binds of this miserable existence. But it was too late. Since the day Sorbet and Gelato befell their dreadful end, he swore that he would lose no more further. But he did. One by one. And every single day, Risotto returned to find his home a little bit emptier.

Until there was none.

He was all alone in this cold, cruel, void, everyone he had ever cared about but a distant memory or a pallid lifeless corpse. There was nothing left for him. No one to turn to. Not even Formaggio's uplifting cracking jokes or Prosciutto's affectionate reassurance. He hated Giovanna and his allies for everything they did. If he could, he wanted to take their lives with his own bare hands, make them pay for the pain they wrought. But what would it bring him? Satisfaction? Justice?

There is no justice in this wretched world, Risotto thought bitterly. That's why I am here in the first place.

He could murder Giovanna and Bucciarati and the Boss for all he cared, but the damage was already done. Nothing he could do would bring back his family. They were dead, gone forever, and all of his efforts would have been in vain.

There was nothing left for him, but a future of emptiness.

Why did he have to suffer? What did he do to deserve all this? They were bad people who did bad things, but it wasn't their fault they were forced to become what they were. Risotto whimpered like a frightened child as he curled up on the bloodstained sofa, embracing himself tightly in a futile effort to make the pain go away, the pain of his body's wounds, and the agony that seared his soul like hellfire.

He wanted the pain to end.

A gleam caught his eye, down next to the sofa. Something black and shiny lay tucked against one side of the cushions It was Prosciutto's spare revolver, which he kept in good condition, and kept hidden away in case his original was lost or damaged if a mission went wrong.

It couldn't have gone more wrong.

Everything had gone wrong.

Their entire life had gone wrong.

With trembling hands and heaving breath Risotto reached out for the revolver and felt its cold, hard steel touch menacingly, and yet enticingly, to his stiff, shivering fingers.

Maybe this would make the pain go away.

For eternity.

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(afterword: yeah, told you this would get really depressing. i didn't know if Risotto would kill himself or choose to continue living, in which case he would just suffer all the more so yeah i never made a chapter two. oh well. sorry all you squadra fans for making you cry today)

#jjba #jjba part 5 #la squadra #tw death #tw suicide implication #okay first of all let me just-#*SOBS*#you are a talented writer and have too much power #holy shit #my heart wrenches now #thanks you weren't joking #submission

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