#THIS IS MORE OF A LOOSE FOR EMOTIONS COMIC

[slasher-smasher]

Just a "small" HC for my beautiful man Robert "Bob" Reynolds (ft. Sentry & Void) from the MCU. I have no idea what he is like in the comics. THIS SHOULD BE SPOILER FREE!!

Is he (Bob) a breast or ass man?

After watching the Thunderbolts 3 times within one week. I know, I have a problem. This is what I gathered:

Lewis Pullman’s version of Bob in Thunderbolts is portrayed as intense, withdrawn, and emotionally volatile, with a deep undercurrent of guilt and self-control issues. He’s afraid of himself (especially when he has no idea about the Void but knows there is something incredibly wrong)— but also deeply lonely. His interactions with the team are minimal but telling: he's haunted, observant, and very in his head.

So! What did that show me?

Personality vs Preference:

Bob doesn’t strike me as someone who goes for flashy or overt. He’s not the “life of the party” or the cocky flirt (I FIRMLY believe he would be a absolute dork if he gets confident enough to flirt tho)— he’s more introspective, likely more drawn to subtle, grounding traits in a partner. When it comes to physical preferences, he’d be more about comfort and connection than what’s trendy or boast-worthy.

That said, I had to cut it due to the long ass rant I vomited on here sorry...

My HC:

Bob is probably a breast man.

Why?

Breasts offer "comfort and closeness". Bob, being so isolated emotionally and physically (and probably touch-starved as hell), might subconsciously associate breasts with warmth, affection, and calm.

From a psychological angle, breast men are often romantics — nurturing, craving intimacy and emotional depth, which fits the broken-but-yearning side of Bob.

He seems like someone who craves slow, close intimacy. Holding someone against him. Pressing his face against their chest. That sense of safety and softness would soothe the constant storm in his head.

He’s a breast man, in that aching, reverent, worship-you-with-my-mouth kind of way.

Not because of size or shape or anything crude—it’s about comfort, closeness, warmth. He wants to nuzzle into soft skin, breathe against your chest, feel your heartbeat under his lips. He’s the kind of man who loses himself between your breasts, like they’re a safe place from the world. He holds them with trembling hands, kisses them like they’re sacred. He doesn’t just get turned on—he finds peace there.

That said… if you roll your hips just right? If you ride him with your hands braced on his chest, hair in your face, eyes dark and hungry?

He’ll become an ass man real fast.

But afterward? When you’re tangled together in sheets and silence?

His head’s on your chest.

Listening.

Needing.

✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦

Ah, the Sentry. My shining Golden Guardian of Good. Pfft.

The Sentry isn’t really human in the conventional sense. We know his ego is swollen like a bee sting. He’s desire, pain, power, addiction, and duality wrapped into a golden force of nature. That version of him likely doesn't have normal "preferences" like a breast or ass fixation—his "attraction" is more symbolic, almost metaphysical. If he craves anything, it’s intensity, submission, closeness so absolute it threatens to unravel the other person. He'd be drawn to overwhelming physicality, something that fuels his god-complex and need to be both loved and feared. If a partner offered vulnerability through their body—arched back, bared throat, moaned surrender—that’s what would ignite him.

I feel from MCU Thunderbolts take—one where the Sentry still shows up as a dark, unstable counterpart to Bob Reynolds, but retains some human empathy (I use that very loosely) traits, he leans toward being an ass man. That sheer power of gripping someone by the hips, controlling rhythm and depth, leaving handprints behind—it fits his need to dominate, to possess. Breasts may be worshipped, but the hips and ass are where he’d take control and make someone his.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Now... this...thing...

The Void? That’s an entirely different beast—literally and metaphorically. (Again, this is strictly from what I got from the movie. No comic lore.)

Where the Sentry is power tinged with light, yearning, and unstable love, the Void is pure annihilation given shape. He’s not a man with preferences—he’s an embodiment of absence, terror, shame, and consumption. But if we try to project a sensual lens onto something so intrinsically horrifying… we get something darkly erotic, in a way that’s about control, desecration, and unmaking rather than pleasure.

So, is the Void a breast or ass man?

Neither. The Void is a mind and fear "man" part of Bob.

He doesn’t want to love your body—he wants to own it, rewrite it, maybe even destroy it in a way that leaves you loving him for it. He’d enjoy the way your body reacts under pressure: the helpless arch of your spine, the broken gasp when you're unsure whether you're terrified or aroused, the way your mind falters trying to understand what he is. His "desire" isn’t lust in the human sense—it’s a black hole pulling you in and making you beg to be devoured. If he touches you, it isn’t for your pleasure or his—it’s a claim, a mark that says: You’re mine. You always were.

So no… the Void isn’t a breast or ass man.

He’s a ruin-you-from-the-inside man. And you’d love every horrifying second of it… even if you never understood why.

Thank you for coming to my Ted talk about this wonderfully portrayed man. I will thirst for more till the Avengers movie. 😭

If you're entertained by how my mind works, please take a look at my Master List. :)

Also: the picture above isn't mine. I just needed something that showed all three versions of my husband and that's what I found. Bless whomever made it. 💗

[phantasmatoucan]

OVERWHELMING "It's been such a long time since I've seen you genuinely smile"

[incorrect-green-lantern-quotes]

I’m interested in hearing your thoughts/hcs about the Indigo Tribe if you have any! They’re sorely underdeveloped imo :(

The Indigo Tribe is absolutely fascinating to me, because of the weird moral quandary that it presents, and what its very existence says about its creator, Abin Sur.

Like, I joke about the Indigo Tribe being "the most unethical criminal rehabilitation program in the universe" but if we take Natromo at his word, it's not even that. Supposedly, Abin made the Indigo Tribe as a personal army to take on the Guardians of the Universe, with no real intention of redeeming the villains he was effectively enslaving.

Green Lantern (2011) issue #9

It's a rather dark statement about Abin and the lengths he was willing to go to reach his goals, but also somewhat contradicted by the rest of the narration. Because according to Natromo, the Indigo Tribe was also a test run for the Guardians themselves, and Abin's plan was to try and change them. Which frankly seems like more trouble than just getting rid of them entirely, as Atrocitus or Sinestro would happily espouse.

Mind you, all of this is from the mouth of Natromo. And while we have no reason to doubt his honesty, we also don't know how well he really knew Abin. What we do know however, is that Geoff Johns writes Abin as being generally heroic. Not always in his actions (see how he treats Atrocitus and the other Ysmault demons) but certainly in his motivations (Abin crashes his ship deliberately so it won't land in Coast City and kill a bunch of people).

So it's possible that Abin was only thinking of the bigger picture and focused on using the Indigo Light to fix the Guardians after they go off the rails. But it's also possible that he intended to try and rehabilitate some of the universe's worst villains as well. After all, not everyone who gets an Indigo ring is completely brainwashed:

Ray Palmer and John Stewart are virtually unaltered from their normal personalities while Indigo Lanterns, and it's noted that both of them are already compassionate individuals. Even those who are more deeply under the ring's control do retain some aspects of their previous selves, as Fatality observes regarding Pink Thanos Munk in Green Lanterns: New Guardians (2011) issue #5.

And of course, the rings do cause permanent change to their wearers after being worn for longer periods, as proven by Indigo-1/Iroque being able to provide the spark of compassion needed to rebuild the Central Power Battery.

Granted, there's not any solid evidence to suggest Abin knew any of this. It is possible that he did, since we don't get to see how much he really studied/experimented with the Indigo rings. Personally, I believe that Natromo understood how the Indigo light functioned on a mechanical level enough to be the architect of the Tribe's rings and lanterns, but Abin was the one who fully understood the power of compassion and how it affects living beings.

Even if we accept that Abin meant well though, the actual reality of his actions is still very much an moral dilemma. After all, none of the Indigo Tribe's permanent members are there by choice. Every one of them was forcibly conscripted, initially by Abin but later on by the Indigos themselves.

Yet it's also worth noting that the Indigo Tribe is made up of sadistic psychopaths. When their battery goes offline, they all immediately revert to murder mode and try to kill Hal and Sinestro. Natromo straight up calls Iroque "the child-killer." It isn't as though these are random innocents who were kidnapped, every last one of the Indigo Tribe are violent and dangerous to society. Most legal systems would toss them into an Arkham cell next to the Joker and throw away the key, if not outright execute them.

Now, one could argue that being conscripted into the Indigo Tribe is tantamount to a death sentence. The original personality is effectively erased and overwritten by a new self. Granted, they do retain their memories, but who they are is fundamentally changed. But this way lies philosophical paradoxes that I am not prepared to ponder, so let's get back on track.

From a purely utilitarian perspective, the existence of the Indigo Tribe is a net positive. Take the most evil and unrepentant murderers in the universe and pump them full of compassion until they become a force for good. If you believe the ends justify the means, this is a solid alternative to lifetime imprisonment or capital punishment.

But if you believe that people should not be mistreated simply for being found guilty of a crime, then the fate of the Indigos is not quite as easy to accept. Kidnapping, exile, brainwashing- these are things we would consider to be violations of a person's rights, yet they are the modus operandi of the Indigo Tribe.

We joke here on Tumblr about our favorite character being dragged kicking and screaming through a redemption arc but this is what it actually looks like when taken literally. With a side of "I have no mouth yet I must scream" to boot.

[sixeyesonathiel]

02 | kill switch

pairing — target!satoru x assasin!reader

synopsis : a professional assassin accepts a job to eliminate an ordinary high school teacher—only to find her target is gojo satoru, a man who eats gas station sushi with religious devotion and nearly dies walking to work. as days pass, she finds herself less concerned with completing the job and more preoccupied with why someone would want this disastrous man dead. or: when your target's worst enemy is himself and your professional detachment keeps slipping every time he almost gets hit by a bus.

tags — no curses au, crack treated seriously, dark humor, fluff for all the wrong reasons, assassin & target dynamic, self-destructive disaster man, implied nerdjo, satoru is a great teacher, moral ambiguity, reluctant caretaking, food aggression (affectionate), chaotic neighbors, near-death hijinks, emotional constipation, eventual smut, happy ending. art by @Leimiruu.

a/n : literally on my knees begging pls read chapter 1 first for maximum reading experience. there is like a HUGE plot twist at the end of the chapter that is already established her TvT

previous. | series masterlist. | next.

monday resumes with the low hum of fluorescent lights and the clink of ceramic mugs in the faculty room, the air thick with the scent of stale coffee, chalk dust, and something that feels like quiet defeat. outside, the sky hangs gray and unmoved, the windows trembling slightly with each passing gust of wind.

it’s half-past noon when satoru gojo steps in, the door clicking softly behind him, muffling the corridor’s distant echoes. he’s carrying something oddly tender in his hands, a sight that instantly unravels the usual rhythm of the room.

not a wrinkled conbini bag. not the metallic hiss of a boss coffee can opened like a lifeline. but a bento box—neatly packed, wrapped in a faded cloth patterned with delicate cherry blossoms, their pink outlines worn by time and weather.

nanami glances up from his paper, pen halting mid-sentence. his expression doesn’t change, but his brows twitch in the faintest of furrows. utahime, tea halfway to her lips, lowers her cup with a small clink and a narrowing of her eyes.

they watch as satoru lowers himself into a seat, movements loose but not without tension, fingers still curled protectively around the bento like it might vanish if he lets go.

“that’s not expired gas station food,” nanami deadpans, voice clipped, tone edged with disbelief. “who are you, and what have you done with gojo?”

utahime leans in, head tilted slightly. “did you actually cook something, satoru?”

he blinks slowly at them, eyes unreadable behind reading glasses perched low on his nose, the lenses catching the fluorescent glare. he tilts his head just a fraction and lifts the lid.

a puff of steam escapes, curling lazily upward. the smell of soy-glazed meat, tamagoyaki, and freshly steamed rice spreads through the room, rich and nostalgic, like something remembered from a childhood he’s not sure he had. his stomach answers with a loud growl, breaking the moment with comic timing. nanami snorts softly, hiding it behind his knuckles.

“some woman just gave it to me on the street,” satoru mutters, poking at a carrot carved into a sakura petal, its edges too precise for a rushed job. “told me to eat it and walked away.”

utahime’s mouth falls open. “and you’re just… going to eat something a stranger gave you? without question?”

“guess so,” he says, already taking a bite.

the room quiets.

his chewing slows. his eyes narrow slightly, as if tasting something beyond the food—a memory, maybe, or a question. he swallows, blinking once.

“holy shit,” he breathes, still chewing. then another bite. and another.

his chopsticks move with a kind of hunger that isn’t just about food—it’s desperate, almost grateful. he eats like someone who forgot what care tastes like, who’s been living on sugar and spite for so long he didn’t notice the ache. the table trembles as he scrapes the last of the rice, his posture uncoiling. his shoulders dip, jaw softening, the invisible weight he’s been carrying melting with each bite.

nanami watches in silence, the corner of his mouth twitching like he wants to say something but decides not to.

“so you’re accepting mystery bentos now,” he finally says, dry as dust. “that’s… new.”

satoru hums, licking a smear of sauce from his thumb with a languid motion that’s somehow both careless and deliberate.

utahime leans toward nanami, whispering too loudly, “i haven’t seen him eat like that in months.”

he pretends not to hear her, but there’s something in the set of his mouth, a faint upturn, that betrays him. he doesn’t speak. he just lets it linger.

when the bell rings, satoru walks down the corridor with a step lighter than usual. it’s not a bounce—too subtle for that—but there’s an ease to it, like gravity’s loosened its grip. his hands are shoved in his pockets, fingers tapping absently against his thighs. a student passing by flinches when their eyes meet through his reading glasses, but satoru just offers a half-smile, dimple flashing, and keeps walking.

in the classroom, something shifts.

the students sense it immediately. heads turn. whispers ripple like wind over water. he’s here, really here—not just a body in the room, but alive in a way he hasn’t been in weeks. his white hair catches the gray light filtering through the windows, glowing like a halo, though the strands are as messy as ever, sticking out at odd angles like he tried to tame them and gave up halfway.

he begins the lesson with a smirk, marker squeaking against the board as he scratches out an equation. his reading glasses slip down his nose, and he pushes them up with a finger, the motion lazy but oddly endearing. halfway through explaining derivatives, he draws a lopsided circle, then pauses, squinting at it like it’s personally offended him.

a student giggles. “sensei, is that a heart?”

he tilts his head, glasses glinting. “huh,” he murmurs. “guess it is.”

he doesn’t erase it. instead, he draws another, this one even sloppier, and a third that’s barely a shape at all. the class snickers, and he leans back against the desk, arms crossed, smirking wider.

“hearts are just broken circles, anyway,” he says, tone airy but laced with something heavier, like a truth he didn’t mean to let slip. “kinda like how this equation breaks down into simpler parts. see?”

he taps the board, and the lesson flows on, his hands gesturing wildly, voice rising and falling with a rhythm that pulls the students in. they’re not just listening—they’re with him, laughing when he fumbles a marker, nodding when he explains a tricky concept with a metaphor about digimon evolving. a girl in the back raises her hand, hesitant, and he answers her question with such clarity that her shoulders relax, her smile small but real.

the rain starts mid-lesson, a soft patter against the windows that matches the scratch of pencils. satoru glances outside, his smirk softening into something quieter, like he’s remembering the woman with the umbrella, the one who stood over him in the park and didn’t say a word. his fingers tighten briefly around the marker, a flicker of something—confusion, maybe, or longing—crossing his face before he shakes it off.

“alright, you gremlins,” he says, clapping his hands. “pair up and solve the problems on page 47. don’t make me regret trusting you.”

the room hums with movement, and satoru weaves between desks, glasses fogging slightly from the warmth of so many bodies. he stops by a quiet student, a girl whose notebook is a mess of eraser marks. he kneels beside her, elbows on his knees, voice low and patient as he traces the problem with a finger, drawing invisible shapes in the air.

“you’re overthinking it,” he says, tapping her pencil. “break it down like one of those hearts. simple parts, yeah?”

she nods, murmuring, “thanks, sensei.”

he gives her a smile—not his usual smug grin, but something soft, almost shy. “just had a good lunch,” he says, then adds, more to himself, “weird, right?”

the bell rings, and the students spill out, their chatter echoing down the hall. satoru lingers, erasing the board with slow, deliberate strokes, the hearts disappearing last. he adjusts his glasses, the lenses catching a stray beam of light, and hums the digimon theme under his breath, off-key but unapologetic.

by sunset, the school is emptying, the halls a hollow echo of footsteps and muffled laughter. satoru returns to the faculty room, swinging his bag over one shoulder like a kid playing hooky. his hoodie’s stained with chalk dust, his hair a chaotic mess from running his hands through it during class.

“you seem… chipper,” nanami notes, not glancing up from his grading.

satoru yawns, arms stretching overhead until his hoodie rides up, exposing a sliver of skin above his waistband. “must be food poisoning. giving me euphoria or something.”

nanami snorts, a rare crack in his stoicism. “normal people don’t get this happy about food poisoning.”

“who said i was normal?” satoru tosses back, slipping out the door with a lazy salute.

outside, the rain has stopped, leaving the air heavy with the scent of wet asphalt and roasted chestnuts from a nearby stall. the city hums—car horns, footsteps, the rhythmic blink of crossing signals. satoru notices things tonight: the pink haze of sunset smearing across glass buildings, the way his sneakers squeak on the damp pavement, the faint warmth still lingering in his chest from that damn bento.

he looks both ways before crossing, a small victory for someone who’s been flirting with death all week. he hums the digimon theme, louder now, earning a side-eye from a salaryman hurrying past. satoru just grins, dimple flashing, and keeps walking.

he catches his reflection in a shop window—white hair a mess, glasses slightly crooked, the faintest upturn to his lips. he doesn’t look away, just tilts his head and murmurs, “not bad, gojo. not bad.”

outside his apartment, a moving truck idles, the driver smoking lazily by the curb. satoru doesn’t spare him a glance, too busy fumbling with his keys, pulling out a candy bar instead. he sighs, tries again, and finally gets the door open.

inside, the apartment greets him with stillness, the kind that presses against the skin. he slips off his shoes with a muted thud, tosses his jacket over the couch, and spots the bento box on the counter, empty but clean. he rinses it again, fingers lingering on the faded cherry blossoms, the cloth soft and worn under his touch. he sets it to dry beside the sink, movements careful, almost reverent.

tonight’s dinner is instant ramen, the steam curls around his face, fogging his glasses, and he doesn’t bother wiping them, just eats with a slurp that’s louder than necessary.

he settles on the couch, legs folded under him, digimon flickering across the screen. his eyes grow heavy halfway through the second episode, the theme song looping in his head like a lullaby. he thinks about the bento, the woman’s sharp voice—eat it—and the way her eyes burned with something he can’t name.

by the time sleep takes him—mouth slightly open, glasses slipping down his nose, breath even—the crease in his brow has faded. the warmth from earlier simmers in his chest, a quiet ember that refuses to go out.

he sleeps through the night.

satoru wakes before his alarm.

no sharp trill slices through dreams today; there’s nothing to cut. his lashes flutter open, slow and cautious, like he’s scared to break something fragile. the ceiling looms above his modest apartment, morning light sneaking through the blinds, painting soft stripes across his pale face and the silver mess of his hair. strands jut out, wild and defiant, like they’re staging a revolt while he sleeps. but today—no storm rages in his chest. no ghosts lurk behind his eyes. rested. the word tastes weird, like a candy he forgot he liked.

he groans, stretching until his joints crack, arms flopping back to the bed. a yawn bursts out, raw and boyish, bouncing off the walls. his bare feet slap cold tiles, each step dragging him from sleep’s quiet grip. in the kitchen, the bento box sits on the counter, empty and clean, its faded cherry blossom cloth folded neat as a secret. he stares too long, eyes narrowing like it might spill gossip. yesterday’s gift lingers—not just here, but in the soft twist of his stomach. his gut growls, pissed off. he tries toast. it burns instantly.

he sighs—sharp, dramatic—watching the edges curl like scorched lies. he chomps it anyway, grimacing at the bitter crunch, each bite a small act of defiance. his eyes flick to the bento box. it’s sacred now. stupid, maybe. but sacred.

return it? probably. if he sees you again.

he snatches his bag, yanks a hoodie over his wrinkled shirt, and swings the door open—then freezes. you’re there, mirroring him from your doorway, clutching a tote bag like it’s a shield.

the hallway goes still. a breeze slinks through an open window, ruffling his hoodie and tugging a strand of your hair loose. it falls across your face, and you don’t fix it.

“you!” satoru blurts, pointing like he’s in a bad drama, his sleeve slipping to reveal faint scars like faded stars. his reading glasses—teetering on his nose—slide down, but he’s too busy gawking. his blue eyes, wide and bright, lock onto you, sparkling with surprise and a pinch of glee.

you flinch, spine snapping straight, fingers digging into your bag until your knuckles go white. your eyes dart from his face to your door, then back, wide and betrayed, like the world just pulled a fast one. “what the—why are you here?” you snap, voice sharp but wobbling, a flush creeping up your neck as you scowl.

“i live here,” satoru says, stepping forward, hair swaying like silver seaweed in a current. he squints at your door, then at you, like you’re a riddle he didn’t ask for. “wait. you live here now? next door?”

your jaw clenches, arms crossing, bag swinging like a pendulum. “yeah, so?” you huff, all prickly defiance, but your eyes flicker—panic, guilt, something. you moved in to keep him alive, to stop whoever wants him dead, and now he’s here, grinning like he’s got no enemies, and it’s screwing with your head. you’re not soft. you’re not attached. you’re just… doing this.

“…guess we’re neighbors,” you mumble, softer, your name slipping out like an afterthought. it lands between you, small and real, like a coin tossed in the dark.

he blinks, then nudges his glasses up with a finger, lazy but precise. “right,” he says, fishing in his bag until he pulls out the bento box. he holds it out, both hands, like it’s a holy offering, his smile crooked and sheepish, dimple winking. “your food saved my life yesterday. or at least my tongue.”

you stare at the box, then at him, scowl deepening as your face burns. “you looked like you needed something real,” you mutter, snatching it. your fingers graze his, a quick jolt like static, and you jerk back, clutching the box to your chest like it’s evidence. “don’t make it weird, okay?”

he tilts his head, mischief flashing in his eyes. “you been watching me eat?”

“no!” you bark, too loud, eyes popping wide as the flush hits your cheeks like a tidal wave. “i just—i saw you at the convenience store, alright? you were chewing like it was a death sentence.”

a beat. silence hums, loud as a heartbeat.

then he laughs—bright, sudden, spilling out like a burst pipe. he tips his head back, the sound pinging off the walls, glasses slipping again. his eyes linger on you as the laugh fades, softening to a smile that’s too warm, too real. “well,” he says, backing away with big, goofy steps, hands in his pockets, “see you around, neighbor.”

you nod, lips twitching into a grimace you can’t quite call a smile. the moment stretches, thin and strange, then snaps as you both turn, heading opposite ways. your heart’s pounding, and you hiss under your breath, “idiot. why’s he gotta be so… alive?”

satoru nearly walks into traffic on his way to work. he’s replaying the hallway—your scowl, your flustered snap, that loose strand of hair—when a horn blares, yanking him back. he stumbles, arms flapping like a startled bird, glasses fogging from his own panicked breath. “shit,” he mutters, then chuckles, picturing your disapproving glare. it keeps him on the sidewalk. the green man blinks on, and he struts across, grinning like you’re watching.

in the classroom, his students clock the socks right away. one’s black, grim as a funeral. the other’s neon yellow, a cartoon frog peeling off like it’s done with life. “sensei,” a girl up front says, head tilted, “you good?”

“never better,” he shoots back, flashing a grin so bright it startles him. he adjusts his glasses, lenses catching the gray light from rain-streaked windows, and dives into the lesson. chalk squeaks on the board, his hands dancing, explaining integrals with a digimon metaphor that makes no sense but lands anyway. he draws lopsided stars next to equations, then a heart he doesn’t erase, smirking when a kid groans.

“stars are just hearts with extra points,” he says, winking. “like bonus lives. keep up.”

he drifts between desks, rain tapping the windows like a soft drum. the classroom hums, warm with bodies, his glasses fogging slightly. he kneels by a boy struggling with a problem, voice low, patient, tracing the equation in the air. “you’re close. don’t let it scare you. it’s just numbers playing hide-and-seek.” the kid nods, and satoru’s smile is soft, fleeting, like he’s caught himself off guard.

mid-lesson, he glances outside, rain blurring the courtyard into a gray smear. your face flashes—sharp voice, flushed cheeks, clutching that bento like it’s a bomb. his fingers snap the chalk, a tiny crack echoing. the class snickers, and he tosses the pieces with a theatrical sigh. “too strong for this chalk,” he says, winking, but his chest tightens, like he’s swallowed a question he can’t ask.

faculty meeting’s a snooze. principal yamamoto drones about the new nurse, voice flat as old soda. satoru doodles—spirals, clouds, a tiny umbrella with your initials scratched beside it. he freezes, pen hovering, then scribbles it out, heart ticking like a bomb. nanami jabs him when yamamoto tosses a question his way.

“what? sorry, i’m thinking about…” he almost says your name, catches it, grins. “lunch.”

utahime squints, suspicious. “you’re weirder than usual. and that’s a lot.”

“low blood sugar,” satoru declares, whipping out a crumpled chocolate bar like it’s a sword. he unwraps it with flair, foil crackling like a bad radio, and scarfs it in three messy bites, cocoa smearing his thumb. he licks it off, ignoring utahime’s grimace, the room smelling of cheap chocolate and damp coats.

evening finds him at your door, fist raised, heart thumping like a stubborn drum. the hallway’s quiet, but he catches a hum from your place—kettle, maybe, or soft footsteps. it’s warm, domestic, and it twists his gut. he hesitates, fingers twitching, then drops his hand.

“not tonight,” he mumbles, slinking back to his apartment, steps heavy, like he’s hauling his own doubts.

his kitchen’s a disaster—takeout boxes piled like a drunk architect’s dream. he stares, something shifting, and starts clearing, wiping the counter until it shines. he grabs a dusty cookbook, spine soft as old leather, and flips to miso soup. he squints at the ingredients, glasses slipping. “who keeps dashi on hand?” he grumbles, ordering ramen instead.

he slurps noodles with loud, obnoxious gusto, broth splashing his hoodie. he wipes it with a sleeve, chuckling, the silence humming—not empty, but waiting, like a held breath. he thinks of you—your scowl, that electric touch, the way you snapped like he’s a puzzle you didn’t ask for. he laughs, a soft puff, and grabs his phone, scrolling digimon clips until his eyes droop.

sleep isn’t kind.

a nightmare unravels—suguru’s laugh, sharp as glass, shoko’s voice twisting into static. blood on his hands, warm and slick. he bolts awake, gasping, sweat soaking his shirt, chest heaving like he’s outrun death. his glasses sit crooked on the nightstand, glinting in moonlight.

satoru remembers the hit. why he hired an assassin. the blood.

he feels sick for grinning today. he lies there, hollow, staring at shadows crawling the ceiling. night presses his chest, heavy as a tide.

how many days left?

why do i want more?

meanwhile, you pace your apartment, the bento box glaring from the counter like it’s got dirt on you. you moved in to protect him—some jerk put a hit on a guy who wears frog socks and burns toast, and you decided he’s worth saving. but now he’s next door, grinning like he’s untouchable, and it’s messing with you. you’re not soft. you’re not attached. you’re just… doing the job. yeah.

“stupid,” you hiss, shoving the box in a drawer like it’s a crime scene. your heart’s racing, and you hate it—hate his laugh in the hallway, hate how his glasses make him look… human. you grab a knife, chop vegetables with vicious precision, each slice a wall against your feelings. you’re not here to care. you’re here to keep him breathing.

sleep skips you. you’re too busy listening for his steps, wondering who wants him dead, and why you’re so hellbent on stopping them.

wednesday begins with a mess.

satoru tosses and turns all night, long limbs tangling with the sheets in a restless war against sleep. sweat beads on his temple, and half-formed mutters slip from his lips as nightmares bleed into half-waking haze. by the time he finally dozes off, the sky pales with dawn, the world outside exhaling into morning.

the alarm screeches, but it barely grazes him. only when sunlight slices through the blinds, cutting across his face like a blade, does he bolt upright with a panicked gasp. his eyes dart to the clock. late.

he lurches out of bed, white hair a chaotic halo, sticking out like he’s been zapped. his movements jerk, a frantic dance of urgency—papers flutter to the floor like dying leaves as he shoves them into his bag. mismatched socks—one black, one with a faded pikachu barely clinging to life—peek from beneath hastily tied sneakers. his shirt, one sleeve half-rolled, the other flapping loose, billows as he sprints through his apartment.

no time for breakfast. no time for teeth. no time for mirrors. he’s a hurricane of chaos, long legs eating up space in reckless strides.

but then he sees you.

you stand at the bus stop, the calm in his storm, arms folded so tightly your knuckles gleam white, fingers twitching like you’re strangling your own nerves.

your eyes flick up at his ragged footsteps, narrowing into a glare that’s half disdain, half something softer you don’t mean to let slip. your hair catches the breeze, a strand falling across your cheek, and you huff sharply, swatting it away with a scowl. your spine stiffens, but your eyebrow twitches, betraying a flicker of amusement you’d never admit.

he skids to a stop, sneakers squeaking on damp pavement. his chest heaves, heart pounding like a war drum. he tugs at his shirt, a futile attempt to look less like a walking disaster, and runs a hand through his hair, only making the static worse. his reading glasses, perched crookedly on his nose, glint in the gray light.

“morning, neighbor,” he mumbles, a sheepish grin tugging at his lips. it wavers under your piercing stare, like he’s been caught stealing.

“didn’t think you’d be the type to sprint to a bus stop,” you mutter, voice dripping with mock indifference, hiding the fact you’ve seen him stumble through life for days. your gaze rakes him, unimpressed. “you look like you got dressed in a blender.”

he lets out a breathless laugh, rubbing the back of his neck, glasses slipping further. “yeah, well, mornings and i aren’t on speaking terms.”

you scoff, arms tightening, turning away like he’s a problem you don’t have time for. “not my problem,” you say, but your fingers twitch again, betraying the lie.

the bus rolls up with a hiss, packed and humid, reeking of overbrewed coffee and cloying perfume. somehow, in the crush of commuters, you end up side by side, your shoulder brushing his with every lurch. satoru flinches each time, like your touch is a live wire, his glasses fogging slightly from his own unsteady breath.

“where you headed?” he asks, voice cracking, like the question sneaks out without permission.

“your school,” you say, flat and clipped, eyes fixed on the window.

he blinks, glasses catching the light. “wait, my school? why?”

you open your mouth, then—

a jaywalker darts across the road.

the driver curses. brakes scream. the bus lurches violently.

satoru pitches forward with a yelp, his head smacking the seat bar with a dull thunk. his glasses slide halfway off, dangling precariously, and his bag spills, papers scattering like confetti across the grimy floor.

“ow,” he groans, dazed, one hand clutching his forehead, the other fumbling for his glasses. his hair flops into his eyes, a silver mess, and he blinks up at the ceiling like it might apologize.

your head whips to the window, eyes narrowing to slits, pupils shrinking to pinpricks. the jaywalker’s already gone, swallowed by the city, but your glare tracks the empty street like you could hunt him down with sheer will.

your jaw clenches, lips pressing into a thin line, and the air around you crackles with a lethal edge, like you’ve already planned his demise in fifty different ways. a nearby commuter shifts away, clutching her purse.

satoru, still rubbing his head, catches your expression and freezes. “whoa,” he mutters, voice soft with awe. “did you just… glare that guy into next week?”

“i didn’t do anything,” you snap, voice sharp enough to cut glass. but then you grab his arm, yanking him back into his seat with a strength that makes his eyes widen, his breath hitching. your grip lingers a second too long, firm and unyielding, before you let go like he’s burned you.

he stares, mouth half-open, as you lean in, your hand reaching up—slow, deliberate—to sweep his bangs aside. your fingers hover over the forming bruise on his forehead, your brow furrowing just enough to betray your worry. your touch is light but practiced, like you’ve patched up worse wounds in darker times.

“sit still,” you mutter, voice rough, laced with irritation you don’t mean. your eyes flick over the bruise, then away, like looking too long might unravel something.

he obeys, too startled to move, his heart tripping over itself. the closeness hits him like a punch—your breath warm, your fingers cool, the faint scent of your shampoo cutting through the bus’s stale air. his hands hover uselessly, not sure where to land, and his glasses fog again, blurring you into a soft-edged dream. he swallows, throat bobbing, and thinks, she’s kinda cute when she’s mad. then panics, cheeks flushing, because what the hell, brain?

“you’re really bad at not dying,” you say, pulling back, your scowl deeper now, like his survival’s a personal offense.

he laughs, a nervous, flustered sound, pushing his glasses up with a shaky finger. “thanks for, uh… keeping my skull intact.”

“don’t make it a habit,” you shoot back, crossing your arms so tightly your knuckles whiten again, your lips pursing like you’re biting back something softer.

the bus groans to a stop, the moment shattering. satoru scrambles to gather his scattered papers, stuffing them into his bag with all the grace of a toddler. you step off first, not looking back, your posture rigid but your fingers twitching like you want to turn around.

“so… why my school?” he asks, jogging to catch up, his sneakers squeaking on the wet pavement. his hair flops with each step, and he adjusts his glasses, still crooked.

“not exactly visiting,” you say, voice cool, eyes fixed ahead. “i’m the new school nurse.”

he stops dead, nearly tripping over his own feet. “wait, what?” his voice cracks, eyes wide behind his lenses. “you were just my neighbor yesterday! now you’re—what, saving kids from paper cuts?”

“life happens,” you say, shrugging, but your tone’s sharp, like you’re daring him to question it.

he blinks, then a grin spreads across his face, slow and delighted, his dimple flashing. “so i’ll see you every day now?” his voice’s too eager, too bright, and he catches himself, flushing deeper, ears pink as he tries to backtrack. “i mean, that’s—uh—convenient. for the students. who need… band-aids and stuff.” he rubs his neck, glasses slipping again, his smile wobbling between flustered and thrilled.

you stare, unimpressed, your scowl deepening as you mutter, “i didn’t move here for you, idiot.” your voice’s sharp, but your cheeks flush faintly, and you turn away, steps quickening like you could outrun your own lie.

satoru trails after you to the principal’s office, heart thudding, his bag swinging wildly. he keeps stealing glances, catching the way your hair sways, the way your fingers twitch like you’re fighting the urge to look back. he’s rattled, grinning like a fool, and he doesn’t even care.

by lunch, he shows up at the nurse’s office, balancing two sandwiches in one hand, a nervous smile tugging at his lips. he leans against the doorframe, trying for casual but missing by a mile—his hair’s still a mess, his shirt untucked, and his glasses are smudged, one lens catching the light.

“brought you something,” he says, holding out a sandwich, his voice softer, like he’s not sure he’s allowed to be here. “they’re not expired. i checked. twice.”

you sigh, long and suffering, but take one, your fingers brushing his just enough to make him flinch again. “you’re gonna be a pain, aren’t you?” you mutter, scowling, but your eyes soften for a split second as you unwrap the sandwich, inspecting it like it’s a trap.

he plops into a chair, unwrapping his own sandwich with exaggerated care, like he’s defusing a bomb. “just being neighborly,” he says, grinning, then launches into a story about a student who tried to “solve” a math problem with a drawing of a dragon. his hands wave, glasses slipping, and his voice sparkles, filling the tiny office with warmth. you eat in silence, glancing at him more than you mean to, your scowl softening despite yourself.

mid-story, you reach out, almost without thinking, brushing a stray strand of his hair back. your fingers linger near his temple, tracing the bruise’s faint purple edge. your touch is light, deliberate, but your expression’s pure irritation, like his injury’s a personal insult.

satoru freezes, sandwich halfway to his mouth, eyes wide behind his smudged glasses. his breath hitches, and his heart does a clumsy flip, like it hasn’t gotten the memo to stay calm. the room feels smaller, the air thicker, and he swears he feels your pulse through your fingertips.

a beat. two.

the bell rings.

he jolts, nearly launching his sandwich, crumbs flying like tiny comets. “shit—i gotta—uh—class!” he stammers, scrambling to his feet, his bag catching on the chair and nearly toppling it.

he stumbles out, still clutching his sandwich, and walks straight into the doorframe with a loud thunk. “i’m fine!” he calls over his shoulder, voice cracking, before disappearing down the hall, his ears burning red.

the afternoon passes in a haze. he keeps touching the spot where your fingers lingered, a goofy grin creeping onto his face every time. his students notice, whispering among themselves.

“sensei, do you have a girlfriend?” a girl asks, grinning like she’s cracked a code.

satoru chokes on air, flailing for his chalk. “no! definitely not! absolutely not!” he sputters, glasses fogging as his face turns crimson. the class erupts into laughter, and he tries to laugh it off, but his hand strays to his temple again, brushing the bruise like it’s a talisman.

nanami passes by, pausing to give him a slow, pointed look. “just be careful, gojo,” he says, voice dry. “you’ve been… fragile lately.”

the word sticks, echoing in his head. fragile. he forces a laugh, tossing his hair back. “me? indestructible,” he says, but the grin doesn’t reach his eyes, and his chest feels tight, like he’s swallowed a stone.

when the final bell rings, he lingers, pretending to organize papers that are already a mess. the school empties, halls echoing with fading footsteps, and he drifts back to the nurse’s office, heart ticking like a countdown.

“taking the same bus home?” he asks, leaning in the doorway, trying for nonchalance but betrayed by the way his glasses slip again.

you nod, grabbing your bag, your scowl firmly in place. “don’t make it weird,” you mutter, brushing past him, your shoulder grazing his just enough to make his breath catch.

the walk to the bus stop is quiet, easy, the air heavy with the scent of rain-soaked asphalt and roasted chestnuts from a nearby stall. satoru’s sneakers squeak, his hair flops with each step, and he hums the digimon theme under his breath, off-key but unapologetic. on the bus, he leans closer, his shoulder brushing yours deliberately this time, a shy grin tugging at his lips.

“you mentioned knives earlier,” he says, voice light, like he’s testing the waters. “weird hobby for a nurse.”

“i like craftsmanship,” you say, eyes unreadable, voice sharp but steady, your fingers twitching like you want to grab something—maybe him, maybe your own nerves.

he chuckles, low and warm, his glasses fogging again. “you’re full of surprises,” he says, and the delight in his voice is unmistakable, like he’s found a puzzle he can’t wait to solve.

at the apartment building, we pause at our doors, the hallway dim and quiet. satoru’s bag swings at his side, his hair catching the faint light from a flickering bulb.

“thanks for, y’know, making sure my brain didn’t leak out my ears this morning,” he says, tilting his head, his smile soft but teasing, dimple flashing.

“be more careful,” you snap, but your hand twitches toward him, like you want to check his bruise again. you catch yourself, shoving your hands into your pockets, your scowl deepening as you turn away. “i’m not your babysitter.”

he laughs, bright and unfiltered, the sound bouncing in the empty hall. “where’s the fun in that?” he calls after you, slipping inside his apartment. the door clicks shut, and he leans against it, staring at the ceiling, his heart racing like a kid who’s just dodged a bullet.

the kitchen gleams from last night’s cleaning, a rare island of order in his chaotic world. the bento box is gone, but its warmth clings to his chest, a stubborn spark. he stands there, stomach growling, and eyes the counter like it’s a battlefield. instant ramen’s on the menu again—his sad, familiar crutch, the fuel of a guy who’d scarf gas station sushi and call it a meal. but something shifts tonight, a tiny crack in his routine.

he grabs a packet from the cupboard, plastic crinkling under his fingers, and sets water to boil. the pot hisses, steam curling up, fogging his glasses as he hovers over it like a nervous chef.

your face flashes in his mind—your scowl, your careful touch, the bento’s carved carrots and tamagoyaki that tasted like care. his hand pauses, hovering over the ramen, and he glances at the fridge. there’s a single egg, tucked in the back, a forgotten relic from some optimistic grocery trip.

he snatches it, cracking it against the counter with a dramatic flourish, like he’s auditioning for a cooking show. the shell splits clean, and he drops the yolk into the broth, watching it bloom like a tiny sunrise, white threads swirling in the heat.

“look at me, adulting,” he mutters, grinning, his voice light but tinged with something heavier. the egg’s not much—not your bento, not a meal you’d nod at—but it’s something. a nod to the warmth you shoved into his hands, the care you hid behind a scowl.

he stirs the pot, the egg weaving into the noodles, and the steam carries a richer scent—not just salt and starch, but something almost nourishing. his mind drifts to his usual diet: expired soda, burned toast, candy bars wolfed down in faculty meetings. a pang hits, sharp and unfamiliar, like he’s waking up to how he’s been daring death to catch him. this egg, small as it is, feels like a middle finger to that. a choice to stick around.

he eats on the couch, legs folded, digimon flickering across the screen. the ramen’s hot, the egg silky, and he slurps with obnoxious gusto, broth splashing onto his hoodie.

he wipes it with a sleeve, grinning like a kid who’s gotten away with something. his thoughts keep slipping—to your lethal glare, your electric touch, the way you muttered “sit still” like he’s a puzzle you don’t want but can’t ditch.

“i’m in so much trouble,” satoru says to the empty room, voice warm with delight, glasses slipping as he tips his head back. the bruise on his forehead pulses faintly, a reminder of your fingers, and he touches it, smiling like it’s a secret he’s thrilled to keep.

sleep wraps him gently tonight, a soft haze. dreams flicker—your face, sharp and soft, your scowl melting into something he can’t name. when he wakes, the bruise doesn’t ache as much, and the egg’s warmth lingers in his chest, a quiet promise of tomorrow’s chaos.

tag list : @raendarkfaerie @inoluvrr @miizuzu @lolightrealm @whytfisgojosohot

plz comment if u want to be added on the tl xx

[tittiesnhrtz]

ghostface!ellie x reader

minors & men dni , fingering, cunnilingus, knife play, nipple play, overstim

it's a chilly october night, the leaves are still vibrant with autumn hues outside your window. a crisp breeze weaves through the trees outside, sending a gentle rustle through the branches. the faint scent of vanilla, pumpkin spice and cinnamon hangs in the air inside your home, wrapping all the furniture and the trinkets like a shroud. you’re sitting on your sage couch, wrapped in a cozy crocheted sweater, wearing loose shorts and leg warmers to keep your feet warm on the cold tiles beneath you. your parents are away for a few days at your grandma's, with her health getting worse, it's been hard for her to take care of herself.

the glow from the TV feels distant now, the reporter’s voice filling the otherwise silent room. it’s the same grim news cycle: more bodies found, more gruesome and grotesque details of the dead bodies that should make your skin crawl and erupt with goosebumps. but honestly? you’re just tired. tired of the stories and the police coming up empty.

two of your friends from your friend group are dead, and what'd they have in common? you dated them both at some point. this detail shouldn't probably be necessary or even worth dwelling on, but considering how almost everyone who's either flirted with you or gone on a date with you has no doubt ended up dead—killed by the infamous ghostface himself.

yes, a him. that's what mostly everyone believes but you're somehow sure it's not a man. the way ghostface toys with his victims, the blackmail and emotional mind games—it all feels too calculated, too clever to be the work of a man. not that you think men are stupid, but something about this whole situation just feels... off.

the sound of the doorbell jolts you out of your thoughts. ellie, your best friend, is supposed to be here any minute. she's been your rock through the whole ghostface ordeal. and you think you might be catching feelings for her. her stupid puns and that goofy smile plastered on her face whenever she'd talk about space, dinosaurs, comic books or anything that interested her really, got to you at some point.

with a sigh, you push yourself off the cozy couch, and shuffle over to the door. but when you swing it open, what should've been ellie on the other side is just empty air. that’s strange. you step outside, scanning the porch and the yard, half-expecting to see some kids laughing at their ding-dong ditch prank. instead, you’re hit with a chill as a dark figure catches your eye. a ghostface mask. your heart drops. but before you can even process what you just saw, it vanishes into the shadows.

you stumble back inside and lock the door, but then you hear it—a crash from the kitchen. a china dish smashing to the floor. fuck, what if this is it? what if you’re ghostface’s next target? with a tentative breath, you step inside the kitchen, holding a lamp, ready to strike. except, it's not ghostface, it's just ellie, standing there with a sheepish smile on her face.

"fuck- i thought you were-" you start, your voice trailing off as the memory of the figure outside flashes in your mind.

"i'm sorry, jus' thought i'd surprise you and come in through the back." she explains, motioning toward the kitchen door, which was slightly ajar. "you should seriously learn to lock your doors."

her gaze then drops to the shards scattered across the kitchen floor, the delicate china dish now a jumbled mess of white and pastel blooms. "sorry 'bout that." she mutters, rubbing the back of her neck.

you let out a breath, feeling a mix of relief and irritation. lowering the lamp, you speak. "next time, just ring the doorbell?”

ellie grins. "yeah, sorry."

"whatever, just help me clean this mess." you motion to the mess on the white and black kitchen tiles.

"yep."

you can't stay mad at ellie and it's not the first time she's done something stupid like this.

𓍯𓂃

after what felt like an eternity of cleaning up the mess, you and ellie finally collapse onto your bed, grateful for the distraction of a movie. the small TV on the cabinet across the room flickers to life, and the eerie sounds of SAW II fill the space. you can feel ellie’s presence beside you—she’s sitting awfully close, her warmth radiating against your side. you steal a glance at her, and to your surprise, you catch her gulping, almost instinctively, not once, but three times already. though you're not sure if it's because of the proximity or the gore-y scenes displaying on the screen.

“not a fan of gore movies?”

she chuckles nervously, her eyes glued to the screen. “not exactly in love with the idea of people torturing each other.”  a hint of laughter in her voice, but you can sense something else underneath. something you pass off as anxiety.

you turn your attention back to the movie, but it’s hard to concentrate when you can feel the heat radiating from her. the scene on the screen darkens, and the tension builds as the characters navigate their terrifying predicament. you can’t help but steal another glance at ellie, who’s now looking directly at you.

the characters on the screen scream in despair, but you hardly register it. instead, your focus is drawn to the way her tongue glides over her plump pink lips. and god you want to kiss her badly, to taste the sweetness of her lips.

you don't miss the way her eyes dart down to your lips or the way her chest rises and falls with each breath. you take a breath, steeling yourself, and decide to be bold. you lean in slightly, heart pounding as you gauge her reaction. the air is tense, and you can see her breath hitch, taking that as an invitation, you close the gap.

her lips are slightly cracked but surprisingly soft. she makes a noise against your lips, hands gliding up to rest against your hips, but then they slowly start to wander. under your sweater, from your hips to your waist. ellie can’t help how warm her hands feel against your skin, how smooth, there’s not even callouses on them like hers. the kiss is a bit hungry and impatient, her tongue licking the seam of your lips. your hands move from your lap to cup her face as you part your lips.

the unexpected warmth of her tongue against your cheek sends a shiver down your spine, silencing the whirlwind of thoughts that had been racing through your mind. it’s a ticklish sensation, one that catches you off guard. you let out a small gasp which is muffled into her mouth. ellie continues to explore, her tongue tracing the soft contours of your cheek as if she’s savoring every little bump and curve. there’s a clumsiness to it, an awkwardness that feels endearing rather than off-putting.

when you pull away, a delicate string of saliva connects your lips. your cheeks heat up as you notice the drool glistening in her chin, a sight that is enough to make your panties wet. you lean in and lick the drool off of her, and you can feel her tense up, her hands on your waist squeezing gently. the only source of light is from the TV, and it casts shadows over both of your bodies, the screen and the voices of the characters now completely forgotten. you can feel her hands move from your waist and she’s suddenly cupping your breasts over your bra.

“is this okay?” her thumb traces circles over the soft mounds, staring at you for an answer.

you nod in return and help her remove your sweater and your bra, tossing it somewhere in the darkness. her gaze flicks down to your breasts and for awhile, she just stares. and then a quiet curse follows. her hands move to knead your breasts, watching the skin closely. then, she takes a nipple between her fingers and gently pinches it, watching your every reaction. her mouth latches onto your other breast, her tongue darting out to swirl around it and suck the hardened nub as she pleases, the soft symphony of your quiet noises echoing in the night.

you arch your back, pushing your breasts further into her mouth. she alternates between both of them, giving them both equal attention. her mouth goes dry and she has to pull away with a pop, her green eyes searching your own.

“i wanna feel you.”

her breath hitches and before she knows it, your hands are on the waist band of her jeans, fingers looping into her brown belt. her eyes darken with desire as she looks at you.

“yeah, baby?” she exhales.

the nickname makes your cunt tighten around nothing and you're hastily unbuckling her belt and tossing it away. your fingers work to unbutton her jeans and you slip a hand inside. she lets out a gentle groan as your teeth bite into the flesh of her neck. you leave a series of bruising kisses in their wake as your palm comes into contact with her boxers. to your surprise, she's soaking wet. you almost want to tease her but your desire prevails over it and you're slipping your fingers into her boxers, tracing her slick folds. she's making the prettiest noises too, already falling apart under your touch. but little did you know, she's spent years dreaming of this moment. paintings and drawings of you hidden under her bed, along with the candid pictures that she oh so eagerly waits to get off to every night.

"say you want me."

her breathing is unsteady as she opens her mouth to speak. "fuck." she grunts softly and leans her head into your shoulder. "i want you, baby. please."

her pathetic begging and whines are enough for you to give in, her cunt throbbing as your fingers rub her slick along it. it greedily sucks in your digit as you slowly add it. she feels ecstatic because this isn't a dream anymore, it's real. you add another digit, eliciting a pornographic moan from her. it isn't long until your fingers are curling around her g-spot and her walls are squelching around them.

""m close..s-so close."

"i know. just cum for me, yeah?" you coo into her ear before nipping at the skin just below her ear. and she does exactly that, letting out a strangled sob as her body gets the release she's been chasing for. you take your fingers out of her boxers and suck them clean. ellie still has her eyes shut and her head against your shoulder but she can hear the way your mouth wraps around your fingers and sucks her juices off. she's pulling away and looking at you.

and then, she's guiding you down to lay on the bed, lifting your hips up to remove your shorts until you're splayed in just your cotton panties and leg warmers in front of her. she almost moans at the sight.

"you're so-" she starts, but cuts herself off. leaning down to hover over you and planting a kiss on your temple, on your cheek and one on your collarbone. one of her hands starts rubbing the inside of your thigh as she leans in and kisses you, sloppily. her hand comes to rub your clothed cunt and you feel her muffled moan inside your mouth, as you swallow the noise. she pulls back to look down at you.

"look how wet." she smirks and you almost regret not teasing her about her own drenched underwear.

you can only whimper and lift your hips up in return as her hands hook under the waistband of your underwear and pull it off of you.

"god, so gorgeous and so wet....all for me." she murmurs, more to herself than you. her pupils are blown wide, lips parted as she moves your legs up and pushes them apart. your hands find purchase on her ass beneath her flannel as she mouths at the skin of your neck like it's her hobby. as you squeeze her jeans-clothed ass, you swear you feel an outline of something resembling a... knife. in her back pocket. you take the object out and it's indeed a knife. ellie was in a daze to notice or feel what you were doing— to busy enjoying your skin after only having imagined what it must have felt like in her dreams. your voice, however, causes her to look up from your neck. you dangle the knife in front of her.

"..why do you have a knife?"

her eyes widen a fraction before she smirks and takes the knife from you. "protection. why else?" she answers like you were dumb to even ask the question in the first place. “don’t wanna risk getting killed with ghostface on the loose.”

a pause. "but...it could come handy for other things." she glides the knife down your clavicle to your breasts, the hitching of your breath only serving to encourage her. she presses it down against one of your nipples before moving it lower— where you're aching for her the most.

the cold blade presses against your puffy clit and you moan loudly. "ellie..."

"shh." she coos, grinning down at you, almost sinisterly. she pushes it further against the bundle of nerves, making you whimper. "i need-" she cuts you off by lining the knife along your delicate entrance, you let out a cry and your eyes widen in fear and shock. she seems to notice it and pulls the knife away, but not before gliding it up and down your folds.

"i'm not gonna hurt you, baby." the words roll of her tongue like honey and you feel bad for fearing her in the first place. she places the knife beside you on the sheets and moves to place herself in between your legs. a couple of kisses to your clit before she's greedily licking at your pussy. tongue moving at a relentless pace against your clit as her hands come up to grope your tits. moans fall out of your lips like a prayer and she pushes her tongue inside your cunt before pulling back and lapping away at your juices. you're awfully close and she knows it, she can sense it by the way you're arching your back and gripping the sheets, your knuckles almost white.

"cum on my face, pretty girl." her words vibrate against your clit, causing you to moan out her name.

that elicits a moan from ellie, herself. something stirs in her, hearing you moan her name out like that. and she inserts two fingers into your sopping cunt. curling them graciously against your g-spot, hitting it over and over again as her mouth does the same to your clit.

"ellie..i can't..fuck-" your final cry of pleasure, reverberates through her body. she removes her fingers but keeps lapping at your pussy even after you cum. your weak cries do nothing to pull her away. her grip on your thighs tighten and she pushes them apart from closing. you squirm and squeak due to the overstimulation, nudging her away with all your force, but it's too weak. she doesn't seem too keen on stopping, a hand pushing down on your stomach to stop you from squirming.

"s-stop." it isn't until that word comes out of your mouth that she stops and pulls away to look at your wrecked form. cheeks flush and hair tousled. you don't know how much it affects her. you never do.

"sorry, got too carried away." she murmurs. but she's anything but sorry. after helping you lay your head down on the pillow, she pulls the covers up your body. she can tell she's tired you out by the way your eyes are half lidded and your limbs look sore. she soothes you by wrapping her arms around you, intertwining your hands, and placing a kiss on your forehead. eventually, you drift asleep.

the longer she looks at you, the world outside fades further into obscurity. you, who's sleeping blissfully, completely unaware of the fact that the knife that was pressing against your clit a few minutes ago was the same knife that she used to brutally stab and dismember the body of a classmate who dared flirt with you. you, who's probably having sweet dreams while she has to go and take care of the unconscious body of the guy who rang your doorbell this very night.

this is my first time writing smut or anything close to a fan fic!! so if you see any mistakes js ignore it :3

[justcruisingaroundrevived]

Wouldn’t it be interesting if the yandere TEC boys met up with the reader as grown ups in the epilogue of the comic after the reader moved away from them to you know, get away from their stalking and in the worst turn of events, met them at the con again?

But I Know Will Meet Again Some Sunny Day

Summary: Yandere! Epilogue! TEC x reader

TW/CW: Yandere tendencies, obsessive tendencies, kidnapping, stalking, online harassment, trolling, implied exploitation, nasty all around

A/N: You’re insane if you decide to go to any nerdy space ever again/POS

Anyways, this was so awesome to do! Need more epilogue TEC as yanderes!

Reblogs are appreciated!

* Bill had the hardest time letting you go

* Even after moving to Wisconsin with his family, he still thought about you every second of the day

* Closing his eyes, he’s be reminded of your face, and he hated it. Spent long nights staring at the ceiling, wondering about what went wrong and how he can fix it

* Was he too clingy? Too pushy? Too distant? Did he not show his emotions enough?!

* Eventually, he concludes to the simple answer: It was not his fault, it was yours. You simply didn’t reciprocate anything he gave you, and he was the perfect partner for you

* However, he pushed them away in order to start his comic book shop business, and was grinding the hours for you. He never stop thinking about you once the day was over

* He spots you first at comic con. You were looking over the limited edition comic books put up for auction and god! He could tell it was you based on the way you laugh with the person running the booth

* Pushing people aside, Bill then just stood silently behind you, watching your every move, not caring people were giving him weird stares for basically standing in the middle of the con

* When you saw him, you could feel your entire body froze. It was like you were a teenager again, but this time, you were now dealing with an older version of your stalker

* Definitely ran in the opposite direction, and Bill was right on your tail. He won’t loose you like last time

* By some miracle (tragedy in your case) he got you into a corner

* He’s so pathetic. Sweating, close to crying, stumbling over his words…he’s just a mess seeing you

* Moving slightly away from his eye sight results in him gripping his shoulders and keeping you in place while he gives the creepiest monologue in your entire life (he’s been practicing it for a decade)

* If you let him, he’ll followed you for the rest of the con, like a pathetic puppy. Doesn’t matter if you have the money or not, he’ll get you whatever you want

* It’s creepy honestly, but at least you get some free stuff out of it

* (What you don’t hear is his grumbling. He’s complaining about “Fantards ruin everything” and “You only need me. I’m the man of this relationship, I can take care of you.” Can hear a couple of words, but it’s almost vague)

* Please distract him. Point him to an auction panel and pay for the next plane ticket and get the FUCK out of there

* Sure, he’ll destroy his hotel room. You bled him dry, and now he has to call his bitch of a mom to buy him a ticket!

* No worry. He able to find your name in Facebook! Least he can online stalk you before his next big move

* Josh was honestly writing smutty fanfics about you while in college. Let’s be honest

* He was so devastated that you moved away, and what’s worse is that these fanfics were sometimes handed in, so now the professor and the whole class knew about is infatuation with you!

* Worst of all? His parents forbade him from talking to you! That meant he couldn’t even contact you online! Ain’t that disappointing

* That doesn’t mean he was completely hopeless. At college, he’d use the WiFi to see if you were in Facebook and would stare at your photos for hours and hours at a time. If he’s on break, he may or may not have…relived himself looking at pictures of you.

* Even as a comic book editor, he gets caught up writing about you. You invade even in his dreams, dammit!

* His therapist tells him he’s too obsessed, but DAMMIT! He knew what you two was special

* So when he sees you having lunch during Comic-Con, he knows this is perfect timing!

* You noticed him tapping your shoulder and are immediately spooked

* He looks exactly the same, except his hair line’s receding. He’s breathing so heavily, you have to snap your fingers to get him back into reality.

* Once you do, it’s a vomit of words. He’s so excited to see you, how have you been, you look amazing!

* You nod quietly while searching for the nearest exit

* He’s pouring his heart out to you (talking about every single detail about you. It’s very graphic and some of these things you thought only belonged to you)

* You sneakily told Josh that you were going to go get him some lunch before booking to the exit

* Josh doesn’t seem to notice. He’s so entranced in his sonnet that he’s going to get a few stares because he’s now talking to himself

* He’s so disappointed when he realizes you left. However, thanks to his “��connections”” (barely any), he can see if your name will be blacklisted from the whole comic book industry (it won’t. People barely know his name)

* In the meantime, he’s creating fake accounts and using them to send long messages about “us”. It ranges from kind of sweet to horrifying.

* You had to get a new phone number from how bad the stalking has become…at least until he finds THAT one as well

* He’s persistent, I give him that.

* You would not step into Comic con whatsoever

* Pete’s rage of you moving away is all he can think about some nights. Couldn’t you see how perfect you two were made for each other?!

* Uses a punching bag, with a picture of you on it, and absolutely goes HAM on it. He’s not stopping until he’s exhausted (or the punching bag is knocked down)

* (Definitely takes the picture and uses it for…other things)

* Even working at Sick Mofo, he actively will look for women that look like you. In some weird revenge way.

* Looks at the scar he gave himself in your initials. It’s his only motivation some days honestly

* You probably were dragged by your friends to go to this event. It was pretty okay, actually! Especially taking pictures of cosplayers

* Then…you locked eyes with Pete.

* You don’t know what happened next. All you know was that you and Pete are in the parking lot, nowhere else to go

* He’s berating you. Talking about how “All you normies as the same” and “You don’t know how good you had it!”

* …Definitely kidnaps you. Drags you to the Sick Mofo van and drives you to his hotel room

* Once there, he knows what he must do. What? You thought he came empty handed? Nope.

* Somehow, this decade long dry spell has had resulted in Pete coming up with a basic “tool kit”

* Just imagining DIY brainwashing, and that’s Pete. He wants you to “remember all of the good times” you two had. Plays his favorite horror movies, yells at you, keeps you sleep deprived. The whole shebang honestly

* Wants to break you to the very last bone.

* If it works, then awesome! If not….well, he has room in his house for his (literal) cemetery girl. You’ll never leave his sight ever again <3

* Jerry got therapy. He realized how bad his obsession for you got, and needed help.

* And he did! Does yoga, focuses on himself, and even got a girlfriend who he loves! He never thought a life without you was possible, but this is living proof of that!

* Like I said, all of the stalking was online, so you probably aren’t aware on Jerry’s true nature

* You met him at con, and it was super nice to meet him and Mandi!

* With the promise of buying con food, you three sat down and actually had a nice chat. You and Mandi got along so well, especially with your interest in the car they drove in.

* Jerry was so happy two of his favorite people were getting along…except, that aching feeling….

* Why did he feel an ache in his chest when Mandi brushed her hand on your shoulder? Why did it feel so wrong calling you an “old friend” and not his partner? He knows you’re not his property, but still…

* Said your goodbyes and exchanged numbers. Least you two can be is Facebook Friends, right?

* Looking you up, you seem to be doing good in life. Good for you! (Though he wishes he was in your college graduation photo)

* He can’t focus on anything else for the rest of the week. Staying up all night, thinking about how you moved on so fast from him. Is that fair, when he was the one who let you lay your head on his shoulder while you cry about the trolls? What about when he introduced you to Magic: The Gathering?! Did you forget about those times??? Has it been that long since you remembered him?!

* May have opened up a new trolling account and may be using it to stalk you….

* Sending you nasty messages that he’s been holding for so long; they’re so venom filled and it would make Patrick Bateman tell Jerry to tone it down

* He’s loosing sleep over this. He’s not showing up to the tournaments, has been ignoring Mandi (she left him without him realizing) and has become a shut in

* At this point, he’s surrounded by Monster Energy drinks, stale fast food, and the computer light on his face

* Made 5 new accounts to constantly harass you with, while using his public Facebook to compliment you and your accomplishments

* …it’s all your fault. You caused him to spiral like this, and he’ll make sure you pay for turning him like this

* Unless you want him, of course! Then all is forgiving, darling

[random-cockroach]

<- Putting this here too

That's what I love so much, everything is different, everything with their own vibes and plotlines. I always were in love when in stories characters that are friends or met or destined to meet end up in completely different locations and situations and you look at them all at the same time holding your hands together, that also looks like a big headache to do. I still remember how I was screaming when in One Piece all the characters were thrown in different places for 2 years and met again each at their own time. I remember how I gasped in awe when saw how each action of characters in Detroit: Become human affected other character at the end. I remember kicking my feet when 2 characters that didn't even know where they are started making a disaster that lead to other being saved (Omniscient Readers viewpoint) while others at the same time were dealing with other stuff. I keep dearly stories that pay attention to each one of characters having something unique for them and, that's by the way why I screamed when you make Monster Hunter au, making different stories in one universe WHAT ELSE CAN I WISH FOR, then happened mecha Universe and everything after I fell in love with a few more different transformers characters XDD On the other hand I also used to read a lot of webtoons/comics with one setting. Tens-hundreds just because I like the setting and want to see something interesting. But nooo, it is always the same. They all repeat each other, they don't make something new while I still hold the hope that they will finally make that one interesting story that reverses the setting. Finding someone who researches everything, reads everything, watches everything, takes the best and worst out of it, and goes completely different direction - that's what people like, saying as one of people ahah. At the same time characters get a character development and their own growth arcs, this is such a miracle to see it in our times, somehow a lot of content I come across become a one big "pink bubble full of annoying talk, colors that make your eyes hurt and they never make something that makes you think and imagine". I have no idea why I started blablabla excuse me

There’s something incredible about your aus that they start out with fun characters and world building ideas and then we all start digging underneath. And inevitably end up with a story that, for me (and I’ll only speak for my own experience here), forces me to think deeply about the world around us and life in general. And that is powerful stuff. /pos

Thank you thank you

I’m kind of dooming my AUs into that every time because I have this imaginary rule to make every storyline .uh. unique? Like if I already have “a human who randomly befriended a mer” then all other characters has to be something entirely different. So I end up starting to dig out references and experimenting with contrasting concepts and genres. And usually it leads to everyone crying because nothing makes such a contrast with simple fun as complicated suffering heh?

[thebibliosphere]

In case you were wondering how deep down the Batfam fixation hole I am, it's something I've actually been talking about in therapy a lot.

Not like, in a worried way, more just when my therapist asks me what I'm doing in my downtime, my answer always used to be either "sleeping" or "I don't have downtime. I have too much work to do."

Now my answer is "playing my Batman game" or "watching Batman show/reading comics/writing unhinged Batman x Muppet fanfic."

And my therapist is delighted. She's fucking ecstatic. She's like, "You have interests again!" and I'm like !!!! Because here's the thing.

Almost dying in 2019 kinda irrevocably fucked up my brain, like, a lot. Like a lot, a lot. And I've been grieving over that for the last few years as well as recovering from the physical aspects of it. And to cope with it, I threw myself into work even though I wasn't physically or mentally well enough, and that made everything worse, and well, if you've been here, you know.

My brain has not been kind to me for a long time. It still isn't. But I do the work. I do multiple types of therapy a week. I piece myself back together on the daily and try to remember what it means to be human and not just this numb static void that sometimes sounds like shrieking if you listen too closely.

And then randomly, a few months ago a friend bought me Gotham Knights on Steam, and it was like a light turned back on. The engine that'd been refusing to turn over for years suddenly sputtered back to life, and something in my brain went, "Hey, I remember this... this is fun?"

And then I started tentatively searching the tags here on Tumblr, and yeah, actually. I remember this. I remember enjoying this. I can dip my toes into this. This is safe. This is a childhood interest from Before the almost-dying-trauma. And besides, it won't get in the way of my work. This isn't going to consume me. Nothing consumes me like it used to. I'm too broken for that.

Except, haha, jokes on me because, for some fucking reason, Brucie fucking Wayne and his gaggle of chaotic crime-fighting children is what reached into my brain, picked up my trauma, and started shaking it loose like a category 7 earthquake.

I actually laughed about that with my therapist a few weeks ago. Of all characters, of all pieces of media, it's Batman that's helping me process a significant chunk of my emotional trauma in a healthy way.

The most emotionally constipated vigilante in superhero existence, and I'm weeping like a child every time I get an achievement in Gotham Knights, and it says some bullshit like this:

ID: a purple steam achievement icon that says: He'd Be So Proud Of You. Reach the maximum level as any member of the Batman Family. 6.3% of players have this achievement. /end ID.

(for context, Batman is dead in this game, and you are playing as his emotionally devastated children trying to keep it together. Wailing, gnashing, crying, throwing up etc, etc.)

And my therapist, who has sat with me through EMDR sessions and a multitude of other shit designed to rewire your brain, just shrugs and says, "Sometimes we need to externalize our emotions through safe media. For you, right now, that safety is Batman having a relationship with the Muppets."

And like... okay, yeah. I'll take the win on that one.

[wendichester]

｡𖦹°‧ across the room²,

summary. you've seen sam around. he's seen you too. all you're both waiting for is the perfect opportunity to go from strangers to something more.

pairing. stanford!sam winchester x reader genre. more fluffy fluffing fluff

wordcount. 1398

ᯓ★ read part 1

You blame the weather. Rainy Saturdays are basically a divine invitation to cancel plans and stay in stretchy pants. Add a looming midterm and a text from Sam Winchester that reads “Wanna study together? I promise not to distract you. Much.” and, well... resistance is futile.

So here you are, curled up on the floor of his dorm room, legs tangled in a beanbag that’s seen better days, psych textbook open but very much unread. Sam sits beside you, back propped against the bed, one leg stretched out, the other bent so his notebook balances perfectly on his knee like this is his natural habitat.

It shouldn’t be this cozy. Dorm rooms are small, usually smell faintly of ramen and gym socks, and his desk is cluttered with loose papers and a comically large water bottle. And yet—somehow—it feels like home.

The two of you have been meeting up like this for a week now. Library tables. Coffee shop corners. That one empty stairwell between classes.

And okay, maybe you both do more laughing than actual studying. Maybe your pens keep “accidentally” brushing. Maybe you’ve started recognizing his footsteps before he even enters a room.

But none of that changes the fact that there’s a midterm coming.

“I swear this chapter is cursed,” you mutter, letting your head fall dramatically back against the beanbag. “I’ve read this paragraph four times and retained nothing.”

Sam chuckles beside you. “Want me to quiz you?”

“No,” you groan. “I want you to read it to me in your deep brooding voice while I nap and absorb the knowledge through osmosis.”

“That’s not how osmosis works,” he teases, elbow gently nudging yours.

You hum. “Then what good is science?”

He snorts. You feel it vibrate through the beanbag before you realize how close you’ve drifted.

And then his voice drops, low and dramatic. “Chapter twelve: Cognitive behavioral therapy is a form of psychotherapy aimed at modifying dysfunctional emotions, behaviors, and thoughts…”

You break. Full-on giggle. “Stop, I didn’t actually mean it!”

“Too late,” he says, continuing with a straight face. “Therapists work with patients to identify patterns and—”

You throw a pillow at him. He laughs and ducks, and somewhere in the movement, you shift, and suddenly your head lands right in his lap.

Silence.

It’s not awkward. Not quite. Just… very, very still.

You glance up at him, half-expecting him to freak out or gently nudge you off. But Sam’s looking down at you like you’re the rarest species of bird and he doesn’t want to startle you.

“Sorry,” you murmur, starting to move. “Didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t,” he says quickly. “I mean… you can stay. If you want.”

You blink. “You sure?”

His fingers fidget near your shoulder. Not touching—just close. “Yeah. Feels nice.”

You settle back in place, cheeks warm. Your heart is beating too loud. Or maybe that’s his. You’re not even sure whose pulse you’re hearing anymore.

The rain keeps falling outside. Steady. Gentle.

And then—his fingers find yours. Slowly, like he’s giving you every chance to pull away. You don’t. You lace them together, feel his warmth seep into your skin like sunlight through the clouds.

You don’t mean to fall asleep. You really don’t. But his hand in yours, his other hand absently tracing circles along your arm, the steady rhythm of his breathing—it’s all just too much.

Too safe. Too soft. Too perfect.

By the time he glances down again, you’re out cold.

Sam blinks, staring at you like you just transformed into some mythological creature. His free hand hovers, then gently brushes a lock of hair off your forehead.

“You’re killing me,” he whispers.

But he doesn’t move. Not even when his leg falls asleep. Not even when the textbook slides off his lap and lands with a dull thud.

Because for the first time in months—hell, maybe years—Sam Winchester feels calm.

Like maybe he can have this. A future. Be normal. Someone to fall asleep on his lap during study sessions. Someone who makes dorm rooms feel like places worth coming back to.

Eventually, he leans back, head against the wall, eyes closing too. And for the rest of the rainy afternoon, the world pauses.

When you wake up, you’re warm.

Not just “under a blanket” warm—more like wrapped in another person’s heartbeat warm.

The kind of warmth that makes you want to stay very, very still. Because if you move, if you breathe wrong, the moment might slip away like a dream you almost remember.

Sam.

You don’t open your eyes right away—you don’t need to. His scent is already there, filling your lungs: clean skin, coffee, and something that might be his shampoo or just the quiet smell of comfort.

You’re not on the beanbag anymore. At some point, he must’ve moved the both of you up onto his twin bed, awkwardly narrow and way too short for his stupidly long limbs. You’re tucked into his side now, one leg slung over his, your face against his chest. His arm is around your back, hand splayed like he’s holding you in place even in sleep.

It’s… intimate. Stupidly intimate.

And yet, somehow, it doesn’t feel weird. Doesn’t feel too much. It feels like something you’ve both been quietly leaning toward for weeks—drifting into each other orbit like two magnets too stubborn to admit it.

You feel his breathing change—slow and deep shifting into soft, fluttering inhales.

He’s waking up.

Your eyes open just in time to see his lashes flutter, his brow crease like he’s not quite sure where he is—until he looks down and sees you.

And smiles.

“Hey,” he whispers, voice all husky and cracked at the edges.

Your heart trips over itself. “Hey.”

Silence hangs between you, thick with what now? and don’t move too fast.

You’re both blinking at each other, like you’re not sure if the other one’s real.

“Sorry,” you murmur, fingers curling slightly into the fabric of his shirt. “Didn’t mean to fall asleep on you.”

He gives a breathy laugh. “You kidding? Best part of my week.”

You glance up at him through sleep-heavy lashes. “You say that to all your study buddies?”

“I only have one.” His fingers brush your back. “And she drools on my hoodie, so she’s special.”

Your face scrunches in horror. “Did I actually—”

“No,” he grins. “But you believed me for a second, and that’s what counts.”

You swat at him, weak and half-laughing. He catches your wrist in one big, warm hand. Doesn’t let go.

And now you’re staring at each other. Close. So close. His thumb brushes gently over the side of your wrist, slow, thoughtful.

It’s quiet again. But not awkward. More like the breath-before-a-kiss kind of quiet. And this time… you don’t look away.

“You’re not gonna kiss me right now, are you?” you whisper.

His eyes flick to your mouth. Just once.

“I want to,” he says softly, like a confession he’s been carrying way too long. “But I don’t wanna screw this up.”

You can’t help the way your chest tightens. “Sam… it’s already happening.”

That gets a blink. “What is?”

“This.” You squeeze his hand. “You and me. It’s already happening. Whether we admit it or not.”

His breath catches. Like you just cracked open something big.

And then—finally, finally—he leans in.

It’s slow. No sudden moves. Just inches closing like pages of a favorite book. His nose brushes yours first, and then—soft as a promise—his lips touch yours.

And oh.

It’s warm. It’s sweet. It tastes like leftover sleep and caffeine and something new.

His hand cups your cheek like he’s afraid you’ll float away. Yours fumbles into his hair, tugging gently as the kiss deepens—just barely. Just enough.

When he pulls back, it’s not far. He keeps his forehead pressed to yours, smiling like a boy who just got everything he never dared ask for.

“Still not gonna focus in psych class,” You mumble.

He snorts. “Guess I’ll just have to tutor you.”

“Oh no! You’re gonna make me learn.” You groan, and he dramatically flops onto his back and drags you with him.

“Only I get to kiss you when I get the flashcards right.”

Your grin is crooked. “Deal.”

And just like that— Somewhere between a rainstorm and a midterm and the softest kiss of your life— Sam Winchester became your favorite kind of distraction.

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

[risestarkiss]

Being Baby Blue

Rise Ramblings #313

Leonardo Hamato is…an interesting individual.

As a middle child, he doesn’t have to shoulder the responsibilities of the oldest, nor is he fawned upon or babied over like the youngest. Therefore, he ends up having more of a lackadaisical approach to life.

In his free time, instead of training like Raph, Leo can normally be found reading comic books.

And for good reason! Someone has to be up on the latest issues of Jupiter Jim and his space odysseys.

But, other than being a Jupiter Jim superfan, who is Leonardo Hamato?

If you ask Leo, he's...*takes out a list*: “Primetime,” “First,” “The Best,” “Number One,” “The Champion,” or some other iteration of all of the above.

...Huh. Anyways...

Of course, the first thing Leo would tell you is that he's the team's "Face Man."

As the "Face Man," he’s the one that turns up the charm when they need to schmooze their way out of, or into, something.

He's the face of the group! It's a very important title, right?

Well, in this scene with Hueso, we learn what Leo really feels about his place on the team.

"There's no team with just a face man." "I'm nothing without them."

Hmm. If he thinks that he is nothing without his brothers, then what's the deal with all of this "Number One" and "Champion" talk?

I believe that Leo is exhibiting a form of Reaction Formation.

Reaction Formation is a primitive defense mechanism that involves transforming one's unacceptable feelings or emotions into the opposite.

"Solicitude may be a reaction-formation against cruelty...romantic notions of chastity and purity may mask crude sexual desires, altruism may hide selfishness, and piety may conceal sinfulness."

Leo has been creating these grandiose titles and this larger-than-life persona for himself as a means to cope with his feelings of insecurity, his anxieties, and combat his self-deprecation.

Gee, forming a larger-than-life persona to counteract their suppressed feelings also reminds me of someone else we know…

But, I digress...

Behind the fabrications, his insecurities, who he pretends to be, and who he wants to be, the real Leo is still on display, starting as early as the first episode.

He's attentive, he understands the team's strengths and weaknesses, he assesses situations, he comes up with great plans on the fly, and he is a voice of reason.

These are all the characteristics of a great leader.

However, something happens when he’s actually appointed as such.

There he goes again. He's cocky, arrogant, and act's as if he's unphased even by the prospect of loosing his brothers. If this is Reaction Formation, then what is he trying to mask with these behaviors?

Previously, he was masking his insecurities, his anxieties, and his self-deprecation, but with the faces he pulls when he thinks no one can see them, I want to say the newest emotion is fear.

He is terrified of being the leader and floundering under his new responsibilities. He's scared of the consequences of his actions, and what those consequences may mean for his brothers. However, instead of voicing his insecurities, or communicating with his team, he doubles down and falls back into old habits.

The "Face Man" persona is turned up to an 11, and things get worse and worse until...

His greatest fears have been realized.

He has failed as a leader. He has failed his brothers. He has failed to stop the invasion, and they are all going to die because of his failures.

Now he's faced with the harsh reality of his own mistakes, thus he finally faces himself.

"It's scary to be responsible for the lives you protect, your team...your family. But we do it anyway because that's what it means to be a hero."

He may be speaking to Raph, but he's talking about himself.

His words are his true feelings, the same feelings that have been holding him back this entire time. By opening up, he's able to surrender to himself and let it all go.

And it's the breakthrough we all have been waiting for.

What Leo doesn't know is that through letting go, he's able to become the true face of the group he is destined to be.

He's the face of hope.

Update: This post now also exists in video form. 😌💙

○○○○

Previous | Being Big Red

Next | Being Purple ○ Part One • Being Purple ○ Part Two • Orange, Baby!

Finale | Being Hamato Yoshi

[gravitytrips]

You are so right.

massive amount of tags below but have some good thoughts

We’ve all heard the “Scout gets too much attention” rants in the fandom but I also want to say: Scout gets too much hate.

Like, he’s decidedly NOT a coward. I have no idea where people get that from. His entire backstory is that he got fast to that he could run into danger before the fight ended. He’s got voice lines pleading for his life, but every character has voice lines where they’re weak or losing.

He’s also not that annoying to anyone but Spy (besides the people he’s killing). I’m easier on this though because it comes from gameplay habits.

Also, Scout is strong. Maybe not physically, and certainly not as much as the rest of the team, but he’s quick, acrobatic, and whip smart about surroundings. He did single handedly take on a Heavy. Sure, it was his meet-the and everyone is overpowered but still. He puts up a fight. (My favorite subversive moment of the ‘scout gets wreaked by everyone automatically’ is in Mann Swap where we see him use his skillset to match with heavy’s strength.)

It’s hilarious to punch the punching bag, ofc. But Scout is my least favorite of the main nine and it still kills me to see him in “serious” tf2 fan media with only his joke traits.

[sunlit-mess]

You know, I've been wondering this for a while now. Your hand writing is so good and legible. And it expresses so much emotion at times. Like when Lucifer was raging you wrote him saying ffffffUCCKK really expressively.How do you do it? Do you use a font?

I've tried using the same graphics tablet and pen as I do with drawing to write words but my hand writing is hot garbage every time. I seem to write better on physical paper. But digitally it's such a struggle.

Do you have any advice for making comics with handwritten speech bubbles?

Custom fonts and typefaces can set character and mood Speech bubbles do the same but are much more flexible.

I let loose on handwriting as much as I do in drawing. You can search for fonts at 1001fonts / DaFont / Fontspace or any other sites available idk

[overdressedcarp]

I've been thinking for a while about the optional Magatama dialogue in The Cosmic Turnabout where you can prompt Fulbright about what's bothering him, and for both of the wrong answers, he acts like you got it right, and actively leans into the bit. For example, if you suggest that he's exhausted by life, he agrees and claims he's thinking about quitting his job and going to space. (Honestly, mood.)

(AA 5-4 and 5-5 spoilers below the cut)

It's a good line on its own: funny, and definitely relatable. With 5-5's context, though, it brushes up against a deep-seated desire to disappear, to run away and start over, something the Phantom hasn't been at liberty to do in years. He's shackled to a seven-year-old assignment, strangled by loose ends that he can't tie off. For maybe the first time in his life, he has to wake up every day and live with the effects of his actions, made blisteringly real in the form of the people he hurt.

(Do I think he's walking around harboring deep, profound remorse for UR-1? Not really, no. But the self-protective lie of "my choices don't matter because I'm not really a person" only goes so far when you're clocking into work every day to hang out with the guy who's on death row because of you, who's grieving because of you, and suddenly you're the only person he trusts to hear about the monster that ruined his life, and you planned for this but you didn't plan for this and honestly at that point I'd want to quit my job and throw myself into the vast expanse of space, too.)

Also worth noting, during this entire scene, any time Fulbright goes to answer a question or make an assertion about himself, the tinted glasses go up like a shield. Eyes hidden, hand obscuring the lower half of his face. It's something he does pretty regularly throughout the game, but it's egregious here. My man is on the defensive and he's giving absolutely zero ground.

But the big thing for me is the other "wrong" option, where if you claim that Fulbright is troubled by love, the Phantom's knee-jerk "yes, and," response is to tell a story about a carp named Love who ate a bunch of goldfish because he put them all in the same tank.

In the moment it's supposed to be absurd and comical and one more example of how hapless this guy is, but in retrospect, it's kind of telling that when the Phantom tries to conceptualize love in relation to himself, the first piece of Fulbright-flavored bullshit that comes to mind is about a creature that brings pain and death through mere proximity, not out of malice, but out of nature. As though, subconsciously, he's fixated on the notion of a foreign element that's been dropped into an otherwise peaceful space. A fish that seems like it belongs there until it devours the others.

He really could have said anything—he could have made up a story about a bad breakup, or a really sad movie, or a family member who died. He could have jumped to talking about Blackquill, and how he's concerned for his emotional state given the nature of the current case. But instead, his mind instinctively gravitates to a Love that consumes everything around it: a Love defined by its capacity for violence. There was never a world where the carp could exist alongside the goldfish without hurting them.

And idk. I feel like if he wasn't feeling some kind of way about that, then it wouldn't be bleeding into his Olympic-level improv gymnastics routine to convince Phoenix that he doesn't have any secrets and you can put the supernatural lie detector away now, thanks.

[r3starttt]

okay okay!! how about reader gets back late from patrol (so tlou au) and ellie was all worried and it’s super cute and fluffy?? (change it to your preferences if you like :)

THESE WALLS

PAIRING: Jackson! Ellie x reader

CW: fluff. outbreak|tlou universe. brief-non detailed mention of overwhelming thoughts such as fear of loosing loved ones and stress.

DON'T BUY TLOU | PALESTINE MP PALESTINE LINKS | DAILY CLICK

TAGLIST

The night lay thick with a stillness so profound that even the faintest sound seemed to echo with unsettling clarity. Ellie, trapped in the small sanctuary she had carefully curated, paced restlessly. Her gaze was perpetually drawn to the door, its unyielding silence a stark contrast to the usual rhythm of your return. Each passing moment stretched infinitely, laden with a tension that seemed to deepen with every tick of the clock.

The dim glow of a solitary lamp cast a soft, golden haze over the room. Walls adorned with wooden murals and comic book covers. Delicate strands of Christmas lights wove their way across the space, their faint twinkle casting a gentle, warm light. Yet, despite the serene ambiance, Ellie’s heart was a storm of unease.

She attempted to distract herself, but the mundane details of her surroundings blurred into an indistinguishable haze. Every action seemed to drift by in slow motion, her frustration mounting with each fruitless effort to quell her growing anxiety. She knew in her rational mind that the patrol was fraught with danger, but her deep-seated fear of losing those she loved clung stubbornly to her thoughts.

The creak of the door shattered the quiet, sending Ellie’s heart leaping to her throat. She dashed to the entrance, the door swinging open to reveal you, looking slightly disheveled but otherwise unharmed. Relief surged through her, though it was quickly overwhelmed by a tidal wave of emotions.

As you stepped into the room, the scene before you was both touching and a little comical. Ellie’s usual dorky charm had been replaced by a palpable anxiety. The carefully decorated room, filled with her beloved nerdy trinkets, faded into the background as your focus honed in on her distressed face.

“Hey, sorry,” you said, offering a weary smile. The concern in her eyes was evident, and you could tell she had been struggling.

“We ran into a few more infected than we expected. It took longer to clear them out,” you explained, trying to reassure her.

Ellie’s response was sharp, but it was laced with an undertone of deep-seated worry. “I was starting to think… I don’t know, shit had happened.” Her eyes, usually so full of mischief and laughter, were now wide and brimming with concern.

You stepped closer, the old floorboards creaking softly beneath your feet. Her fingers drummed impatiently against her thighs, her gaze darting over you in a frantic search for any signs of injury.

Ellie let out a deep sigh, rubbing her temples as though trying to ward off a headache. “It’s not just about being late. It’s about you being safe.” Her voice faltered, and she turned away momentarily, struggling to regain her composure.

You reached for her hand, gently enveloping it in your own. “I’m here, Ellie. Safe and sound. Nothing is going to happen to me.”

Her eyes met yours once more, shimmering with a blend of relief and lingering anxiety. “I know, but it doesn’t make it any easier—never mind,” she murmured, her words softening as the harsh edge gave way to a tender vulnerability. Her usual playful demeanor was momentarily eclipsed by her raw, heartfelt fear.

Drawing her into a tight embrace, you felt her tense muscles slowly unwind against you. “I’m here,” you whispered into her ear, your voice a soothing balm to her frayed nerves. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

You gently cupped her face in your hands, pressing a soft, loving kiss to her lips. When you finally pulled away, a small, contented smile graced her face, her eyes reflecting the warmth of your affection.

“Hey…” you murmured, leaning in closer. “How bad do I smell?” You playfully nuzzled against her, inhaling her comforting scent, the familiar fragrance and the fabric of her hoodie enveloping you in warmth.

Ellie chuckled, a soft hum escaping her as she considered your question. “Baby diapers," your quiet laughs mingling.

Your lips beushed over hers, one last tender kiss on her lips, savoring the moment. “I love you."

“I love you too,” you replied, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. “And I’ll always come back to you.”

[skulkingfoxes]

A post-mortem of "Good Morning, Rose"

A few weeks ago, I posted my addition to the comic anthology GLIMM*R, a short comic called "Good Morning, Rose".

The reaction to it has been so uplifting and exciting. It really seemed to struck a cord with people, which, really, the best thing for me to hear as a creator. I absolutely love writing and making short comics, you can do much with so little, explore such interesting stories. The feedback I've gotten has been very heartwarming! It makes me want to explore short stories even more!

But, first, I want to talk about some of my feelings and about the process of making "Good Morning, Rose". This got a bit long, so you'll have to indulge me a bit. You should also read the comic first before reading this. Don't worry, it's only 8 pages.

Now the preamble is out of the way, lets go back to the beginning.

The idea of "Good Morning, Rose" was a nugget in my brain for a long time! Originally it was actually from the Dreamwalker's point of view, where she was a faceless entity who had a long term relationship with Rose and was trying to figure out how to explain that their relationships only were in Rose's dreams. It was a story about seeing, accepting, and loving each other truly and fully, and the trials and tribulations of getting there. Also a cute girl with an ancient eldrich being is always fun to explore.

A lot of it was too convoluted, emotionally and storywise. It also required to get into what the Dreamwalker actually was, which I ended up really not liking. So, ultimately, the idea didn't work, and I put it down. I ended up going to do my short comic Twigs instead.

When I was invited into the wlw anthology GLIMM*R and was told that the theme was "dreams", I decided to take another stab at the concept. This time, I inverted the pov, it's now Rose's story. And instead of a long term relationship, it was about the powerful first feeling of a perfect (maybe even too perfect?) first date.

One of the hardest thing to write in romance is getting readers to care about the relationship in the first place. To have the readers believe in the character's feeling, to be invested in their romance. This is even harder to do when you only have 8 pages to do it. Focusing it around a first date helped a lot in that case. There I'm not trying to sell that these two character will love each other forever and forever, just the fluttering first butterflies of realizing you're developing feeling for someone. It's why I leave it so open-ended about whether the two of them meet again at the end of the comic, or even if it was real in the first place. It's just not the point of the story.

That's something important about writing short stories, I find. You really have to hone in on an idea, on a thought. Take a simple idea and try to find all of the interesting layers. It's too easy to try to stuff a short story with too many ideas that ultimately go unfulfilled. In fact, the first draft of the comic, at the time called "Dream Date", there was a big problem with this and the pacing.

Here, take a look at the first stab at the roughs:

(BTW, there is something so fun about roughs for me lol. The art is so kinetic and loose, all about just getting the story across)/

As you can see, a lot of the ideas and imagery made to the final version of the comic. But both the initial readers and I agreed that the beginning and end were good, but the middle was messy and slowed things down. You can also see that I got stuck in the same problem I did when I first conceived of the story, it's bogged down trying to understand the Dreamwalker in a way that actually hurts the story. You simply dont have any room for bad pacing a short comic like this. I need to focus more on the character's and their emotions and exploring their actual relationship rather than blandly trying to explain the situation. A friend also suggested that I should hone in on the fluid dream-like aspects of the first couple of pages, especially since it's so fun to explore in the medium of comics. So I got to work gutting it out and trying again with the new, much stronger imo, direction.

Also there were some issues with the page format that needed changes for printing, thus the final spread had to be split up. Which is a shame, but oh well, it still works. I also honed in a lot more on Rose and her insecurities. I ended up putting a lot of myself into Rose. I'm glad readers seems to able to relate to her.

After figuring out the the story and the pacing, I went and, well, made the comic. Once you've done as many comic pages I have at this point, once you figure out a process, the actual drawing is fairly straightforward. Eventually, after thinking, and drawing, and toiling, and revising, and thinking hard about my life choices, I come out of the other end of the tunnel with a comic. One that I ended up really liking. One that other people ended up liking, which is always crazy to me.

I got a lot of interesting reactions to the comic. One demographic thinking it was sweet, wanting more of it (always a flattering thought), and enjoying the romance. Other remarking on the bittersweetness of it all, finding your soulmate in a dream, maybe never to see them again if they were even real in the first place. There were a lot of people remarking how they had a similar dream, one where they met someone they seemed totally and completely convinced that they were real and told the dreamer so, until the dreamer woke up. There was one person who asked if I had met the dreamwalker myself. Alas, my dreams are not this romantic and straightforward.

But all of us can hold hands, nod at each other, united by one universally true statement: big eldritch lady hot.

There's a lot of little bits I can talk about, like how Rose's dress is actively modeled after selkie dresses because I think they're cute, or some other trials and tribulations. But I think I've finished all I have had to say. I hope you enjoyed this and will stick around for my future projects! I definitely want to explore more short stories in the next year, especially as I am illustrating big graphic novels for my day job and don't have the time or energy for huge projects.

Till then, thank you so much! Happy holidays and have a good new year!

[thaltro]

Will your nightwatch au have any reimagining of how determination works, especially when it’s mixed with positivity, negativity, or void? Does it invert negativity/positivity by creating hope in despair and discontentment in happiness? Is it a force that resists the will of the creators/narrative (pro free will) or enforces it (anti free will)? If determination is amplified by the presence of negativity in order to ensure survival, can a determined character with negativity-based powers (not to assume what other ship kids may appear in the au or anything) with enough negativity going through their system doom spiral until the determination is tearing them apart at the seams?

(I have uh, been thinking about the logistics of this since mid 2018 don’t mind me)

Yes kinda - I’ll explain rn I medicalize a lot of concepts. I’ll also explain it inside the comic but here’s some minor stuff:

The main medical condition I focus on is “corruption”

In nightwatch, monsters bodies are incredibly vulnerable to foreign code. The most common example of this is getting sick, a monster absorbs a small viral bit of code, their body is overwhelmed and get symptoms of sickness, and eventually their body deals with the minor illness and everything is fine. But sometimes code changes can be too potent for a monster, creating chronic and sometimes terminal syndromes. This is what is called corruption.

Here are the three known corruptions (they are umbrella diagnoses)

Substance corruption:

substance corruption is the most common, (think nightmare and geno)

A potent substance that shouldn’t be within a monster gets in a monster and overwhelms their code permanently. This is a big category holding many different syndromes but the one thing in common is their physical form literally breaking down.

Some examples could be monsters having human soul substance injected into them, wether it be kindness or determination their bodies will be corroded slowly from the overwhelming code substance. Nightmare eating the apples count too, it’s code being too potent and quickly destroying his entire body.

This can be slowed down with treatment, reversion therapy is one but substance blockers are an alternative.

Void corruption:

Void corruption is rare, (think error, blue error, or fatal error)

When a entity is exposed to the Voids for too long, they may go through a slow process of void corruption. starting with sickness, then symptoms of confusion and amnesia, and lastly physical changes. The most identifiable trait is their final physical appearance, changes in color, additional limbs, open code numbers on anatomy, and glitching.

Their code gets randomized, new traits are gained and old traits are lost. Chronic pain, paranoia, hallucinations, delusional obsessions, and emotional instability are all caused by the distortion of their mind (and isolation of the void)

Treatment is difficult as a majority of patients show hostility to medical intervention. However reversion therapy is theorized to be affective for treating the patients.

Passive corruption:

Passive corruption is less common then substance but more common then void (think cross and killer)

When a conscious entity purposely changes another’s code. The victim goes through periods where they loose autonomy to the entity’s influence. The symptoms vary because it’s up to the foreign entity’s desire but it’s possible to see a change in voice, physical appearance, mental stability, and magical capabilities within the victim. The most well known example in the fandom is overwriting someone, but killer being controlled and reworked by the player is also passive corruption.

Reversion therapy and substance blockers work affectively as treatment.

Additional notes:

A monster can inhibit more then one category. For example, killer while gaining the substance of determination through passive corruption, would technically have both substance corruption and passive corruption.

This is a huge concept in nightwatch. There’s many additional elements like the specific affects of human soul substance, but i fear that would be too much of a rant from me.

Human traits are a medical thing in nightwatch, monsters cannot naturally have human substance, but can gain it through corruption. It’s not a trait of personality or belief or emotion.

It would be difficult to quantify and explain how human traits connect with feelings even within humans themselves, all systems I’ve seen do that don’t really make sense to me (cough glitchtale) so I made it a medical thingy. I’m not too sure if this is the answer you wanted but I tried.