#Then there's also a part of me that's like “does anyone even care at this point? haven't I already talked about them too much?”

[moonlitlilith]

Chapter Four: The Boutique

Warnings: Escort x billionaire dynamic, Power imbalance (navigated and explored), Age gap (50m / 28f), Post-breakup emotional damage (on his end), Feminine rage + soft power, Men in suits, emotionally repressed, whiskey as a coping mechanism, Mutual pining (yes, even with a contract), Glamour.

Pretty woman, I couldn't help but see, Pretty woman, that you look lovely as can be, are you lonely just like me?

You're halfway through your first coffee when he sets the card down on the marble counter.

Black. Sleek. Heavy in a way that screams limitless.

“Go shopping,” Harry says without looking up from his phone. “Use this.”

You glance at the Amex and then at him, cautious. “For what?”

“Everything,” he replies simply. “You’ll need options. The charity gala Thursday, the dinner with Eli next week, and the Met board thing. Formal, cocktail, and...whatever rich people wear to pretend they care about art.”

He says it like it’s an errand. Like he’s asking you to pick up milk.

But it’s not.

You nod slowly, unsure how to even begin choosing clothes for that life. You weren’t raised around Met boards and curated hors d'oeuvres. You’ve borrowed heels, you’ve faked your way through designer tags ... but now?

Now it’s real.

Harry finally looks at you, sharp but not unkind. “Take Luca. And if anyone gives you trouble-” he nods toward the card, “they won’t.”

You force a smile. “Right. Trouble. Of course not.”

*****

It’s only ten minutes into your first boutique when you feel it.

The shift.

You’ve worn expensive before, dressed up for older men, played the part of a girlfriend or muse or whatever story the night required. But this? This is different.

You’re alone. Not on a man’s arm. No whispered introductions, no hovering assistant murmuring “She’s with Mr So-and-So.”

Just you in a boutique off Fifth Avenue, with a card that means nothing to the woman eyeing your boots.

“Can I help you?” the sales assistant asks, voice clipped and eyebrows already making a decision about you.

You smile politely, lifting the hanger on a dark green silk gown. “Looking for something for a formal event.”

Her gaze flicks over you. “Price range?”

You offer the card subtly, casually, the way Harry does but she doesn’t even glance at it.

Instead, she murmurs something to the woman beside her, who tries to suppress a smirk.

They’ve seen you before. Or someone like you.

The ones who come in clinging to wealthy men. The ones who don’t last long.

“I think we’re fully booked for private appointments today,” she says, somehow both apologetic and patronising. “You’re welcome to browse, of course.”

You nod tightly. “Thanks.”

You leave five minutes later without touching another hanger.

The second store is worse.

A tailor eyes your figure like it’s a liability. “These silhouettes don’t tend to flatter…” he says, gesturing vaguely.

You don’t ask flatter what.

You walk out.

The third store won’t even buzz you in.

By the fourth rejection, you’re standing on the curb, sunglasses on, coat pulled tight even though the sun’s out. Luca’s waiting by the car, watching silently, hands folded neatly in front of him like he sees this sort of thing all the time.

Maybe he does.

You grip your phone, staring at Harry’s name in your messages.

You shouldn’t text him.

You’re supposed to be polished, poised. An investment, not a liability. The last thing you want is to look like a girl who can’t buy a damn dress without him holding her hand. That wasn't you.

But you also have three black-tie events on your calendar and nothing to wear and all the money in the world doesn’t matter when you’re treated like a thief with a sugar daddy’s card.

Your thumbs move before your pride can stop them.

Hi. Tried a few places. No luck. Not exactly… being served. I don’t think they were impressed I came alone.

You hover. Then send it.

Three dots appear almost instantly.

Where are you now?

Your heart kicks up.

Before you can type a reply, Luca’s phone rings. He murmurs something to Harry, then turns to you.

“Mr Castillo wants to meet you at the next stop. He said to take you somewhere that actually deserves your time.”

You stare at the driver. Then down at your phone.

Harry’s text comes through:

Wait for me. I’ll fix it.

And just like that, the air shifts again.

Not because he’s coming to save you but because you’re starting to realize he never saw you as the problem. The world did.

*****

The car pulls to a discreet stop outside a sandstone townhouse that doesn’t have a name, just one black awning and a small gold plaque too subtle to photograph.

You’re still turning that detail over when the passenger door opens and Harry steps in.

No jacket. Crisp white shirt rolled at the forearms. The same tie you helped him knot that morning. Still looks like he owns every room he enters.

He doesn’t greet you right away. Just looks at you. Face unreadable.

You shift in the seat, smoothing your coat across your thighs. “That was quick.”

“You didn’t call,” he says simply.

You shrug. “Didn’t want to bother you.”

“That’s not your job. Bothering me.” He nods at the boutique outside. “That is.”

A small smile lifts the corner of your mouth, despite yourself.

He gets out of the car, opening the door for you. It felt different with him here. Lighter, somehow. Or heavier in all the right ways. Like you can breathe again and it hurts a little.

You’re on your feet before you know it, your arms brushing as he steps beside you.

“You don’t have to....”

“I want to,” he says quietly, cutting you off. “And frankly, I’m a little insulted you didn’t use the card properly.”

You blink at him. “I tried.”

“You texted.”

“That was me being restrained.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Next time, tell them who sent you.”

“I shouldn’t have to.”

That earns you a glance. Sharp. But not unkind.

“No,” he says. “You shouldn’t.”

A pause. He watches you for a moment longer than necessary. Then:

“Didn’t like the idea of you being treated like a stranger in my city.”

You swallow, heart thudding. Your city.

Then his voice drops, casual but deliberate. “They’ll be better here.”

Inside, everything is glass, velvet, silence. Not a boutique, a salon. The kind of place where they don’t display price tags because everyone here already knows.

A man in all black greets you both by name, which throws you because you never gave yours.

“Miss,” he says, bowing his head slightly. “Mr Castillo requested we close the space for your visit. Champagne? Coffee?”

Harry lifts a brow at you like your call.

You murmur, “Champagne.”

Harry smiles, pleased and gestures for the man to begin.

“Let her see everything,” he says. “And I mean everything.”

*****

They bring out everything.

Runway gowns still tagged and pinned. A tailor appears like magic. So do heels in your size, hair clips, jewels in soft velvet trays.

Harry sits on the edge of the leather sofa, jacket discarded, one arm draped casually over the back while you slip behind the screen.

You change. Slowly. Carefully. The first dress is a miss, too stiff, too shiny. The second… too predictable.

But the third…

It’s silk. Not red, not black but something liquid in between. The kind of tone that shifts with the light. It clings and falls just right. High slit. Low back. Bare shoulders. Like it was sewn onto your spine. It was you.

Poised. Dangerous. Cinematic.

When you step out, the room hushes.

Harry stands immediately.

He doesn’t say anything for a beat. His jaw tightens. His fingers twitch slightly by his side. His gaze skims from your throat down to your ankles and then, slowly, back up.

“That one,” he says.

“That one?” you echo, lifting a brow.

“You already knew before you walked out here.”

You give him a faint smile. “Wanted to see your reaction.”

He exhales through his nose, gaze sharp. “You got it.”

There’s something in the way he looks at you now like he’s holding himself still with effort. Like if he blinked, he’d miss you. Or say too much.

You take a step closer.

“So what’s the damage?” you ask. “Or am I still pretending not to know you paid off someone to get this here in ten minutes?”

Harry’s smirk is slow. Dangerous.

“I pay people to know what I want before I ask.”

“And what do you want, Mr. Castillo?” You don’t say it like a tease. You say it like a challenge.

His eyes darken.

You don’t move.

The air between you is tight. Charged. A crackle of something that feels like it might finally tip.

But he doesn’t answer.

He just turns slightly toward the assistant and says, “We’ll take it."

Then, to you, without missing a beat:

“Lunch?”

You nod. But your heart’s thudding in your ears. Not because of the dress, or the attention. But because… for the first time in a long time, you’re not sure if this is still an arrangement.

“Mr. Castillo, we do have other dresses for her to try, if you have the time,” the assistant offered politely, glancing between them.

Harry felt his throat tighten, an unexpected flutter stirring deep in his chest. Should he call it a day and spare himself this exquisite torment, or stay and watch as you transformed, slipping into gown after gown like a goddess in her element?

The thought was both thrilling and torturous.

Harry cleared his throat, forcing a steady tone. “Yes, please. Let’s see what else you have.”

His eyes never left her as you moved gracefully between the racks, each dress accentuating a different side of you - strong, vulnerable, untouchable.

He told himself to stay composed, but inside, every moment felt like a battle between control and desire.

“Show me everything,” he murmured, almost to himself.

*****

Harry sat behind you, legs crossed, phone in his hand but not really looking at it. His gaze flicked up every few seconds, locked on the way the gown draped against you curves.

“I can feel you staring,” you said lightly, meeting his eyes in the mirror.

His mouth curved. “Can you blame me?”

The stylist smiled politely, oblivious or pretending to be, as she stepped back to study the silhouette. “Mr. Castillo, would you like her to try the sheer one next? The Dior?”

He blinked, straightened. “Yes. Sure. Let’s see it.”

You rolled your eyes with a teasing smirk and disappeared behind the folding screen, the soft swoosh of fabric marking your exit.

Moments later, you stepped out. It wasn’t sheer, exactly. But the dress was gossamer, layered, delicate. Skin-toned mesh beneath embroidery, and a long slit up the side. You looked otherworldly. And a little dangerous.

Harry stood. Just stood.

You raised an eyebrow. “Too much?”

His throat moved. “That wasn’t the word I had in mind.”

You turned toward the mirror, pretending to admire the beadwork, but watching him instead. The way he tugged at his cufflink. The way his eyes moved like he was cataloging every inch of you.

The stylist re-entered and began adjusting the hem again, but Harry didn’t sit. He stayed standing, his hand drifting up to his mouth.

“You alright?” you asked under your breath, the ghost of a grin on her lips. He met your eyes in the mirror, his voice low.

“I need a moment.” you tried not to smile too wide.

*****

He shut the door softly behind him, but it may as well have slammed. The image of you burned behind his eyes, all long legs, bare skin under whisper-thin fabric, and that expression. Calm. Unbothered. As if you had no idea what you’d just done to him.

He dragged a hand down his face and exhaled through his nose, jaw clenched tight.

What the hell is wrong with me?

You were supposed to just try on a dress. He was supposed to sit there, give an approving nod, maybe a smooth compliment if you looked good. Not feel his heartbeat thunder against his ribs like some schoolboy with a crush.

But then you walked out in that Dior - translucent, elegant, fucking dangerous and his brain had short-circuited. The way the light hit you, the teasing hint of nipple beneath that mesh, the outline of your hips… Christ.

And it wasn’t just your body, it was you. The way you carried herself, like you owned the room. Like you didn’t need his opinion at all, but knew you had it anyway.

He braced both palms on the cool marble of the hallway console table, bowing his head, trying to will himself back to neutral.

You’re being reckless.

This was just a contract. Just company. But it didn’t feel like just anything anymore.

He laughed under his breath, bitter and breathless. He’d told himself he’d be fine, that this arrangement was contained. But he hadn't factored in you showing up in Dior looking like that and smiling like you didn’t know you already had him by the throat.

He needed a minute. Maybe several.

And he sure as hell needed to stop imagining what it would feel like to take that dress off you.

He took a minute before walking back in to see you shift slightly, hands pressed to your hips, the weight of the silk gown feeling heavier now that the assistant who was helping you has stepped away to fetch something.

Harry notices the hesitation flicker across your face.

“Need a hand?” he offers, stepping closer. You hesitate. He’s not the kind of man who usually gets this close, not this fast. But the zipper is stubbornly out of reach, and the quiet space feels suddenly smaller with just the two of you.

You nod almost imperceptibly. He moves behind you carefully, one hand resting lightly on your waist for balance. His fingers find the zipper tab at the small of your back. The metal is cool beneath his touch. Slowly, deliberately, he begins to pull it down.

The fabric parts inch by inch, the softness of the silk sliding against your skin, leaving your back exposed to the warm air and to his presence.

You catch your breath but keep still, feeling the weight of his touch, the closeness between you. His other hand grazes lightly along your side, steadying you.

“Almost there,” he murmurs, voice low and steady. The zipper finally reaches the bottom, and he lets the dress fall slightly, his hands sliding down your hips to release the fabric fully.

You turn your head just enough to meet his eyes in the mirror. There’s something unspoken there, an electric charge that hums between you.

“You made that easier than I expected,” you say, trying to keep your voice light. He smirks softly.

“That’s because I wasn’t expecting it to be such a privilege.”

The assistant returns then, but neither of you move immediately. For a moment, the air hangs thick with something more than silk and silkiness.

*****

Later, you sit on a velvet stool sipping your second glass of champagne while she boxes your selections, not just the red gown, the dior and two others Harry insisted on, plus a pair of heels so tall you suspect they double as weapons.

You lean toward him. “I’ve never had someone... do that before.”

“Do what?”

"Show up. Normally, clients.. They either send instructions, have something picked out already, or don’t give a damn what I wear, as long as I fit the image."

He studies you for a moment, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Sounds like you’ve dealt with a lot of men who treat you like an accessory.”

He shrugs, voice low but steady. “I’m not one of them.”

There’s a quiet weight behind the words like a promise or a challenge.

You roll your eyes to lighten the mood. “Might spoil me.”

“You’re supposed to be spoiled.”

He says it evenly, like it’s a given. Like you deserve it - not because of what you can offer, not because of what’s written into any contract, but because he’s decided you’re worth showing up for.

You look at him then, really look and feel something tighten low in your chest.

You’re not supposed to fall for clients.

But something about him is different.

He doesn’t treat you like a transaction.

He treats you like something valuable.

Something his.

But then Harry’s phone rings.

He checks the screen, jaw ticking. “I need to take this. Five minutes.”

You nod, already used to this part. Business never sleeps. Especially not when you run empires.

“Use the time,” he says, already walking toward the door. “Pick out whatever else you need. For the events. Or not.”

He pauses. Looks over his shoulder.

“Get something you like.”

Then he’s gone.

You should feel dismissed. But you don’t. You feel… curious. You're rarely told to get something you like.

The assistant comes over cautiously, as if she’s not sure how far the tone’s shifted now that the man has left the room.

You smile at her. Not sweet. Not fake. Just… solid.

“I want to see the lingerie suite.”

She blinks. “Oh. Certainly. Right this way.”

You follow her down a short corridor and into a smaller, more intimate dressing space, lower lights, mirrors with soft-glow edges, a velvet armchair in the corner. The racks here are hung with silk and lace, all in pale creams and blacks and garnet tones that feel like something out of an old French film. Expensive. Timeless.

You skim your fingers across them.

This isn't for Harry. No sex remember? This is for you. Because you like the way a good piece fits, especially under a good dress. How it makes your shoulders square and your spine straighten. How a well-cut slip can feel more powerful than a ballgown.

You pick something simple, sheer, black, no unnecessary frills. Just enough to make your skin feel like it’s humming.

You’re halfway through adjusting the straps in front of the mirror when the door clicks.

You freeze.

And in the reflection, you see him - Harry, backlit in the doorway, mid-step, eyes dragging slowly up your figure.

He wasn’t supposed to be here yet.

But he is.

And he doesn’t move.

You don’t cover yourself. Don’t flinch. You just hold his gaze in the mirror and let the moment hang.

His throat works once.

“I thought you were....” he stops, the words catching on something.

“I was,” you say lightly. “But then I saw this and thought... why not?” Your tone is casual. Your expression isn’t. But God you were trying.

Neither is his.

You turn, slowly, to face him fully. No robe. No dressing gown. Just the thin black sheer lace clinging to your hips, your skin still flushed from the velvet of the slip sliding over it.

He exhales, not loudly. But enough for you to notice.

“I told you to pick something you liked,” he says, voice low.

“I did.”

Another beat.

“I’ll give you a minute to change,” he says after a moment, his voice tighter now. He starts to turn.

But then pauses. “Unless you want to wear it out.”

You arch a brow. “To lunch?”

He smiles faintly. “Not for lunch.”

You hold that silence between you like a flame.

Then you say, just loud enough to follow him as he finally steps out of the room, “It’s not in the contract, remember?”

He stops. Shoulders tense.

Then- “I remember.”

But he doesn’t look back this time.

And when you finally change and meet him outside, his gaze doesn’t drift below your collarbone. Not once.

But his jaw is set a little tighter.

And he doesn't take another call all afternoon.

*****

He hadn’t meant to walk in. Not like that.

He’d just stepped away to take a call, expecting you to still be in the dressing suite, maybe deciding between gowns or sulking a little over the earlier mess at the first boutique. He hadn’t expected to push open the private fitting room door and see you - back turned, spine arched slightly, slipping into something sheer and silk that clung like a secret.

Time didn’t stop but something in him did.

Not because he hadn’t seen a beautiful woman in lingerie before. He had, too many times, too casually. But this was different.

It wasn’t for him. That was the part that hit him hardest. You hadn’t chosen the pale ivory slip or the black lace for effect. It wasn’t a performance. You hadn’t called him in with a coy smile or a knowing look. You hadn’t even known he was watching.

And yet he was.

Rooted to the spot, watching the delicate line of your shoulder as you adjusted the strap, your hip tilting slightly under the curve of expensive silk. You looked powerful like that. Unaware and unapologetic. There was no performance, no artifice, just a woman reclaiming her own body in luxury she had earned the right to wear.

It shouldn’t have mattered, but it did.

Because he knew women who wore lingerie like armor, like bait, like business. But you? You wore it like rebellion. And for a man like Harry - who could buy anything, control everything - that was intoxicating.

He cleared his throat before stepping back, before you saw the look on his face. Because it wasn’t in the contract. And this...this felt like crossing a line that neither of you had spoken aloud. Not yet.

But fuck, if the image didn’t brand itself behind his eyes like it would for the days that followed.

----------------------------------------------------------

You guys are amazing so I had to give you another one! I've been working on this one for the past few days so I hope you love it 🖤

Taglist: @katssecretdiary

[yanderes-galore]

I'm a sucker for ULTRAKILL yanderes with a Survivor! Darling... Even though I'm not the only person who had this idea.

Yandere! V1 HCs

(Last Human! Darling)

Pairing: Platonic/Romantic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Overprotective behavior, Violence, Murder, Blood, Stalking, Dubious companionship/relationship.

One of my favorite ideas when it comes to V1 (and V2) is the idea that their programming would kick in around a human.

I'm also just a sucker for the last human troupe in ULTRAKILL.

So if we take all that into account....

Imagine Yandere! V1 finding one of the last humans in this realm and having its programming kick in to protect you.

I am aware that I am not the only person who came up with this idea... but let me yap about it because I enjoy it :(

V1 would be a bit conflicted on what to do at first.

On one hand, you have blood in you... and blood is what fuels its parts.

On the other hand... It remembers its original purpose was a way to protect humans from other humans or machines.

So while part of it feels the need to harvest your blood... It has not had anything or anyone to defend in a while.

Maybe as a result its long forgotten programming kicks on when it sees you attacked by rogue machines or demons.

You think it's over, even with your enhancements to survive you think it's over...

Only for a machine to practically liquidate the threat, blood coating its blue metal.

Its yellow camera-like lens then clicks to you, the machine scanning you for what seems like injury...

Before reaching out a hand to lift you up.

I feel like V1, similar to Gabriel, is a ruthless protector.

Although, while Gabriel knows more about care due to humans originally worshipping him, Heaven, and God...

V1 knows only bloodlust.

As a result, its protection is going to be ruthless with less care than an angel.

Nothing can hurt you if it dies instantly, right?

Although... Maybe V1 will express some basic care that develops as it consumes more blood due to how supernatural blood acts in this universe.

It is learning to adapt, after all....

Its care starts as something basic, something like how a machine would normally act with a human.

It scans your vitals, it checks for injury, it doesn't really speak much but it does have a very monotone voice.

To it at this point, care and protection is just keeping you alive.

But this machine is also your only form of company.

So naturally... When things are quiet or you need a rest, you start talking to it.

It begrudgingly allows you to rest since you are flesh and it is metal.

There's times you sit down in the blood covered area, no doubt right after the machine purging everything there before letting you in... and just speak.

Surprisingly the machine listens, already expressing a surprising amount of sentience compared to other machines you've encountered.

After all... You weren't really expecting it to settle near you with its lens watching you carefully.

I think it would be neat if it slowly switched from cold murder bot to... one strangely fixated on you as a yandere?

It already has the goal of eradicating anything breathing but you if it has blood.

But with you?

It likes to listen to you, to watch over you once the carnage is over.

It drags you into Hell to fuel itself yet also watch over you.

It constantly scans for danger, immediately eliminating a room before coming back to you to tell you it's safe.

You originally see it as a guardian, a tool for your survivor... even if you expect your demise to occur eventually.

You're not meant to survive... but this machine surprisingly provides you good company until the time comes.

Your downtime is originally quiet, you talking to yourself as the machine listens.

Yet it soon becomes the machine finding ways to entertain you with coin tricks or curiously prodding at your fleshy form.

You never expected this machine to adapt more... human-like behavior around you as you travel with it.

It's like it learns from you... and its insatiable lust for blood seems to be one factor explaining why.

Essentially, V1 develops sentience the longer it digs through Hell's layers.

Which means how it feels towards you can... vary.

It acts more human to you... but it's hard to tell the difference between mimicry and actual sentience.

But it's nice comfort regardless... be it platonic or some mockery of romance.

Sometimes for comfort you allow the machine to indulge in its curiosity... to poke and prod at you during times you aren't fighting for a chance of survival... or redemption.

You yearn for comfort, for touch, even if it's synthetic.

Which the machine... seems rather eager to give?

It's weird... considering its normally murderous nature.

It was created to kill... yet due to how much blood it's absorbed, it seems to want to adapt to you.

Platonic or romantic doesn't matter... It's dubious and would probably only reciprocate what it learns from you.

There's times it even brings up things you talked about, as though curious to learn about your struggles as a descendent from its creators.

Nothing seems able to come between you and the machine.

No demon, machine, or angel will pry you from it.

It doesn't quite understand love... but it does feel a need to keep you close.

It feels nice when you're close.

It's a feeling it isn't used to... but it enjoys it a lot.

Even if something did kill you... It could go one of two ways.

The machine feels the need to keep you close forever... so it absorbs you into it for fuel.

Also... Isn't this already the afterlife?

Perhaps it could find you again... in spirit... heaven or hell.

Let's be honest, it probably wouldn't even allow death to take you from it.

You have given it a purpose other than bloodshed for fuel.

So even if it has to defy what God has left behind...

It will find a way to find you again, no doubt just to find that purpose again.

[beatingtheouijaboardallegations]

some more thoughts I wrote about nonspeakers and intellectual disability:

I want to live in a world where people understand motor issues and no one gives us IQ tests that set us up to fail, and in that world probably less nonspeakers would be diagnosed with ID. But more than that I want to live in world where being assumed to be intellectually disabled is not the end of the world, is not a traumatic life sentence we feel a desperate need to cast off once we can type. Because growing up as a kid with an intellectual disability is not such a scary hopeless violent experience. Because all our thoughts are respected, we all can learn and communicate and choose our lives be treated as full people.(At worst, maybe ‘treated like I have ID’ means ‘Before I could type, people explained things simply or with visuals that I didn’t need and it was annoying’ , not ‘I was treated like a toddler who could not want or feel anything whose life could not be my own’. )

I want a world where people care about what we want and think it matters , and we don’t need prove anything to get the support we need to reach our goals. Which means nonspeakers can graduate from college and be religious leaders and get our work published and write poetry with fancy words. But also, where that is not the standard and other lives are not seen as less. And where we don’t have to say our wants and dreams in perfect language so people think we are capable of having them at all.

this part is in response to a discussion about this post by Nigh,functioning.autism:

Will be honest: I would not have noticed the problems in this post on my own. I paid more attention to the ‘it’s not your fault’ message for parents. I prefer ‘don’t feel guilty because its the system, not you’ to ‘don’t feel guilty because your speller is wise and empathic and will forgive you immediately.’ but I wish I saw the same amount of ‘apologize to your child’ and ‘it’s okay to be angry’ affirmations for nonspeakers. I don’t see many posts telling parents it’s ok to feel guilty , but they need to process their guilt separate from us. It takes a long time to come to forgiveness sometimes after a life of trauma. And many of us never do. It’s a big reason some spellers never openly type with our parents , the resentment and trauma is just too much. But that always gets simplified to ‘theyre dysregulated because they want to type with you more than anyone so their body resists.’ Here’s a quote from the Spellers Guidebook “rarely if ever does a new speller speak out negatively about their parents, they are grateful for parents introducing communication and the past is forgiven on the spot.” A lot of times that comes from fear and not wanting to have our communication taken away. and this creates expectation that not angry not hurt not terrified not have all the feelings that complex trauma survivors have. we need both space to process that separate from our parents, and to have honest conversations with our parents about our relationship and about the past. After learning to type I still needed to learn how to use my voice to be brave and assertive to say ‘you hurt me’ to the people I loved most. That’s a communication skill more important than writing a college paper. I know it’s one that most non-disabled people struggle with too.

But this post is not as obviously bad compared to everything I see in the spelling community that is active hateful disowning of people with intellectual disabilities. but I see how it fits the pattern and that is something we all have to work on disrupting. I am sure even some of what I write ends up fitting the pattern even as I try carefully not to.

I want to ask for compassion for how hard it is to break that pattern, especially for spellers who have known it our whole life who were given ‘not ID’ as a key to our survival. It was so upsetting to realize that the spelling community at large has a smaller vision than mine for what freedom looks like. But there are also many spellers that share my vision for real freedom. I think people can share that vision and still use the language they’re used to, like ‘nonspeaking is not nonthinking’ and ‘we are in here’ and even ‘we don’t have ID’. Just like a lot of our language, they are not always literal. They are like gestalts for that whole idea of a world where we are treated as human. And the type of ‘everyone is human no matter how they think’ that we are moving towards in this group is so rare to come across. Most of us are gatekept by our supporters into the spelling world alone, away from the big disability community or even the big AAC community. Many of us do not get the chance to see how much we have in common with our peers with ID. And many parents of spellers don’t let their kids have that community , because we are ‘too good’ for a life with other developmentally disabled people in it. I have lost touch with most of my old classmates with ID and most do not have phone numbers or access to the internet. And DD community day programs or art groups are too risky and trauma inducing to meet people in. The chance of being infantilized or abused or just bored is so high.

I understand impact over intention. But, when a nonspeaker or someone close to us is saying something like this, I can usually feel what is underneath the words. Sometimes it is truly anti-ID a need to separate selves from the other, the disabled people even more below us. That is not ok. We can also be so ableist towards those who remind us of our past , or we see as ‘beneath’ us. I read from many spellers and parents / CRPs who are choosing between wanting freedom for all nonspeakers and the horrible fact that the world rewards us for leaving some of us behind, it is easier to reach our goals in life if we escew disability. I choose not to share community with spellers who do that.

But sometimes the meaning underneath is ‘we are all human’ is ‘no one should be treated like I was’, all the true freedom ideas we are talking about. Those two people can use the same words, because we are passed these easy scripts to use claim our humanity. sometimes to tell the meaning underneath I need to know who the person is, have someone read me their other writing, learn what ideas they are working with and what communities they are in. That is not easy, and I ask members of this group not to dismiss our writing because you see red flags for exclusion in our language. Yes, there is a pattern , but each person means something different when they follow it , and speakers owe it to us to figure out what that meaning is before they decide it needs to be corrected. I don’t think anyone in this group is doing this, but I want to be sure that this does not spread into frame spellers as some elite disabled group who are being ‘horizontally ableist’ , as I have seen online sometimes ( on Tumblr especially). We are traumatized people who are denied access to information and told that we must accept a fixed narrative for others to accept our personhood. And have seen posts that are framed as talking TO nonspeakers by people not in our specific community, usually autistic people who became nonspeaking as adults and want their own cognitive based language disabilities recognized, saying stop doing mind is fine stop being ableist and erasing us. Without understanding that so much of that is being spread by those in power and repeated by us because its that or being non-human againand we don’t have good models for how not to. Though we have a few great ones ( I really appreciate what Niko Boskovic writes about learning from disabled people with as many experiences different from his own as possible. )

I would really like to change the script and model other ways for us to claim our humanity, but understand that many nonspeakers and our allies have talked in these ways for years and will take a while to change, and what they have to say still is worth hearing.

[permatired-stolas]

Dear fucking god

HI

I'm Jewish, bodily, not just religiously. I mean my (part family originates from europe and was IN nazi Germany and Poland

I think too many of you newer Radqueers, or at least *one* of you new guys are going around being mad at transnazis, when they both have EXISTED and been UNDERSTOOD for awhile now!

If you need it explained to you, I can do it here. Being trans does NOT always mean someone wants to become or even transition to something else, a lot of iterfem/transtransfem transmen can tell you that! For MOST people it means you want something different, but for some people identity works a little off the curb. So for TransNazis, they don't want to actually be Nazis, 80-90% I have seen have a hyperfixation on WW2 and/or are alters with sources close to that.

There has been ONE, I repeat ONE transnazi who actually transitioned in all 5 years of me being a radqueer, guess what happened? Every single radqueer and ESPECIALLY all other TransNazis disavowed the guy and fucking HATEDD him, anyone who was there still does

When it comes to transhate terms, you need to actually communicate instead of assuming some shit from people, because a whole ass misunderstanding comes from you being too whiny to ask a simple question or even look if that question has been asked!

And one more point

Someone being a Nazi does not just come from "calling themselves that". That is INCREDIBLY fucking ignorant. People who are daily racists, ableists, queerphobic, and generally horrible people don't typically call themselves that, but they still are those bad things. If you think it just takes someone calling themselves something, ESPECIALLY not caring for any sort of context, is a true all encompassing way to tell what someone is, then I have some bad bad news for you

Anyways

TALK TO PEOPLE ABOUT THEIR IDENTITIES

IT ISNT THAT HARD

You can also just be uncomfortable with transhate people! That doesn't mean you have to directly be a dick TO THEM. I can understand not wanting to be around certain people cause they make you uncomfortable! I don't like certain people in this community too BUT

There's this MAGICAL BUTTON called the "block button" if you are uncomfortable with someone!

[linxnnalyn]

Dating fem! Amethio HCs

࣪𖤐.ᐟ note -> I blame my oomf for getting me into this series, THIS IS FOR YOU AMETHIO'S REAL GF !!!

࣪𖤐.ᐟ warnings -> none.

࣪𖤐.ᐟ content includes -> pre-timeskip, fluff, protective, soft, flustered, etc.

۫ ꣑ৎ Being in a relationship with Amethio means being the only person who gets to see the parts of her she tries so hard to bury. To the world, she’s all sharp edges and perfect posture, but to you, Amethio’s quiet hands brushing your cheek and eyes that soften whenever you enter the room. She doesn’t say much, but her presence lingers in every gesture—always watching, always near.

۫ ꣑ৎ She’s secretly very protective of you, and not just in battle. If someone talks badly about you, Amethio won’t hesitate to shut it down with one sharp glare. Even if you can handle yourself, Amethio can’t help but hover a little when you're in unfamiliar spaces. Amethio doesn’t trust easily, and that means she guards what she loves. Her partner pokemon, Ceruledge, is also very protective and loyal to you just like he is to Amethio.

۫ ꣑ৎ Amethio is not used to softness. It startles her at first—the way you smile when she enters a room, the gentle touches, the way you always seem to notice when she’s feeling off. At first she brushes it off, but slowly she grows attached to your warmth. You become Amethio’s safe place, the one person she can let her guard down around. Amethio still doesn’t smile often, but when she does, it’s for you.

۫ ꣑ৎ She hates being away from you during missions. Amethio isn’t the type to text constantly, but she’ll send you brief check-ins—small, stoic messages like “Safe.” or “Be home soon.” Still, Amethio memorizes every word you send back and re-reads them when she’s alone. You wouldn’t believe how many photos she secretly has of you on her phone. Not just because she misses you, but because you remind her what she’s fighting for.

۫ ꣑ৎ Amethio struggles with expressing affection verbally. Compliments don’t come naturally, but you’ll find them hidden in her actions—making your tea just the way you like it, fixing your blanket when you’re asleep, handing you your favorite snack without a word. It’s never loud with her, but it’s always genuine. Amethio shows love in ways that are quiet but impossible to ignore.

۫ ꣑ৎ The first time she caught you wearing one of her jackets, Amethio had to look away to keep from short-circuiting. She pretended not to notice but she was so flustered she couldn’t even speak. It became a regular habit—you stealing her clothes, pretending not to care, and then softly fixing the collar or sleeves before walking away a little too fast.

۫ ꣑ৎ Amethio isn’t romantic in the traditional sense, but she remembers everything about you. Your favorite book, the food you crave when you're sad, the dates that matter most to you. She’s the type to quietly celebrate your anniversary with a perfectly wrapped gift and a rare, hesitant smile. Her love is calculated and careful, but no less deep.

۫ ꣑ৎ She gets easily flustered by physical affection—especially if you initiate it. You’ll see her entire body stiffen the moment you hold her hand or kiss her cheek, but Amethio never pulls away. Eventually, she leans into it. The first time Amethio hugged you without being prompted, it felt like the air changed. She’s learning how to love gently, for you.

۫ ꣑ৎ Amethio would do anything to keep you safe, even if it meant pushing you away. She’s terrified of her enemies finding out about you and using you against her, so sometimes she’s cold, distant, withdrawn. But it never lasts long—she always returns with an apology in her eyes and a soft touch to your hand, as if to say I’m sorry for pretending I don’t need you. I do.

۫ ꣑ৎ When she’s with you, she finally allows herself to rest. You’ll catch her falling asleep during your movie nights, head on your lap, breathing steady. Amethio never lets herself be this vulnerable with anyone else, but with you, she feels safe. Your love gives her something she’s never known—peace—and it scares her more than battle ever has. But Amethio wouldn’t give it up for anything.

[raccoonfallsharder]

…i love big long threaded convos. thank you for indulging me (˶ •́◡•̀ ˶) and i love the chance to reread some of your delicious excerpts!

first of all, i would love to do a rocket’s first time challenge!!! this concept is so fun to explore; i would love to pick ur big, beautiful mind over it and would gladly write more about it myself

babe let's do it. i know you've said you're not a multiproject author - i am happy if you want to either suggest a timeframe or leave it open-ended. it would be fun to see if anyone else was on board too! reading the end of your last post, i do wonder how many similarities there would be between yours and my take on this fic - i imagine the answer is "a lot" lol (˶◜ᵕ◝˶)

i think i’ve explicitly mentioned before that my rendition of rocket in my fics is very heavily based upon your interpretation of his character lol.

you have, but honestly, it's such an honor and i'll never get tired of hearing it lol (˶>ᴗ<˶)

In both of my fics, I hc that he often sees paid professionals but also sleeps around quite a bit—especially once he’s known as a guardian, then an avenger, then captain after that. becoming a household name opens up the possibilities for him in terms of partners, though i do think he’s still rather selective. the list of people that want to arrest him or kill him is long, after all. murder attempts and seduction attempts aren’t always mutually exclusive, so he’s pretty cautious about who he sleeps with lest he get caught with his literal dick out in the midst of all that…but he also doesn’t think that people’s interest has anything to do with any sort of charm or desirability on his part, as much as it’s the titles, or the novelty, or the idea of luring someone like him into their bed. it doesn’t spoil the fun for him in the moment, but it does make him hesitant to sleep with anyone more than once.

this is exactly how i see post vol1-rocket. like. i am in perfect alignment with your whole essay on him, pretty much. i do think he has some longish relationships with trusted sex workers that are friendly-ish? as early as pre-vol1, and i think by the time we get to (what i affectionately call) "the captain years" he even has friendly-ish sexual relationships with unpaid partners. i guess by "friendly-ish" i mean he probably has a basic understanding of their personal lives outside of their shared relationship and low-key thinks of them benignly, and trusts that the feeling is more-or-less mutual. i imagine a partner here or there who he visit when he's in their star-system. after shared orgasms, they usually ask how groot is doing, if there's any new guardians, if the skull's broken down recently. if he's made any new guns or spaceships. you know, the kind of thing you might ask a colleague whose company you enjoy but who you don't care to know outside of work lol (friendly-acquaintances-with-benefits?). cicatrix-rocket has this kind of relationship with a ton of sex workers lol, and windfall-rocket probably has this with a small handful of paid and unpaid partners throughout the more-frequented regions of space. ...and actually now i have an idea for a new oneshot. fuuuuck me

he’s got a lot of hangups about the way he looks, about all of the metal and the scars. more than that, he’s got a lot of hangups about who he is as a person—too rough around the edges, too selfish and mean and wholly undeserving. makes him suspicious of anything nice. he doesn’t necessarily think that his bed-partners dislike him, and he sure as hell goes out of his way to make sure they’re all pleased, but i do think he believes they all look down upon him to an extent, or that he’s somehow unequal. he probably thinks that most people see him as the fun, grotesque little flavor of the week that they can add as a notch to their belt then forget about.

i am absolutely in agreement with this too. could not have said it better. (well. birdie-rocket had a lot of these experiences prior to the advent of the story, but i think after groot died, his self-hatred and cynicism leveled up. he projects his dislike for himself onto everybody else and with the added layer of cynicism - well, it's a rough combination).

once he gets turned into kind of a celebrity, it adds an extra layer of confusion for him. he’s got all these people fawning over him for all these ‘heroic deeds’ and ‘grand acts of valor’ that he doesn’t think are accurate representations of who he is as a person.

okay, if i just keep copying and pasting everything i adore about what you wrote, i might as well just re-post the whole thing. regardless of where your initial inspiration came from, we are alarmingly in sync lol (and i fucking love it). thank you for everything you write and share because it is ALL gold. and thank you for indulging me/hyperfixating with me!

i can't imagine anyone but the two of us is still reading this lengthy thread but if they are, here is your reminder to read @shylyobscene's amazing fics!!! ♡♡♡

With how you always seem to write Rocket as some super sex god, I've become quite curious on what his first time (and first few after that) was like in your stories cause there ain't no way he started out as a raccoon shaped Eros lmao. I know you always portray him as being quite experienced in that field but I can't help but wonder if it's all just experience or if he had someone 'teach him the ropes' so to speak.

hey babes~! i did read your second ask too, about most creators headcanoning rocket as a virgin, but i’m just going to respond to both asks here. FOREWARNING: i am going to cite all my fucken sources here so this is LENGTHY.

NSFW excerpts below the cut.

first of all, i know a lot of folks don’t imagine rocket as experienced and frankly, i get it. i could easily see this guy as being simultaneously touchstarved and touch-averse. my personal headcanoning of rocket as a sex-god is based in part on his comics incarnation. that dude gets laid ALL the fuckin time. by both space princesses and terrans, too. this guy fucks more than tony stark~ (photographic evidence below)

Rocket Raccoon: A Chasing Tale (there’s like a million exes in this one)

Rocket Raccoon: The Blue River Score

All-New Guardians of the Galaxy #9

Guardians of the Galaxy Infinite Comic #2, though this honey was less than receptive

All-New Guardians of the Galaxy #8

Guardians of the Galaxy & X-Men: Black Vortex Omega ~ and yeah, that’s Storm.

now obviously, mcu rocket has different hang-ups than comics-rocket. he clearly sees himself as a solitary, undesirable sort of guy. but i personally believe he would seek out physical gratification in situations where he felt like he had control and safety. (in my stories this means he’s pretty dominant, but i could be convinced he’s switchy/subby in the right situation/context).

i briefly touch on his sexual history in cicatrix, florescence, and window across the galaxy as being largely learned by purchasing services from sex workers. cicatrix probably has the most detail in chapter seven. starlorn.:

He’d stumbled on the Ore Gardens by accident a few circumrotations later. Well, he’d been solicited, but he had no complaints or regrets about it. A Centaurian who’d escaped Hala, probably only a few circs older than himself, had blown blue smoke in his direction one night at The Mobius Strip and asked if the Monster was an adult member of his species. The Monster hadn’t known — not really, not for sure — but he’d felt frickin’ ancient, so he’d said yes. That had been his introduction to the Ore Gardens and specifically, the Aluminum Rose on Orex II. Like its better-known sisters on Contraxia — the Iron Lotus, Copper Lily, and Golden Peony — the Aluminum Rose had been part of a particular collective of unionized brothels spread out over a number of systems in a number of galaxies. The courtesans with the Ore Gardens were known to be committed to discretion, and they’d never seemed to flinch at the sight of him. Of course, the Monster has his preferences: he’d rather pay for a real escort’s time than purchase extra hours with the bots, and there are a couple people he visits whenever he can afford ‘em because he trusts them — and they almost seem to enjoy his company, like maybe they’re able to ignore metal and burns and stitches riddling his hideous little body. ‘Course, he does pride himself on tipping really frickin’ well, so maybe that’s what they’re really enjoying. But he’s not gonna complain either way.

one of my first real rocket headcanons was the idea that he really respects sex workers. he sees them as incredibly clever, often street-smart, and thinks of sex work as one of the few honest professions. he has strong feelings about bodily autonomy and i think this blends well with his perception of their work. i think sex workers are also one of the very few groups of people that rocket never tries to swindle. a lot of the friends he mentions having in cicatrix are sex workers (on cyxlore, on knowhere, etc).

in cicatrix specifically, i think his first time was probably one of the most enjoyable moments of his life up until that point, despite the fact that he was nervous. he kept putting pressure on himself to "get it right," and I think the centaurian escort he was with was like, "okay, hot stuff, you need to chill out and just have fun" - and then made sure that happened. i'm not certain whether rocket met up with them again or not, but they definitely let him know about the other ore gardens, and encouraged him to frequent them. not just for the good business, either, but because rocket is fundamentally a likable, charming little motherfucker, and not very good at hiding his immeasurable loneliness. i think, whether he ended up learning most from the centaurian, or from one (or more) of their colleagues, rocket was encouraged to experiment with them, to learn more about bodies, and taught how to have good communication in the bedroom (which is probably why it's the ONLY place he has good communication). in short, i think the ore garden courtesans generally love rocket. i'd say they'll be sad to see the last of him, but honestly? i think pearl would be thrilled to meet them. we probably won't see this in cicatrix (maybe a vague mention in the last chapter), but i'm sure at some point he'll take her to see some dancers on knowhere and she'll be watching the stage with stars in her eyes, so impressed with their craft.

in florescence, i think rocket's experience with sex workers was still enjoyable, but definitely more transactional. i doubt he was taken under anyone's wing. per chapter five year four: formation:

“—I’d love to get you out of this cottage, and then out of this jumpsuit. Touch you wherever you’d let me.” You gaze up at him from beneath your lashes, doe-eyed and eager. You wet your lower lip, then bite it in a way you hope looks alluring. Judging by the way his stare clings to your mouth, you must be at least somewhat successful. “Maybe use my mouth on you,” you suggest, dropping your eyes pointedly to the ridge already pressing against his pants. You can hear the hitch in his lungs. “Your mouth,” he repeats, flatly — disbelievingly, maybe. You tilt your head and try not to flush, leaning back on your heels. “Is that not a thing people do in space?” He hesitates, and his eyes slit away from yours — up to the edge of the ceiling, lip curling. “Some do.” You wince, trying to interpret his expression, his suddenly-scathing tone. “Not you?” He bares his teeth, but you don’t think he’s threatening you — his red-agate eyes are anywhere else. “Never had enough units that I felt like I could ask.” For a moment, you sit there, baffled — trying to make sense of it. Of him. “I—“ “I really only — on Contraxia,” he mutters, his eyes still dodging yours. “Iron Lotus has outposts on Knowhere and Conjunction, so there, sometimes—“ “I don’t know what those places are,” you admit, and now your brow is creasing as you sit back. He’s clearly uncomfortable. “What—“ His teeth are sharp and the curve of his mouth is bitter. “Sex workers, storyteller. Sometimes the pleasure-bots when I was real broke.” Your jaw drops. Not because he’s purchased services — there’s no shame in that, as far as you’re concerned. But he makes it sound so definitive, so final, and his voice is so — resentfully bereft. Like he’s waiting to be judged. You scroll back through the conversation and feel your heart twist and wrench inside your ribcage. “So, no-one else—” you say gently, and he lifts his eyes to glare at you balefully, with a sort of resigned defensiveness. “No,” he says shortly. “Got what I paid for. No more and no less.”

window across the galaxy is a weird situation. we only hear about his past sexual experiences from rocket's POV and it all sounds very contractual but i think there was more happening behind-the-scenes than rocket knew about - i think a lot of the workers really liked him and he was a bit of a local legend in the nearby brothels. not necessarily for his skill in bed - at least not in the beginning - but because he tried so fucking hard and because in spite of his gruff exterior, he probably treated them with more respect than a lot of the fucks who came around. (keep in mind, since this is a movie rewrite, we're generally following canon. which means that at some point, some poor escort at the iron lotus probably had to deal with taserface. luckily, i imagine the brothels are unionized and the workers well-protected, which means he probably eventually got turned down by so many sentient escorts that he was only able to purchase services from the bots - with a hefty security deposit.) anyway, it's briefly touched on in chapter five: things no-one has said before (though to be clear, while rocket makes it sound like he's only had sex with the bots, it's not entirely accurate. what he means is he doesn't believe anyone will touch him who hasn't been paid):

“Love Angargal’s,”  he’s telling her tipsily. “Last time I had it was on Contraxia. You ever been to Contraxia?” His voice is lilting in a way she’s unused to. He sounds almost playful. “Once or twice,” she admits with a small smile, watching from the corner of her eye as he leans back into the copilot’s chair and takes another swig from the bottle.  “You know the pleasure-bots?”  She grins. Even if she hadn’t been to Contraxia, she’d seen plenty of  models - both functioning and in storage - on Ravager ships.  “Sure do. Sounds like you're familiar with them?” He snorts and gestures vaguely to himself. “Who else is gonna let me touch ‘em?”

and chapter 21, i very still:

He’d never asked for any of the sex workers on Contraxia to touch him beyond necessity – out of respect for ‘em – even though he’d spent a disproportionate amount of time being as sure as he could be that they were getting off. And it’s not something he’d ever even thought to request of the pleasure bots, to be honest. Even the fancy advanced AI he’d accidentally emancipated from the Golden Peony hadn’t been inclined to try and put her hands on him.

and then the second-to-last sample i'm subjecting you to is from blackmail material, chapter two: self-sufficience, in which rocket seeks out feedback regarding his skills:

Maybe part of it is… not performance anxiety, exactly, but close to it. Or something. It’s not even like he’s never fucked around before. There are a small assortment of relatively-trusted working ladies on Contraxia who he feels more-or-less comfortable visiting when he’s in the neighborhood, and they rank among the very few handfuls of people he’s never tried to con, rob, or grift. That said, as much as Rocket’s fantasies revolve around getting his partners off with as much frequency and intensity as they can handle (and then some), it’s not like he can ever really feel certain that he’s good at it, given that he knows he pays pretty generously compared to the other lowlifes who frequent the brothels there. Once, he did steal a pleasure-bot from the Iron Lotus. He’d reprogrammed it to give honest feedback to clients - initially because he thought it would be hysterical, but then because he kinda wanted to know. And the reviews seemed positive, but again, how could he be sure? A bot ain’t human, after all. And actually, none of the women with whom he’s done business are Terran, but from what he’s seen, the basic parts seem similar.

i do think things are different in birdie. he has had sex with unpaid partners, and i think (as with his paid partners) he's obsessed with trying to make sure they come exactly as often as he wants them to (though i think that has usually meant generosity in other fics, and clearly this rocket is a bit more vindictive). i like to think he's still well-liked by sex workers, but his self-hatred colors so many of his interactions with partners that his memory of them is wholly unreliable.

ultimately, though - regardless of who was involved in his learning to Do Sex so well - i just think rocket would be a very quick learner. (plus, i also think this guy is so hung up on being a fucken expert at everything he does that he would be SURE to pay attention to every tiny tell in his partner's body). don't forget, the kree have recorded him as being "within .024 points of optimum intuitive grasp" (per the comics). something like two-thirds of the sensory perception area in a "real" raccoon's cerebral cortex is dedicated to interpreting touch, and we know that rocket instinctively understands anything he gets his hands on. so i think even when he's confronted with new body parts and situations, he adapts very quickly. per the very boring adventures of space pilot & sweatshirt girl in the fourth visit:

He makes a sound - a kind of snarl, guttural and harsh. “Never fucked an Earther before,” he utters after a second. “Looking forward to figuring out how to make you come.” His fingers dive to the front, finding your clit so quickly that your head spins. You’re not sure if it’s something he’s encountered before or if he just learns that quickly, like you’re another little machine he can figure out by breaking it down and putting it back together.

ALL THIS SAID.... now i kinda wanna write a story where rocket meets up with a sex worker and has his first time and they end up falling in love. thanks for constantly adding to my "to be written" list. I HAVE NO TIME FOR THIS

[fiapple]

i'm getting towards the end of the skypeia arc, & i'd like to say just how much i adore the way the female strawhats have been treated.

just... every aspect of how the way their characters have been previously contextualized influences the story-line is treated with a masterful amount of consideration. we're given so many layers to both of them that enrich not only their characters specifically, but the arc, and the one piece world as a whole. without nami & robin having their specific skills, and their specific values, without those being built upon, the story would have come to a halt.

you could not have skypeia without nami & robin being who they are as individuals. not just because they never would've gotten there without nami, but also because the way these women think is itself foundational to the machinations of the arc as a whole.

to be totally upfront, if you think any other strawhats were more central to the skypeia arc than nami & robin were you are full-on fucking lying to yourself.

[talentforlying]

i think i have talked about dangerous habits the least of any arc in hellblazer — which is wild, since that's the arc that introduced me to hellblazer and led me to make this blog in the first place — and i need to amend that. like i can't just sit here and not acknowledge that this man was literally liquidated by the devil and rebuilt anew, and all the implications of that for both john AND the first of the fallen, and how that's sort of the tipping point between john being able to truly immerse himself in the world if he chooses to and then...not.

[starrycassi]

An engineer. An assistant. A heir.

Located on my jayvik work for silco au.

.

Singed doesn't think too highly of himself.

Maybe he did, once. Young and full of passion, he thought himself the next big thing. A lifetime ago, he’d stared at the mirror and grinned, proudly eyeing the way his Academy badge gleamed under the light of his table lamp. Maybe he was foolish enough to think that it was him, him and his ideas, that would change the world. His days at The Academy are not days he recalls too often.

Then he had a daughter, and his world was reduced to her. Her smiles, and her cries, and the way she said pouted when things didn't go her way. He wanted nothing more than to give her the world. Maybe he would have, had things been different. They weren't.

Sickness came, as sickness does. People bawled, as people do. Colleagues tattled, as colleagues do. Oriana wilted away, as flowers do. Unstoppable sequence of extremely common events. When tragedy makes herself at home, the host tends to believe themselves unique in their suffering. They are not. There has been far too many parents and far too many daughters, and far too many of them have met this exact same path, have stumbled in the exact same rocks and crevices. It is what it is. It is as it should be. Death is inevitable, the sky is blue, water is wet. It is as it should be.

The casket should have been lowered, as caskets are supposed to do. It never was.

And now, Singed doesn't think of himself too highly. He knows that his intellect is unmatched, his skill is unheard of, his knowledge is craved. He is different, better, in a way that not many people are. He is, also, failing.

Oriana's face shows no change when he taps the glass of her enclosure lightly. It is not a surprise.

“Soon, my dear.” He tells his little daisy, staring at the still flesh, the closed eyes. “Do not get impatient.”

She does not answer. He is used to it.

.

Singed is a horrible person.

He knows his morals are skewed. His code of ethics is nothing but a two-page pamphlet with vague drawings of fairies in it. He is, objectively, a bad man. He has aided in the killing, torturing and general misfortune of dozens, if not hundreds, of people. It's not like he's keeping count.

“Did you do build this, boy?”

He knows how dangerous he is, even if the boy seems unaware. Thankfully for the strangely trusting young man, he is many things, but not attracted to children. That is one of the few lines he won't blur. Not because he is a father, or because he particularly cares about the wellbeing of potential victims, or because he feels some sort of empathy for the many, many kids subjected to some sort of abuse in these parts of the underground. Though he does think that it is unfortunate, as everything around here is. No. He simply has never been interested, and that’s that.

The boy —Viktor— comes by. He learns, eager for someone, anyone, to pay attention to him, to his ideas. He is silent in a way that Oriana never was, not when she was awake. At first, it is a practiced, learned quietness. The stillness of the deer who has no other option but to play dead. It evolves. Daily, Viktor starts asking more questions, suggesting more improvements. He starts to smile whenever Rio licks his cheek, batting her away with no real force. He starts to cry silently when he thinks Singed is too occupied to notice, usually while cradling a bruised arm or a broken cane. He starts to pout when things don't go his way, frowning with annoyance at whatever prototype has managed to defeat him today.

Singed wonders if his parents know where their son is, who he is with, what he is doing. Do they care? They should. He will never allow Oriana to be alone, in a secluded cave, with an unknown man and a potentially deadly animal, sometimes for hours on end, when she wakes up.

He doesn't care for the kid, not any more than he does for Rio. He is useful. Smart. Quick to understand, easy to guide. He rolls with the punches that Singed throws him, taking them with an unwavering grace. Eventually, he even learns to punch back.

“That is wrong,” Singed says, eyeing the way Viktor's tiny fingers try to mold the copper, “It is far too cold. If you can't understand thermodynamics, then you should not be on my lab. Ever.”

“I am developing a new method,” Viktor answers, not even turning around to look him in the eye, “If you can not understand innovation, then you should not carry a lab.”

“The correct word in that context would be own, or have. Possess, even. I do not *carry* the lab. It is always here.”

“You understood my idea.” Stubbornly, Viktor keeps on turning the material, making absolutely no progress. “Good enough. For me.”

.

Oriana liked ballet. Fairies. Make up. She was a stereotypical girl, with stereotypical tastes. Singed never cared about it. If she wanted to be a princess, like a hundred girls had wanted for hundreds of years before, who was he to say no?

“If I was, eh, a prince,” Viktor muses, staring into his mug. “I would fill my castle with, how you say? Food. For everyone. Blankits. Water.”

Singed hums, taking a sip of his own mug. The smell of coffee fills the room. His has a drop of whiskey sprinkled in.

“Blankets. Blan-kets. Not lab equipment? Chemical resources? Aluminum, copper, steel parts?”

Viktor imitates his gesture, using the excuse of the drink to think his answer up properly. Singed would be impressed, if he wasn't already aware of how perceptive Viktor is, how quickly he adapts. Chameleon boy and his little cane. Oriana would like him. She will, when she wakes up.

“Well, yes. After I am done feeding all the people. Then, for me, laboratory. And a new bedroom. Big bed. Thick blan-ket.”

.

He asks for parents. Dead father, alcoholic mother. No siblings. The lacking communication skills come from his grandmother, who never learned Piltover common and never explained how she ended up in the undercity. She had raised him, then died. He spoke a fully foreign language at home, which made bonding with other kids even harder. Viktor was ostracized by his circumstances. No one has his back, not fully. No one to stop him.

He offers the spare room on his main sleeping quarters. It is more of a closet than a room, but he brings a new mattress and the fluffiest pillows he can find. A heavy, yellow blanket. His various works pay decently enough for him to feed another mouth. Clothes and necessities can be figured out when the time comes.

If Singed was a better man, he might say that he did it out of care. Or concern. Maybe even out of curiosity.

Singed is not a better man. He did it for the same reason he does everything else. For Oriana.

He is not stupid. The days are passing. His age increases, increases, increases. He isn't any closer to waking her up, and his back is starting to ache when winter arrives. He is getting older, but his daughter is not.

She needs someone else. A brother, if not an assistant. Someone younger than her dad, someone to keep her company in the world. It can not be him, not anymore. His body is starting to resent him from the all-nighters and meal-skippings.

Viktor is not, necessarily, healthy. Or well liked. Not even well known. He has no responsible parents in sight (because, really, how come this child is so often with him?) and no money of his own. Singed could latch onto that. Instead, he thinks of castles with halls full of food, and decides that the way that Viktor will understand is the emotional one.

For all his talk of science and progress, Viktor is a child. Immature and temperamental. He comes with all the downsides of being a child. Fortunately, he brings the upsides, too.

Was Oriana to wake up in the next half of a decade, she would have someone to grow up with. Someone to keep at her side, to play and explore with. Oriana has always been kind. She will slow down, for Viktor, and that will make it easier for Singed to know where she is at. Was she to wake up someday after that, she would have an older caretaker. Old enough to know more about the workings of their environment, young enough to be in the loop of how the external world has changed. Viktor won't live long, not without some tweaks and fixes, but Singed would gladly make the boy a new set of lungs every single month, if it meant that he would look after Oriana.

The decision is taken. He makes sure to keep Rio in her cage. Viktor's attachment to the mutation’s vessel is a problem. Singed is not only a scientist, but a drug-dealer. He's used to solving problems, by now.

.

“Her name is Oriana.”

Viktor gapes at him, eyes wide with far too many emotions for Singed to pinpoint even one. The soft hum of the machines fills the silence for them. A mechanical heartbeat, designed for one person and one person only.

“She is…”

Whatever Viktor is about to say, dies on his lips. He hovers over the glass, careful not to touch, seemingly mesmerized by the body kept inside it. He looks like he's hyperventilating and breathing far too slowly at the same time. Singed considers, briefly, the idea that his daughter will wake up tomorrow and Viktor will be infatuated with her. That would work, too, he supposes. It wouldn't be his favorite option, but it could be manageable.

“Is she… dead?”

Ah. That's it, then. Singed, carefully, turns his words in his brain, making sure to pick and choose them with surgical precision. Viktor is not crucial to the operation, but he could be. He is smart, and lonely, and Singed knows that human nature is not impossible to mold. He could turn Viktor into something vital. He could turn Viktor into someone necessary.

“Medically? Yes. Technically? No. See those tubes? They give her the proper nutrition. The ones over there? They keep her blood flowing, artificially. Much like a water pump. It is only temporary, Viktor. I will wake her up.”

Viktor's face changes. One of the feelings seems to simmer down. He looks less scared. Singed had not realized the boy was even trembling, not until he stops. Was he put off? Probably. Viktor was a scientist, but even great scientist had a weak stomach every once in a while. He will come out of it. Singed will help. Then, Viktor will help Singed. Symbiotic relationships are not a foreign concept, specially not to undercity children.

“How will you get her alive?”

There it is. The exact same moment where the cut has to be made, the spot where flesh and bone leave a gap for a scalpel. Viktor is as much of a scientist as he is a kid, and both those sides are easily swayed with shiny new theories. Singed sees his opportunity and takes it. He talks, and talks, and talks. Curative plants, cell-regeneration properties, necessary sacrifices, nature and evolution and everything he can possibly think of that would appeal to the child. He spews back years of research in a way that would make it impossible to replicate, making sure to leave information out when he deems it necessary. Can't have a preteen run around with your life's work, now, can he?

It doesn't seem to matter. At the end, Viktor's eyes are practically shining. He seems so starstruck. So impressed. So swayed. So convinced.

“Do you understand, boy?” Singed asks, placing the palm of his hand over his daughter's bed. "If you live here, I will ask nothing of you but your help with my investigation for her. When she wakes up, you will be her friend. You will be under my protection. I will feed you and keep you, as long as you comply."

“I don't, eh, understand the theory now.” Viktor answers, voice choked with emotion, gripping his cane. “But I really, really want to. I study. I care for her. I behave.”

“I will teach you, then. You must obey me. Everything I say, yes?”

With far too much convention for a child who hasn't finished dropping his molars, Viktor nods solemnly.

“Yes, sir.”

.

Singed doesn't think too highly of himself. Soon, Viktor starts to share the same idea. His disgust with the man is a river that starts with Rio and never ends.

It's far too late when he realizes that Singed is, truly, a horrible man. He is in it far too deep. Silco tugs at his leash, never pulling, not yet.

Then, he brings in a man. Jayce Talis understands Singed in more ways than one. The theory is complete.

[silly-moth-123]

My younger sibling literally blocked my phone number because we got into an argument over capitalism ???

Wow I reached the tag limit on this post

Beware a long vent in the tags lmao

[space-prophet]

The cast list for my fan continuity is like 50+ characters long to the point where I've had to kill some of them because the average transformers fan should not be forced to deal with a rotating cast bigger then thier old high-school class roster no matter how badly I want to include every protecto and aerialbot how did Gen 1 do it???

[oc-cinematic-universe]

if i had a nickel for every time i realized theres a character in the deathspeaker that lowkey has feelings for joe in a way that cant easily be sorted into romantic or platonic i'd have 2 and i dont like that it happened twice

[willoftheabyss]

Just wanted to say hii same pfp :)

true hiii ^_^

[consensus-fiction]

i wholly expect krisuselle to get sunk in the next few chapters tho lol

like its… not an UNlikely ship just looking at the text (unless the second half of ch. 4 still has a curveball saved for my slow fucking ass) but theres like five or six different paths the authors could go with that make it downright inconceivable lmao

[anthromimicry]

the duality of misao being one of the few psychiatrists in arkham that has actually made progress with some of their patients and treats them like human beings, but also someone who does a complete 180° later + EATS her patients and gaslights people who ask about them into thinking they were never committed there is currently making me go feral. like girlll why are you like this JSJSJ

[orphiicheartd]

Honestly I will NEVER get over how fucken PERFECT Rook as a partner for Vil is like BR U H