#tropes and stories and fun things

[arcade-confetti]

I love when characters lose their sense of self to please others <3

[me-writes-prompts]

:-"I sense some tension...and not the friends type." Friends to lovers prompts-:

(Y'alllll I could not help myself. I had to do more!!! Hehehe. Tag me if you guys write any of these :)

The 'just friends' kiss that they have to do as a dare but they both like it and can't stop thinking about it 👀

^^ "I mean, I kinda liked it, I guess..." but then they see their friend's smug face and cough, "I didn't mean it that way!" "Uh huh."

"You know...for someone who says they like me just as a friend, you sure do blush a lot in my presence. What's up with that?"

Going on DATES without realizing that they're doing couple-y things and someone casually commenting they're a cute couple (hehehe)

^^ "We are not a couple. I swear-" "Yeah, never. They're not even my type." "Yeah, same here." (sureeeee mhmm)

Hugs lasting a little longer than usual, and it gets all awkward because they are waiting for the other one to pull away, but neither of them wants to.

Always being extra affectionate with them(i.e. complimenting, playfully teasing, etc)

Communicating using only their eyes(AHHHH)

Pillow fights turning into tackling fights into blushing messes

^^ "It's not fair though! You never let me tickle you! :(" "You have to get close to me to do that." They say with a teasing lick of their lips and a grin. "I- shut up!"

Borrowing their clothes and never returning it just so you can be warm and cozy in them and feel like it's their arms wrapped around you>>>>>

Calling them the first thing when they have a bad day, because they know seeing the other will make it so much better

^^"Hard day?" They ask with a gentle smile when they come in. "Yeah." And that's all they need before they have a cuddle session with both of their favorite movie playing and them just snuggled up :'((((

"You look at them like they hung the stars." A silence. "They did so much then that, and I can't ever be grateful enough, even if I wished to." (angsttttyyy)

*Confessing* "I...I love you. I don't know if it's okay to fall in love with your best friend, but I love you. And it's fine, if you don't love me back, because loving you has been the easiest thing I've ever done, and I'd never stop loving you even if you didn't love me back." "You know what? It is okay to love your best friend, because that's what I've done as well. And I would've never know that you also love me, if you never said it. So let me say this, I love you too." (I am deceased, did i just wrote that?)

Cue the long, slow kiss and the tears that run down their cheeks while doing so. And they lived happily ever after!

[hoahoahoahoahoa]

Twilight will forever be my favorite case of gender contamination. (Diet Coke is a close second, the Beatles is third)

There are, of course, plenty of valid criticisms to be made of Twilight, but those weren’t the basis of the enormous backlash back in the day. That was more “How dare someone (some housewife!) make vampires girly? How dare someone take a classic horror movie monster and put it in a story that appeals specifically to young women, a narrative that hits the tropes and beats that make them a little feral? Gets them excited? How can we let girls have an indulgent power fantasy? Those are for men!!!”

And of course there’s the straight misogyny disguised as concern (a tale much older than romance novels, but has consistently plagued romance novels since their advent; the ContraPoints Twilight video has a great bit on this): “The girls are swooning over a stalker! A monster! Think of the children, they’re being corrupted!! They think it’s okay for vampires sparkle! There’s an age gap in the vampire-human romance!!”

Whether Twilight was a “good” love story was never relevant. And you know what? It is a good story. It’s certainly one of my favorites. Twilight simply has the misfortune to appeal to an audience that isn’t allowed to be vocal when they like things.

In summary:

Anyway shoutout to @edwardskhakipants who made a really great post about how twilight is a great love story. This post was going to go in a reblog but I didn’t want to derail

[un-pearable]

only ninja funding options i’ll accept

odd jobs and miscellaneous shenanigans that result in them ingratiating themselves with a handful of salesfolk around ninjago. e.g. the people of jamanakai having a fondness for lloyd after experiencing both Shitty Little Kid attacking them in s1 and The Green Ninja™ saving them in s4

actual real life jobs between seasons (s2 and 4 ily)

pixal’s investments

residuals from licensing (the ninja video game from s1 and s4 <3. and the movies and the actual merch made by dareth from s6 lmao)

residuals from jay’s TV-Show-Which-Will-Not-Be-Named (now on streaming. it’s real-kid-now-unagami’s favorite show)

ideally all at once. but also? they do not need traditional funding. this is an urban fantasy. they are not paying rent (when living on the bounty/monastery). they can and do grow a significant amount of their own food when they do have a place to live. they have multiple times explicitly started businesses?? after they already were publicly known for saving people? when would the government have started funding them if not then. the ideal ninja state is not worrying about money unless it’s funny, and then they’re spider-man.

[diamondcitydarlin]

I do want to also add to my sudden numerous WWDITS/Nandermo posts that while I have enjoyed this season (somewhat) and the 'Nandermo' they've given us for what it is, I can confidently say at this point that there should have been more. I absolutely agree with everyone saying there should have, could have been more, and even if the last episode confirms somehow without a doubt that Nandor and Guillermo are a couple or in love etc, as great as that would be in the moment, I will always lament that it could have (arguably should have) happened a season ago. Two seasons ago, even, maybe more! I agree that what we've gotten so far and whatever we're in store to get in this last episode will not be able to live up to the tension they've constructed between these two characters over the past six seasons. It may still be sweet and cute, but there's really no way they can do all of that slowburning justice in the very last series finale ep (I'm open to being proven wrong, but I just don't see how that would be possible atp). As others have mentioned, it makes me think about all the repetitive plots that kept being used again and again across the seasons (Laslzo wants to protect Nadja and that offends her bc she can fend for herself, Guillermo leaves the house for the 50th time, Nandor 'falls in love' with some random person, etc) and how any of those repetitive plots could've been swapped out for focusing on new concepts and conflicts, such as new layers to the Nandermo dynamic. I would have liked, say, a season of Nandor having to confront feelings for Guillermo he can't run from anymore (it would have been more interesting imo to see him 'stop running' earlier on instead of trying to entrap hapless women over and over again), a whole subplot about that maybe, and his failings and triumphs at dealing with that and what it means to court someone he actually has feelings for, etc, I think that could have had a lot of comedic and character growth potential. There's literally a mile-long laundry list in my head of things that COULD have been done (with and without Nandermo) that maybe one of these days I'll get around to writing out and posting if anyone wants to use them for fanfic or fanart inspo or just to compare notes lol.

But yeah idk, I'm enjoying this season for what it is and as much as I can, and the last ep had some very juicy Nandermo moments, but I guess the thing is I think they should have happened much earlier and I think it's indisputable that this show will end as one with tons of mysteriously untapped potential- and while I can't wait to see the fix-it fan works that address all of that, it's still disappointing.

[narianders-gt-hell]

Back to posting art once a week let’s freaking go

[zombocomme]

Ministry📺TV presents:

From the

Between the Lines (BTL AU)

Premier Season

*A bonus episode from The Vault...

With a Special Guest Appearance @ask-miasma-ghoul

"I wish I knew..."

⚠️MDNI🔞 tw: toxic relationships, blood/gore, gay vampires and vampire sex, murder and implied cannibalism.

Enjoy

🌉🧇🍷🔪🔱🦇✨️🫲🙂‍↕️🫱✨️🦇⚜️🚬🍷🥩🌉

Jim sighed again, "Ide like a-"

"Hey can I get some coffee over here, god!" Another patron once again interupted... Jim was livid. Copia was pouting in the car because he and Jim had another spat, and stubbornly he refused to talk to him at the moment, the drive thru was out of the question, and wouldn't go in with Jim to order. Jim had to walk into the food place, grumbling and whipping out his wallet, tumbling his fingers in the bill fold for the Ministry Black Card and then,

"Sorry sir what is your order"

"I would like a combo-"

"Hang on sir." the staff person interupted, popping their bubble gum as they hollered around a line of cooks telling them to mind the drive through because there was a line around the building. She wore an earpiece and her name tag suggested she might be in charge of the place tonight, but when she turned her attention to the register she didn't do the professional glance up, already having a gleefully terse tone of voice as she repeated for the second time, "Sir, what is your order?"

Jim felt his face heat, "Can I please ha-"

"Oh my gaaahd ahaha!"

Another set of drunk patrons walked in squealing, the obvious party wear and stink of sweat on top of the scent of overly spiked cocktails, laughing loudly as they pretended to care to adjust their very high skirts. Their Jabbering Volume increased as they piled in, a couple of the women were holding their shoes, as passed,stumbling almost to fall.

"Your Order Sir!?" The Staff person called over the racket. Jim's momentary break in eye contact to the absolute scene beginning to set in, "A number-"

"Brittany who the fuck do you think you are!"

A brunette said shoving the blonde in the champagne club attire, a pettite mascara run woman who promptly pulled her earrings out as the other women seemed about to begin a catfight, already a cellphone in hand as they played a game of keep away from those who didn't want to be in a fight video on the internet.

"He ain't your man if you dont give it to him good, we'll I give it gooood!" Brittany burped as she had her thin fingers curled tight against her companions neck hairs, scruffed like a pissed of cat. Another girl was already charging into the fray.

"Can you fucking do something about this?!" Jim exasperated, glowering.

The person behind the counter rolled their eyes, "I'm paid to take your order sir, not break up brawls on the dance-floor, now may I please take your order sir?!" She said, her tone prissy.

Jim let out a half hearted huff of disbelief "Seariously?. Jesus H. Christ, this is why God's other middle name is 'Dammit'"Jim groaned, wiping at his face.

*If it weren't for Copia insisting on comming here for food he wouldn't be here*

"Sean get out, she doesn't wanna see your sorry ass!" Another nasally voice from another blonde snarled as a squirely looking napoleon-complex of a small man, muscles ripped to disproportion, arolled up. He had parked the car half on the sidewalk.

"HAY, you can't just walk away from me!" Sean, The Jackass hocked, the lugi splattering on the grimy tile floor with his instigating words. He squared up towards the group of women, a few cowering back like felines, still hissing and yowling, while he barked up a storm of entitled insults and vulgar comments. From the back of the kitchen a deep voice shouted,

"That's it, fuck this place I'm out, I fucking quit!"

"Get your ass back in here!" A second voice called as a disgruntled worker whooshed out from the kitchen and tossed their headset into the boiling hot deep fryer, flipping off the whole establishment on the way out... not that anyone but Jim saw...or cared to look and see anyway.

The smell of burnt plastic and old oil from the bubbling liquid made the staff person skirt away and call out to the quitting worker about something, and shouted back for somone to come clean the mess somone else made.

"I'll go somewhere else-" Jim said huffing incredulously as a shoe skid across the floor from the altercation happening nearby, the sparkled heel colliding against his shoe with a choppy tap-tap-tap when it skipped and skittered to a stop. The Jackass who had driven the car onto the sidewalk was joining the now proper brawl in the etablishment. Jim looked on.

Shouldn't he do something...? or least call somone? He thought about it moment, and then his brow raised when a crew of eight men dressed in heavy biker gear, shuffled in, blocking the door with their frames and ignoring the people behind the counter and seating themselves anyway. A burly Grey bearded member who had unfortunately been jostled by the chaos unfolding, then shoved the Clubbers and their mutual Jackass man apart, sending people flying. Jim was ducked as a chair went flying as well, only to be countered by another staff member comming out to get their skin in the vame because apparently they knew the Jackass too, and honestly, it was a bit entertaining to watch, like an old WWF match.

*If Copia had come in with him he would get to see this nonsense and perhaps not be so uptight*

Then a severely ill and addicted-to-something person started walking in, punching at random things. That was when the staff person finnally hopped over the counter and got into action.

"I told you you're not allowed back in here dude!"

"Fuck you, this is a public place!"

"Brittany is crying and Hermosa is bleeding get some fucking napkins!"

"Well if he's quitting I'm quitting too"

" Come on man, cant you wait till after the rush!"

"Chrissy, call the cops!"

"Eddie fucked the oil l up, sht it down and get the mop!"

"No get the sand!"

"You Big Ass Mother fucker think just cause you have your little buddies on bikes ima be scared, I'm with Los Chavos, thas right. RESPEC-"

"IM GOING TO THROW YOU ONTO THE GRILL"

"Mary come back!"

"No, fuck you, you knew Randy was supposed to be taking Todd to soccer and he was fucking with-"

"Dude! Get off the fucking property-"

"I quit!"

"Who's manager on duty then because we need the keys to the-"

Copia walked in. Jim's eyes locked on him, wide with disbelief.

*Is this for real do you see this right now?*

Another person in an apron ran to the register, and one of the club goers was already throwing punches towards them when a large kitchen pan came flying from back. The utter chaos was both legendary and expected, and yet, still deserving to be seen.

Copia rolled his eyes and as if invisible he walked right through the fists and blows and chairs and hands being thrown, without a scratch, and upon approaching the counter, wore an expression thatappeared merely upset about this inconvenience. He strode up to the register, "THREE ALL STAR SPECIALS, DONT CARE, TWO ORANGE JUICES AND ONE RAISIN TOAST!"

Copia shouted to the staff in the back, as those up front seemed occupied with putting eachother in headlocks and breaking noses.

Copia spoke with an authoritativevoice that seemed to compell the staff back into their paid programming and they set to work, glad that somone in the joint was giving them some sort of direction, as their manager on duty was trying to fight off a tresspasser and call the cops.

Jimmy shrugged defeatedly.

Copia waited beside him impatiently.

"Ah, what the hell," Jim muttered, and hopped onto the counter, sitting on it to wait. Giving up on the situation. It just felt like he was a victim of circumstance the unfolding chaos interrupting what would have been a simple exchange, was now another reason that tonight felt like a painful reminder of why he had turned to stuff, bad stuff, to try and either numb his pain or comfort his hurts. Everything was out of control. It was overwhelming. The urge to shut down or be reckless burned in Jim's veins, and he was holding on, by a single cigarette. He barely noticed the order Copia had brought to at least one side of the situation.

Copia as if reading his thought, huffed, "Now, was that so hard." He chirped.

"Wow. Ok." Jim said throwing his hands up in surrender, . Copia was right and yet, he was just as guilty for the chaos in the night." But it just felt like one more thing on his plate. One more straw to break. One more thing to nit pick..

One more thing that somehow got fucked out of his control and now Copia would follow behind on a white horse only to be upset over the experience, and he would likely act out. The man sought out strays... animals, people, lovers. Somehow by being their hero, being important and being able to save them, he had learned to buy their loyalty with displaced sincerity and sacrifice. But he never stopped there. It was like he was collecting oddities, hoarding them in a dark closet to comfort him from his own deamons. Jim was no better... Honestly. They both were fucked up. And they were both falling apart...

It's why they could never stay away from one another. Copia and Jim were eachothers greates pain, and also, their greatest intimacy. And now they were at such odds again. And it made Jim feel defeated. And all the more it highlighted the true anguish of their situation.

He lit another cigarette and ashed near the oil spill. On purpose. Because maybe it would be fate the waffleshouse burns down, like a manifestation of the volatile passion between Jim and Copia.

*It Would make a great story.*

But suddenly the food was there and Copia was shoving Jim off to take it from a ruddy faced young woman with bags under her eyes, her exotic dancing glitter makeup still on. Wiping back her black hair. Copia smiled, letting his gloved fingers brush over hers. Amidst the chaos he had locked in to what he really wanted to devour that night...

***

An hour later, Jim was seated on the side of the road, finishing that cigarette as the car rocked back and forth, thumping, knocks, and pretty moans muffled from its back seat. Jim tried to ignore the hot flare of jealousy that raged in his chest. He and Copia weren't together anymore. He knew that. Everyone knew that. But he always felt like he was never sure. And despite the emotional cling, Copia was so physically quick to move on when it came to paramours. He had the decency to still stay somewhat faithful, but even so, Jim felt his lip quiver sliggtly and his brows knit tighter down.

*He should be in that car. Satisfying Copia. It should be him. Especially now. With Milagro expecting, she couldn't do what Copia wanted most, and so Jim had stepped in, and it had felt like walking on glass ever since. That tension seemed to plague the relationship, and while Jim and Copia were together like this, they were glad, she wasn't with them. They were flad that their bullshit wouldn't add to her stress. She was stressed enough. Everyone had another helping of hurt and fear on their plates since they learned about the pregnancy, and the thought of all that waiting 'at home' made Jim both yearn and ache.

Jim sighed tiredly, trying to comfort the resigned spirit of his broken heart with a softer memory with his woman back home. Remembering her softness. The kind eyes that knew him, those hands, gentle and feirce all at once. A passionate love that steadied his shaky legs... She had gotten him through so much. She had been there for him in a time of his life where he needed that support msost. So now he felt guilty that he was here, instead of there. And it pained him to be only meters away from the lusting hunger happening in the back seat of their rental.

"Figures." Jim sighed, flicking the cigarette butt, ashing on the rocky road.

Any moment there could be lights, running. Screaming. He almost hoped there would be, because it would mean this public display would stop...

Once the noises had stopped, he flicked the smoking butt to the road. It's not like anyone was going to see him litter. The bend here was secluded, and the road less traveled. It wouldn't be hard to take off or hide where it was tight and dark, like a shelter from the world under the outskirts of the path into the woods. They were behind a slightly off-road dirt patch that was often overlooked because it was on the back end of the bend so well hidden in plain sight.

Jim felt his stomach churn and his mouth sour.

"Hurrrp!-"

Jim burped as he proceeded to splatter the dry dirt with the contents of his empty stomach.

He was sick. He hadn't fed in some time.

And he knew Copia was taking too long with the chick from the food-place in the backseat. And Jim was going to confront him about it.

Pissed Jim growled and jumped up, marching to the side of the vehicle where he ripped open the back seat door with a grunt. He saw the dim sight inside and the slurpping sounds. Disgusted, Jim scuffed Copia by the back of his shirt and hissed, "Your a Fucking Blood Fiend!"

"Your one to talk Jimmy." Copia scoweled, his chin shining, wet in the dark twilight.

"Fuck off!" Jim growled as he threw Copia off a few paces so he could enter the back seat.

After a few seconds Jim's fist punched something with a loud bang that made Copia wince. He wiped at his face realizing the full implications of what he had done. He knew he fucked up...

"Oh Goddamit Copia!"

Jim said, emerging from the dim space, wiping his lips...he had tasted the venom at the woman's neck, the physical fluid evidence of Copia's faithlessness, because Jimmy couldn't give him enough blood to drink. And so, by blood, Copia had been quite literally cqught red handed. As if adding insult to injury, the woman was half naked and dishevled, as was Copia.

*So. Copia had his fun in the back seat, which wasirritating but ultimately forgivable, everyone had needs... But this? Her bloodless lips were parted in ecstasy, as if laughing in Jim's face*

*Fucked. Sucked. Cucked.*

"You, fucking, asshole!"

Jim shouted, throwing punches. Copias eyes went wide when he realized, Jim was ready to fuck Copia Up. Mano a Mano style...

*Fisty-cuffs, Fantastic Hands and Where to Catch Them, rated E for Everyone. It was going down*

Copia grit his teeth and charged.

It was like they were 19 again, brawling on the dance-floor while everyone watched on. Dodging, swinging, kicking, wrestling down, and yanked back up again into one another, the scent of testosterone and aggression thick, and it mixed with the scent of blood as they scuffled and scraped eahcother up, trying to muscle each other into submission.

They chased one another around, and lashed out, hurking ounches and insults, over and over, behinning to tire as they avoided one anothers blows and blocked the others. This wasn't the first time they had experienced a fist fight, and it wouldn't be their last.

"You just can't fucking help yourself huh?" Jim lunged, now invigorated at landing the first blow.

"Jim youre acting crazy!" Copia retorted, using jims momentum , kicking Jim in the pants to tumble forward and land hard on the solid ground.

Copia stumbled and flicked his arm out, giving enough moment to avoid the next punch as Jim went down.

"I can forgive a high altitude FUCK with the air hostess, I didn't do shit about you and your little groupies. But THIS?!" Jim roared. Within minutes they were rolling in the dirt, kicking up a cloud of dust so fine it clung to every beading drop of sweat.

"You drank it all! You couldnt wait for me! Couldnt just let me have some of it, let me get well?" Jim's fists kept pummeling and Copia was trying to fend offJim on his knees, throwing damnations and curses his way. Copia was in the wrong.

*There was a network of 'Donors' all over the world. In every city and small town and even a couple villages, there were blood doners, who within a quick connection and a phone call, could arrive at the residence or location of a Vampire In Need- you know, like on call blood donors that chased the high of a Vampires venomous kickback of vitality and power. The venom known as 'Soma'.*

"I need blood too, you asshole!" Jim said, struggling under Copias grip in one position, and then perspectively Copia was in another, like two puzzle pieces wriggling to connect. Instinctual and impossible at all times.

Copia was tied to his familiars. A deep blood bond of ancient rites and black magic, sorcery and science, god and the devil, it was the beautiful and terrible Dark Gift. Copia had made his blood ties to Millie and Jimmy. Millie couldn't give that blood to him now that she was with child, or rather with his children, HIS. Twins at that, they had learned.

"You're acting like a fucking child! You knew I needed blood, and I knew you wouldn't leave me if I made you come here!" Copia said, pulling and pushing, kicking, tossing sand and shoving a knee into Jim's groin.

As Jim fell to his back, taking every wrong done to him to heart, Jim frly like whatever good sense god gave him had been knocked oit with the wind. Breathless, he realized why he was so angry. He was feeling used. Emotionally, sexually, and the whole tour so far had been so angsty and moody, and he felt like he couldn't give a damn to keep up with it anymore.

Jim wrestled at Copia’s clothes trying to get the upper hand, tearing his shirts. Like he was tearing up the stupid paper stories about a dream he could never have with his boy hood love for his best friend. They had been boys together. And now, as men, they were so damned hopelessly ever tied to one another like a blessing and a curse

"You couldn't wait for me to eat, just had to sneak like a fox in a hen house, and rip my fucking heart out!" Jim sobbed as he tiredly paused, as did a groaning Copia, catching their breaths. Copia began to sob, his tears soaking Jim's tattered shirt.

*Jim was encountering the soul gripping emotions of his hurt and love, his pain and rage, his faith, his very faith to make their lives happy. And it just couldn't be. They were too much the same, and too much similar to get along for too long. They were volatile to one another. And yet they couldn't stay away...*

Copia dug his fingers into Jim's back. Tilling the flesh like it was a lifelinethat was slipping away. He was trembling, he felt dizzy and concussed. Jim was still a vampire.

*It was both a daydream and a drug to feed from another vampire; more often than not thiugh, many Vampires choose to sup from humans because they require less vitality in exchange for their own...*

Jims sobbjng turned dry, "I don't have to share EVERYTHING with you, Millie doesnt BELONG to you!" Jim croaked as he tried to double down on his efforts to shove Copia off of him, to no avail, a black eye swelling shut, his head swimming. He knew he had a concussion too. His hand drifted to Copia's waist, too tired to keep it up and guarded, tired of struggling against a figgt he didn't want to have anymore. And they sort of laid there that way for a moment, exhausted and limp, almost drowsy as the adrenaline crash surged through them.

*Jim had played good ol fashioned American Football, and he had the developed grace and posture from when he ballroom danced. He had strength, resilience, stamina, and grace, ah yes Jimmy Defroque, the southern socialite. An example of a repeat Prodigal son, an example of how the unrealistic expectations of his father made him grow up with hurt that he never could quite toughen up or get used to because it was inside him, that it festered. So he spent his youth chasing highs and turning to self-destructive habits on the lows. That's where Jim's deamons came from. The lower hells. Desolate, cold, lonely. No wonder he chased after any little bit of sunshine he found and why he felt like Copia hung the stars for him. He was Jim's 'creator' ater-all...*

Such were the trials and tribulations of their un unholy covanent, for a Blood Master to create Familiars, the way Copia did for Jim... that "Ritual for Babylon", it was called.

His vow of faithfulness to his familiars was this: He would supp from them, and they would feel his intensity, and his love for them in a way more intimate... an essence of soul..*

*And they would also feel his Venom, differently now. The Soma, was now tainted by the blood of his familiars, and now Copia would forever crave them... instinctually feel connected to them, a bond strengthened when he fed from them, leached sustenance from the.. only then he would give, assuring their love and loyalty. And so he passed his vitality to them. Or drained it from them, depending on the path they chose for their lives... It was how vampires lived so long.

If the familiar chose the Life Eternal, tthey could theoretically be forever tied to their blood master, freely giving and taking to the end of time. But the Dark Gift gives for what it takes, and familiars have a choice on the matter. One not to take lightly... not many mortals, or even vampires, have the stamina for being a familiar, let alone for eternity, and to choose it was to bind them in covenant with Lord Lucifer himself.

And this choice hinged on the very circumstances in which their lives by Copia's actions, that had become so beautiful and so damning...

The body of the staff member still lay in the car, and dear god what a monster Copia had become.... The woman, sparkles rubbed off, drained of blood and indifferent, her bare legs visible against the darkness around them, made Jim feel sick all over again...for too many reasons...

There was a solution, though in practice. Not a simple one...

Jim could bring her back... he had that power...he had that connection to "The Other Side" and for the freshly dead, the soul clinging closely before moving on fully, was somone he coild bring back...if they wanted to come back that is... if they wanted to come back...

Copia's carelessness in killing her could be fixed by "His Jim", but the preacher mand didn't want to have to. He hated doing it.. Bringing people back could spell disaster. Look at Terzo- brought back wrong and had to be sent back to the pits, reinterred until a better way could be found... that wouldn't rely on trying to sew his decapitated head back onto his corpse...

Jim felt sick again and swallowed back the bile as he adjusted to not be so uncomfortable under Copias firm grip and the weight of his body against him. Copia flushed, like he was sadistically turned on by all of this. Hurting everyone around him made him not feel so alone in his own. It gave him the sense of control he felt was keeping him from falling apart entirely.

Jim on the other hand, was very angry, that Copia was so easy to feel entitled, be careless, rely on Jim to clean up his messes. He brought Jim to this meet up because he knew he would lose control, and Jim would come running for him. Would engage, would fight, and fuck. But this time it wasn't over another human, it was over a particular kind... Copia fed from another Vampire's familiar... He had done this sordid deed, killed the woman in his acts, and Jim was going to ressurect her. To Copia it made sense. Because he was lashing out. After their spat, this is what happened tonight. God's he was sick and broken. Much like Jim, who had wanted to go with Copia to meet the Doner at the food-place. To try and be discreet, and get comfortable, before they 'harvested the crops another had plowed...

*Feeding from another Vampire's familiar is usually an act qualifying for reteibution- unless it was offered, freely given, and or necessary by emergent circumstance. In this case it was not so... all three were sneaking around to try this, because the Copia and Jim were supposed to share her; they both needed to feed, and so the plan had been to take from the same donor, sharing like it was some fucked up Idea of spicing up their relationship. They had been feeding off of one another throughout the tour thus far, and one can only do that so much before the blood stagnated and turns bad... Just like their relationship at present. A never ending carousel of need and being ever at odds. The times they were so good together, and to each other, almost made the suffering worth it. Almost. But not quite. And the hope that they would stay together again seemed to dwindle with every illicit red drop...*

The thought about leaving had long been brewing in Jims mind, and Copia deep down knew this had been coming for some time. Copia was desperate, as was Jim. And neither were guiltess...

*Milagro. She was his everything.*

Copia knew it. And yet he was still pursuing her anyway. Because he felt entitled, because he had had bedded her first. And it had wounded Jim so deeply. It was one thing he just couldn't forgive...

She had been his girl first. And even though she shared herself with the other men in her life she loved, It was Copia, that Jim held true jealousy over for her.

He couldn't forgive Copia for putting his hands on her, daring to touch her, not after what he had done that led to all of this...

Copia's glowing red eyes tensed. He looked down between them, on top of one another. Jim's heart was hammering. Copia could feel it move through his own chest, like a ruby chain yanking them together through the chaos. He sensed it too, in the way the pulsing heat bulged in Jim's roping veins. He was strong as a bull. Stubborn like one, too. He didn't want to tap out. But his blood was calling for its blood master. The familiars mark, silently sleeping had sensed its master near and had been awakened. The mark looked like a blooming flower, petals of heat and blood rose to flush the spot on Jim's neck that would slot Copias fangs perfectly, blossoming for him to devour. Jim saw the lust and desire in Copia's gaze, and he felt the hot liquid dribble down his skin. The soft rolling drops, the coppery smell of his blood weeping from that beautiful and damning mark, and the vampiroc gaze of Copias eyes, glowing dinly, red in the night, with a fire dancing behind them that made Jim shiver.

And suddenly Jim felt his own cheeks flush at that hungry look in Copia's mismatched eyes, even dimmed in the night, sparkled like morning stars, as if staring into Jims soul. Wanting him. Wanting to posess him. The demonic heritage in Copia, craved it, the anguish and desperation of Jim's faith and devotion.

Jim could never resist it in the end. It felt so good to belong. For Copia to look at him like that again. He needed Copia to look at him like that, again and again.

Copia felt the hardness of Jim's arousal pressing along a soft spot on his stomach and he groaned. A long string of venom slipped form his dirty face, a black shimmery substance that always seemed to bring Jim to his knees. Copia had only ever known a love like this. What he had endured at Valefar's hand for two centuries, tied to his own master, he knew, he was sure he knew, that it ruined him. He was fucked up. And he was being fucked up. This was love to him; mutual pain was tearing them down to vulnerable creatures, forcing them into seeking comfort in one another...

*And for the music of the night to begin...*

Copia stuttered his hips, feeling that intimate red chain flick and coil low in his stomach, his own blood responding to the call of its Familiar... such an intimacy was so unique. It hurt when he sought that comfort elsewhere, and would get emotionally attached, to another donor... Neglect Millie or Jimmy for this new heartache he had chosen. A toxic circle. Yet to break.

Even as they lay broken in the dirt, moaning now, they were only tangling tighter between their pain and passions.

Jim's head was thrown back in ecstasy, damp hair tipped into the dirt as Copia fed from him, whimpering softly as he gulped from the mark where he was now latched, not a drop wasted, and his whole body engaged in the Vampire's Kiss. The Soma swirling through Jim had a particularly strong kickback, and to others who he could drink from, this was a desired trait and Jim was feeling it rush around, flooding his every cell with fire and pleasure... unlike the way other drugs and sexual encounters had done to him, this was a high he could never achieve otherwise, not without Copia. He was addicted to Copia. His body on fire on a visceral level. And it was a wagon he kept throwing himself off of every time. Every bitter-sweet kiss a temptation, powerless at his weakest, when temptation always came knocking.

As Copia moved their clothes to adjust between Jim's legs, he felt a surge of impatiemce and agression and he growwled lowly like a beast, before he snarled, biting down harder and wrenching at the worried flesh where blood and Soma swirled over one another like mixing ink, bubbling into his mouth and slipping deliciously down, spilling into him, making him latch harder with more passion and desperation.

Jim cried out, the pain intense and nearly making him scream, only held together by the only person who could right now.

"C-Copi , -ahh, aaughhh!" Jim choked.

Copia had suddenly pulled his drink deeper and harder, making the pleasure and pain mix in a way that made Jim feel like he was being absolutely wrecked and turned inside out, his whimpering tensing body kept on a knife edge. Jim felt like he would blow at any second, like he would literrally combust and explode from that brief sensation that nearly made him pass out. He wanted to let go. To release the numbing persistent heat behind his pelvis for Copia as a lover, and as his blood master. When Jim was out of control he buried himself in others, or, in Copias case was brought down like a beast and thrust into the deoths, to be pleasured like a man, and enjoyed like an animal, the way a Vampire Familiar should, in his unfiltered opinion; dicked down into domestication...trained to come, stay, and seek his master like a lost creature seeking shelter in the embrace of darkness.

*Fuck that.*

"Yeah, fuck that." Copia slurped, his fingers finding their way between Jim's legs, massaging over Jim, kneading with the right force to make Jim's hardened need dribble pathetically down onto his stomach, mussing into the dark patch of hair happily trailing down below the opened waistband. Exposed and demanding to be soothed. Copias thumb circled the end of Jim's pleasure, dragging down and teasing as he rocked into Jim still locked in his desperate kiss at Jim's neck. He belonged there. Copia needed to belong there because he was afraid Jim would leave him...

*Just like everyone else in his very long years living life. He knew it.... Jim had chosen to leave him. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow, but someday Jim would die. And Copia would have to face eternity alone.*

*Jim had made a deal with a devil. *The Ferryman* who collected many souls, and some that lived, yet unborn, into this world, and he had managed to bring the soul he found on an island of dreams... but he had exchanged it for, his Life Eternal.

Copia had chosen Jim. And Jim had not.

Copia had made Jim his Familair, so they could be together forever. And Jim had cast that dark gift aside. For a mortal life, to eventually leave Copia alone. Milagro had remained undecided and had chosen to remain mortal through the experience of bringing life into the world. She could die. And he knew Jim wouldnt make it long in this world without his angel on earth, Milagro.And then Copia truly would be left alone in the world...

To Copia, that was the unforgivable thing he could not let go, it was as simple as that...

Needing to unlatch to breath and in primal pleasure, a long bestial timbre of a man's voice that bespoke of his demonic heritage, shattered from Copia's throat.

"I wish I knew how to quit you!" Jim sobbed, gripping Copias flesh, fingers digging as he pushed Copia off. Copia nearly hissed and almost scrambled to get up and have the upper hand. But by then Jim had pushed Copia out of him. He flipped them, fingers interlacing as Copia's hands were pinned them above. Jim was hurting. And he-

"-need this" Jim mumbled. Copia's hips rose slightly to meet Jim who spat on his hand and rolled his knuckles into Copia's soft spot.

Copia keened as the angry burn of being stretched too fast and without proper lubrication made him tense. But the pleasure of Jim's blood in his body was settling in.

*like dark chocolate covered cherries and a Dr peper Jack and Cola, a black bitter Chocolate ribbon in a swirl of something to savor in the tangy metallic after taste that was Jim's blood signature. Like a fine wine. Copia wanted more. Always more. Could never have his fill without killing somone. Always on edge with the blood hunger. A hunher only Jim could even attempt to satisfy...

Copia had become obsessive over Milagro and his feedings with her. Feedings he couldn't have because she was preparing herself to die... expending her energy to keep up with the demands of the little ones growing in her once barren womb. Without her blood, Copia felt like he was dying. Lost without her bonding.and he was lashing out and attaching to other people behind her back. Jim knew it. Knew Copia was aching for her, and Jim felt angry that he wasn't enough. Copia was being so absent from her, and Jim was watching it happen. He wanted her and needed her, too. But right now they both needed what they couldn't have, so, like they had done many times before, sought it out in eachother instead.

Copia panted and his back arched off the dusty ground as "His Jim" rutted desperately into him, gloriously hammering against Copia's walls. He felt his own stirring as he experienced Jim running along that spot that had Copia mewling pathetically in the dirt. Jim growled and grunted, his harsh breathing blowing a bare spot in the ground, the loose bits flying out. Jim gripped Copias hand and choked back a moan that was rushing to him too quickly.

"Too fa- fast ah!" Copia whined, his stomach exploding with hot flutters at every sensation.

The rise in pitch.

The tense body and breath.

The raging flow of blood, all of it overwhelming against the scent of sweat, overpriced spilled cocktails and buttery greasy foods, the car oil, the slight off scent of the corpse in the car as the bone dry vessels that once house blood began to decompose under Copias venom, it's ruinous properties evident only in the quickly drained and the dead.

And as Jim bottomed out even deeper, his blood pulsed with energy and need, the sensation of givingball of himself, of losing himself in Copia, pulled him down deeper into the darkness at the heart of their love, a fateful chain from his navel to his heart. At this Jim let out a long stuttering sigh as his bloody lips parted in ecstasy, as if pleasure and releif had at last come, when Jim sank himself in between Copia's legs. Emptying himself into Copia, filling him with every last drop he could.

Suddenly the emptiness and the vulnerability shook in Jim's chest as he struggled to hold back his next fit of sobbing.

Copia gasped and reached up, pulling Jim in close before he could spiral with his own emotions and the tirade of thoughts streaming in his head. Copia could sense them so well. And he knew he wanted this moment. To hold his Jim again. To be needed by him. Loved. To cradel "His Jim" in his embrace and feel close to him again.

Jim had a hand behind Copia's head, lifting it from the dirt and cradling his lover to his neck. Copia gasped as his lips touched jims feverish skin. The blood is fresh and inviting. Such was the intimate nature of vampiric feeding. Time passed, and Copia's continued the nurse from the ruby weeping mark on that strong neck.

Jim sighed as Copia pulled drink after drink. The Soma in his own body mixed together in Copia. Soft sighs and lays echoed in the night. He trembled from the intensity of the feeding and the full force of the euphoric sensations that came with it. It was emotionally releiving and draining to experience. Devoted hands slid allong Copia's body worshiping every centimeter of that beautiful body, and Copia petaled his lips across Jim's over sensitive skin, as if in supplication to make him whole.

***

The woman in the car mysteriously went misisng for a few hours, and then was found when she woke up at a bus stop Across town.

A black car idled nearby.

When she rose to her feet and steadied herself, confused, she noticed the car. Then her phone rang.

"Congradulations, your have bee selected to receive the donation lottery of..." a strong smooth voice purred.

Holding the phone to her ear, she noticed the two people in the black car, were gone...

***

"Rough night?" Miasma smirked, tossing his glasses and his phone across the table, annoyed with being woken up to do some sort of last minute payments to a Donor's Accoount. Whatever Jim had been up to that night. He wanted to keep tabs and make sure, it was kept secret. And Miasma was not a fan of Jim keeling him in the dark. Not after all they had been through. His thick hair bunched at his shoulders as he sat back. Staring, watching Jim come through the tour buss door, the RV structure tipping a tiny bit as Jim mounted the steps up into the space with a heavy thump.

"How does it look?"Jim snipped, heading to the shower area and stripping.

Copia's healing factor had healed his injuries and then some. But even Miasma knew the sight and scent of a hard day's night.

"Can't help it man" Jim called out over the rushing shower rain.

"Shit happens, big whoop." Jim grumbled. Despite what seemed to be an encounter with what smelled like Copia, Jim was worn down and jaded like whatever happened tonight didn't change the fact that Jim was neck deep in miseryamd he ached to feel free from it. Even if temporarily. By any means necessary. Including seeking shelter to the one who was hurting him most now. Miasma hated to see Jim like this. Honestly he almost preferred Jim was on the hard stuff again. Because this particular self destructive behavior of his was both sickening and heartbreaking to watch.

Miasmas eyes narrowed as he sipped on his tea.

"Well how badly do you want to leave, are you at rock bottom yet?" Miasma teased. His tail swished with irritation. More than anything he wanted Jim out of this ugly rut. He needed him to be free of it...

*why can't you get out of your own way and love who you want*

Miasma thought.

Copia had a hold on Jim that was too complicated for him to break alone. But at least, Jim was admitting he had a problem. And that was a first step. Miasma was here for Jim. and even if he had to drag Jim to the finish kine himself. He would see the preacher man through. But he needed a moment of transgression. Of selfishness. Of hate.

While Jim showered, Miasma slipped out the door. He was jealous. He was angry. It hurt to see Jim get hurt, over and over. And also to see him run into someone else's arms, seeking comfort, seeking rest- seeking an intimacy that Miasma knew he could never give...

*Not without devouring him, wailing as he did so, burying his hands into the viscera, seeing the insides that no one else had ever seen, making them one with himself, as he choked gagged and moaned over every peice of the preacher man's flesh that would slide down his throat.*

Miasma kicked at the RV and felt his toe painfully connect to the hard surface. He hummed a grunt of pain, and leaned forward forhead pressed onto the dusty surface of the vehicle, mirroring his reflection, staring back at him.

"I wish I knew how to quit you" Miasma hitched...

***

In the early morning, soft groans and feeding noises could be heard coming from under the RV. And a woman who had been wired a hefty sum of money earlier, had gone missing once more...

[o4o41]

One reason Karai ("bad girl") turned out better than April ("good girl") in TMNT 2012 CGI version was

• "Bad girl" Karai had spunk and stood up for herself and was opinionated and initiative. Had more depth and motivation.

Edit: The thing that made her "bad girl" (and that happens in real life) was that she was defiant and went for anything she desired without asking permission or authority. Definitely. Patriarchy-defiant, probably. And devs of 2012 TMNT really noticed this in 2003 TMNT Karai. And besides the patriarchal demand of female behavior and repression, the devs really liked and invested into her more. She was a person, as a result.

• While the "good girl" TMNT 2012 April turned out as a distorted image of a patriarchal idea for what a "good girl" is supposed to be like. A luckluster puppet of the system's ideology for what it is supposed to be or even look like. (Brother Grim pleased the patriarchal system and made their females into harmless, housewife, helpless personnel who were singing happily while getting exploited with housework. Those men didn't care for those portrayal of the 'proper good characters' rather than forcing gendered behaviors into their sexist fairy tales. For example. Female characters and stories suffered as we never really knew about them. They were cutboard cutout.)

Edit: I was watching this tiktok reel before making this post:

https://vt.tiktok.com/ZSrUJhgdx/

[wellhalesbells]

Admittedly, the last time I was tagged for wipwednesday, it was twenty years ago and I productively posted nothing but here I am, only a few decades late! You're welcome. *tosses confetti* This is a continuation of the tiny little Steter hanahaki thingy I posted when my fingers slipped. Now it's my brain that's sliding away from me.

“Hey, Stares-A-Lot, did you want to contribute to the powwow or just continue to earn your namesake?” Peter blinks.  He hadn’t realized he’d been staring.  Great, what else has he missed as he’s sunk into this unfortunate infatuation?  Likely a lot if it’s already progressed this far.  Christ, if Derek or Cora have picked up on where his attention has been lingering, he might have to kill them both just so he doesn’t have to live with the shame.  “Only wondering if we don’t need cannon fodder for this little adventure.”  His own claws dig into his bicep hard enough to draw blood as he says the flippant words. It’s everything he can do to keep from glaring around at the gathering, daring someone to agree with him.  If anyone tries to use Stiles for bait there’s a very good chance he won’t be able to stop himself from separating their heads from their necks. Luckily for them, no one else in this room is futilely shouting their own emotions down regarding how much they love the little twerp.  Even Derek’s accepted he’s pack so all he gets is teeth bared in his direction and Cora’s bored, “If we have to stop every few minutes to try to kill you again, then I’ll never get to watch the Real Housewives marathon.” “Real nice, scarface, and here I thought we’d gotten past the ‘wanting to kill each other’ phase of our relationship.”  The word relationship makes his lungs itch.  Stiles’ attention is on him, even if it is just to give him an eye roll.  It’s heady and Peter is trying not to give him too much of his own in return.  He’s pretty sure none of what he’s saying necessitates Peter staring deeply into his eyes but it’s not so easy to convince himself to look away despite that.  “I haven’t thrown a single Molotov cocktail at you since that first one.” Stiles’ hands end up in his jacket pockets and it looks like one Derek would wear, one Peter wants to strip from him.  Forcibly.  The gathering is still paused, waiting for his riposte but he can feel petals unfurling in the cavern of his throat. He can’t be jealous, deranged, and violently ill, that’s just not fair.  He used to be a stronger creature than this.

Tagging @callunavulgari, @rosieposiepuddingnpie, @kikiroo, @andavs and @piratefalls + anyone else who's currently doing the writing thing!

[arcade-confetti]

Pinned Post 📍 Last Updated: June 2025

-formerly @daisybell-on-a-carousel

Names: Robin, Spring, and Bonnie. Or just using a word in my url it's whatever 👍. As well as Tickets and Tokens for fun <-Tokens must be plural if used

Pronouns: Generally he/him I think, then they/them, then she/her occasionally. Neos are fine if I can tell they're about me

I am 18+

Feel free to send in asks and art requests for any fandoms I may be in at the moment. Art not always guaranteed but I have commission info at the end

I try to use tone indicators! Bad at keeping track of em though, you can always ask for clarification and I'll tell you no problem

All my posts are ask to tag!

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Relevant Sideblogs (both currently inactive)

Five Nights at Freddy's sideblog is @springlock-suits

Aesthetic blog is @daisybell-on-an-old-carousel

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Other Platforms (NOTE: I am MOST active on tumblr, if you try to contact me, you should use tumblr, I do NOT check nor am active on my other socials except for 小红书)

小红书 (rednote): Daisybell

Bluesky: daisybellcarousel.bsky.social 🔞

Instagram: springlock.suits

Flight Rising: DarlingDolly #418355

Discord: daisydaisygivemeyouranswerdo

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Info

You can tag me in tag games and piccrew chains and whatever! Tag me in just something you think I'll like! I love being @'d, even if I don't respond

I love getting asks! Please dont be scared, I think the greatest harm to sending me an ask is me not answering because I can't think of anything to say. But I don't secretly hate you or anything.

I am also very very deeply forgetful which mixes with my poor passage of time. You are very much allowed to poke me with a stick if I take awhile

Totally fine to ask me to unblock you, I'm willing to reassess. Very willing to admit I can be a bit too trigger happy abt it

If you're interacting with me please please don't negatively call any characters psychopaths, sociopaths, or narcissists; I am so very tired of seeing these being used as a synonym for 'bad person'

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I, can be really awful about actually doing things, even and especially if theyre things i WANT to do. If I mention I'm drawing something but it's gone unposted, or you sent me something or an ask and I didn't respond within like. A week. Poke me with a stick, I not only encourage this but I want you to do so. Art does not take me long if im actually drawing. I'm also super forgetful and WILL guilt myself into never responding if I took too long in my mind. So I'm telling you. I have absolutely no problem at all with being sent reminders or being asked for updates

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Emoji Tags

���🏚🌊 <-my original posting, the intent is I put it on every post I make

🪤 <- mutual/follower trap, I'm reblogging this post specifically for them

💥🌃🐦‍🔥🗡 <-general Jason Todd. I talk about him alot but don't always main tag it, so this is for all my untagged Jason rambles. Most used so the others below this one don't actually matter that much

🔴💥🗡 <-Red Hood Jason specifically

🗞🎫🪽 <-Robin/Kid Jason specifically

🐦‍🔥💥✨️ <-Magic/Immortal Jason Todd (to be used outside of my own posting/on reblogs)

🔴🐾🗡 <-Pup Play Mask Jason. When I feel like drawing him in that outfit again

Any emoji tagged Jason posting will be main tagged if it gets attention beyond my blog

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Note: I'll reblog some of my art on some Saturdays, tagged "self reblog saturday"

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Commissions

[forwhump]

a/n; I’m sorry I keep posting 😭😭😭 remember when I hated it more than anything ?? now I can’t stop

I actually have a list of requests now (!!!!! 🥹 !!!!!!) & I swear I cross my heart I pinky promise if you asked me for something I WILL post for you !!! if you were kind enough to request smth from me I’ll actually write & post anything you want forever just not chronologically in any form at all, that’s all LOL

I found this first when I was perusing the wren folder so that’s why this one is up but NEXT TIME, next time it will be softer & there will be caretaking I promise

just a little bit of wren’s first night in the district first, that’s all <3 (spoilers : it’s horrible) @ doughnut this one’s for you 😚

tw/cw: kidnapping, captivity, rape, noncon, humiliation, psychological torture, sexual torture, misgendering, transphobia

sexual servant whumpee, creepy whumper

There are a glorious few moments, when Wren first opens his eyes, that he isn’t scared.

He’s in pain — the pain starts before consciousness does. But he isn’t scared. It’s a small mercy.

Instead, he wakes to that pain. Groggy, it’s hard to tell exactly what hurts, a sort of fog much the same as trying to wake from unconsciousness. As he wakes, as the fog of sleep clears, the pain settles and Wren couldn’t tell exactly what was hurting because everything hurts. He groans, and even his jaw hurts. He tries to groan, anyway, but the sound is muffled because he’s gagged, a strip of cloth pulled tight and knotted at the back of his head.

For a second, for a split second, Wren doesn’t really think about it. Still barely conscious, he barely considers the gag, and thinks, instead, of the knot at the back of his head. He can feel where it’s tangled in his hair, tugging at his scalp with each exhale. He’s face down, and as he blinks his eyes open, he doesn’t really notice the concrete, but the sheet of his hair.

Wren doesn’t wear his hair down. Wren hasn’t worn his hair down since he was a very small child, a child beauty pageant queen, and his mother would spend hours brushing and oiling and meticulously braiding it for him. He doesn’t think he’s had a haircut since only a few years after that. By the time he was old enough to decide for himself what to do with his hair, he was proud of it. He has great hair. But he also has really long hair, and it’s a pain in the ass. Really impractical, at times.

This is what Wren thinks about. He doesn’t wear his hair down. Why is his hair down? It’s pooling on the concrete around him, and why would he have —

The concrete?

Everything hurts.

Wren’s gagged.

That’s when he gets scared.

It’s the most scared he’s ever been in his life.

Wren’s been scared before. He would be lying through his teeth if he said he hadn’t. He’s never been scared like this. He’s never felt anything like this.

It’s an infection, a parasite that burrows deep into his chest, into his core, and it spreads through him quickly, churning through his bloodstream, just under his skin. He’s shivering, and he doesn’t notice, not right away, that it isn’t only because he’s scared. It’s only when he rolls onto his back that he realizes just how cold it is, so cold his breath clouds the air above him. His hands are tied behind his back, and he traps them against the ground beneath him as he rolls over. It’s why his arms, his wrists, his hands, his shoulders ache — his hands are tied so tightly at his back his fingertips are buzzing with static.

There’s only a single light in the ceiling above him, something fluorescent. Its glow is orange and its flicker, irregular, buzzing with shorted electricity. Something starts to burn low in Wren’s stomach, and the contrast to the cold in here and in his bloodstream is enough to make him gag.

The room is empty, except for him and that fluorescent bulb. It’s concrete on all sides, an empty concrete cell, and the only door is an iron slat carved out of one wall, the bolted, armed doors of a military hanger.

Wren can taste his heartbeat. His hair is down. What the fuck is —

And he can still barely keep his eyes open. Blinking slowly, he braces his hands behind himself and manages to push himself up from the floor, not far but far enough that he can lean heavily against the wall across from that door. His skirt is flouncy, red and white gingham layered with tulle, and it settles in a fan across his lap as he sits up. His eyes close on their own, too heavy to be —

They fly open again just as quickly. His skirt?

No, it’s —

No, he’s not wearing a skirt. It’s a dress, and only then just barely. It’s short, and it’s so tight around Wren’s waist that it hurts, and it hurts a little worse each time he breathes. It’s a child’s dress, and something about that makes Wren more uneasy than anything else. He tries to swallow, and it makes him sob.

He’s wearing cowboy boots. They aren’t his boots.

What the fuck is going on?

It’s so fucking cold.

Wren tries to stand, leaning his weight against the wall, but his legs are shaking too badly and they give out from under him. He falls hard. This time, it has nothing to do with the cold.

He tries to take a deep breath and it catches on something in his throat, something that makes him sob. He isn’t sure when he started crying, but his tears are cool on his face.

What the fuck is going on?

He isn’t so fortunate that he has to wonder for long. Huddled against the wall, shaking so hard he might be pulling himself apart at the seams, Wren cries. He tries to stand, to pull his hands free, to make any sense of his surroundings, and he can’t, and he cries. For a time, the only sounds are the hoarse, panicked hitching of his sobs and the constant, droning hum of the fluorescent bulb above him.

It starts with a chirp, with a weird, technical sort of beep. Wren doesn’t even get the illusion of relief, of somebody coming to his rescue — something is really, really wrong. What’s going on? There’s another beep, then a series of more beeps, and then a sound, through the door, like muffled thunder.

Wren’s heart beats at the back of his throat.

When the door opens, it opens slowly. A man fills the doorway, and he makes Wren’s blood run cold. He looks like something from a nightmare, something so horrible Wren can’t even really fathom him. He doesn’t look real. He can’t be. All black, a monster, the shadow of a monster, except for the cowboy hat, perched low on his head.

For a second, for a naive, blissful second, Wren doesn’t recognize him. He doesn’t recognize the dreadful black uniform or the macabre silhouette. He doesn’t remember how limp Robin had been.

Beneath his cowboy hat, he’s wearing a mask. It’s just as dreadful as the rest of his uniform, but when he pulls it down, it’s so much worse.

He knocks the wide brim of his hat up, out of the way, grinning down at Wren. Looking up at him, into his face, at his eyes, it’s like looking into the eyes of a violent animal. There’s nothing human in his eyes. Wren recognizes those eyes.

He lurches without meaning to, pressing himself a little harder into the wall.

There’s an intensity in the way he watches Wren that makes Wren’s stomach bubble, acidic. He grins a little wider, and something in the way it pulls at his face is grotesque. Unnatural. He doesn’t have a human smile, either. “Why, good mornin’, sugar,” he says, and he says it with an equally unnatural twang. Is he mocking him? The dress, and the hat, it’s — “I’ve been waitin’ on you.”

So, this —

This can’t really be happening, right? It isn’t. This is — what is this? What’s — who is this? What is he — gingham. This is — gingham. Why is Wren wearing gingham? What the fuck is happening? This can’t be happening.

The train of thought must show on his face and the soldier doesn’t try to hide how much he loves it. His grin stretches. The way he angles his head is predatory. Something in Wren’s chest gets very, very tight. “Why, shucks,” he mocks. “You’re awful pretty when you’re scared, girl.”

Heat spreads beneath Wren’s face and trickles down the back of his neck. When the soldier takes a step closer, he flinches back against the wall again. He doesn’t mean to. His hands are shaking at his back, trapped against concrete so cold his fingers are starting to numb with it.

There’s an even colder, unfiltered terror in the way his grin is fixed to his face, in the way he isn’t looking at Wren, not really, but at the hemline of the dress. Gingham. He stalks towards him like a predator, and he crouches down in front of him, too close.

He’s big. He’s massive, in fact. Wren’s never been a particularly big guy, but this guy would tower over even Robin, all six feet and three some odd inches of him. His shoulders are probably double the width of Wren’s own. When he crouches in front of Wren, he blocks the light with the bulk of him, and tears blur his silhouette.

When he speaks again, he speaks without twang, but with a smug, probably militant sort of confidence that makes Wren shiver, try as he might to help it, try as he might not to let this man see. “My men call me Point,” he says, and there’s something almost condescending in how he says it. “You will not. You will not speak unless you’re spoken to. If you must refer to me, you will refer to me as daddy. If you disobey, you’ll be punished, cowgirl, and I won’t take it easy on you. I don’t care how purty you are,” and he puts the accent back on. “Y’understand?”

Wren can’t breathe. His chest is too tight. The lump in his throat is too big. The soldier — Point? — looks like he’s expecting an answer, and Wren doesn’t have one. He can’t breathe. Against the wall, he shakes his head.

“No?” Point asks, sickly sweet.

For such a big guy, he’s fast. He grabs Wren by the face, so fast Wren can’t do anything to stop it. He cracks his head back against the wall behind him so hard that for a moment, Wren loses consciousness again.

It’s a glorious moment, but it’s only a moment. When he blinks his eyes open again, Point is leaning in, leaning too close, and the back of Wren’s head is wet. Warm.

“You will behave,” Point warns, and the accent is gone, replaced by something lethal, unamused. “You will do exactly as I tell you, cowgirl, or I will hurt you very, very badly.” Wren makes a soft, involuntary sound, and that grin flickers back to life on Point’s face, a thousand watts. “I took a big risk taking you out of there, girl. You were supposed to be put down. You owe your life to me, and I’m not about to let you get away without paying your debt.” He lifts the cowboy hat from his head, placing it on Wren’s. Wren shivers, trying to shake it off, and the soldier moves again, that same sort of movement, too quick for the human eye. He grabs Wren by the throat and pins him back against the wall. “Behave.” He thumbs slowly along the underside of Wren’s jaw as he holds him there, and the way Wren’s skin crawls almost aches. His fingertip catches on the gag. “Now I’m going to take this out,” he explains, “because I want to hear you beg. But if you wanna scream, cowgirl, you can go right ahead. Y’know why?”

Wren doesn’t want to know. He tries to sob, and it gets stuck beneath Point’s hand.

Point, who angles his head and whistles.

The door swings open again barely a full second later, and it’s still more than enough time for the fear to build, and build, and build, and burst into something that Wren shudders with, so hard his ribs rattles against each other. Another soldier fills the doorframe, another macabre silhouette. Another follows it, then another still, shadows that crowd the dim concrete cell, an army that filters into the room, blocking out the light.

Point grins at him. “Because the only men that will hear you,” he explains, for good measure, “are my men, and they want to hear you scream. The only men that will hear you are my men, and they’re just waiting for me to be done so they can have their turn with you. I’m not usually much for sharing,” he adds, finally sliding the cloth from Wren’s mouth, “but we’ve never been allowed a plaything down here. It would be cruel not to let them have my sloppy seconds.”

Cold seeps through Wren’s skin and forms crystal in his bloodstream, a cold that aches from the inside. “Please,” he blurts, and it’s weird the way the words come, not from his brain but from the festering, infected panic in his chest. “Please, don’t, don’t —”

But Point only grins, leaning in so close Wren can feel his breath. “I knew it,” he says, sickly sweet, laying the accent on thick. “You’re prettiest when you beg, cowgirl.”

“What?” Wren breathes, and he’s dizzy. He doesn’t think it has anything to do with hitting his head. “Please, I —”

He’s interrupted by a groan so low Wren can feel the rumble of it in his bones. His mouth tastes like bile and his own heartbeat. “That’s it,” Point coos softly. “There’s a good girl.”

Wren’s breath hitches, caught somewhere high in his chest. He doesn’t mean to, but he whimpers around it and Point makes another, lower sound, so low the hair on the back of Wren’s neck stands up. He leans away, only far enough to peel off one of his gloves with his teeth. Bared, he flexes his fingers, and something serpentine beats around the inside of Wren’s stomach. “Please,” he breathes, and one of the other men audibly snorts. Wren isn’t even sure why, but it makes him sob. His hands are curled into fists so tight the bones in knuckles are grinding together. “Please,” he whispers, and Point slides a hand beneath his skirt, warm against the inside of his thigh.

Wren reacts with his entire body. He jerks away so hard he knocks his own head, still bleeding, back into the wall. Point, for such a big guy, is fast, he’s too fast, and he has his other hand curled around Wren’s thigh before Wren sees him move. He makes this embarrassing, hiccuping sort of sound, trying to shake him off, to push him away, but Point, without sweat or struggle, pulls him away from the wall by his leg, onto his back on the concrete. As he pushes Wren’s thigh up towards his chest, he coos softly. “Good girl.”

Wren doesn’t even get the chance to plead again. Point leans in close, too close, cheek to Wren’s cheek, and forces three of his fingers inside him with a groan like a man dying.

Wren doesn’t scream. Wren doesn’t do anything, actually. He freezes, so tense he can feel the ache in every one of his bones. His mind blanks, a whiteness, a sort of emptiness he’s never experienced before. It’s like everything stops, all at once, narrows to Point’s fingers and the pain he pushes inside Wren and the rumble of his approval against his chest.

“Stop,” he hears himself say, from somewhere outside himself, from somewhere really far away. “Please.”

Point coos at him again. “Oh, cowgirl,” he says. “We’re just getting started.”

When he does ease out his fingers, it’s to push up his dress, the gingham and the tulle, shoving it up and around Wren’s waist. Panic surges and it tastes like bile. He doesn’t think, not really, not coherently, he only panics, and he tries to kick and Point catches him with a vice grip around his ankle. He hauls Wren closer and the concrete is so cold against his bare skin.

“No,” Wren says, and his voice isn’t his own, too breathless, too loud, too high. “No, please, please, don’t —”

Wren would dare say he’s a strong guy — he’s a lot stronger than he thinks he looks like he would be, at least. He’s no match for Point. Not at all.

And it’s strange, almost, or it would be, anyway, if Wren had the capacity to ponder the strangeness of it. He was already scared, a suffocating, delirious sort of scared, a kind of scared he didn’t think would be possible. And still, somehow, Point forces his thighs apart, and Wren can’t stop him, he can’t fight him, he can’t struggle, he can’t do anything Point doesn’t want him to do, helpless, and it’s like Wren hadn’t been scared at all. It’s like Wren, until that moment, didn’t know what it meant to be scared.

Something new rises, crests, and crushes him. He can’t breathe under its weight. He does scream, then, and he doesn’t recognize the sound of his own voice.

Point grins widely. He isn’t looking at Wren’s face. He holds his thighs apart and kneels between them.

This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening. How is this happening?

“Please,” Wren gasps, this hitching, horrible thing, “please.”

Point shifts, pinning Wren to the ground with his weight. Whatever his uniform is made out of, it feels like gravel against his skin. He moves slowly, taunting, as he pulls his belt loose, as he pulls himself free from his pants.

Wren isn’t breathing, not even hyperventilating, just making these hitching, gasping sort of sounds he can’t control. There are so many men in here with him, crowding this concrete cell, and none of them help him. There are so many men in here with him and they all just watch him beg. There are so many men in here with him and Wren has never been so alone, not once in his life.

He wants his big brother. He wants his mom. He wants to go home.

“Please,” he cries, desperate, frantic, almost a wail, most of a scream. “Please, pleasepleasepleaseple—”

Wren, in the end, screams himself hoarse.

It doesn’t fucking matter.

[iphyslitterator]

gay virgin tommy is sooooo good i love it

Thank you!! 😊 It's less popular than the fight about gay shit by the numbers, but a handful of you are really invested, and I find it challenging and compelling to write :)

[wenellyb]

You can like or dislike fanfiction, but I don't understand people who come to Tumblr to constantly complain about fanfiction...it's like going to someone's house to call their decoration ugly.

It doesn't matter if it's true or not ...why would you do it?

And the complaints are always weird like: "blablabla why do people think in tropes now?" "Why would you want to know what happens in the story, what's even the point of reading it then?"

You want to know why??? Because that's the whole point of the Romance genre!!! The predictability, the promise that no matter what they go through, in the end, there will be a Happy Ending for the protagonists.

I don't read a lot of fanfics but I do read a lot of books and e-books (as in unfortunately I have to pay for those😂). And you know what a lot of authors use to describe their books? Tropes!

An enemies to lovers story with a slow burn, a fake relationship story, a mariage of convinience, a best friends to lovers story etc... And this is coming from published Books.

Maybe it's because the market is saturated and it's the only way to stand out, maybe it makes it easier for their readers to find specific books, I don't know. But I do know that they use tropes to describe their books.

Why sh*t on fanfiction, fanfic readers, fanfic writers when actual published authors do the same??? What is the point exactly ?

And can someone explain to me what's so wrong about using tropes? What's wrong with looking for stuff to read by searching specific tropes? It makes it easier when you're looking for a specific story you want to read and helps you know what you will like or not. Which is great, especially when you're going to pay for the book.

Maybe you don't have a problem with fanfics but with the Romance industry in general? But then why target fanfics as if they were the problem?

[doesnotloveyou]

Easy guide to watching the X-Files! If the plot focuses on...

a man; he's fatally dangerous, and probably doomed

a woman; she is exceptionally powerful, and probably doomed

teenagers; there will be violence

a child; there will be mind-bending psychological games

an animal; he didn't mean nuthin by it

nature; run

[eddiemunsonsmum]

Just saw this comment on a story posted a month ago.

*cries in Eddie Munson Solo Series no one wanted to read, interact with or request for*

No shade to the person that commented this on their own fic if you recognize it. It's not their fault. I'm not mad at them. More crying in the tags.

[venomgender]

required reading .