#<- my tagging system hellscape

[bmpmp3]

another unofficial fanunit! most of the time i go for duos or trios because of my love live subunit tendencies (and also im usually tooooo lazy to draw more than that LOL) but i really liked the idea of this one: an idol group of all the first-on-their-software girls <3 well.. i forgot a few (sorry merrow) but hopefully u get the idea!! I think its cute....

Lola's the main centre because I like her and also she's the oldest of the post-vocaloid vocal synthesis world. because she is one of the first vocaloids along with Leon LOL of course i think you could play with alternate centres for different songs

i called them "daisy chain" as a reference to daisy bell (which in turn inspired the development codename "daisy" for early vocaloid technology) and also markov chains. do i understand what a markov chain is. maybe. maybe not <3

[ehlnofay]

Pax should have said no.

Damn it all, they should have said no. Should have said go to hell and fucked off back – stop contacting me, sort out your own shit – but they didn’t, fuck knows why, and now they’re stuck here.

(They know why. They know exactly why; absolutely anything would be better than fucking off back to Cyrodiil. What’s for them there?)

But there’s nothing worth staying for here either, and now she’s crammed in between strangers on a long table, everyone dressed in fabrics she’s never seen with dyes so saturated they seem almost gory, eating stuff that isn’t food and talking loud enough to make her want to hurl a glass into the wall. It’s bizarre. The woman next to her, ruddy-faced and bald, wears a headpiece that shines like the sun the Isles doesn’t have; the other side is taken up by a stranger in a bone-white porcelain mask who has not moved but to swill the wine around in their glass. There’s scarcely room for Pax’s chair. It all feels like such a baffling pantomime of aristocracy (she's known the real thing well enough – feasts and toasts and luxurious gifts she had no use for, and if she doesn’t stop thinking about it she actually will throw a glass), bright colours and rich settings and a god taking offerings at the head of the table.

At least, Pax thinks, no-one tries to talk to him; they’re too busy fawning over their lord. Which is probably to be expected; but it all feels so strange, so unsettling, the way they all lean in towards it like flowers turning to face the sun, like seaweed dragged at by the inescapable pull of the tides. They grow towards it through the cracks in the air, matter moving toward the inevitable centre, as if they can imagine nothing more than this.

(Even more unsettling is the way it responds in kind, listening attentively to anyone who speaks to it, leaning in as though to kiss them, as though to swallow them whole. All hell, why did Pax agree to this? Why did they come?)

(They should have told it to fuck off. Should have said no way, I don’t want to help you, don’t want to get involved in anything you’d need my help for. I don’t owe you anything. I don’t need anything from you. I don’t want anything to do with you. I’m done.)

(Pax is done. Pax is sick to death of all this shit; doesn’t want to deal with this, the vaguely described problems of a god that picks people apart like it’s unravelling a thick yarn shawl. Doesn’t want to deal with anything like this. He’s had his fill of gods.)

(Why is he still fucking here? Why did he agree to this? This is no better than eating in that weird fucking inn in town. This is no better than –)

(That’s a lie. It’s a bit better than Cyrodiil. Just as much a shithole, but it pulls the rug out from under him often enough that he doesn’t have time to think too much.)

“Not hungry?” says a prowling voice, coiling catlike into the plaits in their hair, and Pax jumps enough to jostle the masked bastard sitting ramrod straight next to him.

He looks up.

At the empty placemat across from him sits a figure veiled in gossamer, glittering in the glow of the lit-up lichen on the distant throne; the fabric of its endless shawls pulls apart at the ends, peeling away from itself, shedding patches like iridescent insect wings every time it shifts. If Pax squints, they can see through it to the grand marbled wall behind.

She glances back at the chair at the head of the table, where something lounges, eyes dripping gold, intricately carved cane laid across its knees; its too-many fingers are laced with the hand of a man whose gown blooms floral. Flatly, she says, “What the fuck?”

“Aren’t you hungry?” Sheogorath asks, pouting; she can hear it laughing down the other end of the table. “It’s a proper feast. We pulled out all the stops.”

Pax shifts their eyes away to peer down at their plate. “You have served me worms,” she says. She flicks the dish with a fingernail. “In jelly. With flowers.”

“Larva, actually,” Sheogorath replies. It’s still at the other end of the table. It doesn’t seem eager to explain this. When it smiles, the gossamer falls away; its whole face splits in half.

It’s all so fucking stupid. Pax takes a deep breath – in through the nose, ignore all the odd spiced smells, and out – and does not yell at it, or try to hit it, because she’s gotten herself into a situation where that’s not really an option, because she’s a fucking idiot. Why didn’t she just say no?

(She knows why.)

The Mad God’s teeth flash bright as the ornate silver cutlery. Its chair scrapes back from the table. “It melts in your mouth,” it tells her, eyes glittering, “but I won’t make you try it. Walk with me?”

The figure still sits at the head of the table, snatching something from someone’s plate, always, always laughing. Its limbs sprawl like tentacles, like the silken threads of a tapestry, to encompass the whole room. The dinner guests stare as though bewitched, bedevilled, beguiled. Not one of them is looking at Pax. If he were to drop dead with his face in the food his corpse would not be discovered until sunrise.

Pax sniffs and shoves his chair back from the table. He lets Sheogorath (the second Sheogorath – but it must be, what else could it be?) lead him through a narrow door into some winding hallway, the walls lined and rimed with ornate coloured-glass windows. (It’s so much quieter. Still as garishly bright, but Pax is getting the sense that that is inescapable, here; the clothes they wear, as crumpled and covered in travelling-grime as ever and startlingly out of place against the odd jagged finery of the dinner party, seem unimaginably dull in comparison. Everything seems unimaginably dull in comparison.) Outside the windows, they can catch glimpses of the city – its winding, lamp-lit streets, the jumbled mess of its architecture, the sky arcing above it like a child’s attempt at watercolours. Pax wants to smash it, tear it down.

There’s no sun here, but still it’s night. The sky has shifted to purple and black.

“Isn’t it nice?” says their companion; when they look back, it’s nothing more than a shifting impression in the stained-glass window, a series of hairline cracks. It still manages, somehow, to smile at them.

It’s not. The sky is a shadow and the flamboyance of the palace is scraping at their spine. “Sure,” Pax says flatly. When she flexes her fingers, the bruising staining the base knuckle of her thumb aches.

Sheogorath looks at her – an ancient man leaning on a stick, a flickering painting, a bloody corpse, a little girl in velvet-red skirts, a breath. In its mercurial shifting she catches the flowery blossom of the man at the table’s collar, an unpleasant glimpse of her own braided hair, the smell of sulphur. It tips its head. She can’t focus on it anywhere but for the eyes.

“You don’t like my dinner parties,” it announces, as though it’s a revelation, a tragedy; its body crumbles like sea cliffs slowly eroded by the ways. It’s annoying – bloody obnoxious, and incomprehensible, and kind of weird that it noticed, that it would even care. (She’s never liked dinner parties. Nobody ever commented on it before.)

I’ve had well enough of them, Pax could say, or no, I don’t like you, but it’s the fucking Mad God, Daedric Prince of – Pax doesn’t even know what, he’s never known much about this shit, only that it’s well worth avoiding. Prince of the mad and the missing and the foolish, of breaking and breaking and putting yourself back together backwards. She should have said no, but she didn’t, and who knows what would happen if she went back on that now?

It's slinking closer. All that stay static enough to make out are eyes and teeth.

“Pax, yes?” it says, soft-voiced – a hand lands on his arm, small and dry and shivering, the skin as thing as a mouldering leaf. “You have no obligations here. If you want to be on your own, be on your own. We’ve plenty of space for it.”

Pax’s eyes narrow. He does not jerk away from it.

In the light of the coloured sky, the coloured windows, its face is phantasmagorical. “If you don’t want to be here,” it continues – still so skin-pricklingly gentle – “then your hand will not be forced. I’ll speed your way home if you wish.”

They can’t help but twitch at that. It’s setting their teeth on edge. (It’s lying – has to be. After its ages of coaxing them in, meting out information, not telling them where they were until they were on its doorstep, it would not give them the chance to leave.) Rough, still covered in road-grime, Pax asks, “Why should I believe you?”

(None of them have ever given them the chance to leave.)

Sheogorath, a figure of hollow skin and bone, inclines its head. “I wouldn’t lie to you, Pax,” it says. Its eyes are wide and bulging, whites on full display like a frightened horse; it grins again. “Others might. But we’re not a monolith. We’re not even especially similar.”

Pax bites down on the flat edge of their tongue. “That doesn’t mean anything to me.”

The light coming in through the windows flickers. The Mad God turns to meet it.

“I’m the youngest,” it says, its voice glittering like mist on the air. “Did you know that? I don’t remember the world without you in it.” Its form spasms, volatile, wings and limbs and eyes like a snail’s on stalks sprouting and choking and subsiding back into its mass. “I’m closer to you than any. I understand, almost.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Pax repeats. She’s gritting her teeth, tonguing at her gums where two are missing. Are two devil-gods not enough to deal with for a lifetime? Is there really going to be more of this now, too?

Rolling through the air like smoke, the voice says, “It will.”

Pax presses purple-green knuckles to her mouth. Her teeth dig into the soft meat of her lip.

Sheogorath turns to face her, hair moving as though blown by the wind, as though tugged by the tides. It sighs. “You don’t believe me,” it says. Its tongue pokes through its teeth. “That’s perfectly fine. Clever, even. But if you want to leave, all you need to do is tell me so.” It pauses, then; the train of its strange, gnarled crown shifts over its shoulders when it moves its head. “Or just leave. The door is still open.”

“You’d be fine with me just leaving,” Pax rasps around his knuckle, “after weeks of not leaving me alone?”

(Of begging him to come, poorly-hidden agitation giving way to blatant franticness, half-swallowing the fear that choked its face in every mirror it spoke to him through. Of begging him still, after he got here, after he met it – begging in a roundabout manner, casual as anything, its every motion reeking of fear. Its abject terror when he turned to leave. You’ve come this far. Why not hear an old man out? Pax told it that it wasn’t an old man, that he didn’t give a shit either way, and it slid through a child, a monster, a sulphur-burned body coughing blood, his own shuddering form in armour he hasn’t seen in months, and it said please.)

(Regained its composure, its gentleman’s face, immediately afterward. But it – the Mad God, unknowable, inconsolable – said please. Pax still doesn’t know what to do with that.)

The Mad God, now, shrugs. Taps at the hairline cracks in the stained glass windows. “I’d prefer you didn’t,” it says, one pair of hands braiding something intricate into its beard. The hand on the glass slips down. “I told you. I do need a champion.”

“And I told you,” Pax bites, something aching and ugly surging in their gut, “not to call me that again.”

A smile, bloody-mouthed and beaming. “But we will abide,” says Sheogorath, and digs its fingers into the cracks of the stone. One brick slides loose, mortar dug up under its nails. It offers it up.

Pax licks their teeth and takes it.

The brick shivers, momentarily – crumbles, in their hand, like sand slithering through their fingers, and left in their palm is a hardy slip of bone. Spiked and sprawling, carved with intricate patterns; it arranges itself around an oval of empty space, the perfect size for four sharp-knuckled fingers.

“You can always leave,” the Mad God tells them, and for a moment it does look so very young and strangely, staggeringly hopeful. “But give it a chance. I think you could love the Isles, if you choose to.”

[pedrospookie]

it seems that the eldest daughters of tumblr all want Joel Miller to come and take care of them (dear god, please please please, my soul needs it). this inspired me to start writing a couple of little Joel tales but until then, i thought this might tide us over.

someone (I think it was @itsokbbygrl ) said in the tags that Joel is a fixer and is def into parental issues and i literally cannot stop thinking about that— cause you are RIGHT.

it’s not my best work but alas!

Joel Miller x eldest daughter!reader imagine

nothing wild, mostly fluff! Joel soothing an eldest daughter’s nervous system one day at a time.

Joel would wash the dishes every night just because he knows how much you hate washing the dishes. It’s the least I could do, darlin’ he’d praise, taking immense pride in seeing the relief fall on your face.

Joel would kiss you just to kiss you; in the comfort of your home as you pass in the hallway, or out at the stables while caring for the horses, even at the bar in front of all the folks who know you. It was his small way to show his unconditional love and appreciation for you. He’d spend all day kissin’ you if he could.

Joel would take the time to rub your feet and ask about your day. His genuine curiosity about the townsfolk you encounter or the adventures you have brought a warmth to your chest as he works on the knots along the arch of your feet. He would always remember the little details of where you’ve been or what you’ve seen, or the names of the people you mention in your stories. Joel wasn’t perfect and would often get confused between Jess, Jessica and Jessa, but he certainly would do his best to keep it all straight.

Joel would listen and hear you. If it was important to you, it was important to him. He didn’t care if it was about how you admired the pretty pink colour of the flowers you passed by on patrol or how you had to remember to mend your socks later. He listened and cared. So much so, that whenever he could, Joel would bring home a small bouquet of said flowers for you after his patrol.

On bad days, Joel would be there. He would hold you through your big, ugly feelings, and tell you that it is okay and that he’s got you. Joel would force himself to stay calm and to speak softly to you, keeping his own panic and worry at bay. He would tell you that he was proud of you and your “smarts”, and that the only thing that matters is that you made it back home to him. He would slowly and gently wash your body and hair clean of all the blood and guts from the nearly failed patrol, and would mend every scrape and wound, sealing each one with a kiss.

And on the nights where you were plagued with terrors, the kind that woke you in a panic, the cold sweat glueing your hair to your neck and forehead, Joel would be there. To hold you and coax you back to sleep, rubbing soft circles on your back, and softly murmur that it is okay, that you’re safe.

In the mornings, you always woke to the smell of coffee wafting it’s way into your room. Joel always made sure to wake up before you, to let you have those extra few minutes in bed because he knew you needed them. He’d greet you with a big smile and a kiss, the kind that made you feel like you were back in the early days of your relationship. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, he would say as he placed your meal in front of you. Joel never let you leave the house without something warm in your belly.

Joel knew that you were more than capable of caring for yourself. Hell, you had survived 20 years in that hellscape overrun by infected, raiders and god knows what else. You had told him time and time again, often through gritted teeth, I’ve got this. I can do this myself. I do not need your help. Can you just let me handle this, please!

Slowly, yet surely, with patience and kindness, Joel slowly broke down your walls until you were ready to let him in. To accept the peace and love he had to offer. Joel is not a perfect man, but he tries. Which is more than most. He tries his damnedest every day to keep showing up for you the way he knows you deserve. To show you and make you feel the love, peace and respect that you deserve. And that? Well, that makes Joel feel a deep sense of joy that he hasn’t felt in years. He will gladly do it until his dying breath and that is a promise he will never break. The easiest job he’s ever had was lovin’ you.

tagging some folks who may like this (if not/tags aren’t your thing, just tell me to buzz off! I wont be offended!): @slimybeth69 @itsokbbygrl @mrsmando @evolnoomym @sanarsi @marilovespedro @mrs-hardy-hunnam-butler-pascal

[girl-lostconnection]

Ask and you shall receive, I cooked this one up in my notes a few days ago but forgot to send it to you

Helldiver!Reader growing attached to a younger recruit, they see themselves in them, and they want nothing more than to force them off their ship and make sure they don’t make the fall from grace they did.

They want to turn them away, to stop them from diving into the hellscape with them, but they can’t, the moment the recruit signed up they became the governments loyal dog, only stopping when their heart does

Helldiver!Reader finds themselves going softer on them, much to their dismay, they grow close with this recruit, which is very against their person policy (there’s a 99% this kid won’t make it until the end of the week, they can’t get too close..)

But they do, they get far too close, to the point the kid is telling Helldiver!reader why they signed up, that they have no one on the outside and they decided screw it, they’ve got nothing else to lose may aswell become a chew toy for the creatures of hell… right?

Helldiver!Reader gets so close that the recruit is now treating them as a parental figure, and one drunken night confesses that Helldiver!Reader is the only family they have, and that’s when Helldiver!reader realises they’re in too deep, they’re too close, too attached.

The regret of being to close to this recruit comes to an head when they lose them, on the battlefield, torn to shreds by some creature and calling out for Helldiver!Reader to do something, to save them, but they can’t, all they can do is watch as this kid dies slowly, and painfully, and at the end, retrieve their dog tags.

There’s no funeral, no mass, no mourning, the kid didn’t have a family or home for their remains to be shipped off to, so their body stays in the hellscape, slowly rotting away; soon to be forgotten…

(Something something something I’ve never played helldivers so I have no idea how accurate this is, I just had this funky idea for a character and then it spiralled into this)

Legs have swung

The young thing is skittish and too tense, fear clouding his judgement and making him slip more often than not, his finger on a trigger shooting without any account for recoil or the fact that loud noise attracts the enemy.

He is fresh out of training, his ship a useless can of a transport — no stratagems, no enhancements, just him and the basic weapon he got in training.

You move to cover him if the enemy comes out blasting — getting ahead, trying to keep one eye on the mark scanning the grounds and another one on bloody cadet that somehow slipped through the cracks of Vog-Sojoth.

You sigh, hoisting the precious bot head with data up higher and nod to the lad to keep going.

You know he is getting agitated — you had to “reinforce” him 8 times already and now fear gives place to embarrassment and stupid reckless urge to prove himself.

No one likes looking like a damn fool, but it’s not kid’s fault system lags and lets him get down to level 10 “The Helldive” when he was barely cleared for level 5.

It’s not his fault this it went like that.

Sometimes it just happens and there was no way he could have been ready for the madness that comes with war that rages down here.

You don’t blame him for being scared or for shame that clouds his head or for nerve damage induced shaking after pumping 13 stims through him just to keep the lad going.

But what you do blame him for is for trying to show off to you.

Because it’s not worth it down here, it’s never fucking worth it.

Helldives this filled up are the only place where you need to survive first and foremost and where rules and dignity and pride don’t matter.

It’s the only place where each of you is supposed to hold onto each other and never let go just so you stand a chance of getting out in one piece and coming out on the other side.

The only place where even trained and tried Helldivers like you two need to brace for impact before they even hit the ground.

Extraction is gruesome and bloody — longest three minutes of wait of your fucking life, enemies pouring from every bloody hill, kid behind you shooting without looking where he does.

Few of his bullets graze you a little too close to home.

One of his grenades almost leaves you without a leg.

But it’s not the time to smack the dumb little thing, not the time to knock some sense into him — there is a minute and a half before Pelikan-1 descends and you are almost empty.

So you have to push the cadet down, forcing him to stay low as to not let anyone shoot him and call in supplies.

You try not to think about how much adrenaline is running through you and that you made a mistake twice trying to call in additional ammunition.

You have one more orbital laser that will descend from the sky like God’s fury destroying enemy in its wake and better you have a shit ton of stims when it runs out.

Timer clicks forward, seconds seeping out and some of your anxious rage subsided when mechanical voice chimes “additional reinforcements approved”.

Thank fuck for that.

One more chance — a safety net, one for both of you to stretch out.

You better make it count.

A minute and a half on Vog-Sojoth stretches out and chokes you out, because no matter how much you will do — the work is never done.

Enemies are pouring from every side, you sentries are working non stop as you duck and cover and shoot and duck and cover and shoot and duck and cover—

You are never actually out, you just get to take a break before coming back down to this hellhole and laying ruin in your wake.

It’s a cruel glory to be one of you.

It’s not pretty, it’s not even well-paid but sometimes…sometimes when you meet runts like this one you understand why you are still there.

What are you even doing in a hell like this one.

The cadet whimpers from pain — laceration from shrapnel bleed him out quick to leave him dry and cold.

But you are mad and stubborn and you refuse to let the kid die. It won’t happen today. Not with you.

Stim after stim are getting plunged in him, forcing his heart to keep going, forcing his blood count replenish at the speed that is not possible or normal, but why would it matter if he gets to live another day?

You will kill his stupid reckless ass yourself as soon as he gets better.

But by the time extraction shuttle reaches your ship the lad is stabilised and shaking like a bloody leaf — uniform torn and fists clenched.

Adrenaline finally crashing down and crashing him in the process.

You have to practically drag the kid out, his legs not listening to him, not moving properly so you pull him up, grunting and annoyed.

God knows you are tired.

God knows you are hungry and in a whole lot of pain and mad at him for acting like a right proper twat. But he latches onto you, like you are the lifeline, his grip on you so hard you can feel it through layers of kevlar and plates of armour.

Takes you a moment to notice that he is shaking. Takes you another one to drag his helmet off and oh, he’s fresh faced and smooth — barely 18, barely out of training, barely capable of holding his own on lower levels.

Thought hits you like a brick to the back of your head, pain spreading down to shoulders, sharp realisation digging through your nervous system.

He probably has never died before. He probably has never been reinforced this much before

He probably doesn’t understand why his body is brand new when he aches all over.

He probably doesn’t know why he can’t black out.

You have to take your own helmet off, his lip trembling when he can finally see your face. You know.

After a while down there Helldiver’s uniform starts to look a little too much like Automaton.

After a while you can’t remember how humans are supposed to look, everything in you diminishing to few very basic tasks and commands. Tactical optimisation, that’s how command would call it.

You call it the “mutt mode”. No use for long thoughts when they can kill you. No use for working through trauma if the actual awareness of how fucked up the things are almost drove you insane once.

“Come on, cadet, it’s okay, you are okay.”, you murmur, pulling off gauntlets and gloves, letting him feel the warmth of your skin, the lines of your scars.

Warm tangible and human.

He shakes when you scoop him up and whimpers, phantom pain wrecking his body, phantom pain tearing out his ligaments and cutting off his limbs.

“I’m right here, yeah? I’m not leaving you, I know it hurts.”, you wave off your staff and massage the scalp of his with your fingers, trying to ground him on something. “It will pass, the first fifteen minutes are the worst, it will pass, cadet, come on, breathe with me”.

Your whisper is awkward frantic rumble, it’s been a while since you comforted anyone but the lad soaks it right up, forces himself to breath, presses his head against your neck.

Listens to your heartbeat.

You hum quietly as he does and he melts into you. He is as young as they get here, he is aching and tired, his face wet with tears and blood. But he is alive.

You stay on the cold steel floors until he stops shaking. You stay on the cold steel floors, massaging his head and not saying a thing when he nuzzles into your neck and stays there with no intention to (ha-ha) dive out.

The lad in your hands is young and aching and you won’t force him to go. Maybe if you teach him some things he will leave on his own.

Maybe he will get to keep himself safe without you and leave for good. One more decent Helldiver in your branch. One more chance for others like him to survive.

That would be nice.

You think this throughout the next few months and at some point forget he was supposed to leave. Because he doesn’t.

He is chatty and energetic, makes paper cranes out of old reports and shares whatever gossip other runts share with him. Always comes back to you hauling something, like a hound that is bringing game from the hunt.

Eager for praise and melting from your approval.

He’s touchy but in a way that makes you feel softer, he knows when to give space but more often than not your personal space turns into “our personal space, yeah?”.

And despite huffing with exasperation you let him. Why not? He’s warm and he smells nice under all the blood and gore you both are covered in.

He starts feeling like part of your life. Part of you.

Second pair of hands, another heart in the rib cage of yours, breathing in your neck when he decompresses after dives by wrapping himself around you.

He doesn’t talk much about his life before, doesn’t mention any family and for some reason you start talking first.

Sharing that no one waits for you back home. That you aren’t sure if you have one anymore.

He hums, unusually silent before wrapping himself around you again, tucking his head under your chin like he’s a koala.

You don’t come back to this conversation until months later, you two standing over what was terminid nursery before you launched a bloody nuke in the depth of it.

“L.T.?”, his voice snaps you out of staring down the abyss, making you take a step back and remember about your objective. Still two more nurseries to go.

“Yeah?”, you muse back, voice cracking through your comms, click of you changing magazines in your primary. “What’s wrong?”

“Is it…really necessary?”, he asks and for a moment your mind blanks out. Perhaps he senses it because he hastily adds. “I mean, I understand the need to destroy terminids. But the nurseries…we are killing their eggs, L.T. It’s their children. No wonder they are so determined to kill us”

You make a noncommittal sound in return, busying yourself with checking your gear, lad’s eyes boring in the back of your head.

“You ever thought we might be the bad guys?”, you half expected the question but it still catches you off guard, eyes flickering to your runt, not even cadet anymore, with heavy intensity.

You don’t say anything but you don’t really need to — he snaps his jaws shut once you softly tap the side of your helmet. All comms are being monitored.

All interactions being observed from the moment you step out of the ship.

You don’t say anything to your chatty charge but he can see the grim expression on your face as you holster your secondary weapon.

“Maybe we are.”, you say after a while, not explaining what are you referring to, but understanding dawns on him after a beat. “Though I’m doing it few years longer than you are. What kind of person it makes me, m?”.

Lad stops and for a moment there is sharpness in his eyes you didn’t expect. Heavy sort of protectiveness.

He opens his mouth, stepping closer to you but then remembers that you are still being monitored and falls silent.

Years later you will wonder what he wanted to say. Years later you will regret you never asked.

But in the moment you turn away and push forward. It’s not the place nor the time.

You both know who you are. 

What kind of person it makes you if you mindlessly killed thousands of terminid species and never asked why was it okay to commit atrocities?

The answer is simple: a really wicked one.

Each and every one of you is a war criminal. It’s just that some have more conscience than others. Doesn’t make you less guilty.

“Can you promise me something?”, the question is sudden, but you just pause before focusing back on the terminal and its adjustment, trying to turn off the bloody broadcast tower.

The lad, now finally a sergeant, sits on the abandoned chair, hands wrapped around his primary like it’s a baby he’s nursing and not a semi-automatic rifle.

“Don’t let them replicate me again, aye? I know they destroy ships if mission fails and mine is…well, you saw. Nothing like a bird you are piloting. They can destroy mine. Together with the “reinforcements” of me”, he says softly and it’s so nonchalant you almost miss it. Registering his words a moment too late, your fingers twitching to curl into a fist.

“Why?”, is a sharp and curt and you didn’t mean it to come out that way, but god knows you have never been good at this kind of conversations.

He deserves certainly more than your sneering. He deserves to know that ships are made to be better with time, he deserves to know that he doesn’t need to die. He deserves to know that you like him and you want to work with him again.

He deserves to know that he’s a good Helldiver.

He deserves to know he is needed here.

(He deserves to know you like his hugs and spontaneous cuddling, he deserves to know that he is part of you, that you can’t imagine yourself without him. He deserves to know that it doesn’t matter if down on Earth no one waits for him — up here you always will. He deserves to know he is your favourite runt. Your only runt)

Years later you will try to remember his response to your question.

Years later you will toss and turn at night, rummage through your journals and try to find answers.

You will never get them.

But the memory of his smile — soft curl of his lips beautiful enough to make a soldier like you weep and kneel — will keep you going for the next eternity and a half of endless service.

Why have you never said it to him? Why did you never said how much he meant to you?

Why-why-why-why-why?

You think about it as you drag him into Pelikan-1 that you forced to come down even though it would be third time they re-attempt pick up.

You think about it as you pump him full of stims and do chest compressions at some point forgetting to count and forgetting to breathe.

He is lying on the floor, eyes sharp with understanding, impossibly blue — prettiest summer sky you ever saw.

He looks at you like it’s a goodbye.

It’s not a goodbye.

It can’t be goodbye, you just got used to him, you have finally accepted that he’s staying, you can’t say goodbye.

You won’t say goodbye.

He’s not dying on you.

You will kill his stupid reckless ass yourself as soon as he gets better.

And he will get better, medics will patch him up — he will be like new in no time.

He is not leaving you, he isn’t going, you can save him. You will save him.

You practically slam both of you on the hard floors of your ship, gear and legs too heavy to move, your body aching with exhaustion — your vision is filled with dark spots, pain lacing through your nervous system with every beat of your heart.

Someone is speaking to you but you don’t know them and you don’t hear them, blood roaring in your ears, your fingers clenched in a death grip on the vest of your runt. Your cadet. Your lad.

“Lieutenant, you have to let go”, the voice is muffled, all sounds are, like you are underwater. The blood pumping in your ears is so loud you aren’t sure if you can still hear properly.

There’s pain in your wrists and aching in your fingers, your body too cold and sticky which doesn’t matter right now, none of it matters.

You need your med bay now, you need the medic, you need to save him.

You need to get up and move-move-move.

Another Helldiver crouches in front of you, their eyes unusually soft — glimmering through the visor of their helmet. Their rank shines like a bloody supernova and what are they doing on your fucking ship.

(You know what they do here, don’t you? The SOS beacon, the mission, the frenzy and panic.)

They are soft and you hate them because they pry your fingers open, they force you up, they hold you tight as you crumble.

You have no right to mourn someone who barely reached the rank of sergeant, who you dragged to hell and back, who almost dragged you down.

But you do. God, you do.

Your eyes skim over the sealed off and soldered down doors of what previously was your med bay.

You really can’t save him. You can never save him, can’t you?

You can never keep anyone, not even this once, not even this lad.

Sob builds up in your throat, pushes through bile of realisation and draws out your rage because not fair, not fucking fair, never fair.

Weren’t you good? Haven’t you done your due? Didn’t you earn to have something in your hellbane of an existence?

Despair is coursing through you — thick enough to choke you out, building up in your throat, hurting you and hollowing out. Strong enough to force you back on your knees.

You can never get up. You won’t ever get up again.

You don’t want to.

But commander forces you up, strong hands holding you on your legs, their voice thick with something you can’t place in a shell shocked state of yours.

You can’t save him-you can’t save him-you can’t save him.

You can’t even try.

“You did good. We’ll be able to bury them. You did good, lieutenant, you didn’t leave them behind”, the murmur in your ear is quiet and hands around you just get tighter.

It takes you a full night before you come back and declare your lad a traitor. He will not get reinforced, his ship will be blasted to pieces and his name wiped out and forgotten.

Against every recommendation and veiled threats to report it as undemocratic you stuff his body in the same capsule you are using and jump down on Vog-Sojoth.

Your hands wrapped around him and he’s cold-cold-cold, god he has never been this cold, you should have covered him with something, you should have took care of it, he might have died cold.

But your lad is motionless doll when you drag him out and find a nice enough place to bury him.

You haul the gravestone from one of the mass burials for other divers and you knife out the name.

They have no right to remember him. They have no right to his name. No right to him.

Doesn’t matter what happens later.

What matters is that you did what you promised. Never again will he be reinforced, never again will he return to your ship, never again will he laugh with you late at night.

You could never save him — his grave unnamed place on a lovely hill and your hands are sticky with blood from torn callouses. You have been digging for a good hour before you were finally sure no one would marauder his body.

Time and continuous reinforcements will wipe his name out of your memory. But you will always remember the way sun shined on the tiny grave on Vog-Sojoth.

Unnamed and forgotten, he will lie resting.

You hope he gets a good sleep. You hope next time — maybe he will stay with you.

Maybe next time you won’t need to learn how to live without him.

Maybe next time you are a good person. And he still wants to be your friend.

Taglist: @synthe4u

[thr0wnawayy]

Just HOW corrupt is Hero Society?. Pt 1.

At this point in MHA's timeline, it's no secret that Hero Society is beyond saving. In my time lurking in these tags, I've seen the occasional post tackling some aspect of this corruption, all of which I found insightful. Today I'd like to share some of my own tidbits and thoughts regarding the sensationalized hellscape that is MHA's Japan.

Hawks' Origins:

Something that always bugged me was the timing, It seemed to good to be true. Hawks' dad gets caught, ENDEAVOR of all people is the one to do it and the Commission just happens to arrive.

Well, no. Let me ask you this, why would they send in the Number 2 hero to deal with a petty thief turned murder. A hard hitter like Endeavor would have been the WORST possible person to send as opposed to like, Eraserhead who would have been able to dissarm Takami quietly.

It's not like Mr. Takami was particularly dangerous either, his feathers at best could make for decent lockpicks or shivs but that doesn't justify Endeavor's appearance nor does it make sense given his arrogance. To him the situation would be small fries.

It just doesn't make sense when you assess the risk, it's not like Endeavor has ever been good at restraint (See: Hero Killer Arc) and the possibility of collateral wasn't exactly zero when you consider Mr. Takami got caught jacking a car (additionally not a major or dangerous crime). So he gets arrested, the seeds of Hero worship are planted in a young Keigo's mind and Hawks + his Mother flee and become homeless. Hawks eventually goes looking for the police and returns with:

Well they aren't police.

So, your telling me that these Commission agents just so happend to be around Hawks, here in some backwater cranny. What interest would the HPSC have in this dregg of a family (How do they even know their names). They shouldn't. Not unless they knew something before hand.

(I find it funny that the scene parallels how Tomura was found, down to their respective "saviors" having their own agendas)

We know Hawks used his quirk as a sort of motion detection system to alert his father of any intruders. Mind you, we don't know how far or accurate he was prior to the HPSC's efforts (minus being able to reach the city). So it's possible the HPSC avoided detection by watching from a distance and avoiding certain areas where Hawks could sense them.

Just how long was the Commission watching, how long did they allow the abuse to continue. How long did they watch the Takami's starve on the streets from afar before acting. So many questions, yet no answers.

"Cool but how does the HPSC tie to Endeavor?" You may be asking.

Well, sometime before the arrest happened Hawks had actually left the house and ventured into the nearby district woth his mother.

And came home with an Endeavor plush. Funny how that works huh?. It's not implausible to assume that the Commission simply requested Endeavor to handle Mr. Takami, possibly adjusting his schedule for their convenience.

I'm not suggesting that Endeavor knew of the Commission's scheme here, nor am I suggesting he (intentionally) helped. (Enji's cruel, yes. But he's also an idiot in anything not hero/celebrity related.).

Something I ask myself is, were there other candidates?. Children stuck in situations like Hawks', what happened to them. Were they abandoned to either die or become villains, killed to eliminate potential threats, or perhaps they were just born "unlucky".

Some final notes:

Hello, I apologize for the amateur nature of the formatting, I'm still getting used to the sites formatting options, as well as trying to figure out my "style" so to speak. Regardless I hope you found something in this post and look forward to your thoughts and opinions regarding the content above.

Yours truly,

Thr0wnaway.

[demonsteapot]

Im new here, can you tell me about your oc's?

OH YEAH I CAN this is gonna be a long bitch of a post though

so there are a lot but these are probably the main eight even though i only draw like 3 of them regularly

(please forgive the half-assed sketches, i just wanted to get their designs across lol)

so the premise of this setting is that the sun (which is god) is dead and the earth is now inhabited by mindless angels and mostly humanoid demons (which may or may not be either spirits or just a human derivative). demons live in small city-states and their environs built on top of giant geothermal-harvesting living flesh networks (referred to as humans since they're derived from them)

demons on the outskirts of these places are tasked with keeping angels out. this is what most of these characters do; these eight live in or around fleur, a town in the middle of buttfuck nowhere on the easternmost point of a human kingdom named rust. five of them work for an agency (rust monitor) which scouts and euthanizes angels.

also, magic exists! the (fuzzy) system for magic is mainly based on blood. i think that's enough context so i can introduce these guys

fooling around in the top left are vivian (seated) and fran (seating?). both of them work for RM in bronya's squad, the moss-eaters. if you scroll through my art tags you will probably find that viv is unaccountably the favourite child, as it were. he loves to yap about his interests, especially to fran. he hunts bugs and angels using a combat umbrella. he died once and got resurrected after like two years by nova, which is why he is all stitched together. he has ice magic. his resurrection also may or may not count as force feminization?

fran is a foolhardy and mostly unkillable goofball. the three snakes on his head are named diogenes, gello and lettuce. he started working for RM after bronya accidentally hit him with her car. he's best friends with viv. fran is also a fan of the demon equivalent of pro wrestling, which is more violent and somehow more homoerotic than the human one, and that i can't depict because i wouldn't do it justice. he has some force magic skills, which let him do things like move comically fast and punch shit so hard it explodes. he used to fight using an axe but graduated to just using his hands. he plays the bass sometimes

the catgirl to their right is bernadette harley. she used to be friends with viv and fran, but left fran estranged after viv's death. she lives with her father estus, who used to work for RM. they do not like each other. bernadette hunts using estus's old coilgun. she mostly hunts for food, but occasionally she helps the moss-eaters out with angels or other monsters. she was cheery when she was younger and now she's not. she has a large parasite in her stomach which eats angels

top right, with the thorns on her back, is nova harley, bernadette's sister... sort of. nova also used to be friends with the previous three, but she ran away from home and now she's feral. she has an affinity for magic that deals with manipulating living flesh, and after viv's death she spent about two years reconstructing him out of various vivisected (heh...?) animals. nova is easily stressed and depressed. she hurts people sometimes but not intentionally... usually. she likes sewer slvt. she eats carrion off the asphalt, and the only living things that like her are the flies and the ravens. she also doubles as my sona for venting!

bottom left, with the gillstalks, is princess valentine phloem, or val for short. she is not in fact demon, but human– specifically, a polyp of rust that was intended to grow into the next queen regent. however, she didn't like this idea, so she chainsawed her way right out of rust's bowels and ended up in the remotest part of the kingdom– fleur, where she joined the mossies. fran likes to arm-wrestle with her, but she always wins. having lived in a fleshy, subterranean hellscape for most of her existence, she has an appreciation for life that others don't. it often seems to her friends as though she experiences twice as much world as they do.

in the bottom middle, in the maid outfit and gasmask, is mincey leyland. he lives in part of an ancient bunker complex and delivers vigilante justice when he isn't busy fucking with bronnie's squad. vivian, who mincey considers his brother, is technically a clone of him, and he wields fire magics as a counterpart to viv's ice. he carries a long-standing rivalry with his brother, though it's mostly an elaborate in-joke between them at this point. though he professes loathing for and has legitimate envy of his brother, he helped nova extensively when she rebuilt him. he hates to let his machines do his dirty work, so he prefers single combat with his enemies, with a skeletal rainshade as his favoured weapon. he also maybe stole some people's organs to help nova

bottom right, the blonde machine and the gorgon leaning on them are gato cello and bronya wormwood respectively. cello is bronnie's assistant, a heavily modified domestic android unit that had a long stint as an assassin before bronnie roped them into working for her. they are a scout unit for the mossies, but also very much the team pet. kind of an asshole. met bronnie when they were hired to kill her when she was in college. the two have an unbreakable friendship wherein they hurl insults that border abuse at each other constantly. fortunately, the rest of their teammates find this very entertaining.

finally, bronya is the field captain of the moss-eaters. she is about thirty and depressed and gay. she's a weapons hardware engineer and made most of cello's modifications, as well as a home-made pile bunker she uses to deliver the coup de grâce to wounded angels. she drives a legged squad vehicle called a scuttlebuggy (her aforementioned car), which i have never posted because i can't figure out how to make it look good. her snakes are named bleach, tara, pissboy, euterpe, princess and kyle. kyle is the dead one

anyway all of this stuff is subject to change and none of it is comprehensive. i have never had an internally consistent cast of characters or setting for very long. also, with the exception of viv, fran and nova, no one has a consistent design right now, so those are wips too.

anyway sorry for the long post i dont rant much so it all happens at once

[jev-urisk]

Heyo, call me Jev. 👋

Near-30s trans goblin, they/them/he

Haunted equally by my horniness and my disdain for the patriarchal and capitalistic hellscape I find myself in.

Drag artist, dog parent, dnd DM

I generally write urban fantasy, queer romance/smut, adventure, mystery and horror undertones.

Open to tag games, asks, exchanging ideas, and general mutual support

I enjoy fanart! However please do not use Ai to recreate anything of mine.

I'm here to learn and laugh and lament and lust alongside other goblins like me, and hopefully my work inspires those feelings in those I meet here!

My writing disposition:

I'm genderqueer, mixed-race, autistic, poly, and pansexual and not only put those qualities in my characters but love fucking with dry uninspiring stereotypes.

I'm talking more poc vampires, non-animalistic natives in fantasy, black women in charge and black women who get to be gentle and delightful. Hybrid species/race characters who learn their cultures and where they fit in instead of just being 'I'm mixed and angsty'. I'm talking middle eastern men as honest protectors, an incubus with asexual qualities, disabled faefolk, and soft gardener orcs. I'm here to serve chubby lamia, small characters who aren't infantalized, and build terrible societies for my ocs to burn and I hope someone dies mad about it.

✨️Thanks for visiting.✨️

-Wips below break-

Works in Progress

🌐 Seven Circles 🌐

Intro Post Here

WIP I post about most. This is where I store my hate for capitalism, my trauma, my hope, and my kink for fangs. Urban fantasy, 100k+, queer relationships, and smut

Criminals from districts 2-4 are sometimes made to work in district 1 for 'rehabilitation', subject to demonic contracts that get extended over any slight the demons perceive in your service to them.

Four characters are caught up in this system of subjugation and they each have their own ideas of handling it: complacency in servitude, manipulating a way to escape, diplomacy to bring change, and revenge fueled rebellion.

♦️🤠Post Paedicom:

Version of our world where monsters, witches, and an original humanoid race called Elja exist- all of which are considered dangerous by humans.

Takes place in Texas where two men, a witch and an Elja, fall for each other whilst hiding among humans and quietly keeping their town safe from monsters. Casually writing for now but may post art at some point.

♦️⚔️Prodigium

Historic precursor to Post Paedicom when there were kings and carriages and sexy swordplay. Before the modern era where Elja are considered either government dogs or rogue monsters. In this era, the strong monster-immune species had a thriving civilization that lived in mutualism with humans, offering protection from monsters in exchange for produce and other farmed resources.

This story is about the downfall of Eljankind, the deception of a coven of witches, and the punishing freedom of love.

Please lmk if you would like to be added to my taglist for these, tag games, or my art posts 🩷

[kenobster]

I have recently been informed that my #anti Palpatine tag has possibly been alienating the Palpatine fandom (-cries in darth vader- NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO).

Here on this blog, we love the very insidious Sheev Palpatine very much. All we ever want is for him to receive his well-earned credit for the numerous Evildoings. On this blog, we do not support people blaming the Jedi or Padme or the little blue butterflies clinging to their last flutters of life in Anakin Skywalker's meditative hellscape. We blame Palpatine himself. Partly because it's true, but mostly because we know he would not have it any other way. :)

Thus, I will no longer be using the #anti Palpatine tag and will slowly be replacing its iterations with the #blame the Palpster tag. Same message, same concept, same belief system (aka "blame the actual emotional abuser for the emotional abuse") but with a little added wink at the man as he masterfully rips the galaxy apart. :D <3

[starleska]

important message: if you're a Twitter user, please hop on over to Bluesky 💙

as you may know, Elon is making yet another fuck-stupid decision: to alter Twitter's block feature, allowing people you've blocked to still not be able to reply to/interact with your posts, but they can see what you've posted. obviously this is a horrible, terrifying idea, and possibly the nail in the coffin for a lot of people who've been growing increasingly frustrated, angered and upset with the way Twitter is as a social media. Bluesky is an open-network Twitter alternative which is very similar to Twitter, but without an engagement-based algorithm: the only algorithms at play are ones you have control over, by voting to see more or less of posts. it has a Tumblr-like tagging system and doesn't shove unrelated, rage-baiting content into your face: you can actually search the tags properly, including what people have tagged on their own account.

i'm one of those people who has been vocal about how bad Twitter has been for my mental health. every day, despite my efforts to make it a lovely, fun place to be, i'd still get posts talking about horrible, untagged, triggering topics, whether that be accusations of abuse or photographs of individuals who've been severely harmed or killed. it was pushing me towards a breakdown. i conducted an experiment to see how long it took scrolling down my Twitter feed to see something that made me angry, upset, or anxious, and every time, it was within ten minutes. i've been wanting to leave Twitter for so long, but didn't feel there was another option besides here. now, there is. Bluesky has gained half a million people in the last day, and that number keeps going up. people are realising what an absolute fucking hellscape Twitter has become, and how sick it's been making everyone. on Twitter, nothing is private, or sacred: everyone is furious and upset and paranoid all of the time, and you aren't allowed to escape it. you physically can't. and that is not healthy or normal. i have not heard a single favourable thing about Twitter in two years. every conversation i have with someone about it, is always, 'i wish i could quit Twitter because it's making me sick, but it's really hard.'

so far, Bluesky has been like a breath of fresh air. it feels so...unburdened. the utter lack of charged, political, aggressive tweets has me feeling off-balance. all i'm seeing is lovely art from friends, and silly posts about how much nicer it is there!! yes, Bluesky is early days and it doesn't have as many bells and whistles as Twitter, but my God the people behind it are listening to its userbase. it is a functional, clean, relaxed type of social media that i think so, so many of you would benefit from joining. so please...if you've been feeling exhausted and infuriated by the standard Musk-era Twitter has set for social media, give Bluesky a shot. you can use the Sky Follower Bridge extension to find all your pals from Twitter who are already on Bluesky! and if you want to give me a follow, i'm @starleska.bsky.social - i'd love to see you there 🥰

[d20-lesbian]

🐈‍⬛🖤INTRO POST🖤🐦‍⬛

I'm finally making an intro post! under the break you will find everything from DNI to Hyperfixations/Interests, plus a new tagging system I'll be using so my blog isn't such a wasteland <33 Enjoy

alright lets start with some info!

My name is Onyx

I'm a non binary lesbian

I use they/xe/it and a bunch of neopronouns

I identify with a bunch of xenogenders!

I flip from hyperfixation to hyperfixation super easily but my special interests are musical theatre and psychology/mental illness. (2 very different things i know).

I'm 18 years old and Australian :3

before you follow !

I might spam reblog sometimes, but I'll have all reblogs tagged so you can mute that if you like.

I'm always happy to receive asks and such, anonymous or not!! please i want mutuals ;-;.

i might vent at times, nothing too serious of course and always properly tagged.

Just keep this in mind!

DNI IF:

- you fall into basic DNI criteria (homophobic, transphobic, racist, etc.)

- you're pro-ana or pro-sh as I'm in recovery for both of these.

- you're a proshipper

- you're under 12

- you're a Monika apologist (DDLC)

- you fake claim

- you're anti neopronouns/xenogenders

some of my triggers are ,

vomit, in any way, this is my biggest one!! i have very severe emetephobia and dont really even like the word.

IRL sans hoodies/blue jackets that look similar to that.

Sayoris death scene from DDLC

i love musical theatre, rock/metal music, LGBTQIA+ advocacy, mental health advocacy, psychology, dungeons and dragons/other TTRPGs and witchy stuff :3

I'm in a lot of fandoms, including !

DDLC, Danganronpa, Ride The Cyclone, SIX, Beetlejuice, Hamilton, Heathers, Vocaloid, Sanrio, Unus Annus, TBHK, MLP, FNAF, Marvel, NITW, Pokemon, Supernatural, Markiplier egos, WKM, ADWM, AHWM, ISWM, Jacksepticeye egos, Doctor Who, Starkid, The Hatchetfield Trilogy, Arcane, Sally Face, Tim Burton movies (not the guy tho) Disney Fairies, AND MANY MORE I CANT REMEMBER RN!!

this section will update every now and then with whatever I'm hyperfixating on !! right now its;

will wood/will wood and the tapeworms!!! (it has been that for like over a year now guys help)

I kin !

Sayori (DDLC)

Kokichi (DRV3)

Jinx (Arcane)

Jane Doe (RTC)

Mae Borowski (NITW)

Fave characters are !

All kins <3

Ibuki Mioda (DRV2)

Emu Otori (PJSK)

Celestia Ludenberg (DRV1)

Ocean O'Connell Rosenburg (RTC)

Kuromi (Sanrio)

Hatsune Miku (Vocaloid)

im gonna introduce a tagging system to make my blog less of a messy hellscape!!

reblogs will be tagged with #onyx rbs

me yelling about fandoms will be tagged with #onyx fandom posting

vents will be tagged with #onyx sad

more serious posts will be tagged with #onyx serious

random shit/rambles will be tagged with #onyx is rambling

answering asks will be tagged with #onyx answers asks

heres some stuff that doesn't fit into any of the previous categories!

my favourite mutuals are @frogsareallgay , @elias-pluto and @thobg !

My favourite animals are black cats, crows/ravens, moths and bats! and i identify heavily with black cats specifically!! (im the real black cat gf sorrry not sorry >:3)

Some of the neopronouns i use are :3

glitch/void/moon/star/spirit/crow/moth/hallow/cat/kit/arcade/wisp

heres some links to my other socials !!

Insta: rock_lesbian

Twitter: Dnd_Lesbian

Discord: onyxjae

Pinterest: Onyx Jae

Carrd: Onyx Jae's Carrd

Spacehey: Onyx Jae

anyway, to close out, thank you for reading through all of this!! i hope you enjoy your stay on my blog !!! love yall <33

[hibiscesque]

Hi! I’m Lily-Iris, but most people just call me Lily. I’ve been in various fandoms over the years under various pseudonyms, but right now I’m active in the Bungou Stray Dogs fandom and have been for three years now. I’ve been a fan of the series for way longer than that though haha. Twitter has been my vice of choice for BSD historically, but I continually try to be more active on Tumblr because frankly Elongeddon has hellscaped up Twitter to the max.

You can find my BSD fics on AO3 under the username hibiscesque (Icosagens)!

I mostly write for SKK, but I am also a big fan of Dazatsu, Kunizai, Chuutross, AtsuLucy, Trosszai, Rimlaine, and FukuMori, and if you talk to me about any of them I will love you forever.

I can also be found on Bluesky at hibiscesque.bsky.social and Twitter at hibiscesque.

Tagging:

I content-tag posts and reblogs involving topics that are potentially triggering, upsetting, or disquieting using the tagging system #cw: [insert content here].

My fandom posts are tagged with #lilris fan era, and my fic posts additionally with #lilris fics.

My personal text posts are tagged as #lilris yaps.

#art, #fanfic, #headcanons, #analysis, and #mini fic are tagged as such.

Any non-BSD fandom reblogs or posts are tagged as #non-bsd.

All posts and reblogs are also tagged with ship names and names of characters involved in the format #firstname lastname, or for those without full names, #[name] bsd.

[training4theapocalypse]

Pushover (Jeffrey Steinberg x fem!reader)

Rating: Explicit - 18+ only

Word Count: 4k

Warnings: SMUT, Rough sex, Degradation, Dub-con, Dom!Jeffrey, Sub!Reader, Breeding kink, Vaginal Fingering, Oral Sex M receiving, PIV

Summary: It's the apocalypse and you're stuck in an ecosphere with the last nine other people in the world - including Jeffrey Steinberg. If he could stop talking down to you for one second you could show him how useful you'd be to him.

A/N: Just be aware I wrote this in a day because I needed to get some feelings out my system. I've never written for an in-progress piece of work before so if Jeffrey turns out to be an even worse person than we already know I am sorry. This takes place roughly at the end of Ep4 of Evergreen.

Masterlist

Join my tag list: @pretendfan, @countlambula, @chiaraanatra, @stainedpomegranatelips, @navs-bhat

Chapter Text:

“Hey, second fiddle! Get in here.”

“Don’t call her that.”

You open the control room door where Hannah and Jeffrey are staring at the screens. He leans back in his chair to look past Hannah, standing next to him, to get a good look at you when you enter. His dark curly hair is messed up like he’s been stressed out and running his hands through it.

“So, Finn’s assistant's assistant -”

“You know she’s not my assistant, Jeffrey. She’s Finn’s second assistant,” says Hannah scathingly.

He waves his hand dismissively. ��Hannah says you actually might know something about this firewall?”

“Yes.”

“How does Finn Gorale’s second-favourite pet know how to get past the firewall?” He raises his eyebrow.

“I know how to code. Finn let me work on the firewall for my professional development.”

“Ugh.” He rolls his eyes. “He really had you all lapping up the big happy corporate family thing here, didn’t he?” Jeffrey rolls his chair back from the control panel. “Go on then, show me.”

“Jeffrey,” Hannah warns. “Don’t let him speak to you like that,” she adds to you. 

“I’d be happy to show Mr Steinberg anything he wants to see.”

The corners of his mouth turn up in a wry smile. He liked that. And he has dimples. You’re stuck in an underground ecosphere with the billionaire AI mogul who you’ve had a ridiculous crush on for a long time. Of course, he has dimples. As if he couldn’t be any more perfect.

Ever since he gave the commencement speech at your graduation ceremony a few years ago, Jeffrey Steinberg has been the subject of your fantasies. Obviously, you applied to work for Jeffrey’s company straight after graduation but without success. You suspected that Jeffrey was kind of a misogynist - his executive assistants were all exclusively men. Finn, for all his flaws, at least didn’t seem to care about your gender. 

“I’d better go help Axel and Aida with the harvester,” says Hannah, she pauses on her way out. “Don’t let him push you around.”

You keep your eyes on him as the sound of the door shutting and locking itself electronically beeps when Hannah exits the room.

You’re not sure what you wouldn’t let Jeffrey Steinberg do to you. You’d be more than happy for him to push you around, bend you over the console, fuck you any way he wanted to. Your so far one-sided feelings for him have only intensified while you’ve been stuck in this hellscape of an ecosphere with only nine other people for company. 

As an executive assistant, normally you can hold your own around egotistical men. Put them in their place with your sharp tongue. But something about Jeffrey’s disdain towards your very presence here makes you crumble. You’re desperate for him to notice you. Notice how useful you could be to him. Even if he were to decide your only usefulness amounted to you waiting in his bed for him on your knees every night.

You flush, embarrassed by your own lewd thoughts. It’s your ninth day down here. Not only are you socially starved but you’re also way more aroused than usual. Your girlfriends used to joke that you needed locking up during this time of the month when you were ovulating. Like a werewolf at full moon. You feel feral.

“Er, hello?” Jeffrey’s voice snaps you back to reality.

You clear your throat and teeter on your heels over to the console. He doesn’t deign to give you his chair, instead, he rolls it back to watch you lean over the keyboard.

“I just need to look up when Hal-9000 was last rebooted,” you say, clicking around, and searching for the date.

“You can say it’s name. It can’t hear us in here.”

“It can hear everything. It’s everywhere.”

“I disabled it in this room. Cortex, can you hear me? Cortex? There’s been an accident, Cortex, Finn’s assistant is choking to death in the control room. It’s the cute, innocent one, not the bitchy one, so you’d better hurry!” You glance at him over your shoulder to see him smirking. “See?”

You turn back to face the screen quickly before he can notice your smile. Cute. You open files on the screen, checking the reboot data.

You can feel his eyes on you. You’re not sure if he’s staring at what you’re doing on the screen or the way you’re bent over in front of him. Either way, you like it.

“You said when I first got here that we’d never met before. But that’s not true, is it? I know you from somewhere.”

“Not likely. But you gave the commencement speech at my graduation a few years ago.”

“You graduated from MIT?”

“What, like it’s hard?” You discreetly pick up the pace of your searching, keen to show off how quickly you can crack the firewall issue.

“MIT… I’ve got it.” He snaps his fingers and points at you like he’s just realised something. “You applied for a job with me. Does Finn know he was second choice? Or is that why he made you his second choice?” His sudden revelation isn't convincing. You have a feeling he's been sitting on this information for a while.

“Finn might be a shitty boss but unlike you he actually hires women.”

“Woah, woah, woah - who says I don’t hire women?”

“Your last five assistants were all men. None of them have lasted as long as I have with Finn, by the way.”

“Look, I’m not Finn. I can’t spend my day around a fuckable assistant without doing something about it. That means all the applications from the pretty ones go straight in the bin, no matter if they went to MIT.”

“That’s a textbook example of misogyny.”

“Well, what are you going to do about it? Call the EEOC? It’s not like they exist anymore.”

You say nothing. You hate that he didn’t hire you. But at least you know it’s because he thought you were pretty - so that’s something, right? And could you honestly say you wouldn’t have tried to fuck him at the first opportunity, even if he was your boss? Maybe he was on to something.

“Cortex hasn’t been rebooted since the day before doomsday,” you say, finally finding the data.

He brings his chair forward to look at the screen. You shift uncomfortably on your feet in your high heels. 

“Sit here,” he says, nudging the back of your knee with his. You pretend to hesitate, only so he can’t tell how eager you are. You sit down on his lap. “Good girl. See, this is the type of shit I’d be pulling if you were my assistant. Anyway…” He reaches around you to grab the mouse and is quiet for a moment while he takes in the information. His other hand rests on your upper thigh.

“You said Finn was a shitty boss. But are you still loyal to him?”

He tilts his head, scanning your face for any indication of dishonesty. You meet his gaze, glad for an excuse to look into his green eyes.

“I’ll be as loyal or disloyal as you want me to be.”

“Very good answer.” He says, his fingertips on his free hand brushing the inside of your leg. “As it happens, that’s exactly what I want. Out there, I want you to pretend to be loyal to Finn. But in here, I want you to help me locate Finn’s private servers.”

You bite your lip before throwing caution to the wind. “I have conditions.”

“Let’s hear them, then.”

“Out there I want you to show me some respect. No more talking down to me in front of the others.”

“Alright, that’s fair en-”

“But inside here -” you feel butterflies in your stomach. “- I want you to disrespect me in every way you know how. And I want you to do it now. As a show of good faith.”

Jeffrey exhales deeply and you feel something hard pressing against your hip. 

“God, you would have been a fucking terrible assistant” He shakes his head. 

Oh shit.

“I never would have gotten anything done,” he says, looking at you with an unmistakeable glint in his eye. From the sideways position you’re sitting on his lap, he draws your leg up onto the armrest, spreading your legs apart and forcing your minidress to roll up, exposing your underwear.

Oh shit.

He runs the back of his hand across your pussy through the fabric before suddenly yanking your underwear to the side so he can draw his fingers along your slit, finding the swollen bundle of nerves at the top. 

“Fuck,” you whisper and turn your head, bringing your lips close to his - almost touching. He smells good. Expensive.

“So wet already.” He rolls his wet fingertips around your clit. “What a wet, fucking desperate little slut you are.”

“I’ve been like this every day here,” you confess.

“So I should have trusted my instincts and let myself into your room after those drinks on the first night?” Jeffrey keeps circling your clit, making you squirm in his lap.

“Yes, fuck yes.”

“What would I have found, I wonder? You fucking yourself like this?” He slides a finger inside you. 

You part your lips panting at the intrusion, feeling his finger curl up inside you. He sucks on your neck. Fuck - there’s going to be a bruise there tomorrow. His mark on you for everyone to see.

“No - wait! The others will notice if I have a hickey.”

“So?”

“I - I want them to respect me out there.”

His finger moves in and out of you and you feel you pelvic muscles tighten under the pressure. You might want the others to respect you but he knows you want nothing of the sort from him in here. And he’s taking your request seriously.

“So put some fucking makeup on it to cover it up. I see you wearing it out there - the world has ended and you’re the only one still bothering with makeup. I wonder why?”

He knows why.

“Fuck, and this tight little dress. Who’s that for?”

He knows who it’s for.

“And those ridiculous shoes. I mean, for God’s sake we’re living in a ecosphere.”

He slips another digit inside you, and you welcome it gratefully as he keeps crooking and stroking his fingertips against you g-spot. Every movement he makes inside your soaking wet cunt pulls a helpless little moan from you.

“Fuck, Jeffrey, I -, I -” Pleasure ignites up low in your abdomen. The increasingly wet sound of his fingers fucking you, giving away just how turned on you are, threatens to push you over the edge.

“You’re not seriously about to cum already, are you? Fuck, you really are a desperate little whore.”

“I am,” you choke. “Fuck, and I’ll do any- anything you want.”

You’re tumbling headfirst into your high, the beautiful way his fingers are pressing into you is too much. He feels your pussy clench around him and starts drilling into you with unprecedented speed. From the way he holds you you can’t move, can’t do anything except just accept your impending climax.

“You’re damn right you will. Come on, be a good little assistant and cum for me. Or is that too big a task for you?”

It’s not. 

You’re so pent up you wail - the noise you make for him sounds like something from a shitty porno. Everything seizes up around his fingers, tight, hot and burning - and then it releases like a spring. Jeffrey keeps finger fucking you through your orgasm, draining every last ounce of bliss from your body until you shudder into a quivering mess on his lap.

“That was a decent start. You sound fucking great when you do that by the way. Do it louder next time.”

You nod, blinking stupidly at him.

“Right, enough with the Bambi eyes and stand up. I need a good look at you.”

Legs trembling, you get off his lap with difficulty and smooth out the front of your dress. He sits up straight in his chair and makes a circle motion with his finger, instructing you to turn around. You feel your cheeks burning as you turn on the spot slowly so he can he observe you.

“Don’t get shy on me now. Do it again. But this time I want to see all of you.” He leans back in his chair. “Take everything off.”

Steping out of your heels, you feel relief as your feet meet the the cool tile floor. You grab the hem on your dress and lift it up over your head before throwing it aside. You pause for a second, standing in your lingerie.

He locks eyes with you. “Everything.”

“You don’t like it?”

“I’m more interested in seeing what I asked for. Maybe you’re used to Finn letting his assistants take liberties but I expect you to do as you’re told.”

You unhook your bra and slip off your underwear, tossing them at his feet. He raises an eyebrow with impatient expectancy and you remember to turn again.

“You know, I’ve thought a lot about what would happen if Nico’s work in the DNA bank couldn’t proceed.” He says, and you hear his desk chair roll towards you and he grabs your hips from behind. “And I’ve decided you’d make the best breeding stock. I mean, God, these hips.”

He spins you back around to face him and you bite your lip.

“Purely scientific of course. And obviously, I’d be the one to do it. We’d need to calculate when you’re at your most fertile and I’d cum inside you say… three times a day.”

“And what use would you have for me the rest of the month? Just help you with the servers?”

“I’m glad you asked… Kneel.”

You sink to the hard tile floor and watch him as he undoes his belt buckle. 

“Do you know what to do? Or do I have to give you detailed instructions for every simple thing?”

“I know what to do.”

You crawl towards him and slide your hands up his thighs. They’re more muscular than you would have guessed under his expensive, tailored suit. Unzipping his pants, you pull his cock out. You knew he had big dick energy but at the back of your mind you wondered if he was over compensating.

He’s not.

He’s rock hard. And thick. As you run your hand up his cock, a single bead of precum leaks from the top making your mouth water.

You look up at him and present your tongue before slowly dragging it along the underside of his cock. The critical look he’s giving you falters when you flutter your tongue across his head, tasting the salty liquid.

Jeffrey threads his fingers through your hair, getting it out of your face as you swallow as much of him as you can, drooling all over his length.

“Oh fuck, look at how sloppy you are,” he says with a sharp inhale when he feels the head of his cock touching the back of your throat. You suck and swirl your tongue around him and you pull back up, meeting his eyes again. He’s looking down at you with his lips parted in awe of the way you’re working him.

“Did Finn ever get you to do this?”

You shake your head, your mouth still full. Never.

“He was a fucking idiot. You’re going to be doing this every day from now on.”

God, the way he bosses you around makes you moan around him as you set a pace, sucking up and down. You accidentally take it too deep and gag a little.

“Don’t stop. Come on, yes, fucking choke on it.”

Desperate to prove you can, you keep going, gagging and panting as your head bobs up and down, every so often touching the base with your lips, burying your face in the neat smattering of hair.

“Yeah, you like this, don’t you? Gagging on my cock like this? You submissive little slut.”

You whine, choking on his cock as far as you can take it. You look up at him again with tears in your eyes.

“Right, breathe. Get some air,” he says, with a surprisingly gentle tug of your hair. You pull up, gasping and he grips his cock with his hand and starts pumping his fist up and down. He stands up and you sit back on your knees, looking at him towering above you.

“Open your mouth, I’m going to cum all over that pretty litte face.”

“I’m ovulating.”

He stops tugging at his cock. “What?”

“It means I’m fertile right now.”

“I know what it means. God, you have no idea what you’ve just let yourself in for. Get up.” He extends a hand to help you to your feet. Your knees ache from kneeling on the floor. Jeffrey walks over to the console and presses a few buttons. 

“Bend over,” he says, gesturing to the console. You look at it apprenehsively.

“What if I press something?”

“You just watched me lock it. Are you sure you went to MIT?”

You’re not thinking straight. You lean over the console in front of him and you hear him moving behind you. You’re not sure what he’s doing until you feel two hands on your hips and a soft, warm heat gliding between your folds. His tongue slides over your pussy, and obscenely, you feel it pushing at your entrance. 

Jeffrey pulls back and delves his fingers inside you so he can gather your slick. He stands up, coating his cock with your your juices and presses his head against your aching pussy. You inhale deeply as he guides himself slowly into you, stretching you even more than his fingers did.

“Shit, you’re so fucking tight,” he groans as he bottoms out, filling you up completely. You clench around his cock deep inside you, every nerve ending below your waist lights up brighter than the console underneath you.

He starts thrusting into you, setting an urgent pace that you’re barely ready for. You let out a long, low whimper, made uneven by each thrust of his hips into the flesh of your ass.

“Fuck, Jeffrey…” Is all you can manage to moan as you feel the familiar tension building in your pelvis, squeezing around him as he mercilessly buries himself into you.

“I’ve wanted to do this for so fucking long,” he says through gritted teeth. His hands slide around under your body and he grabs your tits, anchoring himself even deeper into you.

“It’s - it’s only been nine days,” you pant over the wet sound of his flesh smacking yours.

“You really think I binned your job application?” He brings one of his strong arms to wrap around your stomach and uses the other to find your neck and pull you close to his chest, still ramming his hips against your ass. “I agonised over it for weeks - fuck - I almost brought you in for an interview just so I could fuck you over my desk. Hire you to be my little fucktoy.”

He sloppily licks your neck and jaw and you turn your head to kiss him. Your tongues barely touching from this angle. He pulls out of you with a frustrated groan and turns you round to lift you onto the console, your bare backside pressing on a dozen different buttons.

Jeffrey pulls off his own shirt and you can barely contain the mewl that escapes your lips when you see his toned chest. You hardly have time to appreciate it before he sheathes himself into you again making you arch your back in pleasure.

He kisses you once - deeply, needily - then puts all of his weight on you and fucks you - hard. 

“Taking my cock like such a good little slut. I knew you’d be like this.”

Everything pulls up inside you, tight and molten hot. You sob and clutch his muscular shoulders, wrapping your legs around his little waist as he keeps pounding into you. It’s exactly what you always dreamed it would be. Hot, rough, degrading.

“Jeffrey, fuck, I’m - fuck - so close.”

“You feel so fucking good,” he moans, pushing his face into the crook of your neck, ramping up the pace of his hips fucking into your open legs - you barely notice the console digging into your back, every plastic button leaving indents on your soft skin. You squeal, trying to grapple with the orgasm flashing brightly deep in your abdomen. “Such pretty noises.”

Electricity floods your body, sparking up in your brain like an overloaded circuit board. 

“Are you going to cum for me? Come on.”

You cry like a woman possessed as your cunt twitches and releases all over him, your orgasm ripping through your body as he fucks you remorselessly through it.

“God, you get so fucking tight when you do that,” he shudders, feeling your pussy contract involuntatrily around him.

“Cum inside me - please,” you whisper, your instincts telling you that this is what will set off his own relief. “Please, Mr Steinberg.” Your sweet murmur in his ear makes him burst. His groan jumps up a pitch as his teeth find the juncture of your neck and he bites down, cumming hard inside you. With a last few shuddering jerks of his hips, he comes to a stop.

He lies there on to of you, his heart hammering in his chest as he heaves breathlessly, the last spurt of cum coating your insides. The numbness fades and you realise just how uncomfortable this is, with him on top of you on the hard surface.

“Shit, the console was a bad idea,” he sighs eventually, pulling out of you carefully and cupping your leaking pussy before his cum can spill out over the unit. 

He reaches over your head and grabs some tissues from the box on top of the desk and does what he can to mop up the mess you’ve both made. You slide off of the surface, holding onto his shoulders for balance.

Jeffrey drags the abandoned desk chair over and sits down, pulling you onto his lap again. His curly hair is even messier than when you first came into the room. He lifts his head up to kiss you gently.

“You’re not really fertile right now, are you?”

“Unfortunately. I’ll get a morning after pill from David though - discreetly.” 

“Good. There’s no way we’re actually going to repopulate this hell hole.”

“We could have a lot of fun trying though.”

He smirks and you see those dimples again. God, those dimples.

“Right, you’d better get back out there before anyone realises how long you’ve been missing.”

“They have no idea how long breaking through a firewall takes. They probably think we’re in here mashing buttons like those hackers on TV.”

“Well, the buttons are certainly mashed,” he says, looking over your shoulder at the sticky surface.

You brush his curly hair from his face. “Do you… would you want to do this again? Same time, same place tomorrow?”

“Absoltely not. What a mess. We’re lucky the whole place didn’t go into critical failure. Come to my quarters. Tonight.”

“I’m busy tonight.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah, I’ve got several hours scheduled in for contemplating my existence as one of the last human beings on the planet.”

“Don’t you manage diaries for a living? I’m sure you of all people could find a way to squeeze me in.” He looks at you expectantly.

“Maybe...” You get up and step into your underwear. “Make it my room. And bring a strong drink.”

“Yes ma’am,” he says, handing you your dress and watching you pull it over your head as he buckles his belt again. You put on your heels and walk over to the keypad on the door. You open it.

“Will that be all, Mr Steinberg?” You ask.

“Yes, thank you.” You step out the door. “Wait.” You turn to look at him over your shoulder. “You would have been a fucking great assistant, by the way.”

“I think you were right the first time. We’d never have gotten anything done.”

Chapter 2: Nice Guy

[bioticbooty]

15 questions for 15 friends

Tagged by @pigeontheoneandonly!

ARE YOU NAMED AFTER ANYONE?: My birth name, no. My coming out as they gayest fucker without a gender you've ever met, yes, but oddly, after myself??? Because I decided to write a self-insert (SaOS) and writing my birth name felt WRONG (for reasons I didn't understand at the time) so I made a new name that felt "right," examined those feelings over the course of a decade, and when it came time to change my name, I already had one thanks to my weird Mass Effect-loving, fanfiction-writing, stumbling-into-an-epiphany-yet-completely-missing-it self. In other words, I named myself before I knew who I was.

WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU CRIED?: Saturday, April 6, between 7:30 pm and 9:15 pm, watching Star Trek: Discovery Season 5, episodes 1 and 2

DON'T LOOK AT ME

DO YOU HAVE KIDS?: I have zero offspring and sometimes I feel a way about it and sometimes I don't.

WHAT SPORTS DO YOU PLAY/HAVE YOU PLAYED?: Track. And I am also going to include marching band because we walked for MILES with HEAVY INSTRUMENTS wearing SHITTY SHOES THAT ARE DEFINITELY NOT MADE FOR HIKING and WOOL UNIFORMS in the fucking HEAT (and also in the cold, in which case we were stuffing little heat buddies into the toes of our shoes).

I do not play a sport now. But I do go on little mental health walks and occasionally hike a volcano.

DO YOU USE SARCASM?: Not once in my entire life.

WHAT IS THE FIRST THING YOU NOTICE ABOUT PEOPLE?: How they look at other people. Which is such an incredibly autistic thing, but I fucking studied the shit out of how other people communicated with and looked at other people around them in an attempt to understand it myself because I was always missing these cues that everyone else acted as if they were immediately obvious to the point they didn't need to be said. Communication became one of my special interests as a way to understand and survive in social situations.

WHAT'S YOUR EYE COLOUR?: Hazel. When I was 17 and on a picnic with a friend I was incredibly gay for (but who was tragically straight), she gazed into my eyes as the sun sparkled around us and said my eyes looked like sunflowers in a meadow.

Naturally, I fucking love sunflowers.

SCARY MOVIES OR HAPPY ENDINGS?: Happy endings. Both are good, and scary movies can have happy endings too, but I like soft and kind stories more where people don't have to suffer in order to experience or earn joy.

ANY TALENTS?: Writing (though writing that makes me feel an imposter), cooking, building, and the ability to stand in a room and spatial reason the shit out of it without moving a muscle to come up with the perfect layout.

WHERE WERE YOU BORN?: Portland, OR

WHAT ARE YOUR HOBBIES?: Writing, reading, painting, home improvement, gardening, photography, rock-hounding, traveling, being a professional asshole.

DO YOU HAVE ANY PETS?: Three cats!

HOW TALL ARE YOU?: 5'6"

FAVOURITE SUBJECT IN SCHOOL?: I loved history and literature the most at the time.

DREAM JOB?: I don't know. This is a complicated question. I don't like that jobs are tied to our ability to thrive. I like doing a lot of different things, and most of those things at the rate I like to do them are not sustainable for paying my bills. It's hard to divorce "dream job" from the hellscape that is living under late-stage capitalism, where everything we do is monetized and categorized according to how productive we are. In which case, the job I have now as a labor organizer, actively combatting this system, is my dream job. But I wish I didn't have to do it and I wish it didn't exist.

No pressure tags: @cr-noble-writes, @pushingsian, @therev28, @eletaniia, @galtori, @mrsd-writes, @rotschopf-thedrow, @swaps55, and anyone else who feels so inclined

[cosmicconstruct]

Pinned:

Hello! I'm Cos (he/they/it/sin), and this is my main blog! I have an alterhuman sideblog @cosmicwolfdog, but other than that most of my posts go here. I tend to be on the queer and disabled, vaguely political side of tumblr when I'm not barking about my alterhumanity. I'm an English and gender studies student, so a lot of what goes here will probably be related to things I'm working on for classes.

Things you might see here:

Disability-related rambling, especially about the U.S. Healthcare system/the medical industry in general

Queer-related rambling, especially about transness/neoidentities

Spiritualizing/philosophizing about social justice and how to go about being an activist

Resources, book/articles recs etc.

Blog organization/DNI below!

#cos is thinking: for musings on subjects

#cos is barking: less organized musings

#sillyposting: jokes n stuff

#joyposting: positivity posts

#highposting: posts when I am weedies

#read later: posts I would like to read but Do Not have the spoons for right now and posts I would like to read again

#resources: resources lol

#discourse: posts that feature disagreements basically

#hellscape survival guide: anything to do with surviving capitalism, Trump's presidency, just the general state of the U.S./the world

I tag tws/cws for anything I expect to need it, as well as tagging any disorder/symptom mentioned. If you need something tagged please lmk!

I don't have a set DNI, aside from the requirement that minors not interact with posts about sex or kink. Minors can still follow and interact with other posts, but if I see you on adult content posts I'll block you, and I probably won't follow you back regardless. Nothing personal.

Other than that, I'm happy to engage anyone who seems to be speaking in good faith. I love reevaluating my perspectives when presented with new information so please talk to me even if you think I'm wrong, so long as you're prepared to do the same!

[circular-bircular]

There is so much value in being able to say, “This post is not for or about me, or people like me, and I can just ignore it rather than explaining my side.”

This has been a hard learned lesson, one that I have ignored time and time again. I’m realizing it’s likely due to that whole “anger has a tendency to override your emotions and seem primary when it’s really a secondary emotion” thing my therapist has been talking to me about recently.

There is so much value in just… not engaging. It helps you not get over-heated with your anger, leaving it at a manageable level that doesn’t overwhelm the zone of tolerance you’re in. It also helps you see other people’s perspectives.

This post is brought to you by that post in the tags right now about neutral individuals. Prefacing: I agree with what was said, for the most part.

When I read the post, I was incredibly frustrated, though. “Neutral people aren’t saying they’re neutral on your fucking existence, neutral people by and large just want to be left alone and not participate in syscourse, there’s even endogenic neutral people,” I shouted in my own head. Then I took a fucking step back, and said, “What is the primary emotion that my anger is coming from?”

I thought for a bit, calmed down, and realized I was feeling isolated because I really don’t experience the things that are frustrating so many people. I don’t see syscourse as being about wanting endogenic systems to die because I so rarely see those individuals in syscourse — I block them immediately, same as I block those who harass me for a thousand other things. But I know that (particularly on the hellscape that is Twitter) things are far worse in terms of syscourse. It’s less of a conversation and more of a war — one that I refuse to take part in and actively condemn.

Understanding that made me realize that it really wasn’t my place to chime in, however much in good faith it would be, to explain that unaligned people in this space are rarely “neutral” on if people live or die. It wasn’t what the post was really about. They’re allowed to vent their frustrations, same as I do.

And so, I was able to keep my mouth shut, sit with my feelings, and make this post after some reflection. I feel healthier for it, and more relieved. I think that’s important, if not for yall, then at least for me.

[rennsdeaddoves]

Welcome, Welcome, Welcome!

Hello one and all! if you have stumbled across this blog recently or been here for a while I commend you! because now your trapped and will never leave!!! /j fr though welcome to the hellscape and pure degeneracy that is this blog!!

you all can refer to me as Renn and I am the master mind behind many twisted very disturbing and definitely dead dove do not eat fanfictions! I do a few other things too, like drawings and Au's and what not. ◤━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━◥

◣━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━◢ down below are some links to lists that will take you to other lists where you can see everything!

Fanfic List

Au Master List

Long Fic / Fic Series Master List

<now not everything on these lists are being actively written and displayed on this blog yet. eventually I do want everything on these lists to be on this blog but for now they are not. thus, I am creating a system, if a title is coloured red then it is not currently being written or displayed on the blog, however, if the title is purple than that means that I have written for it in the past and there are things on this blog for it so you can check out the tag link in the master list and scroll through if you wish. At the bottom of each list there is something called a summary list. Because I will not be making master lists for a fic till I decide to introduce it here. This if you want information on the fic’s without master lists then go to the summary list>

something else i should mention is my fic ratings. I like writing gore, and thus i have a measure for my things.

Our Doves are Rotting → for the worst of the worst. morals? we don't know her!

Wounded Dove → for things that are bad and maybe deserve the dddne tag but not really

Trauma O'clock → definetly gets a 16 plus rating and and some tigger warnings but nothing much worse than that.

it's not baaad buuuut → its mostly safe, other than the trauma i need to put the character through for development it's pretty wholesome up here.

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I also have two other blogs!

@rennsdeaddoves for 18+ things only

@rennsdovesarealive for spam and just general chatting and getting to know you guys!

if your interested feel free to check them out!

ALSO!!! please check out my best friend and writing partners blog!! @senkaithegriffin (if it weren't for him i wouldn't have written any of this so please go and check him out)

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some additional information you may want to know about me!

I live in Canada I am over 21 I go by any pronouns Love anything Studio Ghibli, Journey to the West, or old 80/90 anime / anime films

my hyper fixations change on the regular and every time i consume a new piece of media i feel the need to create a character and insert them into it so i can be a part of the story (thats why i have so many fics T-T)

Current Hyperfixation; Hellsing Ultimate, Elden Ring

i don't mind spam likes, go buck wild with that, my ask box is open so feel free to talk with me (genuinely i will not ignore anyone unless you are being a straight ass to me)