phoenician-arab

[starry-bi-sky]

Clone^2 - Separation Strikes

"Why do I have to go?" Damian asks, surly and accent-thick, it sounds more like a demand and a whine at the same time. Sitting on the kitchen table with his arms crossed, in a green t-shirt that Danny bought him at a whim when he was at a thrift shop, and black shorts, he's never looked more like a kid. There's a little backpack leaning against the table leg, Damian begrudgingly picked it out when they went shopping.

His English has grown in leaps and bounds since Danny found him -- er, or more accurately; since Damian was spat out in front of him. -- and very little did they have to use the translator on Danny's phone these days.

Which meant one thing: Damian can start attending school comfortably now. And 'go' was the Amity Smiles Child Care Center. Danny and Jazz went as kids until they were twelve, and Mom and Dad actually managed to convince the center director to let Damian enroll for the summer.

And it was summer; Damian starts today.

"Because," Danny says, trying and failing to hide the smile pulling on his face, his heart warm and soft, and also laughing at Damian's expense; "being cooped up in the house all day isn't good for you, and you're starting school in the Fall. And, in Jazz's words: you need to have interactions with other kids your age for the benefit of your social development. And besides, it's only for the morning."

Damian's nose scrunches up, and his eyes roll so violently that for a moment, Danny thinks about joking that he'll get his eyes stuck like that. He holds his tongue; his little brother already looks like he's five seconds away from committing an act of violence.

"I don't need social interaction." Damian sneers, his cheek in his hand; a neverend pool of pride. "I am--"

"The Blood of the Demon Heir, better than everyone else." Danny cuts off, waving his hand in dismissive circles, his voice mockingly deep. Damian's brown skin darkens in embarrassment, and he scowls at Danny. "I know, bud. But Jazz is right, -- don't tell her I said that, -- you should be around kids your age."

Especially when he starts First Grade in the Fall. Honestly -- Danny was a little nervous to send him to the center. Damian's long since cut the habit of trying to kill or otherwise maim people, his palms ache-burn with gentle reminder, but his tongue was as sharp and as cutting as his sword. He still struggles with trying to quell it when he's upset. Vicious child-weapon that he once was, and will never be again.

Danny knows that it comes from a place of fear and defense, that Damian lashes out because that's what he's been taught. That at the end of the day, he doesn't really mean what he says, and he's learning to express himself better. But the other kids don't know that, and kids can be unforgiving and cruel.

Danny just...

His slow beating heart sighs, melancholy settles behind his lungs.

He doesn't want Damian to be outcasted. He doesn't want him to be alone.

Not like he was.

Damian sneers again, but says nothing, his shoulders crawling up to hide his ears like a turtle receding into his shell. Danny watches him silently, leaning against the kitchen counter with his own arms crossed. The clock hanging on the wall ticks in their ears -- it's almost time to go.

He watches Damian, careful, and so he sees it when his little brother's stone-shell pride and petulance shudders, and cracks. The darkened furrow of Damian's brows weakens, and for a moment, slants back.

Ah, Danny thinks, his own shoulders slumping. Epiphany washes over him, and his sad-heart soothes in warm understanding. So that's what it is.

His head tilts, and his hair spills over his shoulders, messy and fluffy, tickling his neck. Some of his bangs fall into his face. "Hal 'ant easabiatan ya habibi?" He asks, voice low and soft. Just as Damian's English has improved, so has Danny's Arabic. He still stumbles over himself some days, and Damian says his accent is trash, but they can have whole conversations now in Damian's mothertongue.

(Danny was incredibly proud of himself for it.)

Damian's face darkens, his blush spreading across the rest of his face, and he ducks his head down. Grown-out curls, black-brown and springy, falls over his eyes. "La!" He yells, loud and indignant, and not at all convincingly. "La 'asheur bialtawaturi!"

He was nervous. Danny can see it now, in the hunch of his shoulders and the tightness of his face, and faintly, he can feel it too. In the ecto-rich air of the Fentonworks House, it thrums, barely-there, like a hummingbird behind his lungs.

Danny can't stop the little, fond smile that forces itself across his lips and upticks the corner of his mouth. "It's okay to be nervous, little brother." He says, he sounds like Jazz when he says that. He doesn't think she'll mind him borrowing the nickname.

He pushes himself off the counter, and Damian refuses to look at him, hiding behind his hair and in his shoulders. It takes three long strides for him to reach the table, and Danny turns, plants his hands on the ledge, and hoists himself up. Right next to Damian.

Damian leans into him easily when Danny's arm wraps around his shoulders and tucks him close to his heart. He can feel his ear against his ribs. Danny hunches over him, resting his chin on Damian's head. "It's so okay to be nervous, actually. I was nervous, Jazz was nervous." He tells him, scratching the blunt edge of his nails across his scalp. "Everyone gets nervous."

"'Ana last aljumiea." Damian mumbles, as small and feeble as he was the night on the OPS Center balcony, realizing that his mom and the League weren't coming for him. Realizing that he was replaceable.

Danny's half-working heart squeezes; in grief, in rage, and his faucet eyes sting. He breathes in carefully, and presses his nose into Damian's hair in a loving faux-kiss. "You're right, you're not everyone." He says, steady and strong, because if he's not a pillar for his family, who else is he?

He can feel Damian's eyes flick up to him, and Danny smiles into his black-brown curls. Tilts his head to squish his cheek against him instead, hand dropping to thumb below Damian's lashes. "You're Damian Fenton," Because the adoption went through a few weeks ago, and he's still riding that high, "You're my baby brother. O' Artist Extraordinaire, Kickass with a Sword, Vegetarian and Wonderful Co-Ghost Hunter."

Damian tries to stifle a smile, and fails. Score! Triumph gathers in Danny's gut, his smile grows wider. He squeezes Damian tight, and only releases him so he can look him in the eyes. "And if anyone gives you a hard time at school, and I mean anyone--"

Danny has bad memories of the teachers looking the other way when the other kids were bullying him, all because he was a Fenton.

And Danny, bleeding heart, bleeding hands, loves his family more than he will ever love himself, will never let Damian experience the same injustice. Not if he can help it.

His eyes narrow, and the buzzy-film of ectoplasm covers his eyes, making them glow, "--You tell me. And as your awesome great big brother-and-technically-dad-but-only-biologically, I will handle it."

Damian, wonderfully made, full of light, his little brother Damian, giggles weakly at him. A sound that's worth it's weight in gold. The scary eyes dissipate, and Danny matches the sound with a cock-eyed, impish grin, dragging Damian into a soul-crushing, too-tight hug. The kind that only annoying older brothers can give. "Got it?"

That gets a proper, if short, laugh out of Damian. He wriggles in Danny's arms, trying to break free. But Danny does calisthenics, his arms are as big as Damian's head, so it doesn't work. "Understood, now, daeni 'adhhab ya 'akhi!"

Danny laughs, loud and bright, and loosens his hold just a smidge, only so he can adjust his grip and hop off the table with Damian still in arm.

"Never!" He crows, hoisting Damian slightly. One eye flick at the clock, and in one quick move, he secures Damian under one arm like a football, and hooks his foot under the strap of his backpack. Kicking it up, he tosses it into the air and catches it with his free hand, and slings it over his shoulder. "Now, to the car, my boy! Before we're late and Mom and Dad get charged."

Damian groans, childish and dramatic and long, but his face is all squished up with a wide grin and glee. Danny can taste his joy beneath his tongue.

"And, if my little pep talk didn't encourage you," He says, reaching the door to the garage, flipping Damian up onto his hip instead. "If you have a good day today, I'll make you bal mithai when you get back."

Like all kids at the promise of sweets, Damian's eyes widen and glitter. Danny loves seeing Damian be a kid, it's his favorite thing in the world. "I will!"

[hailsatanacab]

Happy Ghouls and Gangs DPxDC Bang event posting week!! Here's what I've been working on for the @dpxdcbigbang 🥰

Summary:

It’s a normal day for Alfred Pennyworth. He spends it taking care of the manor and watching over its inhabitants, just as he does every other day. It’s an exhausting, never-ending task, that he wouldn’t change for the world. But that night, he is confronted by a stranger in his rooms with a copy of every single soul-binding contract he’s signed for the protection of his family. The new Ghost King wants to update his terms and conditions.

Alfred POV, Ghost King Danny, with some Post-Vivisection goodness and only a little (a lot) of blood and gore and medical fun, but that's for later. Not for the squeamish, please check the tags!!

Snippet under the cut!

It’s a normal day for Alfred Pennyworth.

He wakes up early enough to be ready to greet Master Duke with breakfast when he shambles into the kitchen, he cleans, he greets the rest of the manor’s residents when they finally make it downstairs, he cleans, he goes down to the cave to rouse Master Tim from another sleepless night, he cleans.

It’s a quiet day, or as much as one can be when the place he calls home is filled with vigilantes.

He drops off Masters Damian, Tim, and Duke at school and uses the rest of the trip to pick up some groceries for dinner. Coq au vin tonight, he thinks, it’ll be perfect for the changing of the seasons. A mushroom and lentil substitute for Master Damian will do lovely.

The rest of the day is spent preparing the meal and doing a spot of gardening before it’s time for the school run again. He can’t help but smile fondly as he listens to them needle and tease each other, only stepping in when it starts to become too pointed.

Yes, it’s a normal day for Alfred Pennyworth. It’s at night when it all changes.

There’s a ghost waiting for him in his room. 

A soft glow emanates from the creature’s vaguely transparent body and a crisp frost creeps slowly across the floor, sparkling in the darkness like diamonds.

“Mr. Pennyworth?” it says, the voice bouncing off the walls so that it sounds like hundreds of beings instead of one.

Fear squeezes at his heart and the air in the room turns dark and heavy, so that Alfred struggles to breathe. His mouth is dry, his head is swimming, and he’s not entirely sure if he’s going to survive the night.

[ohno-the-sun]

Hoho the next chapter is finally done huzzah!

[madaqueue]

Practice Makes Perfect | Chapter 13

synopsis: you and yuji have been best friends basically as long as you can remember, and you made a promise to each other to stay friends and help each other be the best versions of yourselves for your future partners. but will things change when yuji finally starts looking for a relationship?

pairing: yuji itadori (18+) x f!reader

themes/content: modern college au (characters aged up to 18+). language, smut. kissing, hair pulling, fingering, oral (f and m receiving), sex. 18+, MDNI

word count: 2.3k

a/n: the finale!!! it's been real you guys :') hope you enjoy <3

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Yuji leans over you, pink hair tickling the top of your forehead as he brings his lips to brush against yours, his breath hot against your skin as he awaits your answer.

You swallow, trying to figure out what to say, but before your mouth can move, you feel heat building between your legs. He tilts his head to the side, grin transforming into a smirk. “What, can’t get your thoughts out, pretty? C’mon, you know how much I love when you use your words,” he teases.

He’s so close to you now, his padded fingertips tracing your skin, the feeling making you nervous for some reason as a mix of sweet butterflies and sinful desire grows inside of you. “Y-yes,” you stutter out.

“Yes what?” he whispers against your mouth.

“Fuck me,” you breathe.

You feel his lips pull wider into a full smile before they press into yours. He moves his teeth around your bottom lip and gently bites as you sigh into his mouth. His tongue moves past your lips and glides over yours. The hand that was drawing circles along your hip moves down to the waistband of your pajama shorts. Your hands move down to tug them off, tossing them across the room.

Yuji lets out a quiet laugh against your lips at the movement, loving how well you anticipate his thoughts without having to even say anything. Moving his fingers lower, he traces over your clothed cunt, feeling the wet spot in your panties that slowly formed beginning the first moment he placed his hands on your skin.

“Wow, s’wet for me already, sweets?” he teases between kisses.

“You wanna play that game?” you taunt. Without separating your lips from his, you reach a hand down his torso, over the waistband of his sweats, and down until you feel the bulge straining against his pants. His cock twitches as your fingers caress over it through the soft cloth, causing Yuji to whine into your mouth.

“That’s what I thought,” you chuckle against him.

Suddenly he shifts so he’s fully on top of you. He pulls away from your lips and you open your eyes, only to be met with his half-lidded brown ones above yours. Now between your legs, he slowly thrusts his hips up so his cock drags against your pussy. The sensation makes your eyes flutter closed and back arch, even through two layers of fabric. A soft, “F-fuck,” leaves your lips as you try to grind your hips back against him, desperate for more.

He moves so his mouth settles into that spot between your jawline and ear, the one he knows you love, as he whispers, “Not so cocky now, are we?” He tries to hide how his voice shakes, the sensation of you moving against him threatening to send him over the edge before he has even begun.

Briefly pulling your skin between his teeth, he sucks just enough to leave a pretty bruise on your neck. Letting everyone know you’re his. The thought alone makes his cock twitch and he moans, bucking his hips up against you.

The realization sets in that if he keeps moving like this, he’ll finish before he’s able to do anything for you. Pulling away from your neck he shifts his eyes to your face. Your eyes blink open to look at him, your cheeks flushed as you bring one hand up to rest in his hair. The feeling makes him melt into your touch, but he knows he can’t stay here forever. His eyes trace down your body, landing on the soaked panties still covering your sex. He bites his lower lip as his gaze moves back up to meet yours and you nod, knowing what he is asking.

His eyes light up at the shared understanding and he repositions himself with his head between your thighs. He slides your panties down your legs before returning his sights to the beauty before him. Your bare cunt, glistening with how wet you are, your perfect folds and-

“Yuji,” you whisper, pulling him out of his thoughts.

His eyes flit up to yours and he grins before diving into your pussy. He laps up your essence, moaning softly into your wet skin. “S’sweet, s’good,” he murmurs to himself, tongue tracing up and down you.

He brings one hand off the bed, slowly applying pressure to your entrance before sliding it in. You let yourself moan, knowing he likes it, as your back arches slightly off the bed. Another finger goes into you as he begins curling them toward your sweet spot. Flicking his tongue over your clit, he latches his lips around you and gently sucks at the sensitive bud.

Tension builds in your stomach as you feel yourself getting close, the rhythmic pulsing of his fingers inside you combined with the roughness of his tongue becoming too much for you to bear. Your grip on his hair tightens, eyes closing.

“Yuji, I’m gonna-” The words cut off as he suddenly brings you to your first orgasm. Your thighs try to close around him but his hands hold your shaking legs apart. You feel yourself clenching around his fingers as you ride the blissful high.

As you return to your senses, there is only one thought in your mind: you need more.

Yuji sits back at the end of the bed, grinning at you with pride. As you open your eyes, you feel the deep desire, the need, within you growing. You lean up on your forearms to steady yourself before slowly crawling forward towards him, eyes locked on his lips.

“That was pretty damn good, don’t ya think?” he says, almost laughing before his eyes suddenly meet yours. Your wide pupils, flushed cheeks, and slow breathing make him gulp. He has no idea what he’s in for.

“Off,” you state, glancing down at his sweatpants, now adorned with a slight damp spot from his precum. He takes in a breath at your sudden forcefulness before immediately ripping them off and throwing them across the room, allowing his cock to stand fully erect.

You place a hand on his chest and gently push him down against the bed before shifting your weight back so your face is aligned between his legs. The sight of his dick makes your mouth water - the slight flush of his tip, the drops of precum glistening, the veins that cover his length - it’s all so perfect. Looking up at him, you slowly open your mouth and stick out your tongue, allowing the saliva that had been building in your mouth to slowly drip down. It hits Yuji’s tip as he hisses from the sensation, closing his eyes momentarily.

Lowering your head down slightly, he once again reaches his hands up to gather your hair and hold it above your head. You smirk - you even remembered a hair tie today, but you say nothing. Tongue still out, lips parted, your mouth finally reaches his cock. You swirl around his tip for a moment before closing your eyes and taking his entire length down your throat at once. The sudden feeling of your warmth around him makes him moan, forcing his hips up off the bed involuntarily. Your eyes water at the additional pressure, but you know you can take it.

Pulling back slightly, you take another breath in before plunging your head back down. Yuji seems to control himself better this time, but you can still feel his cock beginning to twitch against your tongue as you move up and down him.

“H-hey,” he whispers softly. You hear him, but you can’t stop, addicted to the feeling of him knocking against the back of your throat. Suddenly, you feel a tension at the back of your head as Yuji pulls your hair, yanking you off his dick with a pop from the suction you had created. You whine at the mixture of no longer having him inside your mouth and at the rough sensation of him pulling you. He holds you so you can look him in the eyes and he takes in the sight of you: pupils unfocused, mouth hanging open in a loose smile, with a mix of drool and precum slipping out the corners of your lips. The sight makes him somehow impossibly harder. “I-I’m gonna cum if you keep doin’ that, sweets,” he murmurs.

You pout in response, knowing you would struggle to form words at this point. He chuckles at your reaction. “I know, I know, but remember, there’s something we’ve gotta do first,” he says, leaning back over you, a smirk forming on his lips. “I still want to fuck you.”

His hands release your hair and instead move to take your top off, lifting it over your shoulders with ease. He then places his palms against your ribcage and gently pushes you onto your back as he moves himself on top of you. One hand steadies himself on the bed while the other reaches down to his base, aligning himself with your entrance.

“You lemme know f’I’m goin’ to fast or too slow, okay?” his words starting to slur together from desire. All you can do is nod eagerly as you look up at him. You sense his need, too, through his half-lidded eyes that refuse to look away from your lips.

He presses into you slowly, stretching your walls around him as his tip enters you. He groans from the sensation. “Fuck, s’wet, s’warm,” he breathes.

Pausing for a moment to ensure that you’re okay, he glances down at you as your cunt clenches around him, demanding more.

“Please Yuji,” you whisper, “please.” The two words were the only ones echoing in your mind, the only thing you can think of is your need for him.

Continuing again, he slowly moves further into you. The feeling of him stretching you, expanding to fit him perfectly, nearly brings him to the edge. But for you, it’s not enough. You arch your back as you move your hips up, trying to fill yourself with him. Yuji falls forward at the sudden warmth along his length, catching himself with his forehead against your shoulder. With one final movement of his hips, he bottoms out. The feeling of him fully inside you, fully yours, is almost too much for the poor boy as he rests against you, shaking, trying not to finish from his first thrust.

“Yuji?” you whimper.

“Mhm?” he hums against you, still not able to lift his head from your shoulder as he attempts to steady his breathing.

“Faster, please?”

He grits his teeth at your pleas. He can do this; he has to do this, for you.

Moving his hips back he drags himself out of you, eliciting a moan as you tilt your head back into the pillows beneath you.

Suddenly, his hips lurch against you, his pelvis hitting the skin between your legs as he thrusts his full length into you. A soft scream leaves your throat as you move your legs off the bed to wrap around the back of his torso, his back warm against your calves.

Your eyes blink open for only a moment before you feel his lips crash into yours, his mouth open immediately as his tongue swipes against you. You part your lips in response as your tongues glide against each other. He pulls out and pushes in again, this time causing him to moan into you.

Finding a steady pace, he continues the circular motion of his hips as he presses his cock in and out, your legs holding him in place against you. The heat of your bodies, bare chest against bare chest, builds between you as you breathe into each others’ mouths through the kiss.

You feel so full, so full of Yuji, so full of love, so full of everything. Each thrust ignites flames inside you, burning hot in the pit of your stomach. The pressure becomes too much to handle.

You pull away from his lips for a moment. “Yuji,” you moan, “I’m close.”

“I know, sweets, me too,” he mutters against your lips.

His movements become sloppy, imprecise, driven purely by physical need. His cock pushes up deeper and deeper inside you and you feel yourself getting closer and closer to sweet release.

It hits you. You throw your head back against the pillows as your vision goes black. Your pussy fluttering around Yuji’s cock sends him over the edge with you, thick ropes of cum painting your insides white. It’s impossible to distinguish the origin of the moans filling your room as you both soar to ecstasy. Shaking, screaming, you both grip tightly to each other as wave after wave of pleasure hits you.

Finally, your breathing slows and you feel the weight of Yuji’s body pressing against yours, his head buried into the crook of your neck. His hips have stilled but his breathing is still ragged against your skin. Reaching your hand up you gently twirl his hair around your finger, the action making him shiver in your embrace. Both of you lay there for a while, panting, bodies intertwined as the silence of the room wraps around you.

Eventually Yuji lifts his head up, resting his forehead against yours, both slightly damp with sweat, as his eyes meet yours. His sweet, soft brown eyes, so full of love as he gazes down at you: his treasure, his one and only. He tilts his head down, softly placing his lips against yours.

“I love you,” he whispers.

“I love you, too,” you respond, bringing your other hand up against his cheek, rubbing your thumb against his flushed skin.

This is what it was all for. This, this moment, is perfect.

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[dont-offend-the-bees]

If the Shoe Fits, Then I Won’t Try It On

Omg I made it! Threw this one together today, so might not be my best! But thanks to my pal @every-moment-a-different-sound making these gorgeous gifs for my fic Outside Looking In, and also @wordsinhaled writing this lovely little fic inspired by it, I felt compelled to pop back in and give the disguise altar egos a little love! So this one is set pre-canon, about seven years into the boys' friendship/detective agency, and it's the first outing of the disguises (in their very early and imperfect forms! I like to think Charles has been experimenting over the years and the ones we've seen in show are just like, the latest versions!). It can really only be called case fic by the barest technicality but it's the best I got xD There's some nebulous Edwin gender-feelings, I'll leave it up to your personal preferences/interpretation whether it's a bit of transfem/nonbinary/genderqueer joy or just a boy's formative experience with drag, this baby can fit so much gender!! And references to fictionalised alcohol abuse, gambling and infidelity, but it's all just banter and tall tales, really. 2k, T-rated, also available on Ao3. Thanks again, @painlandweek!

"Perhaps we ought to rethink this strategy," Edwin muttered, fussing with his skirts.

"Relax, it'll be fine," said Charles. "No one's gonna suspect anything."

"They may suspect something," said Edwin. His voice sounded different, but the tone was one Charles had heard a thousand times before — pessimistic and haughty. Edwin seemed to pick up extra helpings of poshness when he was rattled. "They needn’t ascertain the exact nature of our ruse to know we're playing one."

"What? You think they're gonna be expecting someone to go in for fake marriage counselling?" Charles laughed.

"Stranger things have happened, Charles." Edwin spread his hand and swept it, gesturing between them and their magical disguises. "Q.E.D."

Charles looked at him blankly.

"Quod erat demonstrandum."

"Mate. They haven't taught Latin in that school for donkey's years."

Edwin made a noise of frustration — it had a bit of a high pitched, trilling quality with his fancy new vocal chords. "What I mean to say is that you and I are — figuratively speaking — living proof that real life is stranger than fiction."

"Well, yeah. But only to people who know ghosts exist," Charles reasoned. "And if this lady knew that, our client wouldn't've needed to come to us, would she? She'd've haunted the information out of her already."

Edwin exhaled, a quick, nasal huff like a bull, and pinched the bridge of his nose. His fingers bumped the chunky plastic frames of his enchanted glasses. "Pity. If she could see us, there'd be no need of these ridiculous costumes."

"I think we look brills," Charles beamed, proudly straightening out his big red rain mac. Sure, the disguises weren't perfect — he was still getting the hang of tweaking the enchantment. And yeah, he'd ballsed up his own bald spot at first, made it too big and just a little bit sort of... Australia-shaped. But all in all, he thought they looked mint! No one was gonna suspect them of anything, couple of old geezers. Who'd think they were a crack detective team?

Edwin was obviously having a harder time settling into character. He kept on faffing about with his unfamiliar layers of flowy clothing. Kept tugging on his little blue cashmere scarf, changing his mind on the drape of it — getting thrown whenever a tug of the fabric dislodged the waves of hair on his shoulders. Charles really hadn't got the hang of hair, just yet. He'd been aiming for something a bit classic and classy for Edwin, something honey-blonde and neatly coiffed. Instead he'd ended up with straw-like, brittle strands of peroxide white with... maybe just a hint of green. Charles would have to get that sorted out sharpish before they brought these disguises out again. Edwin would never let himself walk around looking less than his best if he had any say in it!

Charles turned to him, properly, grabbing Edwin's restless hands away from his scarf. "Eds. You look fine. Nice, even! Leave it."

Edwin glared at him, brow wrinkled. If Charles was being honest, the weirdest thing about seeing Edwin like this wasn't the fact that he looked blonder or older or, well. Like a woman. No, weirdest thing by far was how much thinner his eyebrows were. Charles had probably made them a bit too thin, he'd have to fix that, too. They were decent eyebrows! Visible, at least. But they were skinny and pale and neatly plucked, no little dusty dark hairs in between. Charles sort of missed them. He'd gotten used to those thick, dark brows scrunching up at him like grumpy caterpillars when Edwin was ticked off about something.

"It hardly matters if I look nice, Charles," he said, with a little belligerent flick of his hair that sent it flying. Charles probably should've made him a hairband or something — all long and loose, Edwin couldn't seem to get his hair off his mind. "But I do need to look convincing."

"You do! It's a good disguise, mate — made it special, didn't I?"

"I never said it wasn't." Edwin sighed, eyes fluttering closed a moment. Charles winced — maybe he'd overdone it a bit with the eyeshadow. There was a bit of colour-clashing going on, but hey-ho. Sort that in the next edit, too. "I am not concerned with the quality of the work, Charles."

"What is it, then?" asked Charles, dropping Edwin's hands to squeeze his shoulders instead. "What's got you all het up?"

Edwin shifted on his feet. His high heels clicked on the concrete porch. "I am merely concerned that I'm not... wearing it well," he said, a little bit through his teeth. "I don't want to compromise the entire investigation because I'm unable to act in a... befitting manner."

"Well, you're not gonna. Mate, you're doing brills." Charles smoothed down the big, floppy collar on Edwin's trenchcoat — he tried to do a Casablanca thing, but he might've gone a bit overboard — and grinned at him. "You're a natural. The way you stand all straight and that. Christ, you could've been walking in them heels for years! You're smashing it. For reals."

Edwin ducked his head, with the smallest smile. It was so Edwin that Charles could almost see the shape of him through the disguise; high, sharp bones under those rouged apple cheeks. Could almost spy that little spot on his chin. Actually, the chin wasn't a million miles off Edwin's own, with that barely noticeable little dimple in the middle. Maybe Charles had been taking some inspiration, subconsciously.

"I don't come across... peculiar?" asked Edwin.

"No. 'Course not." Charles sighed and patted his shoulders. "But look. If it's too weird for you, I can be the girl."

Edwin's brow twitched.

Alright. So maybe Charles could've worded that better. He coughed and took a step back, shoving hands in his pockets. "I mean, y'know. Bet I can manage it. How hard can it be? Probably won't be as like, chic as you, but I could give it a go."

Edwin pursed his lips, looking off to the side. He was fiddling with the rings on his fingers — maybe Charles had overdone them too, a bit.

"It... doesn't feel strange," said Edwin, quiet as a mouse. He couldn't seem to look Charles in the eyes. "It doesn't feel strange at all."

Charles smiled, all warm in the chest. Edwin had been a closed-off, buttoned-up sort of chap as long as Charles had known him — seven years and counting. Every time he offered up something of himself, Charles wanted to cup it in his hands.

"Oi," he said, gently, waiting for Edwin to look at him. "Suits you, mate."

Edwin smiled again, a barely-there twitch of his tinted lips. But he gathered himself quickly, clearing his throat and adjusting his scarf. "Well. We'd best be be getting on. We're due for our 'appointment' any minute now."

"Right."

"Shall we walk through the plan once more?"

"Go in, introduce ourselves, spin a backstory for a bit, make her think we're legit," said Charles. "Angle for a bit of one-on-one time. I keep talking, see if I can get her to slip up, drop us a hint — while you sneak off, search the office."

"Spot on," said Edwin, with a brisk nod. "According to our client, this woman writes down everything. No doubt she stores her more sensitive journals somewhere apart from the rest, somewhere discreet. Find the journals..."

"Find the body," Charles agreed, tilting his head side to side to crack his neck. "She'll have written down what she did with it for sure."

"Precisely. Right. That's the aim." Edwin steepled his fingers. "And we are...?"

"Edie and Colin Cromley," Charles replied, automatic. He should bloody well hope he knew that one — he'd had to put up with Edwin calling him Colin all night, trying to get him into character.

"Correct. And we are here because of discord in our marriage, resulting in my alcohol dependence and your extramarital affair."

Charles frowned. "Right..."

Edwin cocked his head a little. "Is there a problem?"

"You, uh. You ever actually been drunk before, mate?"

"Not as such, no," said Edwin, primly. "But, as we've quite thoroughly ascertained, I've never been a woman before, either."

Charles snorted. "Yeah, yeah. Fair point."

Edwin's manicured finger hovered over the doorbell. "Right. Are we quite ready?"

"Yeah," Charles mumbled, fidgeting on his feet. "Yeah, s'pose."

Slowly, Edwin lowered his hand. "Charles. We must be on the same page if we're to go inside and sell a convincing fiction."

"Just... feels a bit weird, is all."

"Why? You've always enjoyed undercover work in the past."

Charles shrugged. "Just... feels off. I wouldn't do that to you, y'know? Cheat, I mean. If we were married."

Edwin stared at him. "But we're... not married."

"Yeah, obviously." Charles felt all hot in the face, embarrassed. He should've just kept his big mouth shut. "Just saying, like — I wouldn't mess around on you like that. Or anyone," he added, quickly, because he was making things weird again, fuck's sake —

"Charles," said Edwin, amused. "Are you having ethical qualms about the character you're playing in this scenario?"

And alright, yeah. It sounded bloody ridiculous when you put it like that. Charles huffed out a laugh. "Yeah, yeah, I know. Just — it's hard, yeah? Dunno how I'd even pretend I'd screw you around like that."

Edwin hummed, toying thoughtfully with the dangly end of his scarf. "Perhaps... I could play the unfaithful partner?"

"You want to?"

"... No. No, not particularly." He pressed his fists together. "Hm. Perhaps infidelity is the wrong narrative for Mr. and Mrs. Cromley."

"Not believable, is it?"

Edwin chuckled. "No. No, I suppose not. Hm. Back to the drawing board..."

Charles mulled it over, tugging on his earlobe. "How about... right, okay, how about, yeah, if I have a secret gambling problem?"

"That does feel more authentic — we've had plenty of words about your impulsive decision-making," Edwin teased. He nodded, eyes sharp as he formulated the new story in that big brain of his. "Very well, a gambling problem is it. You've been losing money at the races —"

"Reckon I'm more of a footie bloke. Big bets on the big games."

"You've been losing money at various sporting events," Edwin corrected, rolling his eyes. "And the extent of your debt has recently come to my attention."

"You should see how much I lost on the cricket world cup," said Charles, seriously.

"Oh, believe you me, I did. Hence, marriage counselling."

"And boozing."

"Indeed. I knew the problem needed addressing a month ago," said Edwin, fingers gesticulating as he spun his little yarn. "When I visited our local public house for a consolatory tipple and became positively sozzled on sherry."

Charles chuckled. "Sure you wanna go with sherry?"

"Is it not appropriate?"

"I mean. It's fine," said Charles, raising his hands. "Nothing wrong with it! Just doesn't sound like your usual sort of, uh, blackout drunk sort of booze. Never heard of anyone going on a sherry bender."

"Well, what would be your suggestion?" Edwin challenged.

Charles wasn't actually sure, come to think of it. What did middle-aged classy ladies drink to get sloshed? "Um... well. Me and the lads used to get pissed on White Lightning after school."

"Very well, then. I overindulged on White Lightning. Happy?"

"Aces."

"Right. Well, now that's all straightened out..." Edwin lifted his finger to the bell again. "Shall we?"

"Go for it."

Edwin rang the bell — and when he dropped his hand, Charles picked it up. Edwin looked at him, quizzical.

"What?" said Charles. "Meant to be a couple, in't we?"

"One in the throes of marital strife," said Edwin, a little smile on his lips. "I doubt we'll be expected to be affectionate."

"Right. 'Course not," Charles agreed — but he didn't let go.

Edwin chuckled, and stayed put. His hand felt small, smaller than it ever had the few times Charles had held it — usually when he was hauling Edwin out of harm's way. Small and bony, lined with soft wrinkles, dotted in sun spots. Couldn't be much further from Edwin's long, lean, smooth hands if it tried.

But it fit in Charles' hand just the same.

~~

Hope you liked it! Probs won't be one tomorrow unless I can whip up something suuuuper short/quick or I find an existing WIP to polish off, but there'll defo be fic on Sunday! Thank you so much for all your love and comments I seriously appreciate them beyond words 💛💛💛💛💛💛

[paranormal-peri]

The dynamic is about to change up faster than you can say “Damn, the twink fucked up”

[cosmichorrorlesbians]

what's your dissertation about? you mentioned it in the siltcord and i'm really interested

oh my god hey I'm so happy you're interested! broad strokes because I've only been working on it for a few weeks but: the current theme is 'resistant landscapes' (both man-made and natural) in the later writing of Shirley Jackson!

Essentially, my main thread is that Jackson had two parallel strands to her work, which as far as I can tell began kind of interrelated but then diverged quite significantly? She's probably best known now for The Haunting of Hill House and to a lesser extent We Have Always Lived In The Castle, which are these. weird surreal psychological horror novels, engaging explicitly or implicitly with the supernatural, and centred around introspective, strange and sometimes deeply misanthropic female characters from isolated social units with dysfunctional, possessive relationships to each other.

Aaaaand then on the other hand she was known for being a 'happy housewife' who wrote these whimsical, quasi-autobiographical stories about all her children and how hopeless her husband was. These were popular too. Betty Friedan called her out in landmark 1963 feminist manifesto The Feminine Mystique for essentially spreading patriarchal propaganda.

The interrelation between the two is really jarring, because in one family is a source of horror and tragedy and in the other it's a source of, like... laundry. And Jackson's home life wasn't everything those stories made it out to be-- her marriage was unfaithful, her mother could probably be fairly called emotionally abusive, and as I talked about on the siltcord, she developed severe agoraphobia which often left her housebound.

So, yeah. My plan is to explore the depiction of families as constructed social units in dialogue with the environments they are constructed in in that work. Obviously a lot of that is relation of house to family, in the context of which Hill House is especially rewarding to consider, but I also want to look at relationships with nature and urban environments (especially in the context of settler colonialism and how that has had an enduring legacy in Jackson's particular part of New England), xenophobia (largely in regard to class, though racism and anti-Semitism are presences in her writing), domesticity and the idea of the housewife, and how horror relates to All Of This. The ideal of making a home within a hostile environment and of that environment turning on you, essentially.

I don't yet have particular areas of focus within that broad umbrella, but I might update with bits and pieces about it as I work? I don't really talk about academic stuff on here but I am very much Critical Literary Analysis Guy and I do also post relentlessly about haunted houses as a concept so if people would be interested in it maybe I will

anyway if you've read this far I recommend Horror in Architecture: The Reanimated Edition (2024) by Joshua Comaroff and Ong Ker-Shing which is a book about how horror movie tropes can be mirrored in built environments! I'm reading it right now and it's conceptually fascinating plus fairlyyy comprehensible by academic standards (if a little dense) if you, like me, are a Fool who knows nothing of architecture. very good also for getting to look at pictures of some of the most Fucked Up Buildings (affectionate) you've ever seen.

[sutherlins]

♡ DOWN IN THE HEART ♡ ↝ SydCarmy | Rated: E mdni | Complete | Word Count: 170K+ | [READ HERE]

Summary: Post S3 Finale. After almost losing Sydney to Shapiro, Carmy is determined to make a change. Eager to rebuild their friendship, they decide to spend the day together at Carmy's doing some recipe development but an accidental peek inside Carmy's notebook changes everything for them. In the midst of navigating trauma, therapy, grief, and their new relationship, they try to keep their thing a secret from everyone else at The Bear for six months.

♡ any reblogs/kudos/comments are all so appreciated!! ♡

[neiptune]

hi miss v!! 🥺 i hope you're having a wonderful day/night <3 this event is rly cute 🥺..,, could i request "you could be the one that i keep" and sanemi? thank you.,, giving u a little smooch.., <3333

sanemi shinazugawa x you could be the one that I keep

“I honestly can’t believe you�� Obanai is not put off by your scowl in the slightest, if anything he’s fighting back a smile.

“I remember mentioning the night out”

“You never mentioned drinks being on Tengen” you hiss and this time he does smirk.

“Not our fault your man can’t hold his liquor”

His words light a fire in your stomach and you feel blood rushing all the way to your cheeks.

“He’s not—”

“Yeah, yeah, not yet because both of you are goddamn idiots” his gaze suddenly shifts from your eyes to something behind you.

“Hey” the greeting is soft, he’s always softer when he’s drunk “finally decided to join us?” you know he only has a hand on your shoulder to balance himself and you’re certain his lips feel too close to the shell of your ear only because he’s doing a terrible job at not tripping over his own feet.

“I’m here to drive you home” well, it’s not like you’re being any better at playing off your self-consciousness as annoyance.

You expect protests, outrage, a little tantrum even, but all Sanemi does is huff through his nose and glare at Obanai.

“I told you I’m fine” he slightly sways and the grip on your shoulder tightens.

“Sure you are” his best friend clicks his tongue and flashes him a smile “we’re gonna leave too in a bit and there’s only so much space in Kyojuro’s car”

The lie is so blatant is offensive, really. Sober Sanemi would’ve kicked his ass.

“Fine” drunk him sleepily mumbles instead, before he puts his entire arm around your shoulders “take me home, then”

Such simple words have your insides churning. Glaring one final time at Obanai, you walk past him and towards the exit.

As you navigate the crowded bar, Sanemi barely registers the hollering coming from the table he was sitting at until you showed up, his friends yelling for you to join them. He stumbles slightly against you, far too distracted by the fruity scent of your hair and the arm you have secured around his waist.

The breeze outside is cool. He actually knows he’s long gone from the way he can feel the thumping of the music from the bar right inside his stomach, from how breathing suddenly takes more effort. Must be why he stumbles forward until he’s leaning up against your car as soon as he spots the familiar honda civic, a soft laugh escaping his lips when he opens his eyes and sees the way you’re looking at him.

“M’okay” he assures, flushed cheeks and pale eyes “I apologize for being a nuisance”

It’s just that I feel I could swim through the sidewalk right now so I need a moment, he mentally adds.

You giggle and Sanemi forces his eyes to focus because he doesn’t want blurry vision to keep him from witnessing the beautiful way your eyes crinkle.

“What?” he asks, mirroring your smile by muscle memory.

“Nothing” you shrug and the oversized coat you’re wearing almost swallows you whole “I like it when you’re drunk and talk like that”

“Like what?”

“All formal and solemn” you giddily grin underneath the streetlights and Sanemi rolls his eyes. It’s a mistake, because his stomach contracts from a pang of nausea right away. He feels dizzy and hates the fact that you’re there just as his designated driver, he hates that the alcohol currently buzzing through his veins has him already reaching the stage where he’s about to throw up. He wishes you would’ve showed up when he was still two drinks in, the thinking about you enough to just fucking kiss you if you were here stage.

“Come on, let’s go” he’s having a hard time standing without swaying so you inch forward to open the passenger side door and help him climb onto your leather seat. You feel the warmth radiating from his body as you buckle him in and Sanemi has to dig his nails into his palms to keep his hands from grabbing you by the waist.

It’s a quick drive to his apartment, he rents a place close to downtown. He’s spent the entire ride in silence, just looking at you and being quick to turn his attention to the dash whenever you’d glance at him to make sure he was still awake. Right as you park before his apartment complex, Sanemi rolls down his window and just rests his head against the seat, eyes closed.

“We’re here” your fingers lightly drum on the steering wheel. He knows it’s the middle of the night and you’re probably aching to go back to bed already, but he wants this moment to last just a bit longer. Your perfume smells too nice and your voice is too gentle for him to simply get out of the car and crawl back to his empty flat.

“Nemi?”

“Yeah. I won’t fall asleep, don’t worry. Can we just stay like this for a second?” he doesn’t need to open his eyes to know that you’re getting comfortable in your own seat. His heart swells with relief at your little sure.

“Wanna tell me how much you had to drink?” your tone is playful but he scoffs nonetheless, opening his eyes once more. To avoid looking at you, he pulls the latch of your glove box to the left to open it. Vehicle paperwork, receipts, $10 in quarters, a lipstick and…

“Can’t believe you kept this” he mumbles to himself as he takes the little keychain he’s bought for you at a fair so many years before, when you still barely knew each other and he already knew how big of a problem you were going to become.

“M’not like you, I keep everything” you smile.

Sanemi scoffs.

“I could keep you” he thinks to himself “you could be the one that I keep”

Thank god he wouldn’t dare speak those words out loud.

Or would he?

You let out a suffocated gasp.

[cluescorner]

I gave myself a writing challenge and I am fascinated by it

So basically I put the robins in a randomizer to give them a new order/role (because I just...kinda wanted to see what would happen + I like role-reversal AUs) and got results that are giving me a fucking brain blast.

Stephanie, the first sidekick who defines the role

Tim, the sidekick who dies and comes back wrong

Dick, the sidekick who saves Batman from himself

Damian, the sidekick who was never supposed to be a sidekick but would go on to prove everyone wrong

Jason, the youngest sidekick who is still the Kid Wonder

...So this is fucking wild. I've got some ideas and several of these fit perfectly (Dick's role is pretty similar to his one in canon), but some of these are fucking INCREDIBLE to explore (Steph being the first Robin is something I never even considered but tbh I kinda love it).

I probably won't write a fic or anything because tbh I don't like publishing my writing that much, but I might expand this into a full AU and post about it. I might randomize other stuff too (ie, stuff that I cannot change vs stuff that I cannot keep the same) but this fucking rules as a starting point.

[stump-not-found]

.

writing is great because it'll take you a week to write a 7k word chapter, and then you'll think of a scene in the following chapter & have written out 7k words within a day

anyway we are officially over 50k works with theseus's guide yaaay . i think my plan at this point is to finish off this big climax, then go back to edit all the previous chapters, give em the final sauce, and start posting

aaaaaa i really wanna talk to folks about it lol ......... there's so much stanley & family shenanigans i'm excited about . i wanna play with folks aaaaa come play in my sandbox with meeeeeee

[necrotic-nephilim]

https://www.tumblr.com/necrotic-nephilim/763098417058775040/no-thoughts-only-jaytim-fucking-in-titans-tower?source=share

+

https://www.tumblr.com/necrotic-nephilim/760168597014413312/bftc-jaytim-fuck-nasty-in-their-batman-suits?source=share

every time these 2 are left alone to fit it ends like this❤️

it ABSOLUTELY does. i love that i have gotten to write a BftC fic and a Titans Tower fic that is just. JayTim fucking nasty. i think these two should end every fistfight with them having sex in increasingly risky places. it's the only way they should resolve their fights from now on, ty for coming to my tedtalk.

[doyouknowthisdisabledcharacter]

Do You Know This Disabled Character?

This isn’t specific to any media. If you know only one version, vote ‘I know them’.

Song Lan was blind and is mute.

[hurricanes-art]

A few weeks ago, a role swap of Genichiro and Emma occurred to me in passing, then the idea proceeded to lodge itself directly into my brain stem and refused to leave me alone. I put the explanation under a cut because it’s characteristically long winded

Around the time of Isshin’s rebellion, when they’re children, Genichiro is adopted by Dogen while Emma is adopted by Isshin.

After Genichiro is found and taken in by the Ashina soldiers, as Dogen keeps an eye on him to ensure he’s healthy, he decides to adopt Genichiro before the point Isshin considers taking him as his heir. Genichiro can be fiery and wild, difficult to manage, but Dogen has a undeniably deep instinct to look after children, and Genichiro is in such a vulnerable position that Dogen can’t bring himself to leave him.

Dogen becomes Genichiro’s father as well as mentor. The war was a sharp reminder that Ashina could always use more doctors.

Isshin doesn’t interfere with Dogen’s intentions even after it occurs to him that Genichiro could make a good heir. Dogen is an old friend and he would never do something so selfish as that. It does, however, bring the idea to the forefront of his mind.

Isshin finds Emma when he fights with Orangutan in the aftermath of the rebellion, after he brings him to heel by cutting off his arm. She’s very timid and plainly traumatized, but when he can bring her around, Isshin can see that she’s tenacious and clever and determined to never suffer such pain again. He sees qualities that could serve Ashina well. Emma is attached to Orangutan, but the shinobi himself wants her in better care than his own, so they eventually convince her to go with Isshin and join the Ashina clan.

Isshin and Dogen both settle into Ashina Castle now that they’ve finally freed the land from Tamura’s clutches and work to get their respective children used to their new lives.

At first, Dogen struggles to occupy Genichiro’s level of energy with medical training. Teaching him the groundwork he needs isn’t very physically engaging and Genichiro has trouble sitting still when his lessons drag on. He certainly has a sharp enough mind to learn, but he clearly wants something to do with the rest of his body as well. Dogen eventually tasks him with gathering herbs, which at least allows him to dash around in the undergrowth.

It turns out to be quite the productive arrangement since Genichiro actually enjoys entrenching himself in the brambles to hunt and Dogen enjoys sparing his back from the labor. He ambles slowly down the paths, organizing whatever Genichiro collects while venturing out into the forest. He takes the initiative to search beyond Dogen’s old, reliable spots, discovering many new patches of valuable herbs.

And as Dogen suspected, once he’s given this more active task, Genichiro proves very good at memorizing and recognizing the plants they need. This becomes the gateway that gradually leads Genichiro to become invested in the rest of Dogen’s teachings. Watching Dogen use the herbs he picked feels far more immediate, and he starts to take his lessons more and more seriously. With time, Genichiro finds his own interest and motivation in taking up his father’s work.

On the whole, Genichiro ends up better adjusted because of this upbringing. He doesn’t have to try to figure out how to shoulder the weight of the whole country as he grows up, nor contend with the pressure of Isshin’s heavy expectations for him. He’s not under the expansive shadow of Isshin’s peerless prowess and accomplishments, trying to live up to the Sword Saint’s unreachable legacy. He doesn’t develop the same intense fear of failure and inadequacy that originally drives him to take drastic and objectionable measures.

However, rooted in his experiences during the rebellion, Genichiro still has a deep fear of loss, and working as a doctor does exacerbate his inclination to take a personal responsibility for everyone’s wellbeing. It can wear on him. He’s too stubborn to give up on anyone or to stay uninvolved if he knows someone’s in danger- he has to step in. He feels a duty to go to every length he can to save someone, ignoring any toll or risk for himself.

Early on, when she’s still adjusting to her new situation, Emma is resistant to Isshin’s intentions to teach her to fight. She associates warfare with destruction and madness which caused so much of her loss and she wants nothing to do with it. Given enough time, that fear could fade and she might change her mind and come to terms with training through her own volition. However, Ashina has always attracted many threats and Isshin doesn’t think they have that time. If Emma is to be as strong as she needs to be to lead Ashina, she needs to start young.

So Isshin makes use of her fear of Shura to motivate her, arguing that strength can protect her and those dear to her from the danger, offering his victory over Orangutan as proof. It does convince Emma to pick up a training sword and go along with the lessons, an arrangement she eventually takes in stride. She discovers a talent for swordplay that lends her a satisfaction and confidence she didn’t know before.

Nonetheless, it’s a questionable compromise. Isshin’s method plays upon her fear of Shura and leads her to believe that brute strength is all she can rely on to overcome one, and her pursuit of prowess becomes a coping mechanism. While she scorns war, she grows to covet martial strength. The Shura becomes something of a fixation for her- when she’s old enough to take command, she puts down any conflict with severity, constantly conscious of the monsters bloodshed can create. She only trusts herself to drive such evil from Ashina and prevent the tragedy she remembers.

While Emma still learns to fight from Isshin, Genichiro also still learns from Tomoe. He feels a mounting urge to learn in his early teenage years. His training to be a doctor had felt more important than fighting, killing felt contradictory to saving lives, but over time he considered how else he could protect people from danger. He decides he wants, at the very least, to be able to defend himself well enough that no one will suffer trying to protect him because he’s defenseless. Isshin offers to train him, but the Ashina style doesn’t suit Genichiro, so Tomoe finally yields to his requests for her guidance.

I’ve gone back and forth about the lightning of Tomoe in this scenario. I imagine that Genichiro still learns to use it, which he does far more sparingly, and Emma doesn’t learn from Tomoe. I want Emma to learn some other, equivalent kind of power to serve a similar notion that she’s reaching for power beyond what’s deemed acceptable out of desperate ambition, but I haven’t thought of a specific ability that I like. I could just swap the lightning powers, but they feel ingrained in Genichiro’s character and I’d like Emma to have something unique. The concept is there, but still incomplete.

As for the two of them, Genichiro and Emma of course grow up together. They’re close; they’re near in age and Isshin and Dogen’s friendship often brings them into proximity. They get along well, and in particular, the similar things they went through during the war and how that led them to Ashina castle is a point of close connection. They understand each other and mean a great deal to each other. They both squabble as kids do, but in serious matters, they always defend one another.

As teenagers, when Genichiro’s protectiveness is settling in and he’s learned more about healing, he repeatedly tries to interfere when he thinks Isshin is pushing Emma too far, when he sees her with an unhealthy amount of work and an unhealthy lack of rest. He insists that she gets a break which Emma always resents, hating any implication that she’s not as strong as she should be. She yells at him for it, but they’re young and Genichiro thinks it’s the right thing to do to stand up for his friend, while Emma instead starts trying to hide any of her struggles from him.

Years later, when Genichiro is more mature and recognizes the effect he’s having, he lets up on interfering. He apologizes and tries to correct course so that Emma will at least feel safe coming to him for aid if she’s ailing, even when she refuses to back down or let anyone else know. It does help to repair that point of contention, but part of the damage is immutable. Emma trusts Genichiro more than anyone else, but not utterly, not with everything.

Nearing the time of game, a rift has formed between them. The Interior Ministry is bearing down on Ashina and Emma is wrapped in paranoia and desperate to prove herself, to overcome her past memories of being a helpless child, just a powerless victim of tragedy. She still doesn’t want to harm people, but she’s convinced that power is the only thing that can truly protect them, and that she must strive for more. Her more vile choices continue to actively grieve her. Emma is smart, and though her fear of Shura leads her astray, she’s also aware that she too could become one, and that keeps her guilty conscious at the front of her mind.

Genichiro keeps trying to get through to Emma with no avail. He’s still stubbornly determined to save everyone he can, but he’s not so attached to Ashina as a country that he’s responsible for, instead focusing on its people. He sees the sense in fleeing instead of clinging to the sinking ship that is Ashina. When Kuro tries to escape, he balks at Isshin’s plan to help him and his shinobi at risk to Emma, but he can’t find any alternative, thus setting off the canon plotline.

I find this a great AU for Genichiro/Wolf because it puts them into proximity a lot more. Genichiro is already quite fond of Kuro from his time looking after him in the castle, and he’s very curious about the shinobi he speaks so highly of. He patches him up and watches keenly once he’s back on his feet. He’s impressed by his resilience, not just of body, but of spirit too, now that he can see it.

Wolf is reserved, but equally intrigued by Genichiro- loomingly tall, powerfully built, and stern faced, and yet he’s a doctor. His scarred and calloused fingers touch careful and precise as he examines his discolored skin. Their cooperation to treat the surge of Dragon Rot brings them closer, drawing more conversation from Wolf than he ever planned for. They’re unexpectedly similar and they both like the time spent together.

Even so, Genichiro is conflicted over his care for Emma. When Wolf is close to the castle, at the risk of losing his very fresh and fragile trust, Genichiro has to request, if it’s at all possible, that Wolf spare Emma’s life. It does indeed earn Wolf’s suspicion and rattle their burgeoning bond, but he ultimately says that he’ll try.

Of course, nothing’s that simple, and Wolf sees no way to win without killing her when they fight on the balcony, and the grief in Genichiro’s eyes sparks guilt. But his broken promise proves a moot point when Emma resurrects. Wolf had feared Genichiro’s request meant he would side with Emma at Kuro’s expense, but watching his desperate pleas for her to leave her path of destruction dispels his distrust. He recognizes the earnest desire to save someone dear. Surprisingly, it even makes the unfamiliar affection in him grow.

Genichiro continues to help him after the duel. It’s increasingly clear how agitated and distressed he is that he can’t do more when everything is falling apart. Wolf’s steady presence is soothing and Genichiro takes heart in all he accomplishes on their mission for Severance. His tender relationship with Kuro endears him, even while it makes their uncertain future even heavier.

Genichiro is incredibly conflicted upon finding the alternate form of Immortal Severance that demands Wolf’s life instead of Kuro’s. It goes so horribly against the grain for him to pick between one life or another and simply accept the loss. He feels like a child again, losing everyone he loves all at once. He doesn’t know how to hand over the information he learned, especially since he knows what Wolf will choose. The thought of losing him is strikingly unbearable after their short time together. It doesn’t help that all this reminds him of the pain of losing Tomoe to the same fate.

Wolf has to pressure him for it, but Genichiro does eventually tell him the truth. Withholding it would be a betrayal Wolf would never forgive. And despite the pain, Genichiro won’t step back and make him go through it alone.

There’s a lot of different ways it can go from this point and I like all of them. It can follow the structure of any of the canon endings- the Shura ending is the most compelling to me. It would have such a bitter irony from Genichiro’s perspective, that all his best intentions and attempts to interfere amounted to this. He sees that Emma was right, and it’s his last desperate bid to rectify this disaster by fighting the monster Emma was trying to keep at bay all the while. The man he trusted over her, the man he led here. And he can’t defeat him. The tragedy is so good.

I also have a half formed idea for a kind of “better end” version where Emma survives and stops opposing Kuro, and not everyone in Ashina dies. I think the changes Genichiro and Emma would cause in their roles would open up that possibility in interesting ways. Namely, Genichiro insistence on actively fighting to make a difference and making an effort on Emma’s behalf, caring for her even at the bitter end. And Emma having more patience and awareness of the wretched consequences of her actions that remains even through her blinding conviction to reach for more power. It would follow the return ending, but the details aren't refined and I’ve already rambled plenty already. Fix its are hard with Sekiro considering how fucked up everything is from the outset :’)

[cum-a-calla]

Omg I am waiting patiently for those roman roy brainworms,,, pls take ur time!! 💝💝💝 are there things youre not willing to write if ever 👉👉 bc im soo into the idea of him getting pegged and im too shy to ask for that from any writers 😭

the only things i won’t write are kids, animals, or shit. i’m open to writing virtually all manner of weird or gross or taboo, just not the aforementioned no-nos. i’ve actually been trying to physically restrain myself from doing a stalking/killing/cannibalism thing with Kappa but i know people get touchy about that, so we’ll see. a little peg action, though? hell yeah anon.

let’s fuck this twink. (inside: strapfucking, anal sex, hands-free cumming, mommy kink, Roman is a soft little overstimulated baby boy, some tortured vulnerable Romey, lil bit of aftercare)

“Just so you know, this doesn’t… like… make me gay.”

“Yeah, Roman. I’d have to be a man for that to be true. I think you’re safe.”

Roman lay on his back, pretty as a painting. He's so smooth and pale. His body hair is sparse, barely existent but for the shadow of stubble on his face. He looks nervous. The difference between the uncertainty in his eyebrows and the way he gnaws on his thumb versus the aching curve of his cock is staggering. The nerves do something to him. The discomfort. He wants the reassurance - he craves it, searching your eyes for it, silently begging.

There's barely a breath between him giving you that hungry, kicked-dog look, the one that wants it, craves it, but is so deeply afraid of what could happen. But he does it. He's slow and hangs his head, and without seeing his face you know for a fact he's squeezing his eyes shut, cheeks pink, pulse pounding from his leaking dick to the tip of his beautiful nose. Oh, yes - you'll break Roman. You'll give him exactly what he wants, what he needs. His body is so beautiful. His utter vulnerability means a lot to both of you - you can't wait too long, lest you risk losing everything.

There's a bottle of lube for this purpose; the prospect of preparing him is delicious. Pushing your slippery finger gently inside of him, so slowly, and it's a long process - lube, finger, more lube, more fingers. Slowly working him open, slicking him up. How smooth he is. How tight and hot he is inside of his body, how secret, how embarrassed he is even though he whines and pushes back. The snug muscles inside of his body clench, relax, ripple like silk against your patient ministrations, and the sight of Roman pushing his own face down into the mattress and white-knuckling the sheets has you ravenous. You’re desperate to be inside of him in a more meaningful way. You want to split this man in half, fuck him into teary-eyed, humiliated oblivion, beyond his clever little quips and digs, beyond the way he ices up without a second's notice.

"Ohhh fuuuuck...." He's so whiny, so desperate. You could eat him alive. "Mmmmhhpleeaaase..."

"Please what?" Pushing a third finger so gingerly inside of him, relishing the way he gasps and shudders, the pathetic, sweet little sound coming from his throat. His shoulderblades wing up, and you count the knobs of his spine, the curve of his body laid out before you. His shaking thighs, his cock twitching and leaking openly under his belly. "Say it for me."

"Please... fuck me...?" Soft. High-strung, so fucking scared.

"Good boy.”

The strap harness itself is comfortable, fitted with pockets for little bullet vibrators. You take a moment to turn them on and re-adjust yourself, caught off guard by how turned on you are already. You push the tip against him, allowing him to know you’re there. Gentle little circles, slow nudging.

You have to catch your own breath as you fist even more lube onto your pretty, pink cock, this particular strap shaped perfectly for him to take. Not too big, not too little. None of that candy-colored bullshit, he’d requested brusquely. He couldn’t meet your eyes then, either, couldn’t even pick out or buy his own toy. He left that particular task in your capable hands, trusting you the entire way. Something realistic. Nothing cartoonish.

“God, Roman… look at you,” you breathe. “Look at how good you are for me. Are you ready to take it? Go ahead and… relax for me… that’s it, good boy, good boy.”

“Oh fuck… Jesus Chrissst.”

He starts to accept you, and you sink so slowly into him. It’s easy to treat Roman with tenderness. His breaths are sharp, gasping and moaning and trying to keep still and be good. It’s the most gorgeous thing you could imagine when he turns his face and you can see him, expression screwed up in an intoxicating mix of pleasure and fear, glossy-eyed and flushed. Finding the rhythm is fun - you pay close attention to the spots to brush over, to how deep he likes it. You watch him clench around you, body pulling you further in. You reach under his body, between his thighs where he’s dripping down on the sheets below.

“Oh, wow - you like this, don’t you?”

“Yes, I - ohmygod, yes.”

He whines when you stroke at him, lazily, wanting to draw this out as long as you can knowing that neither of you are going to be able to hold it long. Despite the strap only being an extension of you, you can almost imagine how molten-hot he is inside, how tight and blissful it feels. Your cunt contracts down on nothing, desperate for release. You lick your lips and lean down, swiping your fingers slowly over the slippery head of his cock and kissing him along his spine.

“Oh!” Roman is near-hyperventilating as you rock into him this way. “R-right there, right - don’t fucking stop - don’t stop doing that.”

His cock is throbbing against your fingers. You reach a little further down, gently holding his balls. So, so gently, circling your fingers around the base of them and giving them the kindest little tug. It has him sobbing out the most beautiful sounds, full of ache.

“You gunna cum for Mommy, Rome? Does it feel good to get fucked by Mommy? Yeah?”

He tenses up and he’s so absolutely hard it has to be painful, balancing precariously on that brink. Just the sounds he makes pushes you over your own, and it’s too close - your body reaches the right point, bright as exploding stars, eyes squeezed together as you hold your breath. You can’t take this from him, he needs the pace, the slowness, needs your words to sink deep into his brain so he can savor them.

“Yes, Mommy,” he whines. You can’t hold it any longer, and neither can he - he bucks himself back on the strap and you’re riding him, riding through both of your explosive climaxes at once. It’s dizzying. He ruts into the open air and on some level, you know it would likely feel better to stroke him, to help him along that pleasure… but isn’t it better this way? Seeing him shoot his load desperately into the sheets just from being fucked in the ass? Cumming while proverbially balls-deep inside of him, the master of both your orgasms at once? He babbles and drools a dark spot where his face is still pressed into the sheets, hair mussed and sweaty, cheeks feverish. Mommy, thank you, thank you so much Mommy.

You tap his ass cheek, murmur to him, and make sure he’s ready before slowly pulling out of him. He collapses to the side like a tired cat, lying in his own cum. It takes only a moment to disengage the toy, to pull the strap off and set things in the sink for a washing. Roman needs a washing, too - you go over to the palatial tub, lined meticulously with Roman’s favorite soaps. All of them are top-notch, brands that are expensive and high-end enough to be beyond your knowledge but for what you see during your time with him. Little windows into his life. His favorite scent of body wash, his favorite colognes. His skincare routine. You draw a bath - the hot water starts releasing steam; Roman can’t enjoy a bath or shower without scalding his flesh off his own bones.

He’s dozing off when you re-enter the room, pulling some clothes on while he remains nude. Nudging him earns you an irritated grunt. Another nudge finally rouses him, bleary-eyed and wiping at his mouth as he sits up. “Fuck,” he mumbles. “M’covered in my own fuckin’ jizz. Gross.”

“That was really fun,” you tease, poking his thigh. He slaps your hand away and rubs his temples.

“Is that the tub?” Upon your positive response, he hums. “Wow… you really are my mommy tonight, aren’t you. Fuck me, bathe me - you gunna cook me dinner, too? Tuck me in for bed?”

“If that’s what you want.” You keep your tone mild, smiling at him as he finally meets your eye. He seems wary, quiet for a long moment as the water runs in the background. He’s back to that vulnerable, scared place, and all you want to do is kiss the furrow between his eyebrows and hold him. He’d never allow that.

“Fuck cooking, we’re not peasants. We’ll get… fuckin… I dunno, we’ll order out. And if you, uh… need a place to crash, I guess that’s okay, too. Whatever.”

“Well, uh, you gunna stand there and watch me like a pervert, or what? Go, like, fuck off. Relax. Have a drink or five. Pat yourself on the back for fucking the world’s most eligible bachelor in the ass, and, like... don’t call any tabloids while I’m in here or I’ll sue, et cetera, ad finitum.”

The need. You nod and rise to your feet with him, rubbing his shoulder for a second before he can shake it off. He stumbles into the bathroom and turns around to glance behind his shoulder. The unspoken words hang in the air, the ones you know he wants to say - thank you, I needed that, I need you. Please stay. Please play ‘mommy’ a little longer, please don’t leave me alone. The moment stretches, and the wall goes back up before he says anything. It’s the way his lips set back into their signature smirk, eyes a little brighter, a little more aware of his surroundings. No more fog. No more vulnerability. Game over.

[katyspersonal]

Abyss Watchers headcanons

> Them all having white hair and red eyes are the signs of a lot of exposure to the Abyss, like how Four Kings got white hair, people in contact with any darkness commonly show red eyes etc. + Artorias ended up with these features too, and black hair on his helmet was his own hair cut to decorate it, not unlike Ciaran's braid. This never caused the panic though, it is no more than like getting tan under too much sun exposure. The corruption carries different effects than just a bit of a recolor!

> Wolf blood gave them minor feral features, like fangs and tufts of grey fur in the spots where humans normally have the most hair. no tails though

> @val-of-the-north actually counted the corpses using colorful stones drops to not get lost! So, the amount of Abyss Watchers is only barely above 100! This is very little for a legion, but they were pretty strong at their prime so the number never shifted too far from this number

> The ~100 consisted of mostly the first of them and those who joined in early. They were mostly a pack of these people, very rarely losing members and very rarely gaining those who would grow into "true wolves". Even out of those who were accepted as Abyss Watchers rather than Farron Followers, most didn't fully assimilate. They remained visibly 'distinguished' ones, like Hawkwood who never grew to their common 10'00''+ height and so

> These rare new members were referred to as 'cubs'. The 'distinguished' people like Hawkwood were continued to be called so even after they fully trained, although it then had more affectionate connotation than referring to their lack of experience

> They offer people who have shown bravery and are deemed to have true warrior spirit within to come with them, however, it is quite hard to refuse them. It is very easy to get roped into madness by them by simply allowing them to surround the person and speak of the importance of combating the horrors, how Artorias tooooootally once succeeded etc. They do not even understand the nearly-hypnotic effect they possess, but it is explained by the gravity of the Abyss itself surrounding them due to their job. It horrifies, however humans naturally possess the darkness that finds kinship in it, the wish to fight it endlessly IS just one of the ways it entices and corrupts. Those who managed to avoid getting seduced recruited by them after confrontation do recall that something felt very wrong and otherwordly for a short time.

> 'Semi-hivemind' is the best way I can describe them tbh. There is usually a member who is unmistakeably singled out and seemingly 'leading the pack', and if this particular person was lost, the next strongest guy would get singled out instinctively.

> "True" Abyss Watchers hardly, if ever, need to verbally communicate with each other, instead understanding instinctively. When they do need to talk with anyone it is this 'pack leader' doing the talking, usually with some others accompanying him and performing actions if needed without any signals to do so. The 'leader', also, mostly speaks for them all as they share their thoughts and feelings ("Don't try to lie to us, we could always smell it in your blood", "We all remember your bravery", "We could almost feel you wagging your tail, if you had one" etc).

> And they can, in fact, sense more than average person due to the wolf blood! Blood pressure, heartrate, whether someone started sweating and so on. It is very useful when someone is trying to hide having gotten touched by the Abyss (reasonably so, because it is instant death). Or if someone pretends they totally didn't encourage less-infected people to evacuate the corrupted land before Abyss Watchers came to obliterate it.

> The best way to stay alive after being targeted for "mercy-killing" by them is to run into the Church of the Deep. Abyss Watchers are sceptical about 'purifying' ones with minor corruption, but they cannot cross into this territory without permission for several reasons. And so far those whom Deacons "treated" really seemed to be alright. Abyss Watchers didn't believe in efficiency of this method though and had a feeling that sacred body of water could not fit in everyone's even natural darkness, let alone Abyssal one. They absolutely loathe and pity the place though, but all they really could do was to wait to obliterate it when it'd inevitably drown in filth. (the big "told you so" day that never became their to claim lol)

> Anyone who feels attracted to them is under no pressure to kiss and cuddle all of them they're welcomed to try though if they dare lol . They share their feelings, so getting close even with one makes others happy by effect. Though if such things occur, usually it is the 'pack's leader' who claims this experience, let alone the fact he is the only one who will actually talk. But even then, at least several others will linger around

> If one of the "true" Abyss Watchers, the 'identical' ones, gets somehow separated from the rest for significant time, they might slowly reclaim sense of identity and even remember their name. Addiction to fighting the Abyss can't be helped though, so they will yearn to forget the brief moments of peace and rejoin the group