#and I think that something is Abject Fear

[spaghettithighs]

Fun ways to give yourself mental whiplash in BG3: (mild spoilers) When you start your second playthrough, make the Tav of your first playthrough:

into the dream visitor of your second

[canisalbus]

To me, Machete kind of has the energy of a secondary villain/coldhearted side character in someone else's story that a lot of fans latch onto, moreso than the protagonist. Question is, would he be the villain in anyone's story?

Why, thank you! I'm actually glad to hear he gives off that vibe. I don't think he set out to become a villain but a lot of people certainly view him as one.

[uncanny-tranny]

Also, in response to the "testosterone making people angrier" myth, I've found that, personally, testosterone has given me the self-respect to recognize and call out when my boundaries are being overstepped in ways that I wouldn't have had the courage (or, frankly even liking of myself) to have done before. This is in addition to me working on my trauma responses, but testosterone was the spark that gave me the will to do this in the first place. When I see people sae that as anger and thus is a "bad thing," I wonder how much of that is just people being uncomfortable with us... having boundaries or enforcing them, and that the response to that overstepping is labeled as aggressive anger.

Frankly, I now actually respect myself enough to care when I am being mistreated. It seems that people sometimes take that as a personal failure on my end because I don't think I deserve mistreatment.

Caveat: Anger is a fine emotion, and it is a worthy thing to recognize and honour. I find that the accusation of trans men* and trans masc* people "being angry" on testosterone is a moot point simply because it is often a false accusation which uses anger as a punishment. My issue isn't that we're "angry," but that our perceived anger is used, often, as a transphobic bludgeon to punish those who either want to transition with testosterone or who currently are, and everything in-between.

[sysig]

One better (Patreon)

[frmulcahy]

I have to submit my proposal for my final essay in this class in a couple days and I just have So Many Thoughts and none of them coherent

[miserywizard]

enchanted by the protagonist of Projections because it’s so blisteringly opposite to anything I would ever write. A character who finds the entire concept of magic distasteful is so good and I could never do it. Also this is the densest modern fantasy book I’ve read in years.

[charliemwrites]

Men At Work - Part 3

I know this has been a little slow to start, but things should progress a little more quickly from here. I wanted to establish some of the groundwork for this weird dynamic they all have but unfortunately, these men don't know the meaning of slow, even in my own head.

No Content Warnings

“How are the repairs going?” you ask.

It’s just Nikto today, returning your Tupperware from dinner the other night. He’s covered head to toe once again, all that’s visible are those glass blue eyes. One way mirrors - hiding everything beneath the surface.

They remind you of… something. 

Hmm. When you figure it out, they’re sure to make an appearance in your next novel.

“On track,” he answers in that sharp, staccato way you’re learning is just his way.

Unfortunately for him, that just makes you more curious. You know it’s a bit obnoxious - you’re not entitled to information, you know that. And most of the time you curb the inquiries tapping at the back of your teeth. But he’s in your house, snuggling your traumatized cat. If he’s got a problem answering casual questions, you’re certain he’ll have no problem letting you know.

“You’re redoing the whole thing?”

“Most of it. Foundation is good. The rest - дерьмо.”

You don’t know a lick of Russian, but you can guess.

“Good bones,” you hum in understanding. As if you know anything about construction. “That helps. When do you think it will be done?”

He shifts, sharp eyes flicking between your busy hands, the door, and Rasputin holding him lovingly hostage.

Little guy is currently perched on your shoulder, face buried against your collar in abject despair that his bestest friend hasn’t come to visit. Shithead is poaching (or attempting to, anyway) the sandwiches you’re assembling. So far, she’s only swishing her tail, biding her time. You’re keeping an eye on her.

“Two months. Three if any of us are called.”

You hum, reach for the tomatoes. It’s only because you’re looking at him that you notice the slightest twitch around his eyes. Beneath his mask, you’d bet he’s scrunching his nose.

“No?”

“I will eat.”

You leave the tomatoes off. Guy mews sadly, you tilt your head to press a kiss to his little ear.

“So, two or three months. Krueger said you’ll move in then.”

“Da.”

You top the sandwiches with a final slice of bread and turn to the oven. Spin back just in time to catch Shithead’s paw reaching for Krueger’s designated sandwich. Nikto eyes the plate of brownies in your free hand; you bite the corner of your mouth to keep from grinning.

“What about the yard?”

Nikto tilts his head. If he didn’t give the impression of a particularly large predator, you’d call it cute. As it is, even spiders and snakes endear themselves to you somehow.

“What about yard?”

“Any plans for it?” You sneak an extra brownie onto Nikto’s plate. Reward and apology for wrenching conversation out of him. “Grass? Trees? Flowers?”

He blinks. Just once. Some sort of intuition tells you that even that behavioral tic is a big social step for him.

“No.”

“Oh, uh… gravel then?”

“We mean no plans,” he corrects.

“Oh! Alright, I suppose that’s a long way off anyway. There’s still so much work to do on the inside.”

But it does get you thinking. What even goes into fixing a house? And how do they know all this stuff? The electric, the insulation, the… whatever else goes into a home. Is it just Weird Things they picked up from the military?

You stare contemplatively at the house’s exterior as you walk the plates across the street with Nikto. (Ras is riding on his shoulder and Guy refused to detach his claws from yours. You fear for the state of your home with Shithead left behind, but neither you nor Nikto had a spare hand to wrangle her with.)

Nikto practically kicks the door in, shouting for the others as he goes. Guy chooses that moment to start crying - uncanny sense for appearing pathetic as possible.

Konig must hear him halfway down the stairs, because the steady boot steps get faster after a moment.

“Oh, bubchen! Why are you sad? What has happened?” Konig coos, nearly running to your side.

Of course, now that he’s gotten what he wanted, Guy’s volume lowers. He makes a pleased little “mrow” and slinks off your shoulder and into Konig’s reaching hands. You’d call him a traitor but you’re a damn sucker for a big man with a cute animal. 

“You two are ridiculous,” you laugh, setting the plates on the counter.

It’s already been replaced since last you saw it. Black granite, very sleek. You like it. (Which of them installed it? Nikto? You usually catch glimpses of him on the ground floor.)

“He is a baby, Biene,” Konig protests, “he must be treated like one.”

“He’s already five!” You reply, like you don’t have a papoose for when your hands are too full to snuggle him.

“Did I stutter? I do not think so. This is a baby.”

You have to turn away to hide your laughter, pretending that taking the foil off the lunches requires your full attention.

Krueger steps up behind you while you’re not looking. The heat of him is what alerts you, the only reason you don’t jump when his rough voice comes by your head.

“Where is the Shithead.”

“Hello to you too, Krueger. How is your day?”

He grunts and reaches past you, trying to snatch up a brownie. Without a thought, you slap at his hand - balk at the sharp whack sound it makes. He jerks his hand back in shock.

“You deny me my dearest friend and you attack me in my own home.”

You spin on your heel, mouth already open. False start as you realize he’s even closer than you expected. The height difference doesn’t seem like much until you’re eye level with his neck. You untangle your tongue and ignore the smirk growing at the corner of his scarred mouth.

“This is barely a house, never mind a home,” you scoff.

He snorts - that smirk turns to a full blown grin. A little crazed. Unfortunately, that makes it more attractive. (And the bastard probably knows it too.)

“You insult me too, now.”

“Sure, but I brought you food.”

He flicks his eyes to the plate behind you and arches a brow.

“Bring me the little Sheisskerl and I will forgive you.”

You tilt your head to the side. “Go get her yourself.”

What the hell did you just say? Inviting a man into your house unaccompanied?! You may not be a true crime writer, but you know better.

You still don’t take it back.

He locks eyes with you, gives the distinct impression that he knows exactly what you just thought and he’s amused by your obstinance.

“Fine.” He reaches past your hip. Smells like sweat and something that reminds you of heat. Solder? Certainly not anything you’re used to. “Behave, eh? Konig is easy to take advantage of.”

You snort and glance at Konig over his shoulder, who’s glaring now. (Somehow no less intimidating even with Guy nuzzling at his mask.)

As Krueger turns, he takes a big bite of brownie, humming appreciatively under his breath. You shake your head, then turn to Konig.

“If you want to steal one of his sandwiches, I’ll look the other way.”

Konig barks a short, sharp laugh of surprise. It startles you a bit, but not enough to wipe the grin from your face. You know he really means it when he sounds like that.

“How are the bathroom repairs going?” you ask.

“They are going well!” he answers. Then launches into an in-depth explanation of all the ongoing projects. Replacing walls, rewirings, outlet and light installations. What doesn’t go over your head is almost too fast to understand as his accent thickens with excitement. You nod along anyway, because you asked, and he’s stupidly endearing - big muscular man getting a bit squeaky while he rambles about pipes.

He barely even notices Guy’s little paw reaching until it’s shoved into his open mouth. He sputters as you burst into laughter, gently tucking Guy’s arm against his chest.

“Why would you do this?!” he asks, only to receive a slow blink in response.

“He’s saying you need to eat,” you giggle, nudging Konig’s plate.

“Oh, that’s right! Thank you for the lunch!”

Barely a couple bites in and you hear the door open again. Krueger stomps in with Shithead bundled in his arms, one hand under her bottom, the other around her tummy. She’s got her head tilted all the way back to chirp and chitter at him.

“Why are you carrying her like that?” you ask, choking back a giggle. 

“It is how she wishes to be carried.”

You blink at her - but sure as shit, she’s perfectly content being held like a child’s toy.

“Well good luck eating like that.”

“You won’t feed me?” he leers.

“I don’t want rabies if you bite me.”

His laughter is even harsher than Konig’s. You like it instantly.

All that’s left is to hear Nikto’s.

Agatha is outside when Nikto walks you back home.

(Krueger huffed that he had too much work to do for the day, but he would see you for dinner. While you were still blinking in shock at his self-invite, Konig transitioned Little Guy back into your arms. All the while grumbling at Krueger’s impatient German.)

She scowls as she notices your two-person parade. Nikto’s juggling Little Guy and Rasputin; you’ve got a firm grip on Shithead and the stack of dirty plates. You snort a bit just thinking of her paranoid comments about them being bad men. Sure, they might be in some ways, but it’s a hard sell when Ras is trying to lick at the edge of the mask around Nikto’s eyes.

“Afternoon, Agatha,” you call, just to be petty.

“When is your fiance coming by again?” she calls back. “Such a lovely young man.”

Your mirth dries up in an instant. “I broke up with my boyfriend four months ago. I thought I told you.”

You did. You know you did. Because she’s a nosy pain in the ass that was asking about your Easter plans with him (trying to invite you to church once again) when you told her that you left him. She’d even fussed about it at the time, saying that there’s hardly anything that can’t be healed with time and understanding.

(It was only your commitment to your own privacy that kept you from asking how much time it takes to smooth over someone cheating with your cousin.)

At your side, Nikto grunts. You glance sideways at him, wondering what he must think.

But his eyes are on Agatha. Even Rasputin has paused the grooming routine to narrow his one eye at her.

“Is this the one that looks in mailbox?” he asks, louder than you’ve ever heard.

Loud enough that she hears. And flushes redder than the poppies in your flowerboxes.

“That’s her husband, actually,” you answer. She sputters, and an incredibly immature bolt of satisfaction suffuses you.

He grunts again. Eyes her up and down. “Maybe we leave surprise for him next time, da?”

You press your lips together, but it does nothing to prevent you from grinning. He’s deadly serious, though, which somehow makes it even funnier to you.

“Maybe!” you reply in a tone that really means absolutely.

Nikto shuts the door on her face before Agath can get out a threat to call the police.

“You’ve got a petty streak,” you say, grinning at him.

He tilts his head. “You like.” He doesn’t even sound sure if it’s a question or a statement.

“Yeah,” you giggle, “I like it.”

He grunts and takes the plates from your hand. “We wash. You think about dinner and revenge. Da?”

You plop yourself onto a stool by the kitchen counter. “Da.”

First | Previous | TBC...

Masterlist

[zeeislewd]

It's well past midnight when you finally bring yourself to climb the stairs to your bedroom, grumbling to yourself as you flip light switches and plunge yourself into abject darkness before going step by step up the creaky old staircase. You can hear the floorboards shift and protest against any weight being put upon them, and you hope against hope the noise of your steps doesn't wake your partner; they certainly deserve the rest.

As you crest the top of the stairs you see a strange shape; where you had expected to see your partner's dimly outlined sleeping form instead you see a dim glow under the covers, little moans and wet noises... A smile spreads across your face and you move closer; you don't have anything to be up for tomorrow morning, why not offer your love a little stress relief?

You pull back the covers and start climbing into bed, leaning down to kiss your partner when you notice the shock on their face, staring at you like they're afraid. At first you're confused, but then you feel something against your leg, damp and warm, and you look down. Whatever you expected to see between their legs, a mass of writhing tentacles slithering out of them, curling around their legs and now reaching up to take hold of you by the waist... That certainly wasn't it. At first you think this might be the cause of their fear, but then they open their mouth and manage to stammer out a few words.

"L-love, I'm so sorry, I- I mean I was planning to tell you soon and- But I-" they keep cutting themself off but you can gather enough context through the shock to realize this is just another facet of your partner, of the love of your life that you hadn't yet learned. A smile creeps onto your lips and before they can stammer out any more apologies you move in for a kiss. Their worry begins to melt away and you feel their arms wrap around you, their tentacles now moving with purpose, given permission to touch you for the first time. You feel the wriggling tendrils wrap around your waist, a few carefully slithering into the waistband of your panties, seeking out your soaked cunt.

The kiss turns into a deep make out, you feel their tongue push at your lips for entry and open your mouth to let it in only to realize it's another tentacle slithering up your lover's throat and into your mouth. Their eyes open to look at you, to keep their gaze locked on you to gauge your reaction as this new tentacle tests how far it can go. At first it only slips an inch into your mouth, then two, then you feel it touch your throat and start easing down. The tentacle is just a little thinner than their tongue, and they've made you take things down your throat before, held you between their thighs to see how long you could last... And it was hard to focus on having your throat fucked when you could also feel a tentacle in your pussy slithering deeper than anything was meant to enter you.

It prodded at your cervix and you felt a jolt of pain, pulling back reflexively, but it was determined to gain entry to your womb, and as soon as it was all the way inside you could feel why; the first egg was pushing against your labia, the bulge in their tentacle stretching you further as it moved up and into you. Another egg followed shortly, then another, and another; a near constant stream of eggs dropping comfortably into your womb until your belly was swollen out and full, so round you looked at least six months pregnant.

The stretching, the weight of your belly, the feeling of just how *full* you are is enough to push you over the edge. Your legs turn to jelly as you cum, letting out a desperate little moan over the tentacle in your mouth. It's clear from your partner's writhing body that they're close, too, and soon you feel the hot sensation of cum flooding down your throat, sticky and viscous all the way down into your belly. Gush after gush, pulse after pulse, the tentacle in your mouth starts to pull back out of your throat, leaving one last load on your tongue before re-entering your partner's lips to hide away once more. The cum tastes salty, but ever so slightly sweet, warm on your tongue...

As you break free from your orgasmic stupor you see an embarrassed grin on your lover's face, their hands up on their mouth to try and hide it but you can see the joy in their eyes. You know exactly what they're thinking and you blush, closing your eyes and rolling off of them to let the weight of your belly rest on the mattress instead of being pressed between you and them. They run a hand over the curve of your belly, the tentacles cradling it gently... You were going to be a mother, and not even remotely how you expected.

[hypewinter]

Hal bent down as the little girl approached him. Even then, he still managed to tower over her with how small she was.

"Hey there little lady," he said. "Anything I can help you with this fine evening?"

The little girl looked at him anxiously, fiddling with her hands. Ok so not a nervous fan. Hal immediately switched to serious mode, scanning the crowd for anyone who could be her parents. He didn't see anyone running up to the two of them or even so much as keeping a watchful eye from a distance.

"Is something the matter?" Hal questioned, making sure to keep his voice even and calm.

The girl continued fidgeting, her big blue eyes scanning from side to side. Finally she spoke. "You wiff da space po-eece yes? Not da am-ear-ree-ca one?"

Hal smiled at the girl. "Yes, I'm with the space police." Honestly that was oversimplifying the Corps a little but he had long since gotten to citizens calling him a space cop.

The girl offered up a small nervous smile of her own. "So you won't tell da gov-ment what I tell you wight?"

Hal was on high alert now. Just what was this little girl trying to tell him? "I won't tell. I promise," he said after a second.

The girl broke into a big smile at this. "Really? Dis way den." She started tugging Hal along and he began to follow.

"Where exactly are we going?" he asked.

"You see," was all she replied.

Hal was led down a couple different alleyways and was beginning to think he was walking into a trap when they reached an abandoned building. The girl dashed in and up the old rusted stairs, with Hal following closely behind her.

If this really is a trap, I'll never hear the end of it from Batman, he thought morbidly as he cleared the last step. Instead of finding himself facing an ambush however, he saw a boy curled up on an old mattress. The girl was already by his side as Hal approached.

"Don wowee Danny, I got help. Like I said I would," he caught the little girl whispering as he knelt down next to the boy. He had to have been older than the girl. Three years older maybe? Yet he was still so small. Hal took sight of his condition. He was in pain. That much was certain by his little face scrunched up in agony and his quiet moans. He was also sweating profusely. His raven black hair sticking to his forehead. Fever maybe?

Hal continued his observations as he scanned down the boy's body until he got to his stomach. The boy was clutching it and Hal could make out blood bleeding through from underneath. Oh no.

He quickly yet carefully removed the boy's arm to get a better look at the wound. The kid let out a groan as his arm was peeled away. Hal couldn't help but thank Oa for all his training that helped prevent him from letting out a gasp.

The boy's chest was covered in blood. Dark red mixed with flecks of green soaked through his shirt and there were bandages that had been amateurishly tied around the wound.

"How did this happen?" Hal asked, turning back to the girl. He did his best to keep his tone as gentle as possible.

Her smile was gone now, and her eyes welled up with tears. "He pwotected me," she said. "Dey wanted to huwrt us. Dey shot at us. Danny pwotected me."

Anger boiled within Hal. Who would shoot at these children? They were only little kids. If what the girl had said earlier was anything to go off of, the answer had something to do with the government. He would have to take care of that later though. For now, this boy needed medical attention.

"Let's get Danny to a hospital," Hal said resolutely, as he got up.

"No!" the little girl screeched. "No has-pee-tail. Too dan-er-us!"

"But he needs-" Hal started but then he met the girl's eyes. There was abject fear in them. As if going to the hospital would be a death sentence for both children. Where else were they supposed to go though? The boy- Danny needed medical attention stat. That much was certain.

Hal paused. There was one place. He sighed. Batman was going to kill him for this.

"Okay okay. No hospital. But what about space?"

"Space?" the girl repeated.

Hal nodded.

The little girl smiled. "Danny lobes space!"

"Well then. That's perfect."

Hal constructed a new bed for the boy, carefully easing him onto it before putting a protective dome around both children. The little girl giggled as he lifted them up. He then turned to the wall where he created a giant hammer to knock it down. Then they were off. Flying higher and higher, towards the atmosphere. As the Watchtower got closer in sight, Hal couldn't help but groan. Taking civilians to the Watchtower? Oh yeah, Batman was definitely going to kill him.

[sinsirellaxx]

Please can you write more about Tom making Reader do an unbreakable vow like you mentioned in the Slytherin boys when they actually fall for you headcanons? I really like how you write him, you don’t hide away from the fact that he’s always gonna be some degree of toxic even if he’s head over heels for you and I find it so interesting! Xx

Tom Riddle – The Unbreakable Vow

Warning: Tom Riddle being the deepest shade of red. Not proofread.

A/N: Thank you so much! I'm glad you like my interpretation of Tom! I simply cannot see him as anything but toxic. 🙈

Hope you like it!

The first time he thinks of the Unbreakable Vow is when he sees you talking to another male student, followed by an unnerving dream about you leaving him for another in the following night.

Tom knows he has to be smart about it. He can’t show his true colors if he doesn’t want to scare you away. Nor does he want to appear weak in front of you.

After that nightmare he is obsessed with the idea of binding you to him for eternity – there would be no way out for you. No escape. And that thought pleased him greatly.

He would either coax you into it:

“Do you trust me.” Tom one day asked you while you were cuddled up in his bed with your head on his chest. His hand was absentmindedly combing through your hair, something you had confessed to loving early on in your relationship. The thought that he had never once skipped playing with your hair, whenever given the chance warmed your heart. The ever so cold and unreachable Tom Riddle, wrapped around your finger. With a shy smile you pressed your face further into his chest, drawing in a deep breath you simply answered with a short yes, drunk on his smell.

Your state of relaxation would surely work for his favor, so his free hand moved to your bare arm, drawing circles on your skin, and leaving goosebumps in his touch’s wake. The Riddle could practically feel you melt into his chest.

“There is something that I want to ask of you.” He continued quietly, carefully thinking about his choice of words. He knew you wanted to please him, no matter what, so, a simple request would surely not ring any alarm bells. He couldn’t b too aggressive about it.

You hummed softly, your eyes closed in bliss, urging him to continue.

“You are the one I want to spend my life with, but we are still too young for marriage. Which is why I want to prove my love to you in another way.”

He clenched his jaw when you lifted your head from his chest to look into his eyes – his tense muscles immediately relaxing when he noticed the blush on your face and your wide eyes. “I want to swear my love to you and make the Unbreakable Vow.”

Or he would force you to make the Vow – either with the help of the Imperius Curse or he’ll threaten/blackmail you into cooperating.

You frowned when you finally entered the Chamber of Secrets – the place your boyfriend had been disappearing to all the time. He had never wanted to show you – up until now. The place was huge and intimidating and the air was stuffy and almost suffocating. The abject vastness of the chamber was overwhelming, and you felt the desperate urge to flee. He softly pushed you further to the center of the room, the hand on your back eerily cold as you let yourself be guided to the room. A weird feeling settled in the pit of your stomach, the feeling of fear slowly spreading through your chest.

“S-So, what did you want to show me?” You asked breathlessly, desperate to break the silence. The absence of an answer sent a pang of nausea to your stomach, flinching when he turned you to face him, both his hands gripping your shoulders firmly. From the corner of your eye you could see movement, whipping your head around to see a masked person walking closer to you, with his wand in hand. Your whole body tensed as you tried to break away from Tom’s grip.

“T-Tom, what is the meaning of this?” You turned to glare at him, your voice painfully shrill with nerves.

Again, he didn’t answer. His grip on your shoulders tightened, his hands moving to grasp your smaller ones tightly instead. The stranger moved closer, placing the tip of his wand onto your linked hands.

Without another word you tried ripping your hands free, twisting and turning but his grip only tightened around your wrists – sure to leave bruises on your skin.

“Let go, Tom. This isn’t funny.”

“It isn’t supposed to be, love. Now stand still.” He growled, roughly pulling you closer to him again.

“Now, be a good girl.”

[ickadori]

[cws] fem reader. violence -> sukuna beats up a coworker for you lol. fade to black noncon oral.

Thud.

Thud.

Thud.

The dull sound of steel toed boots knocking against your wooden apartment floors come to a stop outside of your bedroom door. Your fingers pause over your keyboard as your stomach does a lurch, heart-rate quickening just a bit, and you save the essay you had been working on and close the lid of your Macbook.

“Ry..” Your voice dies out halfway through the call of his name, and you try again, getting no answer in return—no verbal one at least. The knob gives a quick turn and you flinch, and then there’s another thud, this one a bit lighter — a small thump of his boot against the door to push it open.

And there he is.

“Ryomen.”

“You left your front door open again.” His voice is rough, a slight drawl to it, almost lazy-like. “I told you about that.”

“Sorry, I forgot.” A crazy concept considering you’re a young woman living on your own, but you’ve had a lot on your mind the past few days, and your own safety was the last thing on your mind. Besides, Sukuna had showed his face around your complex a few times, and that was enough to deter most people from even looking in your direction for fear of getting his unwanted attention.

He chuffs and enters your room.

You look behind him to the darkly colored, boot-shaped spots that he’s left behind in his wake, and your teeth worry at your lip as you think about all the scrubbing you’ll have to do. He follows your gaze, head turning and angling down, and he clicks his tongue.

“What a mess.” He snickers, and you firmly press your lips together as he continues on, his steps slower this time, smaller, boots now leaving behind double the footprints because of his adjusted pace. What an asshole.

Now that he’s closer, you can make out the dark splatters of something on his jeans, along with the blooming bruises on his knuckles. The balls of your feet rest on the base of your desk chair, and you smooth your hands down the length of your thighs.

“Is it—are they…?” You trail off, not wanting to just outright ask it. You never liked to say it out loud after it was all said and done, yet you had never once struggled to get the words out whenever you first went to him, skin hot with anger and eyes sparkling with rage as you begged -demanded- that he do something about whoever it was that had managed to work you up so badly.

“Are they ‘dealt with’, as you so tenderly put it over the phone?” He finishes your question, fingers moving to lift the lid of your Macbook open. It hasn’t been closed long enough to require your password, and the black screens quickly flickers back on to display your half finished essay. “What’s this?”

“An assignment.” His finger makes a feint to tap at the delete button, and you yelp and quickly grab ahold of his hand with both of yours. “Please don’t do that.” The corner of his mouth quirks up as his eyes pointedly look at how you’re grabbing him, and you quickly let him go, thoughts of what those hands had likely did just a little while ago springing forth.

“I put ‘em in the hospital - nothing that’ll kill her, can’t say the same for her baby though.” Your stomach instantly sours, and a gasp forces its way out of your throat as you stare up at him with wide eyes.

“Baby?” You croak. “She was pre—” You can’t finish the sentence, a lump instantly forming in your throat as tears begin to blur your vision.

“Nah, I’m just fucking with you.” Sukuna barks out a laugh and you pause, expression still fixed into one of abject horror. “Or maybe she was, who knows—‘s not like I gave the bitch a pregnancy test before I broke her jaw.”

“Okay, enough.” You stress, fearing that you’d dirty the rug underneath your feet with stomach acid if he didn’t stop talking soon. While you may have envisioned all the ways he would deal with your bitch of a coworker two days ago, your argument with the outspoken women still fresh in your mind, you were calmer now, reasonable, not hellbent on revenge and willing to make a deal with the devil incarnate to see it exacted.

You thought he’d scare her a little -it wouldn’t have taken much, just a quick flash of his impossibly sharp canines and the sight of those black lines marring his otherwise handsome face would have done the trick-, maybe just toss her around a bit and take her wallet, call her a few names and send her on her sad way.

“Don’t get all mushy now. This was your idea, remember? You called me.” He looks over the trinkets on your desk, touching things here and there and invading your personal space all the while. You breathe in and catch a whiff of your coworkers signature perfume on his jacket, a scent that you had grown to hate, and you scramble to get out of your seat, only for a heavy hand to push down on your shoulder and keep you in place.

You make a noise of confusion and look up at him, but he doesn’t bother glancing at you, suddenly engrossed in the sight of a tattered, mini plushie that you had received as a gift years ago as a child.

“Where are you trying to run off to?”

“I—your money. I-I was going to pay you, for…you know…like I usually do.” His hand slips from your shoulder to the front of your neck and you suck in a sharp breath through your nose, watching as he finally looks down his nose at you, his lips twisted in that ever present smirk.

“I never asked for your money.” You frown, fingers twitching to push his hand away from you, but you curl them into your palm and keep them on your thighs.

“But you said—” His hand tightens around your throat just a bit, and your hands fly up on instinct to grab ahold of his wrist.

“I said you’d have to pay me, yeah.” He sighs out through his nose. “Never said how you’d pay me though, now did I?” His hand that isn’t squeezing at your neck suddenly fists your hair at the root and harshly tugs it back, the pained noise you make quickly being choked down. He looms over you, and Gods, has he always been this terrifying? You had always been wary of him despite Yuji’s never ending defense of his older brother.

“He’s not a bad guy, baby, I swear. He just got mixed up in some stuff when he was younger and did a few years.”

“He’s not mean, he’s just…well, I guess he is mean. But he’s not that mean!”

“He actually likes you, believe it or not…yes, I know he keyed your car but it was only because you double parked in the driveway and he thought it was Megumi.”

A rough thumb brushes across your bottom lip, and you’ve known enough men to know the look he’s giving you. You bristle, and he subdues it with a squeeze that leaves you coughing and pushing at his stomach. He takes the opportunity to push two fingers, pointer and middle, into your mouth, and you gag when a metallic taste hits your tongue, eyes widening and feet moving to kick at his shins.

“I’ve been wondering how it’d feel to have my cock in here,” he squeezes again, fingers pushing a bit deeper, “wondering if you’re as good as Yuji says you are.” You shove at him harder, and just when you build up enough courage to snap your teeth down against his fingers, he pulls his hand back from your mouth. You suck in a gasp of air at the short reprieve, only to lose your breath once again when his hand moves to his buckle.

“Let’s see if you can take it.”

[adiluv-moved]

✦ : ❝ 𝐢𝐤𝐚𝐧𝐚𝐢𝐝𝐞 !

꒰synopsis꒱ in which you’re hurt, and it affects scaramouche far more than he’d like to admit. 1165 words.

꒰warnings꒱ angst, non-graphic mentions of injuries and blood, scaramouche needs a hug and a hot cup of tea ꒰as a treat꒱.

꒰adi moment꒱ literally cannot stop naming my fics after songs! genuinely so fun! anyway, it's been a while since i've written any angst, so here's an attempt at writing some for mr. mouche! i hope you enjoy! ໒꒰ྀི..◜ᴗ◝..꒱ྀི১

Bright lights, foreign machinery, gloved hands, white fabric stained red. The oppressive stench of antiseptic weighs heavy in the air, tainted only by the faint hint of something metallic, and were his mechanical body capable of accomplishing such a fear, Scaramouche is certain that it would’ve caused him to faint.

Pushing past patients and staff alike, he comes to deem the hypothetical preferable. A mercy, really, one that his creator was much too cruel to bestow upon him, one that he knew the Doctor would loathe to bless him with. What he wouldn’t give to lie back down on that cold vivisection table, gears and wires jutting out of porcelain skin. To have been in the right place at the right time, to have been attacked in your stead, to see you carrying on at one of the many other Fatui camps, none the wiser as to the tortures he’s endured. For your sake, no less.

꒰Because he could handle it. Because those wounds would heal.꒱

Scaramouche doesn’t think he’ll survive a fourth betrayal. 

He bumps into a particularly rowdy patient, then, catches himself as she’s sent stumbling into a wall. The coat of her uniform, worn proudly atop her medical gown, looks more akin to something out of a Fontainian horror film than official garb, ripped up and stained to an almost unrecognizable state. One of the injured, clearly. One of the other soldiers by your side. So why was it that she could walk around just fine?

The blood drains from her face as she whirls around to confront him, a look of abject horror taking the place of her previous scowl. Static wells up in the air, and she quickly kneels, though her body seems to protest the sudden movement. Insults swirl around in his mind, and Electro gathers at his fingertips, yet he finds himself paralyzed before her, eyebrows furrowed and lips parted as she trembles. Like a leaf caught in the midst of a hurricane.

Somewhere out in the Inazuman countryside, a child plucks one off a branch, bright red pressed against his cheek to match his dutifully applied eyeliner. An abrupt gust of wind rips it from the tiny hand, whisking it away to someplace neither can follow. The boy tries anyway. The puppet finds that he can’t keep up.

꒰The boy slips out of his sight entirely.꒱

The pit within his chest grows impossibly larger, the bāchīs attached to his hat colliding with her figure as he turns around. She breathes out a sigh of relief, and he hears somebody rush over to help her up. He’d deal with it later.

Save for your unconscious body, your hospital room is empty when he arrives. A small table sits before your bed, and a bouquet of unbloomed flowers obscures the view of your face, droplets of water condensing on the surface of the clear vase. This is not done for other patients, he knows. A small part of him can’t help but wonder whether the gesture was for your sake or his.

He’s hardly in control of his limbs as he enters the space, closes his eyes only to see glances of a golden feather and fire and blood dripping out of an ornate, handheld box, and—His fingers curl around the top rail of a chair, pulling it to your bedside. A small, shaky, pathetic noise escapes him as he sits, a hand shooting up to readjust the hat sitting atop his head. The bells attached to it mock him. It takes an embarrassing amount of self-restraint to keep from throwing it across the room, though he eventually settles for laying it onto the floor beside him. 

Scaramouche doesn’t think he’ll survive a fourth betrayal.

There is something fragile, foul, and bloody resting inside of your chest. Like a winding key, almost, he remembers the blacksmiths telling him, a tool that powers humans, not unlike the electricity that powered him. A heart. 

He had wanted one of his own, once, back when he was young and stupid. So he could feel, just as humans felt. So he could love, just as humans loved. So he could be, just as humans did. But he was smarter, now, outgrown the foolish name he’d been given, the banal traditions taught to him, the disgusting emotions that they’d once defiled his hollow chest with. And only now, in some sick twist of fate, was his childish dream finally realized.

꒰What have you done to him?꒱

His fingertips tentatively graze over the middle of your bandaged chest, almost as if you were made of glass, almost as if he feared that his touch might shatter you. He could shatter you, really, if he wanted to; would, even, if it were anybody else lying before him. You’re lucky in that sense, he muses, yet it seemed that not even luck could lessen the extent of your injuries. You were human, after all. Inherently weak. Easily breakable. Why you so foolishly chose to rush into battle rather than wait for his return, he doubts even the Goddess of Wisdom would be able to understand.

꒰He could’ve protected you. Why didn’t you let him protect you?꒱

You don’t stir as he moves his chair closer, wood scraping against wood until his legs are pressed uncomfortably against the side of the mattress. Although he refuses to worship any God, he finds himself praying that your eyes don’t suddenly shoot open to witness him in such a demeaning state. You’ve never taken your wounds seriously, after all, and he doubts he’d be able to handle your asinine nonchalance. More than that, however, should the pain overwhelm you past your limit, he knows he won’t be able to handle your grief.

He sucks in a breath, unnecessary as it is. Then another, only to find it catching in his throat. His hands tremble, and he bows his head. He, the Balladeer. He, the son of Baal. He, a discarded puppet, lays his head directly atop your heart, hangs onto its every beat like a devout, and sullies your bandages with the tears of a failed creation.

You’re here with him. Unconscious, but breathing. It is not enough, but it will do, at least for the time being. Because you’ll wake up. Because you have to. Because he loves you, like a fool, like humans do.

Because Scaramouche doesn’t think he’ll survive a fourth betrayal.

A nurse enters your room the next morning, golden rays of light streaming through the window and onto your bed. The Balladeer sleeps alongside you, hands clutching desperately onto the fabric of the thick coat now carefully draped over your body. His makeup is smudged, red eyeliner streaking down his face, the gorgeous strands of his indigo hair splayed out messily around him. They consider waking him, though the thought is quickly abandoned. Even they know to choose their battles wisely. 

꒰A tear slides down his cheek. They close the door behind them when they leave.꒱

[mysterycitrus]

I know a lot of ppl ask u abt jason or dick but im wondering now, what do u think about bruce? I find him a very interesting character whose characterization is incredibly feeble, both bc of his 80 years of history and the tendency writers have to project their own male fantasies on him. So i'd definitely love to hear ur own thoughts about him. I personally enjoy depicting him as someone morally grey, although my sympatization for him changes day to day. Wether you think he is a good or a bad person, i believe u need to make him dedicated to gotham and the bat as a symbol, and that comes with all its advantages and drawbacks

bruce wayne is sooooo interesting (derogatory) because like u said, he carries the baggage of every masochismo author that decided batman was too woke and should hurt his kids and that supporting gotham’s infrastructure is for pussies. there’s also the flipside of that, where he’s the perfect father who’s waaaay too emotionally regulated for my taste. both of these interpretations are bad imo, and both functionally miss the point.

i think part of this (in fandom) is an obsession with moral angst — u can either be a good person doing good things, or a bad person doing bad things. think about how some characters are crucified while others are babied. someone always has to be absolutely right, and the other has to be absolutely wrong.

in reality, there are a lot of people who are fundamentally kind and fundamentally want to do good that are really terrible to the people in their lives. bruce wayne being someone who relies on having so much control that it implodes his connections to the people around him is an important part of his character. his profound love for his children, for gotham and her people, for humanity in general and his belief in peoples ability to change, doesn’t circumvent the fact that he’s often an emotionally abusive man who hurts others to achieve his own ends. he contains multitudes.

writing him as a functionally irredeemable, violently abusive person is the anti-thesis to the symbol that he himself created. no, i personally don’t believe he actively beats his kids (even though it’s supported in the text). no, i don’t think he’s an irredeemable sadist (as much as frank miller wants u to believe otherwise). to have people like dick grayson and diana and clark and dinah love and believe in u means that there has to be something there worth caring about, otherwise the whole universe is gonna fall apart.

that’s what makes his relationship to cass so interesting — he sees his neuroticism, his dedication to the cause above all else, and does not find it admirable. he finds it confronting and upsetting. and to be clear, cass (like dick) is very much the moral ideal of what batman should be, but still bruce finds it hard to deal with!!

his abject failures — his treatment of the robins, his crippling guilt about jason, his fears of becoming a killer, the impossible load he gives himself to carry — means that when he’s shown as someone who genuinely cares, it makes him more complex. like yeah, bruce isn’t actually a cold hearted person. he really really gives a shit. too many shits, to be totally honest. he’s a morally grey person that wants to do good, but is so terrified of losing control that he keeps others away and hurts them in the process. there’s a reason why his emotional crutch was a traumatised eight year old fr. nothing is more important than the mission, including bruce wayne himself

[luveline]

I love your writing sm!!! would you be willing to do something with Spencer where he calms reader down from a nightmare ? thank u so much!!! have a good day ❤️

thank you sm! ♡ gn!reader

cw drug use mentioned

In the dream, Spencer lives. 

Surprisingly. So many of your dreams are made of his demise. In one dream he gets killed in a cemetery, crying and alone and strapped to a chair. In another, a needle stays stuck to the crook of his arms as he slips into a too-heavy sleep. Sometimes he dies bleeding out from his leg, other times he makes it to the hospital long enough to feel the building crumble beneath him. 

You wouldn't want Spencer to stop telling you things, but every ragged chapter of his life acts as nightmare fuel. Every sentence, every line. Here he's lonely. Here he's afraid. 

Here, despite everything, he's alive, because this is the dream where you die first. 

You die like the snap of a firecracker hitting the ground and find yourself inverted, flinching up where gunpowder spilled down, your hand knocking into the soft of Spencer's stomach as you gasp for air. You're dead. You're dead, and Spencer's alone, and no one is going to look after him now. 

"Y/N?" His voice. The plastic and wood scrape as he grabs his glasses and shoves them on. "What? What's hurting?" 

You put your hand over your heart and will it to stop pounding so hard. It aches like a new bruise. 

"Baby," Spencer says softly, curling his arm behind the small of your back. He pulls your bodies together, tucking the sheets up your legs again with the other. 

"Bad dream," you say, wishing you'd woken crying. At least then you'd know what the emotion is under all your abject panic. 

"Just breathe… just breathe." He takes a slow, deliberate breath for you to follow. When he speaks, it's calm as the summer sea. "Another one. I'm sorry, you've had a lot of these lately, huh?" Spencer brings the hand furthest from you to your cheek, encouraging your cheek against his chin. "You want to tell me about it?" 

"I died." 

It must surprise him. For once, he doesn't have anything to say immediately. He turns his face in to kiss you, not fussy about where his lips fall. A slow, steadying kiss. 

"Those ones are some of the hardest," he says sympathetically. 

"I didn't… it didn't even matter. I hit my head and I woke up. But I…" How to explain it? "Spence, there was this split second where I thought I left you alone." 

"Don't worry about me," he says.

"But I do worry about you. I know you can look after yourself better, but– but people have let you down. I've let you down." 

Spencer's smile is audible, a lilt to the dulcet murmur he presses into your hair, "You're the last person I'd say let me down... You know, nightmares aren't scientifically quantifiable, there's no statistical data on what it means to have a bad dream, but. There are hundreds of thousands of books about it, and more than you'd think tend to agree that after you've had one, the fear remains. Like a bad cell. You can't remember it and it sticks around despite it." 

You wait for the silver lining. 

"So?" you ask. 

He chuckles quietly. "So, I know it sucks, but it's a good thing that you remembered it. Want me to tell you what the books say?" 

"About what it means?" you ask. 

"They say it's transitional. You're saying goodbye to something. Starting a new chapter." 

Spencer turns your face, his thumb stroking your cheek. Dead morning light floods the room like a splash of milk into tea, illuminating the small apples of his cheeks, the thick triangles of his lashes behind his glasses' lenses. He looks woefully handsome considering the hour, and, to your relief, he's completely unafraid. 

"Just don't say goodbye to me, okay?" he whispers.

You nod, fatigue pressing on your shoulders. 

Spencer gives you a quick, dotting kiss. "Thank you. Let's go back to sleep, yeah? Lay down." 

You curl up under his arm. His hand takes loop on your shoulder, drawing lazy, meandering circles until you're falling into a much quieter crop of sleep. 

[trashmancer]

Okay, I have to get it out of my system. The thoughts I had on what The Dragon Prince did and why, deep down, it repulses me on a profound level. (I’ve shared these thoughts elsewhere but here’s my analysis on Viren’s arc and ending in season 6.)

The season begins with Viren waking from what was teased to be death (and viewers were left thinking he died for a year). He feels free and unburdened and has hope. Maybe things can be better, maybe he can change, maybe he can fix what he has broken.

Spoiler alert: He doesn’t even get off the starting block. From there it is a descent towards despair and his self-inflicted death.

After he wakes, he encounters his bloodied daughter Claudia. This shock smacks back to reality and he sees what he has caused. He realizes the cold truth: his daughter is better off without him so he leaves her despite her cries for him to stay. It is worth noting as he leaves, he openly acknowledges it may kill him—and he doesn’t much care if it does.

He goes back home to Katolis searching for anyone to talk to. He begs to speak to King Ezran and is denied and told he deserves “no mercy.” He reaches out to his son Soren in an attempt to reconcile, to apologize, and Soren accuses Viren of trying to manipulate him. Viren realizes he will receive no help or solace here as he’d hoped, and despairs.

His feeling of hopelessness is symbolized by the show panning to a fly trapped in a spider’s web about to be consumed. The abject image of being trapped with nowhere to go except death.

Next we see him, he is alone in his cell, penning a letter of his regrets, which is not that dissimilar to one's final thoughts in a suicide note. But he reconsiders. After all, this is self-indulgent pain to burden the living, so he burns it. His last thoughts and words gone.

It isn’t much after this moment Soren tells Viren the only thing he has of value to offer is his ability to do Dark Magic—the thing Viren has been running from, the thing he now hates, the thing that ruined his life. Throughout the show, dark magic can be allegorically read as a form of self-harm, done out of fear and trauma while causing lasting scars to the user. And Viren succumbs to it. He agrees. With the biggest expression of it: offering his own body to feed the spell. He stabs a knife into his own chest (reminiscent of Shakespearean suicide). And he dies.

What happened here wasn’t just a blaring example of a heel-face door slam where a character vying to change their life around and be better is coldly denied. It was also a suicide—a glorified one at that.

For a show supposedly about hope and forgiveness and breaking cycles, having a character who for three seasons is striving to walk a different path take his own life in an act of despair when he has nowhere else to go is... well. Sure is something. Nothing good in my world.

[ghost-go-roasty-mctoasty]

I was just rewatching the episode (coz I like pain) and getting to this scene again I was really thrown off by Joels actions

The first thing he notices is the look of fear on Ellies face. Not the pain in his abdomen, no, he's focused solely on Ellie and making sure she's okay

You can see the look of confusion on his face when he realises where Ellie is looking, and thats when it finally clicks

You can see in his eyes that he starts panicking, his conversation with Tommy comes rushing back. He makes eye contact with Ellie and picks up on the abject horror displayed across her face. He's panicking, he doesn't know what to do, he doesn't want to fail in proctecting another daughter.

Is this fear of failure why he forgot basic first aid knowledge? Like I'm 100% sure even Ellie knows not to take something out that's stabbed you, and Joel has been surviving in the apocalypse for 20 years, so he should know this too. But his first reaction to the problem was to remove the thing that was making Ellie scared.

And then he looks up at her again, sees how shes looking at him, and I think thats when he realised "oh shit, I fucked up", but theres no time to worry about that now because Ellie is yelling again and she needs him again and he can't fail her now after all this so he's just going to have to deal with it later, once Ellie is safe.