#check the tags on this one just in case

[killingthecringe]

When the Anti- Amy (Rosy) strikes a deal to help the Freedom Fighters rob Scourge and his castle of a power source in the basement, she thinks it's an Anarchy Beryl. The inverse versions of the Chaos Emeralds are certainly powerful enough - But that isn't what's down there. And what's down there is hungry.

My second submission for the 2023-2024 @shadamyzine ! This fic also contains artwork from the wonderful @mysuperlaserpiss, who did such an incredible job!

[butchfalin]

the funniest meltdown ive ever had was in college when i got so overstimulated that i could Not speak, including over text. one of my friends was trying to talk me through it but i was solely using emojis because they were easier than trying to come up with words so he started using primarily emojis as well just to make things feel balanced. this was not the Most effective strategy... until. he tried to ask me "you okay?" but the way he chose to do that was by sending "👉🏼👌🏼❓" and i was so shocked by suddenly being asked if i was dtf that i was like WHAT???? WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY TO ME?????????? and thus was verbal again

[good-beans]

Prisoner @gunsli-01, here and ready for Trial 1!

Crimes: Drawing in unsuspecting victims with elaborate analyses and meta, and then slamming them with Es and Kazui emotions, T1 guilties angst, and Kotoko’s attacks!! Also, putting a round of ocs through brand new milgram horrors at @milgrammaintenance (Think of the children!) So, wardens, what will it be?

[commandertartarsmoocher]

This is not an AC/DC reference

Two versions because I think both are neat!

[catscidr]

Could we get some Dottore x escaped experiment reader? Gn if possible, doesn't even have to be smut. I just can't find anything along those lines and I like your writing style :)

i. note — hehehoho i might have uuuhhh used this ask as an excuse to go off a lil and try something new teehee °ᗜ°) but this was really fun to write!! thank you nonnie for the suggestion, and thank you very much for liking my stuff enough to req something!!! i hope u all enjoy ii. includes — dottore, gn!reader iii. cw — unhealthy and toxic dynamics, no dialogue, mentions of cannibalism, mild body horror, one (1) dead body, not quite stockholm syndrome but maybe kinda, reader is a mess and dottore is not a good person (shocker). minors do not interact, age in bio or block. iv. wc — 2k -> posted on ao3 too!

To humans, running is what they do when they’re late to work, when they’re working out, or even when they’re playing games at recess as children. To predators, running is what they do in order to secure their next meal. To prey, running is what they must do so they can escape from the predator’s clutch in one piece, to not end up as a mangled corpse serving as someone or something’s food. 

You have more in common with prey than you have with humans, despite being one yourself. 

It hasn’t always been that way. One moment you were enjoying the warm afternoon sun of your home region out on a walk, and the other you found yourself thrown over someone’s shoulder with a bag over your head. 

You always find yourself reminiscing, yearning to feel the warmth you felt that day— minus the incident. You used to be a model citizen; someone people would rely on. 

A shame no one helped you when you desperately needed it. 

Your own mind is all you’re left with, as you’re clumsily tripping over your feet, rocks scraping your skin and blood trickling down your legs. The feeling is almost peaceful; but after running for so long, and with how often you’ve gotten yourself in this exact situation, you’re starting to second guess your motive for running in the first place. 

Is it a form of entertainment, are you growing bored of the four padded walls engulfing your five senses at all hours of the day that you feel the need to get the energy out of your body like a hamster does by using the wheel in its cage? Is it to leave the predicament you found yourself in after trusting someone you, under no circumstances, should have trusted? 

Or is it because you gradually have come to find yourself sharing more similarities to a dog, begging its owner to even unenthusiastically throw a plastic frisbee for a smidge of attention to fulfill your need to be seen, to be heard, and now you feel the responsibility to own up to that label you inflicted upon yourself? 

The lines between reality and your thoughts have blurred so much it frightens you. 

...Or, rather, it should scare you. After spending so much time in your own head, one would find that it’s surprisingly easy to come to distrust your own mind. You’re not sure if you should believe what goes through your head, even less believe what you feel. But at the same time, you’re all you have. You have no choice but to trust yourself, even when you shouldn’t. 

Only a select few are aware of how dreadfully strong and outright stubborn the human mind can be, whether it be from their own personal experience or from seeing others slip into a state like yours. 

Unfortunately for you, He’s familiar with your situation. Painfully familiar. 

… 

Sometimes you wish you were a luna moth. Delicate and radiant, people would be torn between praising you for your beauty and shunning you away for the crime of looking different than what they’re used to. You wouldn’t be a butterfly, would not conform to what society wants you to be. You would be able to be who you want, look however you want to without worrying over other’s opinions. 

The people that did like you, though, would treat you with care and would do everything in their power to make your stay in this world a pleasant one. A stay that would only last a week. 

Not long enough for you to become familiar with the horrors that await humanity. Seven days filled with nothing but genuine smiles, void of empty promises. 

You’d crawl out of your cocoon, eat good food, find someone to help continue your bloodline, then die somewhere peaceful and hope that your crumbling, decomposing body will bring relief to someone desperately needing something to eat. 

But you’re not a moth. 

… 

It’s unbearably cold when you come to your senses. Peeling your eyes open, you glance around to find yourself surrounded by cold limestone, barely illuminated by the cave’s entrance just a few feet away. The hairs on your skin rise from the wind guiding snow through the passageway, making you curl into yourself in a pathetic attempt to keep your body’s temperature from dropping too low. 

You look down at yourself; your pants are ripped at the hem, and you see messy splotches of brownish red staining the fabric and your skin, going all the way down to your calloused feet. You’re not sure how long you’ve been out for, but it must have been at least an hour given how the bleeding from the numerous scratches and gashes on your legs stopped without any assistance. 

The cave felt completely foreign to you, but even then, it brought you more comfort than He had. Or at least you think it does. 

You feel free. Despite the way your body shivered endlessly from the wind howling into the cavern, despite the dull but searing pain that made it feel like your feet were scorching that traveled up your legs, despite the way you couldn’t move your lips from how dry and cracked they were, split from sheer cold. 

You think this is the most freedom you’ve felt since you’ve gotten yourself stuck in His maw. 

... 

The wind is reduced to a soft, soothing melody when you wake up again. Almost calming enough for you to drift off to sleep a second time, but a nagging feeling in the depths of your gut told you that it was a bad idea to fall unconscious this time around, so you try to shake off the numbness in your limbs instead of succumbing to the call of the void. 

Standing up proves to be a challenge as your legs buckle under your weight. You catch yourself before you fall, holding onto the rough formation of a rogue stalagmite; it’s a struggle to hold yourself up, but at the very least you didn’t give yourself a concussion. 

The pain isn’t completely unwelcome, though. Your feet are throbbing, and the palm of your hand holding yourself up with the help of the stalagmite stings. As you blink the drowsiness away and the blood begins to flow through your limbs correctly again, you straighten your back to take in your surroundings properly. 

The cave’s entrance was filled with thick snow. There was enough that it would reach your stomach should you walk up to it, ignoring the snow that fell into the grotto, and not the snow that partly obscured your way to the outside world. You can’t see much outside, only the faint outline of pine trees wavering in the distance, far enough that you can only barely make out their form. 

Looking away from the blinding whites outside, you notice how utterly desolate the cavern is. Not even a single trace of a life was left behind in this cold, worn hollow. Maybe it’s better this way. You’re not sure you would have appreciated seeing even a wild hare or a fox in here, much less a bear. 

Sitting down on the rocky ground again to give your legs a break, you take a moment to think back to what got you here in the first place. 

You faintly recall rusty medical equipment, convulsing organs, and seeing Him jot down notes. You remember a plate being handed to you, the vague image of a man covered by a stained sheet of what used to be white, and the bile that rose to your throat when your gaze focused on what was on the plate itself. 

Everyone knew the Doctor was a twisted man, but you doubted He was twisted enough to force someone to cannibalize one of their peers. 

Clearly, you were wrong. 

Then, you remember making a mad dash for the thick iron doors of his laboratory. By the grace of god, you were able to leave; and you now found yourself in this desolate cavern, tucked away from civilization. 

As far as you were aware of. 

But you shouldn’t trust your mind. You knew this, yet you also knew not to trust yourself when you told yourself you couldn’t trust yourself. Simultaneously believing in logic and being a mess of paradoxical jargon— it exhausted you to think about. So you try not to. 

Whether by a stroke of bad luck or because of something else entirely, your dull sense of hearing picks up the faint sound of snow crunching beneath boots. Your hands and legs scramble to take you where you can hide as much of yourself as you can behind a rock formation, and you stare out of the cave’s entrance, holding your breath. 

The sound becomes louder. An almost gentle woosh noise accompanies the scrunch of snow, and soon after it stops, you’re able to make out a blurry figure approaching the cave’s entrance. The icy flakes make way for Him at His command, hand waving to get rid of what was keeping you physically separated from Him. 

The pure white snow behind His body glinted off his intricate accessories, the light forming a halo so otherworldly that it left you utterly breathless. 

His boots make a soft clicking noise against the limestone as He steps into the grotto, your safe haven for however long you had been here— now not. Not a single word left His lips as he assessed your rugged appearance. 

You wish He would smite you right then and there. He was most likely able to, and with ease, but you doubt He would willingly discard one of his longest-running experiments for disobeying a rule that you had broken many times before anyways. 

Your jittery gaze follows His movements as He outstretches His arm, offering you a gloved hand, silent. 

Did he know how much you simultaneously trusted and distrusted your own judgement? You stare at His hand, unmoving, heart racing against your ribcage— torn between bolting away, into the darkness of the cave, or intertwining your fingers with His, allowing Him to take you away voluntarily. 

This was mercy either way. You could either die at the hands of whatever lurked in the shadows of the grotto, or you could die at the hands of the man that brought you so much pain it morphed into comfort, solace. He stood, unmoving. Observing you. 

You knew Him well enough to know that He was taking mental notes on your behavior even now, outside of the familiar comfort of his lab in Haeresys. 

Both options were foolish, but you weren’t exactly known to be in the sanest state of mind. 

Pulling your arms away from your body, you bring a shaky hand up to take ahold of His, allowing Him to pull you up to your feet. You almost fall as a result of your nerves, but thanks to His quick reflexes you find yourself tucked in his arms, cheek pressed up against His navy cravat. The hand that wasn’t holding yours comes up to pat your head, gently untangling the knots that had formed in your hair. You melt into His touch, eyes fluttering shut to bask in the warmth He provided. 

As you stand there with Him, knees weak, body upheld by His will alone, you shove down the thoughts that brew in the forefront of your mind. Usually you would welcome the noise, even be grateful that you, at the very least, had yourself to lean on. But you find yourself wishing to lean on Him more than yourself, both literally and metaphorically, keening at the comfort He brought you. 

You knew you couldn’t trust your mind, so why not trust His instead? If you couldn’t rely on your own instincts, judgement or thoughts, then how bad would it truly be to let someone other than you become fully responsible for your wellbeing? 

... 

You were neither a moth nor human.

You were a dog.

[creatureheart]

hi! forgive me for bringing up an old post out of nowhere, moreso if youve already answered this question before (in which case feel free to just link your answer!) you made a really good post back in april explaining some alterhuman/nonhuman/etc labels and explaining some general facets of it like how it can develop involuntarily - in that post you say thar some people may experience being nonhuman physically or ancestrally and i was wondering what that means in this context? i hope this doesnt come across as rude or anything, im genuinely curious what this means and was hoping you could explain. thanks for taking the time to read either way. ❤️

Never feel bad for sending in questions. I’m always down to try my best at answering them when they’re sent in, but I cannot promise I know everything, and those that fall into these groups are welcome to chime in and correct me when needed!

To what you asked, in basic terms, it’s what it says on the tin. There are people who identify in a physical or ancestral way.

Some identify as their ‘types in all ways including physical. This may be due to the simple mindset of “this is my body, I am this thing, therefore this body is this thing’s body,” all the way to those who experience delusions that cause them to see themselves as physically their ‘type. It very much depends on the person and how they experience their nonhumaness. Some terms that refer to things like this are Holothere and Endel, but there are others!

Ancestral nonhumans are those who believe their nonhuman identity has been passed down through familial lineage. An example being some of the founders of the online Otherkin community who believed they were descended from Elves. I can’t say I know too much about this, but it again depends entirely on the individual as to how their family came to pass this down to their descendants — whether something like a curse, to it having always been that way.

While not the most informative, I hope this is a good start at finding information on these things, and I welcome anyone that falls into these groups to reblog and talk about their experiences.

[the-real-list-of-ominous-threats]

I will make your weird masochist friend call you a tsundere and beg for you to hit him

[helianskies]

Abel offered to pick him up. Old habits.

Antonio told him that he would pick him up that evening, but not at the airport. Older habits.

So, Abel would wait. He would wait as he always waited, in the end, and give Antonio what he wanted. That was perhaps the oldest habit they shared.

[ read on ao3! ] [ for @hetaberia-week! ]

[lynxfrost13]

Do you guys think Holt and Storch Sieben ever hatefucked

[liquidstar]

a friend who'd wait :)

[coveredinsun]

i wrote 3 different winnix fics in december & january but i realized i NEVER posted them here. so behold, my series of winnix fics where i get further and further detached from canon, and where i also make lew a girldad for fun

1. darling, it’s grand, they just don’t understand

“Act upon what he finds within himself, and only himself,” said Dick, audibly pensive in a way he hadn’t been. “I quite like that.”

“Well, that’s the gist,” said Lew with a shrug. He wasn’t even in the top half of eloquent men. “Honestly, I really hated reading and analyzing Emerson’s essays. He found a way to talk and talk and talk about nothing at all, when he could’ve kept it perfectly concise.”

Like you, Lew almost said. The bullet got jammed. Still, he had a hunch that Dick could read his mind this one time.

Or: July, 1948. Blanche Nixon invites her brother, and his business partner slash lover, to… a baseball game?

6.5k words, fluffiest of the three; my weird band of brothers/a league of their own (2022) crossover fic??? whatever. blanche invites winnix to a baseball game to see her baseball player girlfriend-ish, all the way mae. stupid emily dickinson references because i’m lame and basic, sue me. gay jazz clubs :)

2. november 27th

“Kathy hates it when I call her Maggie, but I think it’s cute that she’s got a little nickname to grow out of.”

“Or maybe she’ll find someone who calls her Maggie,” replied Dick, totally without thinking. “And he’ll say it’s ‘cause it’s easier, sure. But more than anything he’ll like the way it sounds when he says it.”

When Nix looked at him, then, his eyes glittered. His lips were pursed like he needed to say something or he’d shrivel up and die.

There were many things Dick could conceptualize him saying. Luckily, they fell into two neat categories—the things Dick expected Nix to say, and the things Dick wanted him to.

Or: 1942, 1944, and 1946. A study on Lewis Nixon’s history with love, destructive vices, and fatherhood—as seen from the eyes of a wife and a lover.

8.2k words, perhaps the most densely packed with angst of the three. examines lew and his relationships with love and fatherhood, both alongside kathy and alongside dick. ann winters introduction <3 and classic new jersey angst

3. the likes of me abide

“Well, I feel compelled to be a little more brave now,” replied Dick, holding up his gaze like Atlas held the heavens. “I ought to give you an answer that’s more honest.”

But not fully. It was sort of bitingly ironic, the way Lew always put up Dick as the more honest of them. He didn’t find that to be true. Not when there still existed so many selfish desires in his mind, like the one that practically clawed and scratched like an animal just to fit somewhere into this part of Lew’s life. He might never put that desperation into words.

Or: Summertime, 1951. Lew gets back in touch with Kathy.

10.3k words, angsty but less intensely as last time. i go reallyyyyy ham with kathy’s character in this, so take that as a treat. i also actually make lew and kathy’s daughter into a character <3

[lexiesdoodles]

Art fight 2024 !!!

[dallonwrites]

actually making my tags from my last post into their own post. writers who struggle with grammar, spelling, typos, errors etc i love you. writers who struggle with rereading their stuff thoroughly no matter how much they try, who don't always have access to other people to help them read i love you. whilst reading through and checking for these things is good practice i really believe that the weight of it should not be put wholly on the writer's shoulders. especially writers who are neurodivergent, disabled, have any condition that can impede their reading + comprehension, are overworked and overtired, are not writing in their native language, list goes on....because grammar mistakes/language mistakes/typos have nothing to do with your abilities as a creative. this is where editors should be uplifting writers, helping them, not scrutinising them for something they cannot always control

[lavenderjewels]

“kenjaku is the greatest mastermind of jjk, he’s a wolf, the big bad—” and its a loser who spends half of their time playing games or gossiping

[t0tallyspine]

The way Chip is genuinely convinced he's dying and the first thing he does is ask Gil to hold him- me and who.

[heisttheblackflag]

manifest platy replying to my fucking email today please 🔫