#heed my warning...

[jadeoru]

jade ........ I'm in your walls

you can not just drop that sakusa fic on my feed and expect me to be ok after that

you're going to actually kill me

LMFAO dodger i have so many ideas for this series im LOSING MY MIND i cant type 3 words without violently twitching over how badly i need this man‼️‼️ i will be spreading pathetic loser virgin sakusa till the day i die i fear

[chryza]

if anyone is ever trying convince you that an entire class of people is universally unsafe and you shouldn’t interact with them “for your own safety” or that you should only interact with others in your class because that’s the only way you’ll stay safe they’re projecting past trauma or lying. Everyone is capable of harm. No one is obliged to it. We can be sympathetic to those who have been hurt without reducing people to immutable traits that prevent us from empathizing with each other.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Happy one year anniversary to In Stars and Time!

[mr-megaphone]

[egophiliac]

don't think I'm not still deep in the episode 7 brainrot. because OH BOY AM I

(also one more extremely, obnoxiously self-referential thing, I'm -- I'm so sorry)

[anotherqueersnailowner]

hey here's a friendly warning

If I hear anyone of you claim that the A in LGBTQIA+ is for allies and you don't mention the Actual Fucking Queer Identities it actually stands for I will teleport into your room and beat the shit out of you

[hakusins]

♡ - Hands on Education (Ash & Darcy) (R21+) ♡ - For @fraternum-momentum (hope you have fun with this one mel ♡) Warnings: torture, sexual torture, mentions of dissection, somnophillia, sexual assault, drugging, paralysis, misuse of medical equipment, etc.

You shouldn’t be awake right now. Darcy will be the first to notice you, even before you notice you’re awake yourself, “Shit, Ash - She woke up already," He would call out to the other person in the room.

From where you laid on the unclean hospital stretcher, you can make out that the room was cramped - undeniably so. Especially with how Darcy’s almost hulking figure seems to be covering a large part of the room on your right side. To keep you steady, the larger man would reach down to keep one side of your arm pressed down onto the bed. 

It was a bit of a precaution really. These two already know that you can’t possibly make a break for it at this point. Despite being awake, your head should still be throbbing with pain and your body wracked with exhaustion and not to mention - the only exit in this room is the door right in front of you, where you lie in your hospital stretcher. Blocked by an equally massive, if not taller figure. 

“She’s awake?” The one blocking the exit would say, his visage obscured by the limited reach of the dim lights of the cramped room. It wasn’t until that he walks closer to the stretcher, that ‘Ash’ appearance would finally be visible to you. He was a contrast to his brother, mostly in his eyes - where his’ is a shining white-gray color whereas Darcy is a deep black color. 

“Yeah, what do we now? Should we do it while she’s awake?” Darcy would ask while keeping a steady hand on you. Ash would only roll his eyes in exaggerated exasperation at his brother’s antics. “You’re so fucking vanilla, Darce. Of course not, where’s the fun in her being awake?” 

Out of your sight, you wouldn’t be able to turn your head to see what Ash was reaching for. But there was some clatter of … something against a metal surface. Perhaps he was trying to get an equipment of sorts? Whatever it was, the sound was enough to sting back some clarity in your head and force to you to move. 

You won’t stay alive if you keep still there.

Unfortunately, this revelation came a bit too late to you, as in a matter of seconds, Ash was already at your other side, forcing your bobbing head back onto the mattress, his face now so dangerously close to yours, you can smell the remnants of cigarettes on his breath. “Hm, well I can see there is a bit of fun in her scared little face. Gosh, you’re really fucking pathetic looking, probably would look even more so when you’re choking on one of our cocks while getting your neck sliced open.” 

Your heart stills in your chest and fear descends into your gut. 

“But that’s not what I want to do,” All you can tell now was that Ash’s lips were close to your face now, you don’t see where Darcy has gone as all your focus is on the scarred lips that have now pressed against the side of your face, his hand forcibly tilting your face to look the other way so he can whisper into your ear, “We’re going to have fun puppy, and we’re going to do something I always wanted to try, alright? My baby brother might want to play with you a bit more when you’re awake though, so try to not die after we play, understood?” 

He would pull away, but he won’t re-position your head back to where it was resting. Instead, you will feel a sharp sting into your neck as something was injected into you. “Shh…. You’ll be asleep for most of the time. So don’t complain about it too much, yeah?” 

Unfortunately, the drug wasn’t an anesthetic but a paralysis drug. Which means you are aware of everything and anything happening to you. 

In your state, you can hear the two of them speak, but there was nothing you can do. 

You accept your fate.

“You know, Darce. We’ve missed on so many things together… how many years has it been, brother? Remind me again.” 

“…. Five, I believe…. Perhaps even seven, if we count the two years where I’ve located you but I wasn’t able to meet with you-.” 

Ash didn’t wait for Darcy to finish, already going on with his monologue. You hear a lot of shuffling in the room as the two men moved around the room. “Seven fuckin’ years, Darce. Seven. And just like that I missed out on all the things I should’ve taught you as an older brother.” 

“Ash, listen - where the hell are you going about this-,” “Let me finish, baby brother.” Ash’s voice was steady and sound. It commanded everyone’s attention. 

“To make it up to you, I’ve decided, why not catch up on everything now? Come here, you can be her first and while we’re at it.” There was rustling, like clothes falling to the floor and the weight of someone else climbing onto the stretcher.

It was unclear if it was Darcy and Ash at this point, but - then - you felt it, the cold hiss of a knife grazing against the skin of your pelvis as your clothes were brushed aside to expose your body to the two. “I’m going to be a good big brother and show you how to properly pleasure a woman’s body. We’ll even get a live demonstration when I cut her open and we can see how her body responds to getting raped in her sleep.”

There was a pause as the knife was repositioned on your pelvis. 

“This should be a good place to cut, right?”

There's no saving you.

[insertdisc5]

do you have like. an alt. a seeecret account where you post all your secrets. or just like. random ramblings?

omgggg waaaaah!!! okay um!!! okay listen!!! ^_^ (GRABS YOU BY THE SHOULDERS) if you have more than 5000 followers on ANY platform you NEED to make yourself a private account with trusted friends only where you can talk shit. starting 5000, nay, 1000 followers, you CANNOT talk shit in public anymore. or you will DIE

[clickety-clacker]

Muy b eautiful fanart for chapter four of Starlight Interference

[ministarfruit]

pleased to announce that I have finished omori and feel very normal about siblings right now

[ogpromiscuouspaperplanes]

WHODUNIT but it’s increasingly difficult because the workplace all shares similar paint jobs

some weeks later:

[whoupsqlointing]

Just Roll With It campaigns ranked by how good they are to listen to at work through earbuds surrounded by coworkers

Good:

1. Riptide and Prime Defenders. Longest campaigns meaning months of content with steady pacing. Some visual bits and occasional emotional/hilarious episodes but if needed those can be watched at home and then you can get back to your regular listening.

2. Judgement. Audio only campaign so no visual bits missed. Very compelling but not going to make you look weird in public if youre locked in. Based campaign highly recommended

3. Wonderlust. Similar to Judgement but some visual bits may be missed.

4. Blood in the Bayou. Great experience but extremely short, you'll need to have a back up playlist ready.

Better to listen at home:

Total Monster Kill. Too fucking sad. You're going to cry all over your work space.

Apotheosis. Too sad and too funny. The bits and the sexual energy continue to ramp up until youre crying with laughter and then the last few episodes hit and youre crying in despair and other strong emotions. Some episodes also much better with visuals.

The Suckening. Too sad, too funny, and too hot. I can't be normal about those feedings and frenzies its impossible. The bits are off the rails and the finale hits like a truck. Impossible to keep a straight face at any point in the campaign, do not listen in public ever.

[valtsv]

greek yoghurt will take hold of you and you will resent its absence

[daemon-in-my-head]

At last, here it is. A while ago, I had the pleasure of commissioning the wonderful @lokorum to portray my beloved idiots in all of their tragic glory.

So without further ado, after months, here's the first chapter of my durgetash-centred, possibly very long, post-canon Genfic (cuz even if he's not featured in the picture, he's very much the one behind it, and yes, I said genfic but they do fuck, there's just also other themes that are more important than whatever it is those guys got going on).

https://archiveofourown.org/works/63147115

Rated M; further elaboration, summary etc behind the cut.

As per usual, please mind the tags. This is rated mature and may turn explicit depending on—let's be so fr—nothing but my mood. It IS a tragedy. I know how it ends. Trust me when I stress the tragedy part. I'm writing this story through tears at times. There's fluff, there is hurt comfort, there is true old man yaoi but there is just as much 'doves that aren't simply dead but rotten' and pain.

So to everyone who's not scared shitless yet (which is very valid), here's a summary:

The year is around 1530 DR. The once-revered and reformed Bhaalspawn returns to the city he had both saved and nearly doomed, emerging from his exile in the Underdark. Though he claims to seek only rest, the city's de facto ruler, Archduke Gortash, sees through the monster’s carefully crafted facade. Perhaps if the elf had never saved the Banite all those years ago—when he was little more than a blurred and distant memory—his own fate might have unfolded differently, perhaps even more mercifully. But regrets have long since lost their weight. The past is immutable, and all that remains—all that truly matters to him now—is the purpose that once again draws him into this treacherous den.

And on a personal note; I'm still squealing and shoving this artwork into the face of everyone I meet irl. I absolutely adore it. I'm not sure I'll be stopping with that soon. You will see reblogs.

Again. Tragedy. I mean it. There's fluffy moments, but I will absolutely exploit them to enhance the pain. I'm dead serious about Bhaal being able to learn from me. I caused his kid more agony than he could ever dream of delivering. And I haven't even shared the worst parts yet.

Edit: I also mean the psychological warfare tag. It's my guilty pleasure. And whatever over one year of obsession amounts to.

[scooterpengie]

So I've been "watching" The Boys and omg the Villainous parallels. The Villainous parallels...

[whumplicity]

The Memory Circuit [V]

Bite Down

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⎉: @chaotic-orphan @morning-star-whump Let me know if you'd like to be added or subtracted from the taglist!

CW: graphic depictions of physical and psychological torture, child abuse, grooming, sexual violence involving minors, institutional exploitation, non-consensual medical/technological procedures, trauma flashbacks, violence, captivity, dissociation, systemic abuse.

Line dividers by @sister-lucifer!!!!

It’s in the bones. In the soft tissue. In the places they didn’t bandage, because they didn’t care to.

His ribs are packed wrong—wrapped too tight, maybe broken in three places. His knees are locked in crude external splints. The shoulder—left—burns. Swollen. Dislocated. Maybe shattered? It feels like it. His right hand won’t flex. 

The chair holds him upright, fixed in place. Mechanical restraints at ankles, wrists, chest. A gentle hum. Cold metal bolted to colder floors. Bok can’t breathe easy. He can only sit in the wreckage of himself, eyes half-lidded, mouth dry and sticky.  

He shifts. Just once.  

The pain flares, vivid and immediate.

The door opens.

He doesn’t lift his head. He can hear the steps: unhurried, expensive. A rustle of real fabric, not synthetic. Cotton. Maybe silk.

“You know,” the voice says lightly, “you’ve got a remarkable pain threshold.”

Bok does look, then. Just a little. His neck protests, loud.

The man who enters is not dressed like a soldier. Civilian clothes: deep blue shirt, sleeves rolled up, collar loose; dark slacks. Wavy red hair pulled back loosely, some of it still curling at the sides. A gold necklace glints at his chest. Black gloves sheath his hands, and at his hip, a sleek holstered gun rests.

Pretty. Bok hates that it’s the first thing he notices. Pretty, in that careless, born-with-it way. Sharp nose, clean lines, dry eyes.

Coffee. He’s holding coffee.

Bok stares.

The man sets it down on the table beside him and gestures with an elegant little flourish, like they’re starting a chess match.

“Broke a man’s tibia with your elbow, apparently. While your own leg was already broken. I don’t know if I’m impressed or nervous.”

Bok can’t tell if he’s being mocking or not.

The man walks closer, retrieving the neural tap cable.

“You were still kicking. Still biting. Ribs broken, hand crushed, and you still managed to stab someone. So forgive me—” he glances at the restraints, “—for being a little cautious.”  

He crouches. Close now. Bok can smell the coffee.  

“I’m Ricky,” he says, tone clipped, unbothered. “You and I are going to get very close.”  

Ricky picks up the bit next, turning it between his fingers—black polymer, soft—and holds it up like a peace offering.

“Bite down.”  

Bok doesn’t move.

Ricky rocks forward onto his toes, his face barely beneath Bok’s eye level, but Bok gazes coolly back down at him nonetheless.

“It’s not for me,” Ricky snorts. “It’s for your tongue. Once I go in, it’s going to get ugly.”

He slips it into Bok’s mouth with steady fingers. Bok bites down hard.

Ricky jerks his hand back with a hiss. “Shit,” he mutters, shaking out his hand. “Yeah. Good man.”

He finally rises, shakes out his fingers one last time, then turns and strides to the console.

The rig hums to life. The tap slides into position, and Ricky’s fingers fly over the controls, quietly humming to himself.

“Not personal,” he adds—and hits one last switch.

¶¶¶¶

Whatever it is slams into Bok’s skull like a hammer.

He jerks in the chair. Screams against the bit. His back arches. The restraints groan. Every nerve lights up like a live wire.  

On-screen, the first images begin to flash.

¶¶¶¶

Age 13. Training Facility: Unit 17

A dorm. Sterile. White. He’s naked from the waist down.  

A clipboard passes between two adults. One nods. The other gestures.  

The handler steps forward. Grabs his jaw. Lifts it. Examines him like a horse.  

“He's grown,” they note. “Ready for evaluation.”  

He tries to speak. Voice cracks. They slap him. Open hand. 

He’s twelve. Maybe thirteen.  

The handler grips his shoulder. Turns him. Presents him.  

“You’ll be perfect,” they murmur, adjusting his collar. “Lower your eyes.”  

Bok watches from the chair, shaking.  

NO. No no nonono stop—stop this—no more, not now—

But it only digs in further.  

¶¶¶¶

Age 14. Night Session: Red Room

A velvet bed. Cameras in every corner. A glass wall.  

Three men sit behind it. Watching. Grading.  

Bok is told to strip. He does.  

Hands guide him. Lotioned palms. Voice at his ear.  

“Do it sweet this time. Smile like you mean it.”  

Sharp cologne. Bok kneels.  

His eyes are dead. Inside, he’s somewhere else.  

Behind the glass, someone nods. A ‘pass’.

Bok clenches his fists in the chair. Restraints grind against metal.  

His whole body is taut. Teeth digging into the bit.  

Ricky shifts. He clears his throat. Tries to skip ahead.  

Bok slams a mental wall in place.  

The machine screeches. Screen fuzzes. Glitches.  

But it finds another path.

¶¶¶¶

Age 15. First Kill

A hotel room. Expensive. Marble tub.  

A client lies back, champagne in one hand. His pupils are slow.  

Bok is dressed in silk. Lipstick.  

He laughs. Touches the man’s shoulder. Drops something into the drink.  

“Bottoms up.”  

The man drinks.  

Thirty seconds. His lips go slack. Bok leans in. Whispers something that isn’t picked up. Then drives the needle into his neck.  

The body spasms.  

Bok pins him with a knee. Watches the light fade.  

Then calmly strips the bed. Wipes the prints. Changes clothes. Twirls the keys, pockets them, gone. 

The whole act—flawless.

On screen, it replays twice.  

Ricky exhales. 

“Why did they pivot you to assassination?” 

Bok curls his lip. “Maybe I got bored.”

¶¶¶¶

Age 16. Assault

A handler. Drunk. Furious. Slams Bok into the wall.  

“You want to make me look bad?”  

He’s been failing evaluations. Slipping.  

Too much resistance.

The man forces him down. Belt off. No camera this time.  

It’s fast. Violent. Bok doesn’t scream.  

Afterwards, he lies there. Eyes open. Something gone.  

¶¶¶¶

Bok thrashes in the chair. Screaming now. Wordless. Gut-deep.  

The restraints dig into broken skin.  

On screen, the memory degrades. Fragments. Blurs.  

Then another—

¶¶¶¶

Age 17. Redress

A locker room. Same handler.  

Bok follows, humming.  

Injector in hand. Sharp. Fast.  

Stab to the neck. Hold it. Hold it—until the body stops moving.  

The blood freckles Bok’s cheek.

He laughs—soft, breathless.

¶¶¶¶

Back in the chair, Bok shoves with every ounce of mental force left.  

The screen hisses. Static. Feedback stutters.

Bok’s pushing back against the onslaught. Slamming doors in its face.

Ricky types frantically. Tries to reroute.  

Fails.  

Tries again.  

Fails.  

Overload. 

Sync disruption. 

Neural resistance spike: critical. 

“Stop fighting,” Ricky snaps. “Stop it—”  

Bok glares at him. His lips are bleeding dark.

He spits the bit to the floor with a slick clack.

“You get off on that, Ricky?” he sneers, voice tight, eyes wet, betraying him. “You enjoy it?”  

The screen explodes into white noise. Hard cut.  

Bok crumples. Not quite unconscious. His head pounds.

Ricky stares at the console. Then at Bok.  

His voice is thin.

“You little bastard.”  

Ricky crosses the room. Pages someone on the intercom.  

“We’ve got a failure,” he says. “Tap’s down. No data retrieved. He—overloaded it. I don’t know how.”

A beat.  

“No, don’t send a tech. He fried it.”  

He turns his back, pinching the bridge of his nose. Silence.

He clicks off.  

Ricky stands by the door, one hand resting on the frame, his gaze tracing the tense lines of Bok’s body as his chest heaves with ragged breaths.

“You know,” Ricky’s voice is hollow, the words hanging in the space between them, “I was hoping you’d make this easy.”  

“Go… fuck yourself,” Bok wheezes out.

The door hisses shut behind Ricky, sharp and final.

The lights dim.

And Bok lets his head fall back, eyes shuttering.

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