#heed the trigger warnings | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

teruthecreator · 1 year

Text

(tw for racism, pedophilia, transphobia, child impregnation mention)

yeah idk why y'all read this

i was originally going to just post this and have some tags with my reasonings, but i realized that opens me up to too much bullshit from people who may think i'm being unnecessarily mean or whatever. so i'm going to explain exactly why the screenshots above are something i hold issue with.

firstly, and i just want to get this out of the way, this post is not intended to be a hit piece against the creator. i've seen how she reacts to any mild-mannered or slightly joking criticism, so i know this post is probably going to not land well. but it isn't my intention to make her mad or anything--she's writing a piece of content for the internet, which means she is just as open to criticism as any other poster. and what i intend to go into in this post is criticism. i'm allowed to do this, as that is the nature of the internet. people are allowed to critique whatever they please, and if you don't want critique then you shouldn't post. simple as!

i am also making no attempts to posit myself as better than the creator. i'm not doing this for clout or moral superiority or any of that dumb shit. i simply want to discuss something that's been bothering me for a bit, while simultaneously warning people who haven't read this yet (who may be sensitive to the issues above) to steer clear. if things like casual racism or transphobia aren't properly tagged, then readers who are affected by such things run a risk reading this! same goes with people who are triggered by lewd content involving minors. i wanna make sure people are getting a more critical scope of this work than what has been hoisted up by others.

okay, now that i've gotten that out of the way, i'm going to get into my points.

firstly, the subtle and not-so-subtle racism throughout this fic, especially in relation to serizawa. i'm white, so there is only so much i can speak on without trampling over the words of other fans of color, but some of this feels so blatant it's odd it hasn't been noted earlier. it's important to note before i go into it that serizawa is specifically written as half-black half-japanese for this fic, in case the screenshots don't make it abundantly clear. but there are just too many moments of casual racism in this fic. i'm not talking about the plot point of serizawa being bullied as a kid for being mixed; i'm not mixed, so i can't speak on the accuracy there but it is well-known that black people face a lot of racism in japan. i'm talking about how it seems everyone else has these racist moments that aren't acknowledged by serizawa or the narration as being bad.

reigen hypothesizing over serizawa's exact ethnic background is just strange. yes he's a fairly observant guy (he has to be, with his job), but there is no canonical evidence to suggest he would immediately jump to theorizing whether serizawa is american or not. and the way it's posed in that first quote--"he has darker skin and the kind of hair texture that would likely indicate African ancestry"--is not great. that's an extremely inappropriate way to bring up someone's race. i don't think most people would stare at someone and be like "hmmm well your nose shape and hair texture would suggest you're of this race". it's racial essentialization that is only slightly covered up by the excuse of "oh he tweets in english". there are some other smaller moments of questionable wording, like calling serizawa's afro "sloppy" when it isnt (which btw there's another issue with the creator only referring to an afro as a "fro". it's a hairstyle; you're allowed to use the actual name of it). even if reigen cuts his hair in canon, he never states it's because serizawa's afro looks sloppy. (also there's something to be said about the casual racism baked into making your employee cut his natural hairstyle for a job, as that is a very real issue many black people face when wearing their natural hair or even protective styles in the workplace.)

i'm especially bothered by toichiro's very casual racist remarks. toichiro in this fic is a general bother of mine (most of which can be boiled down to "he would not fucking say that"), but the way she chooses to characterize him in relation to serizawa feels gross. calling a black man a slave should be a very obvious red flag, but also saying serizawa (again, as a black man) has a "brutal masculine appeal" is also extremely stereotypical and racist. and really there is just no need for it; toichiro's actions in canon prove how shitty of a guy he is without the need for him to be racist (along with other things i'll get to in a bit). as my girlfriend put it: he doesn't need to be a member of the fucking kkk to show he's a bad guy.

there's also, again, the very casual racist remark of calling serizawa a "dog". i don't care if that isn't the intent; when you are writing a character of color you need to be aware of your wording, even in insults (unless she intended to make tsuchiya racist, which i don't think she did).

secondly, the eugenics/child pregnancy bit. it is surreal to even have to write this, but i seriously do not understand the purpose of either of these bits in the story. they are so minor yet so jarring you can't help but wonder why they're there. once again, i do not think you need to have toichiro doing esper eugenics just to prove he is an evil guy. he has nuance, and by making him casually reference child pregnancy (like that isn't an INSANE thing to say) reduces that nuance to nothing. that's the only reason i could see why that bit was included: to make toichiro look worse. but, even still, the author is running the risk of potentially triggering victims of csa or people who don't want to see that by not properly tagging the mention of it (or, at the very least, warning readers in the intro notes). the only other explanation for it would maybe be shock factor??? but that's a pretty shitty thing to use for shock factor, if i'm honest. also the fact that the esper eugenics was referenced again in a more recent chapter just has me very disturbed and confused. there isn't a canonical explanation for why we see less espers who are women than espers who are men, but that doesn't mean we need to jump to fucking Eugenics. it's weird!

thirdly (and this is probably one of my biggest problems and the main reason i wanted to make this post), the weirdly lewd/sexual language shou uses constantly, along with referring to reigen as a pedo or a creep at several points. frankly, i think it's pretty fucking gross for someone in their near-40's to be writing a 12-year-old talking so casually about sex like that's normal. which, i'm sorry, but it's not. yes, teens know about sex and like to joke about lewd shit. but a 12-year-old is not about to make references to a grown man's virginity. 12-year-olds draw dicks on their desk bc they think it's funny. 12-year-olds say the word "buttfuck" because it has the words "butt" and "fuck" in it, and those are the two funniest words on earth to a kid that age. i literally do not understand the purpose of having shou be so lewd all the time. for one, it doesn't make sense for his character. shou is shown time and time again to be extremely mature for his age, but that maturity extends to shit like assembling a counter-terrorism unit and extending a hand to his father to allow him to try again. and even then he's still just as naive as any other kid his age! the omake where he's telling his guys to go to the "far right corner" based on ritsu’s advice proves that he still has plenty of blindspots that are indicative of his age. leaning into this raunchy, lewd version of shou is just weird. and, again, i think it is made a bit weirder given the author's age!!! not ageshaming or whatever--i'm 23 and i write fanfic, clearly i cannot judge there--but it is just extremely inappropriate in my opinion. also having shou be more versed in sextalk than serizawa is odd too and speaks to a larger issue of serizawa's infantilzation throughout this fic, but that's something i can get into in another post if people want an explanation.

also, the way she constantly calls reigen a creep and even has him being accused of being a pedophile during the twitter cancellation is extremely inappropriate when, again, there is NO CANONICAL BASIS FOR THIS! everyone just calls him a fraud and a scammer during separation arc; there is never a reference to reigen being seen as a pedophile in that arc. and, yes, while there are versions of mob psycho where reigen is very clearly written as a creep (looking very specifically at the netflix adaptation), that doesn't mean it's good. honestly, the creep mentions all just feel like really poor jokes that do not land in the slightest.

finally, the transphobia (aka WHY IS SHIMAZAKI A CHASER). i literally do not know what else to say other than: why? why is this a thing? why is he a chaser? what is the purpose of this? is it a joke? i feel like it's supposed to be, but seeing as the author is cis i don't think that's a joke she should really be making. it not only comes out of left field, but it's just kind of a weird thing to ascribe to a character for no reason. not to mention, it's uncomfortable! trans women deal with enough creepy antics from cis men in real life--why must they be accosted by this guy too? it's just weird and uncomfortable.

i wanna round out this post by saying, once again, that i'm not trying to attack anyone with this post. but i do hope people come away from this with a new perspective on this work, and maybe think twice before recommending it uncritically to someone. to the author specifically, i hope you can read my post without rage or indignance blinding you. i might be a little blunt or rude in parts, but it's only because i'm passionate and i don't mince my words when it comes to things i'm passionate about. to the readers, understand i am not judging you for reading this fic without noticing these things. your own life experiences will give you certain blindspots and there's nothing wrong with that. i have plenty of blindspots of my own! it's what makes us human.

there is more i could say, but this post is long enough. i ask that if you come to me in my inbox or in dms about this that you treat me with respect, as i will do that for you. writing something like this took a lot out of me, as i'm usually not so open about my opinion on shit like this.

have a good day :-)

#mp100 #side quest #yeah this is all from <- that fic btw #ive been sitting on this for about a week or so bc ive been nervous abt posting something like this #i dont want people to think im making a callout post just to call shit out #im doing this bc i dont want people to get triggered by this content and because i want fans to be more critical of the content they consum #media literacy is something A LOT of fandoms struggle with and it leads to things being praised uncritically #i simply want people to have perspective when going into a thing #anyways uh. goodbye <3 #edit: took the tw tags off bc tumblr was suppressing the post bc of it #so PLEASE heed the warning at the top if u have specific triggers and things

146 notes · View notes

slippinmickeys · 1 year

Text

Proof of Life

(AU, MSR)

TW: This is an AU idea I’ve been playing with for years, and while this does not take place there, in light of the recent atrocities in the Middle East, the situations presented herein may cause discomfort for some readers. I’m posting a trigger warning for those who may want to stay away. There are mentions of violence in this work, though nothing graphic. I’m using an archive warning on AO3 out of an abundance of caution. Please take care of yourselves and each other.

1. When she’s shoved into the hotel room, it is on a scorching dump of adrenaline; dry-throat, sphincter-clenching, pure terror. She’s sure this is It. But the door closes behind her before she’s finished stumbling forward, and no one has followed her in.

The relief she feels is short-lived, as she looks up to see a man sitting on the floor opposite her, legs out straight, head propped lazily against the wall behind him, days worth of beard stubble growing unevenly over his jaw. He is holding a mid-century Nikon, which he slowly raises with one arm. A squint through the viewfinder. Click.

Ten floors down, on the street below, there is the rapid insect-chitter of gunfire. He doesn’t so much as flinch, but does lower his camera.

“Cable is out and room service hasn’t showed in over a week,” he says in an American accent. “The service here is terrible.”

Her producer Murray, who also acted as her translator, is dead. Mikey was shoved into a different van, along with his camera and the soft-sided bag of cables and equipment. That communication won’t be a struggle with what she now assumes is her new cell mate feels like a holy deliverance.

Before she can formulate a response, he introduces himself.

“Name’s Mulder,” he says, the distant fireworks-like concussion of an explosion punctuating his statement and rattling the room’s single window.

“Dana Scully,” she says, feeling an odd compulsion to cross the room and offer the man a handshake.

“Scully,” he repeats, her surname rolling off his tongue like honey out of a jar. “Welcome to the Hilton.”

2. He’d let her take the bed, which was pretty chivalrous, all things considered.

It was a queen, and had been shoved up against the wall on the far corner of the room, leaving a soft rectangle of plush, clean carpet upon which Mulder slept, surrounded by flattened, trodden paths of grime. The headboard was still affixed to the wall where the bed had previously sat, giving the room a tilting, off-kilter feel. As Scully exits the bathroom in the morning, she nearly stumbles from the vertigo.

There is still a trickle of water from the bathroom sink, and the toilet tank takes about an hour to properly fill, but Mulder informs her that he has yet had reason to use the slop bucket the militants have helpfully left just inside the door. She imagines the small relief she feels now will likely grow bigger as the days pass.

“Morning,” Mulder says, stretching elaborately, the soiled henley he’s wearing lifting up enough to show a few inches of lean muscle sprinkled with dark hair.

“Morning,” she greets him, wandering over to the window to peer out at the gray, post-dawn light. To the west, part of the city is burning, a dull orange glow on the horizon.

After a moment, she feels a gentle hand on her arm.

“I’d stay away from the window,” Mulder says, and when she turns to him, she discovers that he’s tall, far taller than she is, and his hazel eyes are soft as he leads her away from the square of flat light. “There are snipers all over the city.”

She swallows, nods at him, and he gives her a soft smile as he turns to head into the bathroom for his own morning ablutions. She lowers herself to the bed, and looks to the shoes she kicked off before crawling under the covers. There is a spatter of blood covering the canvas upper of her left shoe, all that remains of Murray Underwood. She tries to feel something other than numbness, but nothing comes to the surface.

When Mulder comes out of the bathroom, he asks if she’s hungry, and produces a slender yellow box of crackers from somewhere in the room, pulling out a cellophane-wrapped column of pale disks dotted with black seeds that he hands over when she says she’s famished.

She has finished the sleeve before she thinks to offer him one, but he smiles and says he’s fine.

3. It has been three days since she was shoved unceremoniously into room 1055 and they have not seen so much as another human other than those darting between buildings on the war torn street below.

She has learned that Mulder is a freelance photojournalist from Massachusetts who has photographed conflicts everywhere from Burma to the Congo and that he was taken two days before she and her crew were ambushed and taken hostage themselves.

He does not have an apartment or permanent mailing address, traveling from conflict to conflict with only a backpack and his camera, and is far more comfortable with the disturbing noises outside the hotel than Scully ever will be, no matter how much she fancies herself a war reporter.

He has just gotten her to laugh for the first time since her arrival when the door to their room bursts open and three militants carrying assault rifles trample in, all three of them shouting words Scully can’t understand, their guns up as if they are about to shoot.

Mulder, who had been sitting on the bed next to her, is already up, spitting out words in rapid-fire French and positioning himself in between the gunmen and Scully. The militants either don’t understand him or don’t care and through a haze of adrenal tinnitus she can finally make out one thing they’re saying:

“CNN! CNN!”

She raises her hand meekly.

“I’m CNN,” she says, and the men shove Mulder aside and grab her by both arms, pulling her from the bed and shoving her up against the wall.

“Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!” Mulder says, making a move to intervene, only to be cold-cocked by the butt of the third man’s rifle right in the face. He staggers to the side before he too is grabbed by the arms and shoved up against the wall next to Scully. All three men swing up their rifles and Scully is certain they’re about to be executed when a fourth man appears, dressed in an actual military uniform and shoves a newspaper into Scully’s hand, gripping her arm in annoyance when she turns it to stare at the headline, which is printed in a language she doesn’t understand.

The man barks something at her and yanks on her arms again, so that she’s holding the paper in front of her like a con holding up a booking ID in a mugshot. He whips up a beat-up disposable camera and takes a picture, the little flash blinding her.

By the time her vision clears, the room is once again empty but for she and Mulder and they are both breathing hard in the silence. Mulder is the first one to find his voice.

“Don’t worry,” he says, putting a hand on her arm. “They’re clearly after a ransom. They’ll keep us alive. Are you okay?” She turns to him dumbly, still holding the newspaper.

The sight of blood knocks her back into the present.

“Jesus, Mulder, you’re bleeding.”

There is a rivulet of blood running down his face from a laceration at his temple. He raises up a hand and touches it to the stream, looking down at the crimson smudge with a wince.

“I’ll be alright,” he says.

“Let me see,” she says, trying to get a closer look, but he gently swats her hand away.

“I’ll be fine.”

“That likely needs stitches,” she says, and he makes a face. She sighs. “I’m doctor, Mulder. Please let me take a look. Sit on the bed.”

He finally relents, lowering himself to sit and giving her a look askance. “I thought you were a reporter for CNN.”

“I contain multitudes,” she says, stepping in close and tilting his chin up with her finger.

He hasn’t showered in days, hasn’t done more than a few hasty washcloth seam cleans, she knows, but the smell of him up close, the smell of his skin – sun-warmed and woodsy – is so familiar to her that she has to blink a few times before she can refocus on the task at hand.

“It needs stitches,” she proclaims after a moment, saying it in a crisp, no-nonsense way that brooks no argument.

“It’s too bad we don’t have access to-”

“I saw a sewing kit in the bathroom,” she interrupts, and she can see the moment he resigns himself to her ministrations.

He complains loudly as she splashes the cut with the small bottle of complementary Listerine, but remains silent as she sutures his wound closed, leaning in close to bite off the thread when she finishes. As she pulls back, she can see a thought flit across his face, but he merely thanks her softly when she’s done and then stands to go clean up in the bathroom.

That night, she invites him to share the bed, and they sleep on opposite edges, though in the morning their fingers are only inches away from each other and her feet have found their way under the warm meat of his leg.

4. It was inevitable really, she says to herself; forced proximity, the bonding of shared peril, two healthy middle-aged sex drives… And it’s not like there’s anything else to do. She thinks of Ethan, probably losing his mind with worry back in the newsroom, but can only muster a finite amount of regret. After two weeks of carefully skirting around the issue, she pressed her body into Mulder’s side one night and it was as if a floodgate had opened, and they were all teeth and tongues and hands everywhere; the most lustful and sensual sex she has ever had in her life.

They have not been disturbed since the Proof of Life incident, other than food of some sort or another being shoved through a cracked door every few days, and so they have taken to not wearing much — their clothes mainly hanging up over the shower curtain in the bathroom, perpetually drying from their feeble attempts to wash them with a credit card-sized, ever-shrinking flat of generic soap that they also must use on their bodies.

Mulder is a generous lover, and affectionate, and now that he has carte blanche to touch her, it seems like it’s all he wants to do. If they’re not lazing away, curled up together in bed, he’ll find a reason to touch her arm, her back, tapping her with the back of his finger to get her attention. She has come to crave his touch, the physical manifestation of a pair-bond that grips them both so tightly it feels sometimes like a vice around her heart.

5. The fighting has moved to a different part of the city from where they are, and the sounds of the chaos seem almost a far-away afterthought. She is standing in the window, something she finally feels safe doing, when she hears a telltale click.

She turns to find Mulder propped up in the bed, bare chested, his beat-up Nikon held up to his eye. He reaches forward with his other hand to adjust the focus, and takes another snap.

Scully smiles at him shyly and he returns her grin.

“The light is perfect,” he says with bedroom eyes, using his thumb to advance the film. He has already gone through three rolls since she arrived, every picture he’s taken since day five all featuring her as the subject.

“You’re beautiful,” he says.

She reaches up self-consciously to touch her hair. They are long-since out of shampoo, and it hangs in limp, greasy clumps. She is more embarrassed by this than by the state of her undress; she is not wearing a stitch of clothing.

“Something tells me this isn’t the kind of picture Newsweek generally pays you for.”

“Fuck Newsweek,” he says. “You belong in the Louvre.”

She shakes her head at him as a sound they have not heard in a while begins to build from outside the building. They both pause and cock their heads, attuned now to the odd sounds of a city under siege. From the distance comes the deep tucka-tucka-tucka of a helicopter. They share a look.

The militants who control this part of the city do not have a helicopter amongst their resources, and now that the sound is getting closer, they can tell there’s more than one approaching.

Without a word they both make their way to the bathroom and quickly don their stiff clothing.

“Shoes too,” Mulder says, as Scully puts her arms through her slippery jacket — it still has a large patch on the back that says “PRESS.”

The helicopters are almost on top of them now, and they can hear shouts from the hallway outside their room and the muffled thump thump thump of boots running in both directions.

“Into the tub,” Mulder instructs, and she sees the sense in this, nodding at him, her pulse beating quick as a rabbit’s beneath her skin. “I’ll get in first, you lay flat on top of me, okay?”

“Should we grab the mattress?” Scully asks, thinking they could pull it on top of themselves like she’d seen covering tornado-stricken parts of the Midwest.

“I don’t think there’s time,” Mulder says, his Adam’s apple bobbing as a spate of gunfire erupts from several floors above them.

He lowers himself in and she scrambles in after him, pressing her face into his chest and listening to the tight thump of his heart. The tub isn’t really big enough for both of them — Mulder couldn’t even fit his long legs all the way inside of it — but she feels safer than she has in months, with Mulder’s arms wrapped around her tightly, and his voice softly mumbling words of comfort into her ear.

There is an awful CRACK! from very close to their room and then an eruption of noise and chaos as the door to their room is blown apart, shards of wood from it blowing into the bathroom. Her ears are ringing and voices are shouting, but all she can focus on is Mulder’s arms around her and the soft steady sound of his voice in her ear saying “I love you. I love you so much,” over and over and over.

And then Mulder’s camera bag is sliding off of her legs (because of course he’d brought it into the tub with them) as strong arms lift her up and out of the tub and the next thing she knows, she is being frogmarched between two black-clad militants up an emergency stairwell and all the while she is calling desperately for Mulder but her voice or his is eaten up by noise and confusion.

In a further burst of sound and light, she is pushed through a door and onto the roof of the hotel where two muscular helicopters sit, blades spinning, surrounded by operatives crouched and bristling with all the sophisticated military might of a first world nation. She pulls up short in surprise.

“Ma’am! Ma’am!” It takes her a moment to register that the voice was coming from one of the soldiers holding her arms. She swings her head toward him, dumbfounded.

“Ma’am,” he goes on, having to shout above the cacophony of the rotor wash. “I’m with the United States Navy. We’re here to rescue you. I need you to board the aircraft immediately!”

Scully nods and then lets herself be swept along with the tide of soldiers surrounding her up and into the Blackhawk, where she is deposited onto a bench, buckled in, and handed a pair of bright orange foam earplugs which she is instructed to insert into her ear canals post haste.

Before she can think to ask a question, her chopper is airborne, tilting itself and veering south and the last sight she has of Mulder, for months and months, is the back of his body being hoisted into the other helicopter, his arms wrapped around his old camera bag as they’d been wrapped around her body not five minutes before.

#the x-files #fanfic #my fic #alternate universe #msr #war correspondent/photojournalist AU #please heed trigger warnings

55 notes · View notes

ssreeder · 7 months

Link

Chapters: 17/? Fandom: Avatar: The Last Airbender Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Sokka/Zuko (Avatar), Aang/Katara (Avatar), others to be tagged later - Relationship Characters: Sokka (Avatar), Zuko (Avatar), Aang (Avatar), Katara (Avatar), Toph Beifong, Jet (Avatar), Suki (Avatar), Kyoshi Warriors (Avatar), Iroh (Avatar), Jee (Avatar), Hakoda (Avatar), Bato (Avatar), A bunch of OCs, Long Feng, Joo Dee (Avatar), Azula (Avatar), Mai (Avatar), Ty Lee (Avatar), Ozai (Avatar), General Fong (Avatar) Additional Tags: Violence, Blood and Injury, War, Minor Character Death, Rape/Non-con Elements, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Attempted Sexual Assault, Major Character Injury, Amputation, Implied/Referenced Suicide, possible major character death, themes similar to the first two books, Sexism, Racism (like has already been written in first two books), dark themes, Human Trafficking, Slavery, Just a lot of dark war-like themes, there will be a battle, Torture, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Injury Recovery, Healing, Underage Sex, Underage Drinking, Animal Death, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Warnings each chapter, Hopefully some healing for Zuko finally, no promises, but that’s the goal, Reunions, hopefully a happy ending, Sokka gets some healing too, Non-Consensual Drug Use Series: Part 3 of Leaving It All Behind Summary:

-This is the last book of the series LIAB, please go read the other two books before this, or you will be very confused-

Zuko has been taken by the Earth Kingdom army to who-knows-where, and Sokka is determined to get him back.

But he can’t do it alone.

With Suki and the Kyoshi Warriors by his side, Sokka is headed to Ba Sing Se to find Katara and Aang so they can go rescue his fire bender.

Things aren’t as easy as he had hoped. Corruption, lies, and unknown horrors await them inside the city’s walls. None of this is helping Sokka’s mental well-being.

Hakoda and his men face a problem of their own as Azula approaches with the intentions of making it rain fire.

Sokka and Zuko will both find themselves having to reintegrate back into a life they thought they left behind, with people they hardly remember. It isn’t easy for anyone, especially when they don’t recognize the person standing in front of them.

#OLLLOOO #new chapter whatttssss upppp #ok but seriously #HEED THE TAGS #this chapter has some seriously intense themes #some new themes that might be triggering to some #so please keep an eye on the warnings #BUT THERE IS SOME FUN #*gesture at fun*#We have fun! Haha I promise!#Zuko talks a lot!#A lot - ish haha #ok this chapter is a doozy I hope you enjoy #zukka #avatar the last airbender #DARK THEMES

32 notes · View notes

companionwolf · 4 months

Text

Very very good (in my opinion) Delta Green bundle on Humble right now >:3c

#wolf barking #ttrpg #ttrpgs #delta green #uh #humble bundle #$25 min for all #be warned tho. gods teeth is real fucked. i cant read that one. heed the damn trigger warning.

15 notes · View notes

punishandenslavesuckers · 2 years

Photo

Before Destruction left his place with the Endless, he had a bit of a manic period where he leaned too hard into his function. Unfortunately, the Corinthian happened to be standing nearby when it happened. Endless family drama is, you know, the worst. Even Death would admit that shit is Biblical.

Art submitted by a reader (whom I adore but wants to stay anonymous) for my Sandman fic, “Something Broken”.

#the sandman #the corinthian #death of the endless #the sandman netflix #the sandman fic #rae writes #death wants to help #but corinthian is kind of #hard to help #heed the tags #and the trigger warnings

223 notes · View notes

hell-river · 7 months

Text

I also read Church of Marvels by Leslie Parry, which is a historical fiction with one of the most heart breaking trans stories I’ve ever read and Parry somehow also made it a happy ending? This book made me stare at a wall for five real life minutes. It was one of the most well done multi-pov/multi-plot-becomes-one-plot books I’ve ever read. The vibes were incredible, the characters were incredible, and I really don’t know how it doesn’t have more of a following. Idk much about New York, but Parry’s descriptions of 1890s Coney Island and New York made it the absolutely perfect place to set this story.

#I would also heed the trigger warnings because this is also a story about motherhood and women’s bodily autonomy in that era #sometimes it was A Lot but I didn’t find it to be just there for shock value it was important to the story #it was just an incredible story I’m so glad I picked it up #my reading #bookblr #church of marvels #church of marvels by Leslie parry #books #reading #historical fiction #Coney Island #new York

19 notes · View notes

inkykeiji · 1 year

Note

may i please request (8) bunny for twin touya + dabi? 👀

prompt: bunny series: twins AU warnings: an injured/hurt animal, use of the word Daddy, female reader, the twins + reader are in a poly relationship words: 1k

of course u can anon!!! thank you so much for this, it’s such a joy to write something for the twins again <3

It’s wounded; something wrong with its leg, tiny bones all twisted and gnarled. Its little tummy rises and falls with its erratic breaths, pink nose twitching rapidly, big brown eyes wide and alert as they dart around its surroundings—a small clearing beneath an overgrown bush.

Honestly, you wouldn’t have even known it was there, had it not been making soft, wheezy little squeaks, exhaled on harsh breaths.

With gentle hands you push some branches out of the way, an attempt to get a better look at the poor animal, the bunny flinching violently at the rustle of leaves.

“Oh, no, no, no,” you’re whimpering quietly, a stab of guilt penetrating your stomach. “No, lil guy, I’m so sorry, I—I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“What are you doing over here, playin’ in the bushes?” Dabi teases as he jogs up to you. “You’re gonna get poison ivy or oak or whatever the fuck it is, and I’m not gonna help you rub ointment on it. Touya isn’t, either, y’know. Can already hear him—”

“There’s a bunny—a baby rabbit. I think it’s hurt, badly,” wrapping your arms around your folded knees and hugging them tightly to your chest, you glance up at Dabi with glassy eyes, vision thick with tears, rendering him nothing more than a wavering figure of black.

“What?”

Dabi crouches next to you, elbows resting on his thighs, and peers through the mess of leaves, lips tugging down into a deep frown.

“Ah, fuck.” He reaches forward, large hands clumsy and cumbersome, and the bunny startles again, a yelp of terror shuddering its form. The cracked sound has Dabi wincing harshly, hands recoiling into his chest in one quick jerk. “I—I can’t touch it,” he’s shaking his head, already stumbling to his feet, backing up a little. “I’ll just—It might get hurt more. I’ll go get Touya.”

Yes, you’re nodding. Touya will know what to do, Touya will know how to handle this, just like he always does.

“A bunny?” you hear Touya ask a few moments later, voice faint but growing in volume as he advances towards you. “You can’t be serious—”

Low murmurs cut him off—no doubt Dabi’s—their tone testy and panicked.

“Alright, alright,” Touya’s chuckling, easygoing and dismissive. “I’ll take a look.”

“Daddy,” you whine as Touya’s shadow crawls over you.

“What do we have here?” Touya asks as he bends, body blanketing your back, thighs cushioning your own, chin hooked over your shoulder.

“A little baby rabbit. It looks—I think there’s something wrong with its leg. If we—If we don’t help it, I don’t think it’ll survive.”

“That’s just the circle of life, baby,” Touya responds with a solemn shrug.

“Nii-san,” Dabi hisses, eyes narrowed. “We can’t just leave it.”

“We can’t?”

“No!” you and Dabi cry in unison.

Twisting in Touya’s grasp, you break free easily, rising to stand over him and look at him properly, a hand vaguely gesturing the bush.

“Look at it, Daddy, it’s suffering. We can’t just—” a hiccup cuts you off, vicious and abrupt, and Dabi draws you into his arms with a clicked tongue and a coo, biceps wound around yours, hands rubbing your arms in comfort.

His touch, characteristically just a hint too rough, his grip just a hint too tight, causes something inside you to snap—an emotional dam that begins to fracture deep behind your ribs, weeped out little sobs oozing from the cracks—and you bury your face in his chest, body quivering slightly with half-stifled sniffles.

“We can’t just leave it to die,” Dabi finishes your sentence. “Not when we know we can help.”

Sapphire eyes sweep between your faces, slow and assessing as the gears of his mind whir and click, weighing all his options and considering the most optimal outcome.

“Fine,” Touya sighs after a moment of contemplation, turning back to peer at the injured animal, squinting a little in evaluation. “Get me a popsicle stick, gauze, and some tape.”

Despite Touya’s apparent apathy, he is surprisingly sweet, tender hands exceptionally careful, his movements purposeful and meticulous, just like everything else he does in life.

It’s as though Touya’s innate caregiving instincts have snapped into action, the shift in his demeanour almost immediate, a shift you and Dabi have experienced more than once—though it’s difficult to tell if such a shift was triggered by you and Dabi, or by the small, wounded animal itself.

You can’t watch—Dabi can’t, either, the two of you clinging to one another, faces hidden in shoulders and hair, fingers curling in denim and linen as Touya works.

“Okay, little buddy, I’ve got you,” Touya murmurs softly as he scoops the ball of fur, now with a makeshift splint, up with one palm, cupping his other hand over it gently. “We’re going to get you some help.”

In the end, the three of you keep the bunny, you and Dabi loving the stupid thing way too much for Touya to say no. And although he doesn’t care for the thing a whole lot, fairly indifferent to its entire existence, it reminds him of the both of you in separate ways; cute and sweet and fluffy like you, mistrusting and cautious and jumpy like Dabi.

He thinks that, maybe, caring for it might be beneficial for the two of you, that having something to look after and tend to and protect just like he does for the both of you might bring you each a shred of the validation and satisfaction he gets from nurturing each of you.

It isn’t unusual to find the two of you flat on your backs, on the floor of Dabi’s studio, stained with paint in the shape of bunny footprints as the fluffy little thing hops around, across your skin and over your bodies and onto canvases, creating little pieces of art, your twined laughter ringing throughout the house. It’s a nice sound, a welcomed sound, a warm sound that fills him with something buzzing and bubbly, and, most recently, Touya’s favourite sound to come home to.

#dabi x reader #todoroki touya x reader #thank u anon!!!!! pls enjoy!!!#and also heed the warnings on this one #i know animal injury can be super triggering to some #and this piece literally starts with an injured bunny #so be careful!!!#pls have a fab wednesday and stay safe!!!#inky.bb #clari gets mail #inky.twins

64 notes · View notes