#i don't know... i need to write

[asgardian--angels]

Planet's Fucked: What Can You Do To Help? (Long Post)

Since nobody is talking about the existential threat to the climate and the environment a second Trump term/Republican government control will cause, which to me supersedes literally every other issue, I wanted to just say my two cents, and some things you can do to help. I am a conservation biologist, whose field was hit substantially by the first Trump presidency. I study wild bees, birds, and plants.

In case anyone forgot what he did last time, he gagged scientists' ability to talk about climate change, he tried zeroing budgets for agencies like the NOAA, he attempted to gut protections in the Endangered Species Act (mainly by redefining 'take' in a way that would allow corporations to destroy habitat of imperiled species with no ramifications), he tried to do the same for the Migratory Bird Treaty Act (the law that offers official protection for native non-game birds), he sought to expand oil and coal extraction from federal protected lands, he shrunk the size of multiple national preserves, HE PULLED US OUT OF THE PARIS CLIMATE AGREEMENT, and more.

We are at a crucial tipping point in being able to slow the pace of climate change, where we decide what emissions scenario we will operate at, with existential consequences for both the environment and people. We are also in the middle of the Sixth Mass Extinction, with the rate of species extinctions far surpassing background rates due completely to human actions. What we do now will determine the fate of the environment for hundreds or thousands of years - from our ability to grow key food crops (goodbye corn belt! I hated you anyway but), to the pressure on coastal communities that will face the brunt of sea level rise and intensifying extreme weather events, to desertification, ocean acidification, wildfires, melting permafrost (yay, outbreaks of deadly frozen viruses!), and a breaking down of ecosystems and ecosystem services due to continued habitat loss and species declines, especially insect declines. The fact that the environment is clearly a low priority issue despite the very real existential threat to so many people, is beyond my ability to understand. I do partly blame the public education system for offering no mandatory environmental science curriculum or any at all in most places. What it means is that it will take the support of everyone who does care to make any amount of difference in this steeply uphill battle.

There are not enough environmental scientists to solve these issues, not if public support is not on our side and the majority of the general public is either uninformed or actively hostile towards climate science (or any conservation science).

So what can you, my fellow Americans, do to help mitigate and minimize the inevitable damage that lay ahead?

I'm not going to tell you to recycle more or take shorter showers. I'll be honest, that stuff is a drop in the bucket. What does matter on the individual level is restoring and protecting habitat, reducing threats to at-risk species, reducing pesticide use, improving agricultural practices, and pushing for policy changes. Restoring CONNECTIVITY to our landscape - corridors of contiguous habitat - will make all the difference for wildlife to be able to survive a changing climate and continued human population expansion.

**Caveat that I work in the northeast with pollinators and birds so I cannot provide specific organizations for some topics, including climate change focused NGOs. Scientists on tumblr who specialize in other fields, please add your own recommended resources. **

We need two things: FUNDING and MANPOWER.

You may surprised to find that an insane amount of conservation work is carried out by volunteers. We don't ever have the funds to pay most of the people who want to help. If you really really care, consider going into a conservation-related field as a career. It's rewarding, passionate work.

At the national level, please support:

The Nature Conservancy

Xerces Society for Invertebrate Conservation

Cornell Lab of Ornithology (including eBird)

National Audubon Society

Federal Duck Stamps (you don't need to be a hunter to buy one!)

These first four work to acquire and restore critical habitat, change environmental policy, and educate the public. There is almost certainly a Nature Conservancy-owned property within driving distance of you. Xerces plays a very large role in pollinator conservation, including sustainable agriculture, native bee monitoring programs, and the Bee City/Bee Campus USA programs. The Lab of O is one of the world's leaders in bird research and conservation. Audubon focuses on bird conservation. You can get annual memberships to these organizations and receive cool swag and/or a subscription to their publications which are well worth it. You can also volunteer your time; we need thousands of volunteers to do everything from conducting wildlife surveys, invasive species removal, providing outreach programming, managing habitat/clearing trails, planting trees, you name it. Federal Duck Stamps are the major revenue for wetland conservation; hunters need to buy them to hunt waterfowl but anyone can get them to collect!

THERE ARE DEFINITELY MORE, but these are a start.

Additionally, any federal or local organizations that seek to provide support and relief to those affected by hurricanes, sea level rise, any form of coastal climate change...

At the regional level:

These are a list of topics that affect major regions of the United States. Since I do not work in most of these areas I don't feel confident recommending specific organizations, but please seek resources relating to these as they are likely major conservation issues near you.

PRAIRIE CONSERVATION & PRAIRIE POTHOLE WETLANDS

DRYING OF THE COLORADO RIVER (good overview video linked)

PROTECTION OF ESTUARIES AND SALTMARSH, ESPECIALLY IN THE DELAWARE BAY AND LONG ISLAND (and mangroves further south, everglades etc; this includes restoring LIVING SHORELINES instead of concrete storm walls; also check out the likely-soon extinction of saltmarsh sparrows)

UNDAMMING MAJOR RIVERS (not just the Colorado; restoring salmon runs, restoring historic floodplains)

NATIVE POLLINATOR DECLINES (NOT honeybees. for fuck's sake. honeybees are non-native domesticated animals. don't you DARE get honeybee hives to 'save the bees')

WILDLIFE ALONG THE SOUTHERN BORDER (support the Mission Butterfly Center!)

INVASIVE PLANT AND ANIMAL SPECIES (this is everywhere but the specifics will differ regionally, dear lord please help Hawaii)

LOSS OF WETLANDS NATIONWIDE (some states have lost over 90% of their wetlands, I'm looking at you California, Ohio, Illinois)

INDUSTRIAL AGRICULTURE, esp in the CORN BELT and CALIFORNIA - this is an issue much bigger than each of us, but we can work incrementally to promote sustainable practices and create habitat in farmland-dominated areas. Support small, local farms, especially those that use soil regenerative practices, no-till agriculture, no pesticides/Integrated Pest Management/no neonicotinoids/at least non-persistent pesticides. We need more farmers enrolling in NRCS programs to put farmland in temporary or permanent wetland easements, or to rent the land for a 30-year solar farm cycle. We've lost over 99% of our prairies to corn and soybeans. Let's not make it 100%.

INDIGENOUS LAND-BACK EFFORTS/INDIGENOUS LAND MANAGEMENT/TEK (adding this because there have been increasing efforts not just for reparations but to also allow indigenous communities to steward and manage lands either fully independently or alongside western science, and it would have great benefits for both people and the land; I know others on here could speak much more on this. Please platform indigenous voices)

HARMFUL ALGAL BLOOMS (get your neighbors to stop dumping fertilizers on their lawn next to lakes, reduce agricultural runoff)

OCEAN PLASTIC (it's not straws, it's mostly commercial fishing line/trawling equipment and microplastics)

A lot of these are interconnected. And of course not a complete list.

At the state and local level:

You probably have the most power to make change at the local level!

Support or volunteer at your local nature centers, local/state land conservancy non-profits (find out who owns&manages the preserves you like to hike at!), state fish & game dept/non-game program, local Audubon chapters (they do a LOT). Participate in a Christmas Bird Count!

Join local garden clubs, which install and maintain town plantings - encourage them to use NATIVE plants. Join a community garden!

Get your college campus or city/town certified in the Bee Campus USA/Bee City USA programs from the Xerces Society

Check out your state's official plant nursery, forest society, natural heritage program, anything that you could become a member of, get plants from, or volunteer at.

Volunteer to be part of your town's conservation commission, which makes decisions about land management and funding

Attend classes or volunteer with your land grant university's cooperative extension (including master gardener programs)

Literally any volunteer effort aimed at improving the local environment, whether that's picking up litter, pulling invasive plants, installing a local garden, planting trees in a city park, ANYTHING. make a positive change in your own sphere. learn the local issues affecting your nearby ecosystems. I guarantee some lake or river nearby is polluted

MAKE HABITAT IN YOUR COMMUNITY. Biggest thing you can do. Use plants native to your area in your yard or garden. Ditch your lawn. Don't use pesticides (including mosquito spraying, tick spraying, Roundup, etc). Don't use fertilizers that will run off into drinking water. Leave the leaves in your yard. Get your school/college to plant native gardens. Plant native trees (most trees planted in yards are not native). Remove invasive plants in your yard.

On this last point, HERE ARE EASY ONLINE RESOURCES TO FIND NATIVE PLANTS and LEARN ABOUT NATIVE GARDENING:

Xerces Society Pollinator Conservation Resource Center

Pollinator Pathway

Audubon Native Plant Finder

Homegrown National Park (and Doug Tallamy's other books)

National Wildlife Federation Native Plant Finder (clunky but somewhat helpful)

Heather Holm (for prairie/midwest/northeast)

MonarchGard w/ Benjamin Vogt (for prairie/midwest)

Native Plant Trust (northeast & mid-atlantic)

Grow Native Massachusetts (northeast)

Habitat Gardening in Central New York (northeast)

There are many more - I'm not familiar with resources for western states. Print books are your biggest friend. Happy to provide a list of those.

Lastly, you can help scientists monitor species using citizen science. Contribute to iNaturalist, eBird, Bumblebee Watch, or any number of more geographically or taxonomically targeted programs (for instance, our state has a butterfly census carried out by citizen volunteers).

In short? Get curious, get educated, get involved. Notice your local nature, find out how it's threatened, and find out who's working to protect it that you can help with. The health of the planet, including our resilience to climate change, is determined by small local efforts to maintain and restore habitat. That is how we survive this. When government funding won't come, when we're beat back at every turn trying to get policy changed, it comes down to each individual person creating a safe refuge for nature.

Thanks for reading this far. Please feel free to add your own credible resources and organizations.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

HOT, SINGLE, UNSTUDIED SPONGES. 3000 NAUTICAL MILES AWAY. Come sail the distance and read Tiger Tiger!

[quadrantadvisor]

Thinking about DP x DC Jason Todd being a revenant again. Here's my scenario. Jason gets called that by some ghost. He's like "what the fuck is that supposed to mean?" He's heard the term before but he doesn't know any actual lore. He googles it. He scrolls past the Leonardo DiCaprio bear movie. He opens the wiki. Sees the words "animated corpse" and gets a chill diwn his spine. He starts reading the first section.

He closes Wikipedia.

That night he has a nightmare that his family buried him, again, this time with precautions. He wakes up in his own grave, full of stones, too heavy to move, to scream.

[livecrow]

Imagine you want to try waxing your pussy, but it turns out to be quite the challenge to actually see what the hell you're doing.

Naturally you ask your boyfriend for help.

Simon won't hear any of it, growls that he's fond of your scruff. "Like 'er jus' the way she is." Her being your snatch.

You pout and try to coax him.

No dice.

You don't give up that easily, obviously. Besides, if you have to, you'll just do it yourself even if it ends up a smidge patchy.

So there you are, full winnie the poohing it on the living room couch, trying to contort yourself this way and that, armed with the waxing strips and a hand mirror. Just trying to get the right angle. The whole spectacle right in front of an unamused Simon.

You spread your knees wide, as wide as you can, to prop up your pussy. Mash your tummy and thighs out of the way, spread your lips out, grunting and whining all the way with exertion while you fumble with the wrapper. You're almost ready to just say "fuck it" and go in completely blind—

You should have been more suspicious when Simon gives in, when he marches over and grunts a short "fine". When manhandles you into an even more uncomfortable and exposed position he finds more suitable.

After the first couple of strips your ready to throw up your white flag and forget about the whole thing. When you tell him as much and try to wriggle out from under him—

Simon just laughs meanly.

"You wanted it, now we're gonna see it through, aren't we?"

Simon'd enjoy your squeals and teary eyes. Every jolt of your body trying to escape the pain your subjecting it to.

"Serves you right for tryin' to deface my sweet'eart."

For how much it hurts, you don't have the awareness to realize he'd actually doing it all somewhat carefully. Each strip layed in the right direction, smoothed down with enough pressure, ripped off in one quick motion. Hell, he even rubs the skin to soothe the sting while he peels the next strip.

...Rubs your pussy. Soothing circles into your heated, plump mons and outer lips that you could almost read as apologetic. He wasn't feeling hardly any sympathy for you, though. No, it was for her.

On the next strip your startled when his thumb actually grazes your clit, while the rest of his palm pulls the skin taught.

You wondered if it was just a slip, but alas. Nothing Simon does is ever an accident.

The traitor peeked out from the hood in interest. Every other strip after that has him stroking your pearl mercilessly, like his own worry stone.

The hot ripping pain melds with pleasure, it isn't long at all before your keening and dripping under his ministrations. It was inevitable.

Simon sounded so put out. Sighing, tisking that you're, "Sloppy fuckin' wet. Strip isn't gonna stick now, is it?" as if you're an idiot, trying to be difficult purpose.

As he chastises you, he crams two thick fingers in your hole, like he's trying to stem a bleeding wound. It punches the air out of your lungs. He tells you you're gonna ruin it, that they'll have to start all over if you keep this up.

He's about as done as he's gonna be, considering your drippy cunt. "Look at 'er. Poor thing's cryin', isn't she?" He coos to your crotch.

Simon turns back to you but his tone isn't sweet, he barks at you to stop squirmin', unless you want him to you fuck you while your still oll raw and stingin'. Since that's clearly what you want now.

He's always givin' you want you want, huh? You're spoiled rotten.

[fascinationstreetmp3]

ALICE

[yayll]

~ a little something about waking up next to Dazai, and he's unbearable as always ~

"I might just eat you alive..." He mumbles to himself, barely audible. His eyes are half-lidded, and he's barely blinked.

He's been watching you sleep next to him curled up like a kitten for the past hour, way past the time you usually wake up. He's the oversleeper, not you, and it makes him hyper aware of your bodily functions and if they're okay. He hasn't eaten properly in days, but you don't need to know that. He's rabid, and he knows he's being a total freak right now, but who will worry for you if not for him? He must rise up to be the voice of reason, the watchful eye that keeps you on track even if he can barely keep himself alive! He wishes you'd stay forever, where he could avoid his problems and take care of your every single need. He should be everything you need... He hopes. Then you'd never leave, and he would make sure to eat more, just for you. How perfect... selfish.

God, he just wants to crawl inside of you and make you his home, it's almost pathetic. You'd find him vile for the things he would do for you and your happiness, despite you already being so accepting of his dark past... You're simply heaven sent. He takes a deep breath, and lightly runs his knuckles down your jawline, as if carving them out of the precious material that you're made of. You begin to stir, and his pupils dilate instantly as he pulls back with anticipation.

"Mmm... Osamu..."

You murmur sleepily as your chest rises up and down ever so slowly. He's freaking out. It's bad for his health to hear the way you say his name as if it were a healing oath, a spell that only works on him.

"Wakey wakey~"

Dazai's propping himself up on one elbow, a calculating smile plastered on his lips as if he were in on something you weren't. You pop open one eye, and groan softly.

"You're up... early"

"Yes!"

"Why..." You yawn like the silly little thing you are. He gasps in mock offense, clutching his chest.

"Can't a fortunate guy like ME just be happy that we both live to see another beautiful day?!"

He winks, and boops the tip of your nose, this gets a muffled snort out of you that causes you to bury your face into the pillow. He's addicted to the rush of causing any joy in your life, it's disgusting. When you don't lift your face back up, he scrunches up his face, and reaches out to stroke a strand of your silky hair, but his intrusive thoughts win and he tugs on it as payback for possibly falling asleep again. He needs your attention, and you're sleeping? Insanity. You swat at him, blindly smacking his arm away.

Oh, how he loves that you're the only person who truly sees him past his myriad of theatrics.

"Oh my... a slap from you feels wonderful!"

He rubs his arm, and grabs the hand that swatted him, bringing it up to kiss the pulse point on your wrist. Feather like kisses, almost undetectable... until you lift your face up from the pillow, finally.

He gazes at you as he rubs his face onto your hand like a cat greeting its owner, purring as if he were starved for affection. For a moment, his gaze becomes more serious, detached, as if he were thrown back into a distant memory. He can't describe the feeling, but the way your hand feels against his cheek is a warmth he hasn't felt in ages. His eyes sting, and he blinks the wetness away before you can notice as he hears your angelic voice again. He's back to his usual self.

"Osamu... You're being annoying"

"You think I'm just annoying?~"

His voice comes out in a tender whisper, his mouth curled up into a mischievous grin. He's insufferable. He could be anything for you if you wanted it. Especially annoying! He almost drools when you roll your eyes affectionately at him, the coldness in his heart disappears as he leans in just a little, invading your personal space as always, eager to hear your reply.

"Amongst other things, yes..."

You flash him a sweet little smile, and it mends all that is wrong in the world. The pink in your cheeks is starting to turn red, and it sends him to the moon. He hums, slowly nuzzling himself into the crook of your neck, it's his turn to curl up. You run your fingers through his messy hair that tickles you, feeling the warmth of Dazai's breaths against the back of your ear.

"Hmm, do I look like a pillow to you?"

He can hear the smile in your murmur, and he pulls back from your neck briefly, peering at you through his messy bangs, those intense hazelnut eyes demanding your attention, and his voice drips with an aching devotion that oozes like honey. he moves his lips to your ear, and whispers.

".. You look like an angel to me."

He watches you self destruct at his painfully smooth delivery of a compliment, and secretly rewards himself for once again giving you another reason to never leave. He's got it all!

Romance, self deprecating humor, an inability to properly process his emotions and grief, but more importantly, an undying commitment to stay alive against all odds so that he may see another day of you in his arms... or you helping him change his bandages... or-

He's cut short by you grabbing the sides of his face and pulling him into the most sinfully delicious kiss known to man, and he could swear that despite all his efforts, this might be what ACTUALLY kills him.

[wardingshout]

Zelda goes mushroom girl

[lazy-ahh]

Oki so werid request but could you do one of the reader helping Maskless mark ( the variant) rehabilitate into a better person and it makes main mark jealous?

YOU, ME, AND THE GHOST OF HIM

pairing mainstream! mark grayson x male reader x maskless! mark grayson

in every world, you'd choose mark grayson. even when he's not yours. even when he's broken. even when it destroys you both.

taglist @hhoneylemon , @queermaeda , @yujensstuff , @thebatsgreatestfailure , @roryroro

the first time you see him, he’s slumped against the alley wall like a discarded puppet, one arm pressed to his ribs like they might give way any second. blood is smeared across his split lip, fresh and glistening under the flickering streetlight, while bruises bloom like storm clouds along his jaw. his hero suit—once vibrant, now torn and darkened with stains—clings to him, some of the blood his, most of it… probably not. his breath comes in ragged, uneven pulls, but it’s his eyes that freeze you in place—wide, almost wild, pupils blown so wide the usual brown is just a thin ring around the black.

and then he sees you.

his breath hitches, a sharp, broken sound. his lips part, but no words come—just a shaky exhale, like he’s been punched all over again. his fingers twitch at his sides, as if he wants to reach out but fears you’ll vanish if he does. for a second, he doesn’t even blink, like he’s terrified that if he closes his eyes for even a second, you’ll be gone when he opens them. and then—slowly, so slowly—his expression cracks. his brows knit together, his throat bobs as he swallows hard, and his voice, when it finally comes, is rough, wrecked.

"...[y/n]?"

it’s just one word, but it’s loaded—with disbelief, with aching hope, with something so raw it makes your chest hurt. because he knows you. knows you. and the way he’s looking at you—like you’re the only light left in a world that’s gone dark—tells you everything.

in his universe, he lost you.

and now here you are, alive, standing in front of him like a miracle he never thought he’d get.

mark—no, not your mark, but another version, one carved from grief and rage—looks at you like the world just cracked open. because in his universe, he’d held you as you bled out, as your fingers went slack in his. and now here you are, alive, breathing, standing in front of him like some cruel trick or some kind of miracle.

he’s a storm of anger, regret, and raw, aching grief—a warped mirror of the boy you know, his edges jagged where your mark is soft, his fury scorching where your mark’s warmth soothes. but beneath all that, beneath the bloodstained hands and the haunted eyes, you see it: the fracture in him, the way his breath stutters when you touch him, like he can’t believe you’re real. the broken edges of him that could maybe, maybe be pieced back together, because why else would he look at you like that? like the world had been nothing but shades of gray until you stepped into view, like all the color had rushed back in a single, dizzying moment the second he realized—you’re here. you’re alive. in this universe, he didn’t lose you.

(and maybe, just maybe, that’s enough to make him want to be better.)

you know this isn’t your mark. heck, this mark is one of the many variants that tore through your universe, leaving destruction in his wake, his hands stained with blood that isn’t just his own. but you can’t help it—your body moves before your mind can catch up, dropping to your knees beside him, pressing your palm against the deep gash on his side to stem the bleeding. his skin is fever-hot under your touch, his breath coming in shallow, pained gasps as you carefully lift him, his arm slung over your shoulder like deadweight. you whisper soft reassurances, half-formed words of comfort—"it’s okay, i’ve got you, you’re gonna be okay"—even though you’re not sure if that’s true. and he clings to you like a drowning man, his fingers digging into your sleeve, his face buried against your shoulder like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

when you try to pull away—just for a second, just to grab the first aid kit, some water, anything—he panics, his voice breaking as he calls out for you, his hands scrambling to keep you close. it’s pathetic, it’s heartbreaking, and it makes something in your chest ache.

at first, you told yourself it was just because he wore the face of the boy you’ve loved for years—the boy with the stupidly endearing smile, the one who laughs too loud at his own jokes, the one who always, always tries to do the right thing, even when it’s hard. the boy who looks at you like you’re the only thing that matters in the universe, who holds your hand like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he doesn’t. the boy who, despite all his power, is so soft with you, so careful, like you’re something precious.

but as you sit with this mark, as you clean his wounds and coax him into drinking water, as you stay by his side even when you should be out there, fighting, saving people—you realize something.

this is still mark.

not your mark, not the one who makes your heart stutter when he grins at you with that stupid, lopsided smile, not the one whose fingers always linger just a second too long when he hands you things, like he’s afraid to let go. but he’s still mark—the way his nose scrunches up when he’s trying to tough out the pain, the way his voice goes all rough and cracked when he’s pushed past his limits, the way his entire body seems to sag the second your fingers brush against his skin, like he’s been starved for touch for years.

and maybe that’s why you can’t walk away.

"you don’t have to be like this," you murmur, voice barely above a whisper as you press the damp cloth to the cut on his cheek. he flinches at first—old instincts, maybe, from a world where touch only ever meant pain—but then he melts, his breath hitching as he leans into your hand like a dying man offered water. his eyes, red-rimmed and glassy with exhaustion, flicker up to yours, and god, he looks so lost, so desperate, like he’s one wrong word away from shattering completely.

his fingers twitch at his sides, like he wants to reach for you but doesn’t dare, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he tries. so you do it for him—your free hand finds his, threading your fingers together, and the noise he makes is downright pathetic, a choked-off whimper as he grips you like a lifeline.

it’s not fair. it’s not fair how your pulse jumps when your fingers brush against his skin, how your breath catches when he leans into your touch like he’s been starving for it. you’ve imagined this a thousand times—finally being close to mark, finally feeling the warmth of his body, the weight of his hands on yours—but never like this. never with this mark, bruised and broken and bleeding on your bed, his torso wrapped in haphazard bandages that do little to hide the hard planes of his chest, the way his muscles tense under your fingertips. he’s wearing your black sweatpants, the fabric loose around his hips, and the sight of him like this—vulnerable, yours, even if it’s just for now—makes something hot and guilty curl low in your stomach.

you shouldn’t be doing this. shouldn’t be savoring the way his calloused palms press against yours, rough from years of fighting, or the way his breath hitches when your thumb traces the ridge of his knuckles. you’re a horrible friend. a friend shouldn’t be thinking about the way his lashes flutter when you touch him, shouldn’t be memorizing the way his ribs expand with every shaky breath, shouldn’t be enjoying how ruined he is for you, how he clings to you like you’re the only thing tethering him to this world.

but god, he’s here. he’s warm and solid and real, his skin radiating heat even through the bandages, and when he looks up at you with those gold-flecked eyes—dazed, desperate—it’s all you can do not to pull him closer.

"missed you," he slurs, voice cracked and raw, like the words have been clawing their way out of him for years. his forehead drops against your shoulder, his breath hot against your collarbone, and you can feel the way his entire body trembles, the way his fingers dig into your waist like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. "missed you so much, please—" his voice breaks, and your chest aches. "please don’t go."

you should push him away. should remind him that you’re not his you, that the boy he’s mourning is gone, that this—whatever this is—isn’t right.

but then his arms wrap around you, pulling you flush against him, and your resolve crumbles.

your chest aches. you shouldn’t do this. you shouldn’t.

but you tighten your grip on his hips anyway.

(just for tonight, you tell yourself. just for tonight, you’ll let him pretend. just for tonight, you’ll pretend too.)

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

when mark finally falls asleep, his breathing deep and even, you can’t help but tuck the blanket around him with the same careful precision you’ve always used with your mark—fingers smoothing out the wrinkles, pulling the fabric just high enough to cover his bare shoulders. it’s muscle memory, really, something you’ve done a thousand times before, back when the two of you were kids playing house and he’d inevitably pass out mid-game, sprawled across your bed like he owned it. before you can stop yourself, you lean down and press a quick, feather-light kiss to his temple, just like you used to. the second your lips touch his skin, your stomach twists—because this isn’t your mark, and you haven’t done this in years, not since you realized how dangerous it was to let yourself want something you couldn’t have.

you slip away before the guilt can settle in, pulling your hero suit back on with practiced efficiency. the window slides open silently, and then you’re gone, the cool morning air biting at your cheeks as you fly toward the chaos.

it’s early, the sky still painted in soft pinks and golds, but the city is already in ruins—buildings crumbling, smoke rising in thick plumes, the distant sounds of screams and fighting echoing through the streets. you throw yourself into the fray, pulling civilians from rubble, stopping falling debris, doing everything you can to help—but even as you work, your thoughts keep drifting back to him, to the broken boy in your bed who looked at you like you were the only thing keeping him whole.

some part of you feels pathetic for it. why should you grieve for these other marks? why does your throat tighten every time you see another variant's corpse, another version of him crumpling to the ground, lifeless? why do you keep imagining what might’ve happened if you’d found them first, if you’d been able to save them too?

the sun is dipping below the horizon by the time you finally slip away, your body aching, your suit stained with dust and sweat. every muscle screams in protest as you move, your ribs throbbing from where a chunk of debris had slammed into you earlier, your knuckles split and stinging. you just want to shower, to scrub away the grime and blood, to sink into the scalding water until your skin is raw.

but when you climb through your bedroom window, the air is thick with something electric, something dangerous—and there they are, standing on opposite sides of the room like rival wolves, glaring at each other with enough heat to set the walls ablaze.

your mark’s fists are clenched so tight his knuckles have gone white, his jaw locked, his shoulders rigid with tension. his eyes—usually so warm, so soft when they land on you—burn with something you’ve never seen before, something possessive, something furious. and the other mark—your mark, the one you tucked in, the one you kissed—he looks wrecked, his bandages peeling away, fresh blood seeping through the fabric, his expression caught between fury and devastation. it’s clear they’d fought, but they’d held back—your room is mostly intact, save for the blankets strewn across the floor, the pillows torn open, feathers drifting lazily in the charged silence.

your stomach drops like a stone, the sudden rush of dread so heavy it makes your knees feel weak. your pulse roars in your ears, a deafening drumbeat that drowns out everything else—so loud you’re sure they can hear it, so frantic it feels like your ribs might crack from the force of it. your mouth goes bone-dry, your tongue sticking to the roof of it as your fingers twitch helplessly at your sides, curling and uncurling like you could reach out, like you could somehow stitch this disaster back together with your bare hands. but the weight of their stares pins you in place, the air between you three thick enough to choke on, every breath a struggle against the suffocating tension.

and then—

your mark’s voice cracks through the silence like a whip, sharp enough to make you flinch. his expression—god, his expression—is a wreckage of emotions, his brows pulled together in something agonized, his lips trembling just slightly before he presses them into a thin, wavering line. his eyes, usually so warm, so bright, are glassy with hurt, the gold flecks in them dulled under the weight of betrayal. his jaw works, like he’s fighting to keep the words steady, but his voice still comes out rough, frayed at the edges.

"where were you?" he chokes out, the words thick. "i—i tried calling you, like, a dozen times. kept telling myself you were just busy, that you’d pick up eventually, but…" his breath hitches, his fingers flexing like he wants to reach for you but can’t bring himself to. "then cecil told me you brought one of them here. to your house. [y/n], what the hell were you thinking?"

you cut him off before he can finish, your voice too loud in the suffocating quiet, your expression twisting with guilt. "i just wanted to help you, okay?"

mark’s face does something complicated then—his eyes widen, his lips parting in stunned disbelief, like he can’t quite process what you’re saying. his variant stays silent, but you can feel his gaze burning into you, heavy and unreadable. when mark finally speaks again, his voice is quieter, but no less wrecked.

"help…? [y/n], he’s not me. you get that, right?" he runs a shaky hand through his hair, his breath coming faster now, his words laced with something desperate. "that’s—that’s the guy who leveled cities. who killed people. who enjoyed it. how could you—how could you even look at him after everything he’s done?"

"how could i not help him when he has your face?" you finally snap, your voice cracking under the weight of everything you’ve been holding back. the words tear out of you like they’ve been clawing at your throat for hours, raw and desperate. "how could i just leave him there to die when he’s you, mark—when i know he can be better because he’s still you—"

something in mark’s expression flickers, his defiance wavering for just a second—his lips part, his brows twitching like he’s fighting back a wave of something too big to name. but then his jaw tightens again, his hands clenching at his sides like he’s physically holding himself together.

and then—

you catch it. from the corner of your eye, a shift. the other mark goes utterly still, his breath hitching audibly. his eyes—dull with exhaustion just moments ago—widen slightly, the faintest spark of light returning to them. his lips part like he wants to speak but can’t, like the air’s been punched out of him. like he’s just realized something devastating.

your mark doesn’t notice. he’s too busy staring at you like you’ve just ripped the ground out from under him. "better?" his voice is strained, disbelieving. "[y/n], you can’t just—you can’t just say that like it’s that simple. he didn’t just hurt people, he slaughtered them. entire cities, gone. you don’t come back from that. you don’t get to just—just pretend it didn’t happen!" his hands rake through his hair, tugging at the roots like he’s trying to physically stop himself from shaking. "that’s not how this works. that’s not how any of this works."

"i’m not pretending it didn’t happen," you say, voice fraying at the edges. "but what was i supposed to do, mark? let him bleed out in some alley just because he’s not your version of you? because he made choices you didn’t?" your hands are shaking now, your nails digging half-moons into your palms. "you—you of all people should know how easy it is to fall. how hard it is to climb back out. if anyone deserves a second chance, it’s—"

"it’s not him," mark cuts in, his voice cracking like he’s the one wounded. his eyes are too bright, his chest rising too fast. "you don’t get it. this isn’t some—some redemption arc, [y/n]. you can’t just love him into being a good person."

the words hang there, sharp and suffocating. love. neither of you meant to say it like that.

a beat of silence. then—

"i don’t need to be loved," the other mark murmurs, so quiet it’s almost a whisper. both you and your mark whip around to look at him. he’s standing straighter now, his bandages rustling as he shifts, his gaze locked on you with something terrifyingly close to devotion. "i just need to be given a chance to fix what i broke. i’ll do anything. anything. bleed for it, beg for it—i don’t care." his lips curl, just slightly, at the edges. "funny, isn’t it? in my world, you were the one who always believed i could be better, too. even when i didn’t."

your mark makes a wounded noise in the back of his throat. "stop talking about him like—like you had him. like he was ever yours."

the other mark’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. "wasn’t he?"

the air leaves your lungs in a rush. "that’s not—we weren’t—"

"you weren’t?" the other mark tilts his head, all false innocence. "huh. guess some things really are different here." his gaze flicks to your mark, deliberate, slow. "or maybe you’re just slower."

your mark moves then—a half-step forward, fists clenched, his entire body trembling with something raw and furious. "get out," he grits out. "get out of his house. get out of his life. you don’t get to come here and—and poison this just because you’re too fucked up to live with what you’ve done."

the other mark doesn’t flinch. just looks at you, his voice softening. "do you want me to go?"

and god, that’s the worst part—because you should say yes. you should push him out the door and let your mark hold you and pretend none of this ever happened.

but you don’t.

you just stand there, silent, your heart splitting right down the middle like rotten fruit bursting at the seams. the air feels thick, syrupy with unsaid things as you let out a shaky exhale that rattles your ribs. your eyes squeeze shut like if you just keep them closed long enough, you might wake up from this nightmare. the pain radiating from your injuries—the cracked ribs, the split knuckles, the bruises blooming like stormclouds under your suit—is nothing compared to the way your chest caves in when you imagine opening your eyes to mark's face. you already know what you'll find there: that wounded look he gets when he's trying so hard not to cry and his voice goes all rough and broken. you're so selfish. such a fucking terrible friend.

"you..." mark's voice comes out strangled, like someone's got their hands around his throat. when you finally crack your eyes open, he's staring at you with this devastated expression, his fingers twitching at his sides like he wants to reach for you but forgot how. "you're actually considering this?" his laugh is hollow, humorless. "after everything he's done—after everything we've—[y/n], look at me and tell me this isn't fucking killing you too."

the other mark doesn't blink, doesn't waver. his gaze burns into the side of your face as he murmurs, so quiet it's almost tender, "he doesn't need to say it. we all know the truth."

your breath hitches when you finally force yourself to meet your mark's eyes—really meet them. the tears welling up make his golden flecks swim, and god, you want to wipe them away so badly your fingers ache with it. your fists clench so tight your nails bite fresh crescents into your palms. "i can't turn my back on him," you whisper, voice fraying at the edges. "don't ask me to do that. not when i'd walk through fire for you. not when i'd still choose you—" your throat closes around the rest, but it's too late. the words already hang between you, raw and bleeding.

your words hang in the air like a guillotine blade—i’d still choose you—and mark’s breath stutters like you’ve punched it out of him. his lips part, trembling, and for one terrifying second you think he’s going to say it back, think he’s going to wreck you completely with three stupid words you’ve both been too cowardly to voice for years. but then his throat bobs, his fingers flexing like he wants to reach for you but can’t quite remember how. "you can’t just—" his voice cracks, raw. "you can’t say shit like that and then—and then ask me to watch you forgive him."

the other mark lets out a quiet, wounded noise from beside you—something between a laugh and a sob. "he’s right, you know," he murmurs, his breath ghosting over the nape of your neck. "you shouldn’t say things like that unless you mean them." his fingers brush your wrist, feather-light, and your mark’s eyes snap to the contact, his jaw clenching so tight you hear his teeth grind.

you swallow hard, your pulse rabbiting in your throat. "i mean it," you whisper, turning to face your mark fully, your voice trembling but sure. "i love you. but that doesn’t mean i can’t care about him, too."

the silence that follows is deafening. your mark looks like you’ve carved him open—his eyes wide and glassy, his chest heaving like he’s run a marathon. "that’s not fair," he chokes out. "you don’t get to—to love me and then—"

"then what?" you interrupt, your voice breaking. "ask you to trust me? to believe that i’d never choose him over you?" you take a step forward, your hand hovering just above his chest, not quite touching. "you know me, mark. you know how i feel. don’t make me say it louder when you’ve spent years pretending not to hear it."

the other mark exhales sharply, his voice dripping with false sympathy. "god, you two are pathetic." he shakes his head, his smile bitter. "in every other universe, one of you has the guts to just kiss the other. but here?" he barks out a laugh. "here you just ache. how tragic."

your mark flinches like he’s been struck, his fingers twitching toward yours—almost bridging the gap, almost proving the other mark wrong. but then he curls them into a fist instead, his breath coming in shallow bursts. "this isn’t over," he mutters, but it sounds like a plea. like a prayer.

you don’t know if he’s talking to you—or himself.

"i know... i know the both of us would make sure it isn't." the joke falls flat the moment it leaves your lips, your attempt at lightness crumbling under the weight of everything unsaid. your mouth curves into something that might've been a smile if not for the way your bottom lip trembles, if not for the way your eyes stay painfully wide—too shiny, too vulnerable. you're terrified. the kind of terror that sits heavy in your ribs and makes your hands feel numb, the kind that whispers this might be the moment that fractures you two in ways no amount of late-night apologies or desperate touches can repair.

mark's expression does something complicated then—his brows twitch like he wants to frown but can't quite manage it, his eyes softening just for a second with that familiar warmth that always made your stomach flip. for a breathless moment, you think maybe he understands. but then his jaw sets again, that stubborn tilt you know means he's digging his heels in, means he's going to keep fighting this because in his heart he truly believes this is wrong. and maybe it is. maybe you're a fool for clinging to the broken pieces of someone who shares his face but not his soul.

but when have you ever been able to walk away from mark grayson in any form? the thought of leaving him—any version of him—to drown in his own darkness makes your chest ache so sharply you have to press a hand to your sternum, as if you could physically hold your heart together. you love him. you love him in ways you've never dared say out loud, in ways that terrify you, in ways that would probably terrify him too if he knew the depth of it. and that's the cruelest part—you'd choose him in every universe, even when it's the wrong choice, even when it breaks you both a little more.

and the other version of mark? he just watches, something unreadable in his eyes. the way he looks at you is different now—less desperate hunger, more quiet wonder. his fingers brush absentmindedly over the bandages on his chest, the ones you carefully wrapped around his wounds hours ago. maybe, just maybe, he's starting to believe he can be better. as long as he has you, then he'll be okay. the thought settles in his chest like sunlight after years of darkness, terrifying in its simplicity.

(and maybe, just maybe, that scares your mark the most. the way his darker self looks at you like you're salvation. the way you look back like you might just believe in him.)

your mark makes a wounded noise in the back of his throat, his voice cracking when he speaks. "you're really gonna make me watch this, huh?" he gestures weakly between you and his counterpart. "watch you try to fix him like he's just some... some broken version of me you can patch up with enough care?" his breath hitches, and god, you've never seen him look so lost. "what happens when he's better, [y/n]? where does that leave me?"

your breath stutters, your chest so tight it aches. you look at mark—your mark, the one who makes your pulse skip just by smiling, the one who’s held your heart for years without even realizing it—and something in you breaks.

"it leaves you right where you’ve always been," you whisper, your voice raw, trembling. "with me. always with me." you take a step closer, your hand hovering near his face, so close you can feel the heat of his skin but not quite touching. "don’t you get it? there’s no version of this where i don’t choose you. where i don’t love you. but i can’t—i can’t just turn away from someone who needs help, especially when they’re you, even if they’re not my you."

your mark’s eyes are glassy, his lips parted like he wants to argue but the words won’t come. his hands twitch at his sides, caught between pushing you away and pulling you in. "you can’t save everyone," he chokes out, but it sounds weak, like he doesn’t even believe it himself.

"i know," you admit, your thumb finally brushing his cheek, so gentle it makes him shudder. "but i have to try. especially for you. in any universe."

the other mark watches silently, his expression unreadable—but there’s no smirk now, no cruel amusement. just something quiet, almost sad. like he finally understands what he’s stolen in another life. like he knows, no matter what, he’ll never truly have this again.

your mark swallows hard, his fingers finally, finally curling into your sleeve, gripping like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. "you’re gonna be the death of me," he murmurs, but there’s no real anger left—just exhaustion, and fear, and love, so much love it makes your knees weak.

you lean in, your forehead resting against his, your breath mingling. "then we’ll go together," you whisper.

hey y'all, so this was... something. 4.8k words of pure midnight angst fueled by sad playlists and questionable life choices. no idea where i was going with this, just that mark grayson owns my whole heart and i wanted him to suffer (affectionate). if this wasn't what you imagined, hit me up and i'll gladly write another version when i'm more coherent than "2 AM drunk on emotions" hours. hope you enjoyed this messy emotional rollercoaster anyway—let me know if you want more, i live for your reactions 😭

[aghostsnail]

so-so there's this guy (@keferon 's tf mecha au)

[ckret2]

So y'all know the Gravity Falls production bible that leaked three weeks ago. Someone in one of my discord servers pointed this out:

And, naturally, that spawned an entire AU.

AU Concept: Ford was kicked out instead of Stan and takes a job as a trucker to makes ends meet since he couldn't go to college, while still studying the weird and anomalous however he can.

Ford driving around from quirky small town to quirky small town, drifting through the liminal spaces of truck stops, meeting odd people in isolated diners, seeing strange things out on the road—a deer with too many eyes bounding across a two-lane highway, a flirty woman at a rest stop who doesn't blink or breathe, mysterious lights in the sky at night, inhuman growls on the CB or 50-year-old broadcasts on the radio—and taking notes when he stops for gas or food.

Aside from having gotten kicked out before graduating high school, Ford's the same person he is in canon.

He's still an ambitious guy, and here "ambitious" means working hard and saving as much money as he can—so, a long haul owner-operator who spends weeks at a time on the road. (He goes through a LOT of educational audiobooks.) Plus, this is the easiest way for him to get to travel the country; and since it looks like his "travel the world" dreams with Stan are dead, he'll take what he can get.

Since he's never in the same spot long and carries his life in a truck, almost all of Ford's research is in his journal. His bag of investigation supplies has an instant camera, a portable tape recorder, a thermometer, a flashlight, rubber gloves, and a few zip lock bags—and that's about it. It has to share space with all his clothes, toiletries, and nonperishable food when he's on the road. He doesn't have much opportunity to closely examine anything odd he finds, unless he's lucky enough to run into something when he can stop for the night. He has to cram his paranormal research around the side of his full-time job.

He doesn't live in Gravity Falls, but he knows it exists. Every time he moves—to Chicago, to Nebraska, to California—he seems to inch closer. He currently lives in Portland and usually hauls loads between the Pacific Northwest and Chicago or New York. He stops at the truck stop outside Gravity Falls when he can and has gone fishing in town a few times. He doesn't have the benefit of extensive research to know that this is the weirdest town in the world; but it seems pretty weird to him, there are local rumors about the town, and he's had some weird experiences in the area.

Plus, he can't explain it, but it's like the town's calling to him. He wants to move there, but it'd put him over an hour outside of Portland where the nearest jobs are. Maybe if somebody chucked him like $100k to build a cabin in the woods; but what are the odds of that?

He does know Fiddleford. Truck broke down somewhere and Fiddleford kindly pulled over to fix it on the fly. They looked at each other, had mutual knee-jerk "dumb trucker/hillbilly" reactions, and within ten minutes both went "oh wait you're the most brilliant genius i've ever met." Fiddleford's living the same life he was in canon before Ford called him to Gravity Falls—with his family in California, trying to start a computer company out of his garage—but they make friends and keep in contact.

One time Ford stops at a kitschy roadside knickknack store that also sells new agey magic things—crystals, tarot cards, incense, etc. He bought a "lucky" rearview mirror ornament that looks like an Eye of Providence in a top hat and hung it from his cab fan, and ever since then he's had weird dreams whenever he sleeps in his truck.

Things I don't know yet: what Stan's up to; or why Ford's the one who got kicked out. I tend to believe that in canon Stan wasn't just kicked out because he ruined Ford's college prospects, but rather because the family thought he deliberately sabotaged Ford; so in this AU, Ford would've been kicked out over a proportionate crime.

[sukunasdirtylaugh]

"you know I'd do anything for you."

"ken..."

"I mean it," the yakuza boss persists, leaning forward as the two of you sit in the comfort of your shared matrimonial bed, 4 months of marriage with yet no arguments to be seen (to the surprise of everyone around you: maids, friends, your mother, and you). kento has been all the accommodating in this transition. even when he knew half your heart did not want to settle in like this, in this world.

"you don't have to say that," you hope the softness in your voice can lessen the weight of your words, "we don't have to do this... thing,"

"does my desire to put myself at your will make you uncomfortable?"

"i-it's not that-"

"then will you allow me?" he asks, "not as my wife, but as you," the way he says your name makes your heart skip a beat, your throat contracts as he leaves you with a question you were not expecting.

"I don't know what you're asking of me." you almost flinch when he sighs, fearing you've made this entirely worse, but at your question, your husband takes your hands in his.

"allow me to join you for brunch," you know exactly what he means by this. every saturday, you liked to eat outside the porch. with a book in hand or a pen, you used these objects as a means of comfort.

you now realize he was trying to be the same.

"okay," you breathe, sighing shakily as you nod. "do you... want to start tomorrow?" he nods.

"I'd like that, thank you."

[memento-morri-writes]

whump-loving writer: *experiences something Bad*

whump-loving writer: I NEED TO TAKE NOTES!! I CAN USE THIS!!

[livecrow]

You've been kidnapped by the local butcher and he convinces you he's going to fucking eat you.

DARK!Ghost x fat fem reader

CWs: rape, dehumanization, gaslighting, bondage, undiscussed kink(?), animal play(?), threats and talk of cannibalism but no actual cannibalism

A tidied up and extended ramble I subjected @391780 to on anon. Inspired directly from their post where Butcher!Simon draws a diagram of beef cuts on you.

It’s pretty immediately obvious he’s a murderer. He’s probably a serial killer for all you know.

In reality, Simon doesn’t consider himself a serial killer, despite his body count. He’s just someone who doesn’t have qualms dealing with nuisances. He’s a retired vet, after you’d killed enough people, what’s a few more? 

No, his kills were just business, practical. They were men who made the mistake of getting in his way, of being inconvenient. Most, anyway—there’s at least one or two whose only crime was being an especially annoying cunt. Sometimes, some people  “jus’ need killin’”. 

As a butcher, he does find the implication funny, but no, he’s not eaten any of the scum he’s off’ed. “Don’t serve ‘em up to customers, neither”. After all, Simon’s got far higher standards than that. They weren’t even fit for dog food and he has a reputation to uphold. No one can compete with his quality. 

No, you’re nothing like them. You’re special.

Never in his life had he seen a prettier creature—and you’re absolutely prime. He’s salivating just looking at you, plump and oh so soft. He can see it in the way your skin wobbles gently as you move about. Simon couldn't find a straight line on you. And he’s looked. He’s been transfixed watching you, aching.

You live your life meandering obliviously, no brand in sight, not even a tag on your ear. He's surprised no one else snatched you up. Poor thing left to fend for itself ‘s cruel. Nothing else to it. 

Wrangling you was simple, it’s not like your large form actually offered you anything towards your defense. It was easy, really. Your lack of instincts was staggering, it was even more shocking that you lasted this long, he almost couldn’t stop himself from laughing.

You were clueless to the danger, even when it was directly in front of you, it only endeared you to him. Your eyes roved over him, not paying him any mind, just carrying on about your undoubtedly inane business. Only when he was on you and it was too late did you start to kick up a fuss.

The look of panic on your face was just priceless. All this crying and babbling nonsense like, “What are you doing?!” and “Stop!”.

Simon's main concern was not damaging you too much, he was careful. Just a single huge bicep around your neck and any fight you had seemingly evaporated with fright. You're bent over in a headlock, his grip as rigid as a pillory, but he’s not applying enough pressure to actually choke you. You’re just forced helplessly to come along or be dragged.

Not that it would have mattered if you were too wild to be led, he would simply tighten his hold, and allow up a quick nap. He’d pull out the dolly, load up the truck and be on his way.

On the big stainless steel work table the metal stings you even through your clothes. Unfortunately for you, even that scant protection doesn't last. The sight of the shears was enough to paralyze you again, and with a handful of strategic snips, Simon rips your last vestiges of humanity from you. All your skin transforms to gooseflesh, shivering on the table, but your nipples is where his roaming gaze finally settles.

He’ll have to remember to adjust the heat later. After all, “‘s a bit early to start chillin’ you”, he’d chuckle. You were a bit of silly thing, he thought. Maybe it’d be a minute till you’d actually catch on.

You're his little prize. Simon will coddle you, give you plenty of softness and warmth. You’ll not want for blankets, pillows, and other such treats, but not a stitch of clothing will ever touch your skin again. There would be no hiding your nakedness.

“Clothes? Clothes ‘re for people, what y’ need clothes for?” he scoffed. You don’t make the mistake of thinking it’s a question, because he doesn’t want you to answer. A dog doesn’t answer “who's a good boy?” does he? 

He’s measuring you, jotting things down. You think distantly that the pencil looks puny in his fist. While he's at it, he's feeling and squeezing every inch of you. You’re groped and prodded like some saran wrapped package of beef at the grocery store.

Only when you think there’s finally a reprieve, you’re being hogtied. You’re trussed up in practically half a roll of twine, fat bulging between the strands, desperate to escape its bite. Simon says it looks good on you, can’t resist taking one of your new little rolls between his fingers, giving you a teasing pinch. You struggle of course, but the terrifying man commands you to “Settle”, says the only thing your fussing will get you is rope burn. 

He claps you on the ass affectionately, assuring you that the scratchy string is only temporary. He knows a guy for leather, does good work. All hand stitched. Simon will have a proper harness made for you. Something with a lot of d-rings. It will be more comfortable for you and he can situate you how he likes with minimal bruising or chaffing. 

As he admires your skin, he’ll remark offhandedly that he’ll have to ""'ave somethin' from you" too. He’s not usually one to bother, but it’d be a travesty to waste hide like yours. Couldn’t find more supple could y’? He hasn’t decided what’ll be yet, he’ll need to do some maths to figure out how much material you'll make. Behind his mask and the façade of impassivity, he savors your reaction. That’d be about the first time your consciousness flees from you.

Simon will lay it on thick, praise how "well-marbled" you are. Delectable. So plump and well-fed, you can't blame him for any of this, really. He'll say something about kobe beef and taking good care of you. He’ll massage you daily, knead every inch of you between his huge oiled hands. He'd take his time, temple t' toes. You couldn’t get a knot in a muscle if you tried.

Your more delicate bits don’t escape his tender ministrations either. He takes painstaking work in rubbing your insides down with thick fingers, wringing orgasms from you until you're limp and still as the rest of the meat in his shop. Says it’s good for the flavor, will make you even sweeter.

It’s all completely horrifying, it has to be a nightmare. He says all this so casually, like he’s telling you the time of day. This man is truly completely deranged. 

His hands are always on you, it’s never fucking ending. He's taken it upon himself that you never “exert” yourself and you have no choice in the matter. Bastard won’t even let your hands free to eat or bathe. He "grooms" you. Brushes your hair, trims your nails, cleans your teeth, brushes, lathers, rinses, dries, moisturizes your skin. It’s humiliating and you hate every second of it.

The juxtaposition is too much, the horror and absurdity of it all. All the restraints and manhandling, your looming demise, while insisting on soft surfaces for you, water temperature just right, food carefully curated and cut up just so. He won’t let anything happen to spoil the meat.

He doesn’t spare any expense on your “feed” either. You eat what he eats, might as well be eating off his plate. Albeit simple, it’s good food, you don't see a point in denying it. It's fresh and flavorful and to no one’s surprise it includes a lot of meat. Always from his shop of course, only the best for you.

He’ll bring out some new parcel every night for dinner, unfolding the brown paper wrapping, holding up to you to admire his work. “‘S a ribeye”. He goes on about the marbling, the even color of the meat. “Couldn’t find fresher” he’d say, "was only jus' bleedin' this mornin'".

You’re his captive audience. There’s nothing else you can do but warily watch him make dinner, even if seeing a blade in his hand gives your heart palpitations. Steak, sautéed mushrooms, jacket potatoes, roasted broccoli.

You’ve long since stopped fighting him when it comes to meals. Because it can always get worse. After being bent over on the floor, forced to eat off a dish without the use of your hands, you’d resigned yourself to the fact that eating off his fork was a sufferable compromise. Still, if he’s in a mood he won’t even allow that. You'll eat off his fingers, and he’ll laugh at your expense and chide you when you inevitably “make a mess”. 

The food was prepared, but this time the kitchen knife didn’t leave his grasp. It wasn’t a steak knife. It was too big and not serrated, but that didn’t seem to bother Simon. It certainly bothered you. Its presence loomed like a guillotine in your peripheral.

He feeds you bites between his own. Every mouthful and he looks so pleased. You desperately missed his mask at meal times. At least then you couldn’t see his smug fucking face.

On the plate the steam billows and curls. The meat gives easily under your molars, practically melts in your mouth. Hot and rich and juicy, it’s basted in butter, with garlic cloves and sprigs of rosemary, seasoned with cracked peppercorn and flakey sea salt. It’s a touch rarer than you’d like. 

You wish you were capable of escaping the horror of it all for even a second, pretend you were anywhere else, with anyone else.

Simon punctuated his first bite with a low rumble of approval, watching you with those dark, cavernous eyes. He’d continued in that way, a man content in silence.

”...you'll taste better.”

He waited until your last bite to say it, maybe that was mercy on his part. The meat transformed in your mouth, became sinewy and bitter. You couldn’t swallow, and went to spit it out. But he expected that apparently, was on you in a second. Giant rough hand sealed over your lips, practically enclosing the bottom half of your face, smooshing your cheeks up into your eyes. 

“Chew.”

It takes longer than usual, but you try to obey. His hand hasn’t moved from your mouth.

“Swallow.”

His eyes move from yours to your neck, his thumb grazing your throat lightly, tracing the bite’s trajectory as you force it down. His eyes are back on you then. 

With Simon’s free hand he deftly pierces the last drippy morsel off the plate with the knife, popping it between his scarred lips. The hand still on you moves, migrates to cup your jaw, gradually starting to squeeze. You don’t have any fight left and open before it becomes painful.

Fear paralyzes you again, when he brings the knife towards you.

The movement is slow, as if he’s actually concerned about frightening you. He’s holding it longwise, pointed off to the side.

Then it’s on your tongue.

He drags the flat of the blade’s length across the trembling muscle, leisurely, only moving it away to flip it and clean the other side, myoglobin discarded on your tongue 

“They’ll say ’m ‘spoilin’ ‘er rotten’. Eatin’ off my own plate, sleepin' in my own bed, warm under my roof. Keepin’ you safe indoors. Such a sweet, tame thing, are you?”. He strokes your cheek, wiping at a drip at the corner of your mouth with a thumb before popping that in his mouth too.

Whenever Simon’s put up enough with your smart mouth, he enjoys the look of your wide wet eyes and your trembling lips stretched around a padded ring gag.

The sounds you make when gagged are special little nonsense noises, almost like you're trying to talk like a person would. Sweet, pitiful sounds. He also loves when wet, choked sobs that cascade out of your open mouth, forcing you to drool. “You’re so messy, sweet’eart. Nose runnin’, too.” Says you're leaking from practically every hole. Eyes, nose, mouth, cunt.

Sometimes, you might almost be fooled into thinking he feels sorry for you in those moments when you're hyperventilating and hysterical, or wailing so mournfully. He always hushes you when you're crying, pets and hold you, dries your face, as if he’s not the cause of your tears. Despite how much Simon adores the taste of them, adores the soft jingling of the little cow bell tied ‘round your throat when your whole body quivers with sobs, the stress will sour the meat. He’ll say as much, but surprisingly it doesn’t help calm you down.

If it was necessary, he's not opposed to sedation. After all, he's done the research to find one that won't affect your flavor. But most of the time, his solution to your despair is yet another thorough fucking. Dopamine to counteract the stress.

Simon forces the orgasms out of your body as easily as he forces his cock into it, you're utterly helpless to stop either. His livelihood is working with his hands and unfortunately he’s damn good at it. When all's said and done and you're spent, he’ll lightly chastise you for working yourself up, for fussing.

He loves the heft of you in his hands, weighs your heavy tits in his palms, grips your ample belly. Simon can't resist taking mouthfuls of you into his mouth, worrying your supple fat with his incisors. Your tits, ass, thighs, arms, belly, back fat, hell, your double chin. It doesn't matter, any squishy bit of you. You're always afraid he might be getting impatient, that he’ll take a bite out of you, but he never does. Simon says he's just sampling, maybe tenderizing you a little. 

His favorite taste of yours is still between your legs. He has you thank him for being so careful there. Past you inner thighs and plump mons, the pressure of his teeth yields, feeling barely a graze. 

He likes putting mirrors in front of you, says he wants you to see how lovely you are. Your hands are clipped together, chain snagged in one of the shop's many meathooks, just low enough that you don’t strain your shoulders or quite have to stand on your tiptoes.

He directs you to watch, popping the lid off of a permanent marker with a squeak.

He maneuvers you this way and that as he works, dragging the marker down your body. His lines are surprisingly clean considering his canvas is such a pliant, organic shape. Hands are as steady as a surgeon. The marker tickled terribly on skin, the ethanol smell burning your nose, making it hard to think.

It only took a minute to recognize what he was doing. Your skin itches under the felt tip. You flail, trying desperately to smear it, to muss his work, but the ink dries too quickly.

Simon wouldn't let you keep your eyes closed, so in that moment you were grateful for the onslaught of tears blurring your vision somewhat.

That day, he showed you all your different cuts, as if you cared, as if you were together enough to pay attention.

Chuck, rib, loin, sirloin, rump, round, flank, plate, brisket, shank.

He tells you which are his favorite. Tells you which of his mates he’ll have over to enjoy you, ponders what pieces he’ll think they’ll like best. How to cook different cuts to get the best effect, that some cuts are naturally tougher and have to be cooked slowly, while the other cuts are tender and fatty, can be cooked at a higher temperature, quicker. 

From the very beginning, he’s referenced the “Big Day”.

He’ll ask if you're excited over the shinnnnk of a knife against a whetstone. Simon always keeps his tools in order, clean and sharpened expertly, but he thinks he'll polish them up extra shiny for the occasion. To a mirror finish, so you can see yourself. You're so beautiful, it'd be a cryin' shame for you to miss it. 

It’s been months now you’ve been with him and the day never comes. 

...

You didn't dare question it.

But if you did, Simon would just chuckle, amused that you're so eager. Maybe he'll say that he decided he wants some milk from you instead.

[inkskinned]

crows use tools and like to slide down snowy hills. today we saw a goose with a hurt foot who was kept safe by his flock - before taking off, they waited for him to catch up. there are colors only butterflies see. reindeer are matriarchical. cows have best friends and 4 stomachs and like jazz music. i watched a video recently of an octopus making himself a door out of a coconut shell.

i am a little soft, okay. but sometimes i can't talk either. the world is like fractal light to me, and passes through my skin in tendrils. i feel certain small things like a catapult; i skirt around the big things and somehow arrive in crisis without ever realizing i'm in pain.

in 5th grade we read The Curious Incident of the Dog In The Night-time, which is about a young autistic boy. it is how they introduced us to empathy about neurotypes, which was well-timed: around 10 years old was when i started having my life fully ruined by symptoms. people started noticing.

i wonder if birds can tell if another bird is odd. like the phrase odd duck. i have to believe that all odd ducks are still very much loved by the other normal ducks. i have to believe that, or i will cry.

i remember my 5th grade teacher holding the curious incident up, dazzled by the language written by someone who is neurotypical. my teacher said: "sometimes i want to cut open their mind to know exactly how autistics are thinking. it's just so different! they must see the world so strangely!" later, at 22, in my education classes, we were taught to say a person with autism or a person on the spectrum or neurodivergent. i actually personally kind of like person-first language - it implies the other person is trying to protect me from myself. i know they had to teach themselves that pattern of speech, is all, and it shows they're at least trying. and i was a person first, even if i wasn't good at it.

plants learn information. they must encode data somehow, but where would they store it? when you cut open a sapling, you cannot find the how they think - if they "think" at all. they learn, but do not think. i want to paint that process - i think it would be mostly purple and blue.

the book was not about me, it was about a young boy. his life was patterned into a different set of categories. he did not cry about the tag on his shirt. i remember reading it and saying to myself: i am wrong, and broken, but it isn't in this way. something else is wrong with me instead. later, in that same person-first education class, my teacher would bring up the curious incident and mention that it is now widely panned as being inaccurate and stereotypical. she frowned and said we might not know how a person with autism thinks, but it is unlikely to be expressed in that way. this book was written with the best intentions by a special-ed teacher, but there's some debate as to if somebody who was on the spectrum would be even able to write something like this.

we might not understand it, but crows and ravens have developed their own language. this is also true of whales, dolphins, and many other species. i do not know how a crow thinks, but we do know they can problem solve. (is "thinking" equal to "problem solving"? or is "thinking" data processing? data management?) i do not know how my dog thinks, either, but we "talk" all the same - i know what he is asking for, even if he only asks once.

i am not a dolphin or reindeer or a dog in the nighttime, but i am an odd duck. in the ugly duckling, she grows up and comes home and is beautiful and finds her soulmate. all that ugliness she experienced lives in downy feathers inside of her, staining everything a muted grey. she is beautiful eventually, though, so she is loved. they do not want to cut her open to see how she thinks.

a while ago i got into an argument with a classmate about that weird sia music video about autism. my classmate said she thought it was good to raise awareness. i told her they should have just hired someone else to do it. she said it's not fair to an autistic person to expect them to be able to handle that kind of a thing.

today i saw a goose, and he was limping. i want to be loved like a flock loves a wounded creature: the phrase taken under a wing. which is to say i have always known i am not normal. desperate, mewling - i want to be loved beyond words.

loved beyond thinking.

[thekittyokat]

you ever just have a lot, a LOT of feelings all at once about a character and not even remotely enough words or brainpower to FORM the words to describe everything you're feeling. so it feels like you may explode. yeah

[lukazade]

Your honour.... your honour please it's raining... it's raining.. let them have a little romance...... come on your honour please.....

Snippet of the fic you're never going to see (but that this art is based on) below!

It's just a fluff piece, timkon, nothing exciting happens, you lack the context. They're just making up after an argument. Oh also it's a bit cringe. But if you've read any of my writing (it's not often, but it's on the page here and there) you'll know I'm very cringe.. 😔

After he's showered, Tim comes to sit with him on the bed, the air of the van still a bit too quiet. Things got too heated, even the unrelenting downpour couldn't douse them. Tim's hand sets upon Kon's, tentative, and Kon doesn't push him aside. After all, on the way back, they both realised it was a pretty stupid argument. But then again, weren't they always. "Sorry I rushed you." Tim's voice is a sigh, barely audible over the rain against the window. "I'll make it up to you, I'm the reason things went wrong today." Of course he's blaming himself, Kon thinks; that's their favourite couple's activity. He gives Tim a strained smile, fighting the urge to begin another circle of no, it was my fault more, and get them into another argument. They're both too stubborn - it'd help more to do something productive now that they both feel more inclined to listen and apologise. So instead of that, he takes the towel from Tim's shoulders, lifting it to his still-soaked hair, gently rubbing the water from it. He could use TTK, to dry them both immediately, but Tim likes this sort of thing. He acts like he could live without it, but Kon really doesn't think he could. And, just as expected, Tim's shoulders steadily deflate. Kon feels his own do the same, relieved. "I wasn't mad, Tim. I just get overwhelmed sometimes- you know that- and I don't think things through very well once I'm in that zone. I just mean, well, I don't mean to-" "I can't believe you're stealing my lines." Tim cuts him off, with a small, sorry face. "You don't need to overexplain. I really am sorry." "Me, too." He nods. "And I think I was just mad because it's rained for a week straight, actually. No sun makes me cranky." He offers a cheeky grin. "You're annoying, but not that bad." Tim rolls his eyes, and leans just a touch forward. "You're an idiot." Kon doesn't really want to take the bait, but how can he avoid it if Tim adores cliché? "I'm your idiot." Tim brushes a hand up his arm, the room feeling warm and cosy again. "And if it wasn't the sun's fault that you got upset, I-" "Tim." "What?" He snorts. He can never just accept Kon's easy outs, can he? "Fine, fine. I'm--" He stops himself before he says he's sorry again, flushing. Kon tries not to laugh.