#nobody writes

[nobodywritingao3]

unnamed monster & caretaker au

Tasked with feeding and caring for the king's resident monster, Tommy is constantly overworked and fully expects to die before he's twenty. He has an odd relationship with the beast and makes it a point to keep details about himself private, but it's difficult when the creature is the closest thing in the world he has to a friend.

wordcount: 2.3k 🕸 read it on AO3

CW: - hard vore mention - soft vore mention - mentioned abuse and dehumanization

‼️‼️‼️ Unfinished, unedited one shot. Proceed with caution

@gracideaviolet sent me a writing prompt and this is what i originally wrote for it. i like the concept but i wrote this at a not-good time and when i reread it, i didnt like the quality enough to fix it. if you like this story, let me know cuz that might give me motivation to properly finish this thing. feel free to take the idea but please credit and send it to me cuz i like this story and wanna see what someone else does with it

Tommy finished loading the cart and took a second to breathe.

He heard the beast shifting around in the dark. "Are you doing okay out there, Sunshine?"

Despite his tiredness, the sweet nickname made him smile.

"You know you eat a lot? It's a pain in the ass to load myself."

He meant it as a joke but silence hung in the air a second longer than it should have.

He cleared his throat. "I don't mind it. I'm compensated."

The beast snorted. "Not enough."

Tommy laughed awkwardly and didn't say anything.

He walked over to the control panel and started up the track.

The cart was big enough to fit a barn, and filled to the brim with various livestock, prisoners of war, and whoever else might have found themselves on the king's hit-list. Nothing sent to the monster was alive. It was a point the monster whined about a lot, but Tommy much preferred it that way. It was already disgusting having to spend hours upon hours piling the cart with bloody meat (sometimes human!) by himself, and the day he was handed a living person would be the day he faked his death and fled the kingdom.

He pressed a few buttons, tried not to cut himself on several rusty levers, and the rail obediently started itself up with a few revs and puffs.

The beast hummed contentedly at the noise.

The cart began to run along the track, disappearing from his view and descending into the inky black cave. He heard the gate creak open and he heard it creak close. And then he heard the beast begin to eat.

They weren't nice sounds by any stretch of the imagination - ugly rips and wet squelches of flesh - but Tommy had been at the job for a while and was long used to it. He settled in and waited for the creature to finish its meal.

"So how was your day, Keeper?"

Tommy hummed. "About the same as it always is. My master told me that the king will be coming in soon for a performance review, but I've no idea when that might be."

The beast paused its munching before hesitantly starting again a moment later. "I - why?"

He shrugged, assuming the monster could see him from the dark. "Something about me holding down this job the longest out of anyone before."

"Hm."

"I don't understand why that would intrigue the king. And no offense to you personally - "

"Uh huh," the monster sarcastically interjected -

" - but this isn't exactly the career path I'd have chosen. If I knew how to transfer I probably would have. Honestly - I have no idea how the others could have quit this job. I was under the impression that this is the sort of thing you do until you die."

It laughed at that.

Tommy sighed.

He was quiet for a few moments, a question sitting heavy on his tongue.

He shouldn't ask. It's impolite.

The monster shifted around. "Spit it out."

He gave the darkness an accusatory look. "I don't know what you're talking about."

There was a huff of laughter. "You know exactly what I'm talking about. You're doing that thing where you want to say something but are worried about what I'll think. It would be adorable if I wasn't desperate for decent conversation."

"Fuck you." He said it with a smile.

"Well? Are you going to say or not?"

He scrubbed at his face. Fuck it. "What were your other keepers like?"

The beast went silent for several long moments.

Shit. "You don't have to answer if you - "

"I didn't much care for them."

Tommy didn't say a word.

"The feeling was mutual." It sighed heavily. "You're a much better replacement, Sunshine."

"I'm sorry for asking."

The beast purred. "Don't be, dear. I pressed you. And I don't mind answering." It jostled the cart. "And I'm done eating."

Tommy nodded and powered up the control panel again. The cart began to recede. 

It appeared from the darkness, picked completely clean and shiny as if it never been covered in blood at all.

It scared him a little, how quickly the monster could eat such a large amount, but he dismissed those thoughts as easily as they came. When would that ever affect him?

He checked the clock. He still had a few hours before he had to report back. "Do you mind if I stay with you longer?"

The monster laughed conspiratorially. "Oh, but that's against the rules," it said in a high mockery of his voice.

He flushed.

He had been terrified of the monster when they first met. He gave any excuse to leave the beast as soon as he could, including that the rules specified that spending unnecessary time with it was prohibited. That was true, but no one would have known if he chose to linger. In hindsight, it had been terribly obvious how afraid he was and he's only embarrassed that the monster pretended to believe him.

"You're the worst."

"And you still want to spend time with me?"

Tommy blew a raspberry at the darkness, earning a few laughs.

It was comfortably quiet for a few seconds before the monster spoke again. "Why are you curious about my old keepers?"

He tugged at his fingers. "Do you know how I ended up here?"

"You never talk about it."

He frowned. "And I never will," he responded coldly. It never gave up asking. "But do you know, generally, how someone ends up working this kind of job?"

The monster was quiet. "Yes."

Tommy didn't say anything for a minute. "The king is very angry with me. I don't want to see him again. However the other keepers escaped..." He shook his head. "I don't know. I don't know what I'm saying. If the king requests an audience with me, it isn't for any good reason."

~

When the king acquired his monster, he hired out help to feed the thing and keep it under control. He made sure the beast ate lavishly, but now matter what they fed it, it never seemed like to satiate the creature. But it hadn't died of starvation and that was good enough. When its caretakers started to disappear, it wasn't difficult to guess what happened.

But acknowledging the problem would mean addressing it too, and the king simply didn't care. In the end, he realized he had the perfect way to quietly do away with those he needed gone. He sourced this job, with its one hundred percent rate of 'job abandonment' to political adversaries or people growing affluent enough to take his throne.

Which takes him to the present day, and a rather interesting problem.

When some servant boy had spilled a bottle of red wine down his front during a gala several years prior, the king had been so angry that he threw the child in a dungeon and left him there. When the monster's then-keeper inevitably disappeared, the king came to the boy and grimly informed him of his punishment.

He hadn't expected the child to last more than a couple of days. He'd even picked out his replacements.

But lo and behold, the boy remained present at his job post for a week. And then that week became several, and those several became months, and those months became a year and a half.

The king couldn't understand why it hadn't eaten him yet. He was fifteen at this point, certainly the youngest to feed the monster. Was it waiting for him to grow up? Did it want to watch him sprout up before it made its attack? It was perfectly sentient, and the king knew this even though he denied it upfront. Shouldn't the monster trust that the sooner it finished its current keeper, the sooner he would be replaced by another?

Had there been someone who had managed to bring this creature to subservience? If so, then the king took special interest.

And if not, then it was long overdue that the servant boy be put to death.

~

Being a human's lapdog wasn't a dignified experience, but it was a fed one. Driders were megafauna, making it hard to get enough food. It certainly didn't help that the human kingdom believed everything was its rightful property and saw driders as a threat to them owning more than they could eat.

Wilbur certainly didn't enjoy his life, and he was almost always hungry anyway, but at least he was alive.

He lived in a dungeon below the castle, but he wasn't sure what a castle was and he barely understood the concept of a dungeon. He hadn't seen the sunshine in years, and his keeper was his only company.

He liked his keeper. The boy was kind. He didn't threaten to pee in Wilbur's food or throw rocks at him. He asked him how his day was, and even made it a point to handle the meat carefully as he transported it into the cart. He seemed lonely, and made up excuses to stay. He was a cute little thing, and Wilbur wanted to stick him into his brooding pouch and keep him there.

~

The cart rolled into Wilbur's enclosure, and he greedily snatched it up and began to eat.

His keeper sat at a table in the light.

Wilbur finished his food in a few seconds and toyed with the cart. He always made it seem as if it took him longer to eat than it did.

"Do you have a family?"

The boy froze at the question. "Why do you ask?"

Wilbur pouted even though he knew he couldn't be seen. "We've known each for so long. I don't even know what your name is. Can't I know just a little?"

His keeper awkwardly laughed, fidgeting with his fingers. "Oh... I guess you're right."

Wilbur's heart leapt.

"I don't have a family."

"Oh." Shit.

"Yeah."

What was he supposed to say?

"I don't have a family either."

His keeper peered into the darkness. "What are you?"

Wilbur smiled. He skittered to the bars of his cage and leaned against them, towering over the boy, though he had no idea. "Would you like to play twenty questions?"

"You're so lame, seriously, what are you? I don't even know what you look like."

I could show you, he wanted to say.

Coming out of his cage was easy. The king assumed it could hold him but no one actually checked. And aside from his keeper, no one had been in his dungeon for years. In reality, the bars had long been bent open and Wilbur could get out whenever he pleased.

It wouldn't be difficult to come through the bars and present himself to his keeper. Pick the little figure up in his hands and take him into his cage with him.

When he'd eaten his previous keepers, they'd always been replaced. If he captured his current keeper and stored him away in his brooding pouch, then he'd never be lonely again.

It was tempting.

"That's probably for the best," he said. He stepped away from the bars of his cage and curled up on the floor.

He liked his keeper. He wanted him to be happy. Just because Wilbur was stuck in a cage didn't mean he had to be as well.

"Do you think I'd be scared of you?"

Wilbur looked down at himself, at his large stature and eight legs. His fangs came down to his mid chin. "I think you'd be terrified, dear."

His keeper smiled. "I don't think so. I have a suspicion that you're just harmless."

His heart melted. Oh stars, he wanted to eat this kid.

He massaged his aching brood pouch. "You're sweet, Sunshine."

~

The cart was left in his cage while he was sleeping. He woke up confused, spying it in the corner of his enclosure and wondered why he'd been fed overnight. Where was his keeper? His mind jumped to the worst conclusions.

He found him inside the cart. Bound and gagged and looking terrified beyond all reason.

"Oh, Sunshine," he murmured.

His words had the opposite intended effect, his keeper starting to panic and writhe at the sound of his voice.

"Hey, hey... Calm down, okay? I'll get you out of there." He reached into the cart and picked him up in his hand.

Despite the circumstance, his heart soared. This was the closest they'd ever been.

The figure was tiny in his palm, and still struggling.

Wilbur quickly undid his bounds, being mindful of his sharp claws against the human's body. As soon as his hands were free, he was clawing at the gag around his mouth.

"Don't eat me! Please, do not eat me..."

Wilbur's stomach dropped.

"What? Sunshine, why would I eat you?"

The boy continued to sob.

Wilbur cupped him to his chest and headed towards the bars of his enclosure. He expertly clambered through and came out the other side, his skin exposed to the light for the first time in more than a year.

"Dear? Can you talk to me?" He stroked his head with his thumb and brought him eye level. "Why were you in my feeding cart?"

His keeper stared at him in shock, and it was then that he remembered his keeper had never truly seen him before.

A hot wave of embarassment and self consciousness overtook him.

He awkwardly set his little human on his table and receded back into his enclosure.

"Sunshine?" He prompted once back in his cage. "Are you..."

"Could - could you get out the whole time?"

Wilbur's mouth went dry. "I - well, yes, I could but - "

His keeper stumbled off the table and hit the ground with a nasty sounding crack.

Wilbur sprang to his claws and scrambled forward. He popped his head out between the bars and stared down at his little keeper. "Are you okay?"

The human stared up at him with terror on his face and scrambled backwards, running for the door.

"Shit, shit, wait, I'm sorry! Please stay, please, Sunshine - "

The door slammed behind him with a resounding crack and Wilbur flinched backwards.

~ ~ ~ 🕸

i used to love drider aus back in 2020 🕷️🕷️🕷️

just a freaky little guy whose half dude and half Fear. potential off the charts.

my tag list got lost when my computer was annihilated (</3) but let me know in replies if you want to get @'d and i'll make a new one

oh yeah link to the writing prompt and story i did fill out

[1mnobodywhoareyou]

when you get too excited about writing that ONE [1] scene in the fic...

[acestories]

Arc 1; Chapter 1

In some ways the world hasn’t changed; Karens still scream at grocery store clerks for no reason, Douchebags think they own the roads, and the sun continues to rise every morning. But, it’s definitely changed; people fly through the air on their own, a car mechanic lifts the car he’s working on with his bare hand, and a thief outruns a squad of police cars.

But, I’m getting ahead of myself. 2020 was terrible already, but as if that wasn’t enough, it had one last fucking piece of shit to throw in our faces. Christmas night, there was a violet star in the sky. By new years eve, it had become a sun. By new years day, a violet mist that brought with it plague, one with a 10% mortality rate, and the rich and powerful hid themselves away from it. As they always did.

But as it turned out, ⅕ of those who survived it got what could only be called Superpowers. And very few of the rich and powerful got Superpowers. The inevitable started to happen.

And where do I fit into all of this? Well, I'm the ñonbinary cat boy waiting for their take out to be ready. What? Just because I got Superpowers doesn't mean I don't want tacos. And these guys make a gochujang teriyaki sauce that is to die for. And I'm not gonna let some random ass fuck wad villain destroy this place, I can't recreate the sauce!

The villain (who I think called himself Syndrome or some shit like that, I can't remember) charged at me, fist raised high. I'm able to dodge at the last minute, the concrete street corner shattering as it took the blow, which when combined with my latest bruises, are enough to tell me that this guy has one of those god damn Escalating Strength powers in addition to the basic stuff.

Gotta take them out fast, before they start punching Blackholes or something. I think someone could do that.

The villain starts monologuing; ooooooh, his name is "Symptom." That's actually kinda cool I gotta admit. Regardless, thank fuck this guy is long winded. Or really into L.A.R.P.ing. Doesn't matter now though; I charge at him with the speed of a bullet and unleash a flurry of blows. After a few seconds of what sounds like a machine gun going off, he starts to fall backwards, a look of surprise on his big stupid, neck-bearded face.

Heh, I caught him Monologuing. Guess that makes me a sly cat instead of a sly dog. :D

Oh yeah, the cat parts. While only ⅕ of survivors got super powers, over half of survivors got "fantasy bits." I got turned into a cat boy, but I've seen people with other things. Someone I went to high-school with got turned into an Orc.

Oh, and these things aren't a package deal, but there is enough overlap that it's testing fate to make a cat girl angry. So the Boomer who's screaming and making threats at me for not saving his car is either really brave or really stupid. I'm betting on the latter.

CRACK!

Shit, wasn't paying attention! Mmm, that's gonna smart tomorrow. I stumble to stay standing, looking for who hit me. Dammit, my vision is still blurry.

POW!

Again, but from the other side. This time though, I'm able to recover faster, and I see a trail of dust kicked up by a wind. Great, a speedster.

Dick wads didn't just get standard stuff, they get to be stupid fast. Faster than even I can see. But, based on the fact that I didn't explode, safe to assume that they're not too much stronger than I. Probably not much tougher either.

I suppose I should explain myself, huh? So, almost every super is significantly stronger, tougher, and faster than they were before, with heightened senses to boot. Most can lift one end of a car. I'm one of the ones that can kill a building. We don't got any Supermans or Omnimans, but we got some guys who're way the fuck up there.

But after the basic stuff, lots of people also got other powers, some coming into them easier than others. Symptom from earlier got Escalating Strength, which makes him stronger the longer he fights, but not tougher or faster (no, I don't know how it works exactly). Our new friend is a Speedster, so they get to move at Mach speeds (or close to it).

But now that I know what to look for, I can look and hear for them. And with my Cat Ears, I'm really good at hearing them tear through the atmosphere. They might be faster than sound, but the air sure as shit isn't. As they come towards me, I fly 30 m (100 in freedom units) up into the air, the Speedster's momentum carrying them past where I was.

Yeah, I got flight. Which is also pretty common, and lots of people make it work. I can't. I can jump up to this high, and after that I can fall with style. If I try to actually fly, I become a hazard to everything around me. Aside from knowing you guys are there, the only other power I know I have is Laser Eyes. And the only time I've used that, I destroyed my bed and first print Power 9 mtg cards! Those are worth $165,100!

As I drift down, I can see the Speedster trying to get her bearings. Well, she's practically where I was, and I can make myself come down really fucking hard. Choosing occam's razor, I bring myself down to the ground. Hard. Hard enough that the Speedster is now a good couple inches in the pavement.

I stand up, keeping my foot down on her head. After a minute or so, I felt confident in assuming she was down. Long enough that I can try to tie her up for the cops. And tie up Symptom. And actual–

"Oh, thank you señior!" I turn around to see the old Latino lady who took my order running up to me. Before I can process this, she glomps me in a bear hug.

"Uh, you're welcome. If you don't mind me asking, what did I do?"

"You saved us." This time, I turn to the Old Japanese man who cooks in the kitchen walking up to me, but picking up a bag I hadn't realized the Speedster had dropped before also hugging me. "The fast one stole from us while you were busy. You're a true hero."

"I'm not a hero. I was only here for tacos."

From the face pressed into my chest came "No, you were the only one here, and you helped. That makes you a hero."

I tried to form a response, but a slight rustling brought my attention, not to the store, but to the hole in an apartment above it. To a family. Their family. Their grandchildren.

As what I just did begins to really sink in, a young teenager comes up to me carrying a bag of styrofoam boxes. "But I only ordered one thing of tacos…" is all I can say weakly.

"The rest is our thanks." The only response I can think of is tears.

[fandom-nobody]

I need someone to tell me to finish my fucking fic 😭

[the-ultimate-nobody]

Summary: In which I, the author, decided to pull a few strings and turn the Insanity knob just a tad bit to make this work.

A collection of stories inspired by other authors. Stories about the King of Hearts, Arisu Ryouhei and his fellow Face Cards.

Tis I, the author... and I uh... I wrote this and I want the Tumblr people to know that I wrote it :shy: 

(It’s slightly gay because my need to murder people overcomes my shyness towards romantic relationships (Example: Chapter 4 of this fic)

[noperopesaredope]

I wish we had more female characters like Eleanor Shellstrop. One of the most unlikable people you've ever met. Read a Buzzfeed article on most rude things you can do on a daily basis and decided to use that as a list of goals. Makes everyone's day worse just by being there. Dropped a margarita mix on the ground and tried to pick it up, only to get hit by a row of shopping carts which pushed her into the road where she was hit by a boner pill delivery truck, killing her instantly. Cannot keep a romantic partner despite being bisexual. Had a terrible childhood but will die before she gets therapy. Best employee at a scam company. Just the worst but also can't help but root for her to improve.

Absolute loser. Girl-failure. Bad at almost everything. Literally perfect female character.

[buggachat]

something so fucked up about Chat Noir’s whole deal is that he is in a lot of ways Adrien playing a character. Like Adrien picked up his miraculous and was told he’d be a superhero so he was like “ok, time to act like a superhero!” and he lets himself have fun w it and play up the role and let loose and kind of just allow himself to be silly and goofy and have fun and for once in his life not care about performing Perfection™.

But. But none of the other characters KNOW THAT. So everyone just sees Chat Noir and is like “look at this guy’s ego. He’s so full of himself. Surely it’d be fair to knock him down a few pegs” without being aware of how few pegs he actually HAS. He’s like the “insecure character who overcompensates in ego” trope except he’s really not doing it unironically, he’s just having a fun LARP pretending to have self worth in his off-hours but nobody else is on the same page about it being a game and he refuses to tell them. He just dramatically pouts about it and lets them laugh and pretends like he’s not internalizing it and it is almost 3 am and my brain forced me to write this instead of sleeping I’m gonna take a melatonin

[fandom-trash-goblin]

like matryoshka, one inside another inside another inside another.

Birthright, George Abraham // tumblr user dogsmouth // The Complete Poems of Anna Akhmatova: White Flock //Anne Carson, Nox // A Crash Course in Molotov Cocktails, Halyna Kruk // Herman Melville, from a letter to Nathaniel Hawthorne //tumblr user eridan-amporna // tumblr user boyflesher(deactivated) // For Your Own Good, Leah Horlick // Elizabeth Robinson, Brothers

[revvetha]

[shows up at your door at 2AM] hey can we go through that last D&D session scene by scene and discuss the symbolism and the narrative themes and their implications, and how each character has grown and evolved? But in a normal way?

[stewykablooey]

succession operates on the complete opposite end of the 'nobody talks like that' spectrum in which they write dialogue that is full of words nobody has ever said but instead of uber polished therapy speak its some of the most insane sentences in the english language that comes full circle into being actually authentic

[1mnobodywhoareyou]

'What would your rather find living in your attic? 1000 roaches or one person?' for Sunset Curve because you know they would all have strong opinions. Plz and thank you!

This spiralled completely out of control 😅 i... have no idea who is going to be more surprised at the turn this took. I never saw it coming. though, in hindsight... Maybe I should have.

“Okay, next question: ‘What would you rather find living in your attic? A thousand roaches or one person?’” Reggie asks, reading from the card in his hand.

Alex groans, “I need more information!”

“That’s not how the game works, Alex. Rapid-fire,” Bobby explains. 

“The only rapid-fire my brain does is worst case scenarios.”

“A thousand roaches,” Luke chimes in, more cheerfully than is probably appropriate. 

Alex’s face screws up in disgust. “Why?”

“You just gas ‘em out and clean them up and they’re gone, right?”

“I don’t fucking know.”

“I’d rather a person,” Bobby declares.

“Okay, but is it a stranger or a person you know? Are we ALLOWED to remove them or do they have to be there eternally? At least we know they’re alive, I guess.”

Bobby throws his hands into the air, “It doesn’t matter! Just pick one!”

“Maybe I’m in your attic, Alex,” Luke teases, leaning close to get into Alex’s personal space. 

Alex pushes his face away. “Ew, gross. Stay away from my attic.”

Reggie giggles, “That’s what she said.”

“That doesn’t make any sense!” Alex cries. “This game isn’t any fun, can we do something else? Please?”

“Truth or dare?” Reggie suggests.

Alex rolls his eyes, “We know everything about each other. It’s just dare. And you know I don’t like those.”

“Never have I ever!” Luke proposes.

“Dude, what did I JUST say?”

A nervous laugh escapes Reggie. He quickly claps a hand over his mouth but is too slow. All three of his friends turn to look at him.

“What?” Bobby asks. 

He shakes his head. “Nothing,” he mumbles from behind his hand. 

A teasing grin takes over Luke’s face and he crawls toward Reggie. “You have an idea!”

“No! Nope. Nuh uh,” Reggie says, shaking his head vigorously. 

Luke reaches out to grab Reggie’s wrist. He tries to pull Reggie’s hand away from his mouth but is met with more resistance than he expected.

“C’mon, Reg! What is it?”

Bobby eyes Luke and Reggie intently. “It’s just us, man. It can’t be that bad!” Bobby assures him.

Luke finally manages to wrench Reggie’s hand away from his face.

“Just tell us,” Alex pleads. 

“What, do you want us to kiss you or something?” Luke asks cheekily. 

Reggie’s face turns bright red and the grin on Luke’s face grows. 

“No,” Reggie mumbles, staring at the floor. 

“You do!” 

Alex and Bobby share an apprehensive look. Alex has been out to the band for a while now but nobody else has ever said anything about being anything other than straight. But if there’s something they know with certainty, it’s that Luke will do anything for the bit.

Luke looks at Alex and then back at Reggie, “Do you want Alex to kiss you?”

Reggie raises his eyes to look at Alex, quickly averting his gaze again.

“Or is it Bobby?”

He repeats the motion. 

“Or…” Luke crawls impossibly closer, “me?”

Reggie squeaks. 

“Luke! Stop. Be nice,” Alex chastises him. He reaches out to grab Luke by the arm, pulling him away from Reggie.

Bobby takes Luke’s spot in front of Reggie. Though he maintains a respectful distance. He dips down to catch Reggie’s gaze. 

“Hey,” he says gently. “It’s okay.”

Reggie lifts his head up to acknowledge Bobby. “Yeah?”

Bobby shrugs, “Yeah. I mean, I don’t get it, but you can want to kiss whoever.”

“I want to kiss so many people,” Reggie admits quietly. 

“There’s nothing wrong with that, you know,” Alex chimes in from where he’s sitting. He’s still got a solid grip on Luke’s arm, holding him in place. 

Luke shakes Alex off with a glare. Or at least his best attempt at one. Alex somehow manages not to laugh.

“I’d kiss you if you wanted,” Luke offers. 

Reggie’s eyes widen as he looks up at Luke. “Really?” he asks excitedly. His blush deepens. He puts a hand on each of his cheeks to feel their warmth. “Really?” he asks again, keeping his voice level.

Luke nods, “Yeah.”

“Okay.” Reggie’s voice is small but he maintains eye contact with Luke. Bobby moves out of the way as Luke crawls back to where he’d been before. 

Luke brings his hand up to cradle Reggie���s face. He looks down at Reggie’s lips and then back up at his eyes. “Do you just want like a peck or…” he trails off, suddenly uncertain. 

Reggie doesn’t let the uncertainty linger, leaning forward to press their lips together. 

Luke kisses him back almost immediately. His hand shifts from Reggie’s cheek to the back of his neck, pulling him closer. Reggie’s hands find their way to Luke’s waist, causing Luke to jolt slightly at the skin to skin contact. 

Reggie laughs into their kiss but doesn’t break it until Bobby’s cough startles them both. 

Luke pulls away from Reggie and looks back at Bobby. “What? You want a turn?”

Bobby’s face turns an uncharacteristic shade of red. 

“Well, c’mon then!” Luke reaches out for him and pushes him in front of Reggie. 

Luke looks at Reggie. “I mean, if you wanted it too,” he clarifies.

Reggie simply offers a small nod.

“Well, alright then!” Luke says. “Get to it. Then it’s my turn.”

Bobby chokes slightly but lets Reggie pull him in for a kiss of their own. 

“You next?” Luke whispers exaggeratedly to Alex. 

Alex gapes at him, eyes wide. He stammers for a moment and Luke grins. 

“I’ll take that as a yes, then.”

“You’re not the boss of who Reggie kisses,” Alex hisses at him.

“Yeah, well, maybe I should be. It’s working out great!” Luke directs a pointed look Reggie and Bobby’s way.

They let the pair get lost in their makeout session for a few minutes before Luke lets out an obnoxious cheer. Bobby and Reggie startle apart, both directing glares Luke’s way. 

Luke pushes Alex toward Reggie. “Alex’s turn! And I want to kiss Bobby.”

“Maybe I don’t want to kiss you,” Bobby counters.

Luke scoffs, “As if. I’m an excellent kisser.”  

“You’re a pain in my ass.”

Luke smirks, “I could be.”

Bobby rolls his eyes but switches places with Alex. They watch as Alex gently pulls Reggie in for their kiss. 

“Sexy, right?” Luke whispers. He looks up at Bobby who’s still watching the others. He laughs lightly as he straddles Bobby’s lap. The sudden contact startles Bobby and he stares at Luke. 

“What are you-?”

“Let me kiss you? Please?”

Bobby sighs. He winds his hand through Luke’s cutoff and onto the small of his back, pulling Luke closer to him. “Fine.”

A cocky grin takes over Luke’s face. Bobby rolls his eyes before firmly planting his lips on Luke’s, wiping away the self-assured expression. He kisses Luke deeply, relishing in the moans that escape. 

Both couples pull apart to breathe within moments of each other, gasping for breath. 

“That was…” Reggie starts to say.

“Yeah,” Alex agrees breathlessly. “That is NOT where I expected tonight to go.”

Luke chuckles, “Can’t say I’m mad about it”

“Should have done that ages ago!” Reggie enthuses, looking between his friends. His face crumples up in concern when his gaze reaches Bobby. “Wait! Alex hasn’t kissed you two yet!”

Bobby puts his hands up, “It’s okay, I don’t-”

“Do you WANT to kiss Alex?” Reggie asks. 

“Well, I…”

Luke looks at Alex, “Do you want to kiss Bobby?”

Alex’s face turns pink. 

“Go on then. Or I am.”

Bobby rolls his eyes and pushes Luke off his lap. He settles in front of Alex, pecking him on the lips before pulling away.

Reggie’s face falls. “That’s all?!”

“Yeah, I’m good,” Bobby says.

“So not into it,” Alex agrees. “No offense,” he directs at Bobby.

“None taken.”

Luke’s bouncing on his toes, somehow still balanced in a crouching position.

“Can I kiss Alex now?” he asks impatiently. 

“God, you’re so needy,” Bobby groans. He moves away from Alex and lets Luke take his place. 

Luke hastily pulls Alex into a kiss. As it deepens, Reggie whimpers from behind them. 

“Oh!” Bobby exclaims with realization, “You haven’t gotten to watch yet.” A grin to rival Luke’s spreads across his face. He moves to sit beside Reggie. “What’s better?” he whispers knowingly.

Reggie audibly swallows and Bobby chuckles. “Both. I like both.”

[confessedlyfannish]

Writing Prompt #12

Bruce is reading the paper when the pour of Tim's coffee goes abruptly quiet. It would be hard to pinpoint why this is disturbing if it wasn't for the way the soft, tinny sound the vent system in the manor makes cuts out for the first time since being updated in the 90s. The pour, Bruce realizes, has not slowed to a trickle before stopping. It has simply stopped. And there is no overeager clack of a the mug against the marble counter or the uncouth first slurp (nor muttered apology at Alfred's scolding look) immediately following the end of the pour.

Bruce fights the instinct to use all of his senses to investigate, and instead keeps his eyes on the byline of the article detailing the latest set of microearthquakes to hit the midwest in the last week. Microearthquakes aren't an unusual occurrence and aren't noticeable by human standards, which is why this article is regulated to page seven, but from several hundred a day worldwide to several hundred a day solely in the East North Central States, seismologists are baffled.

Bruce had been considering sending Superman to investigate under the guise of a Daily Planet article requested by Bruce Wayne (Wayne Industries does have an offshoot factory in the area) when everything had stopped twenty seconds ago. That is what he assumes has happened (having not moved a muscle to confirm) in the amount of time he assumes has passed. His million dollar Rolex does not quite audibly tick but in the absolute silence it should be heard, which confirms the silence to be exactly that—absolute.

While Bruce can hold his breath with the best of the Olympian swimmers, he has never accounted for a need to remain without blinking without being able to move one's eyes. Rotating the eyeballs will maintain lubrication such that one could go without blinking for up to ten minutes. But staring at the byline fixedly, he estimates another twenty seconds before tears start to form.

These are the thoughts Bruce distracts himself with, because he doesn't dare consider how Tim and Alfred haven't made a (living) sound in the past forty-five seconds. About Damian, packing his bag upstairs for school after a morning walk with Titus that was "just pushing it, Master Damian".

There is a knife to his right, if memory serves (it does). In the next five seconds—

"Your wards and guardian are fine, Mr. Wayne," the deepest voice Bruce has ever heard intones. For a dizzying moment, it is hard to pinpoint the location of the voice, for it comes from everywhere—like the chiming of a clocktower whilst inside the tower, so overpowering he is cocooned in its volume.

But it is not spoken loudly, just calmly, and when he puts the paper down, folds it, and looks to his right, a blue man sits in Dick's chair.

He wears a three piece suit made entirely of hues of violet, tie included. He has a black brooch in the shape of a cogwheel pinned to his chest pocket, a simple chain clipped to his lapel. Black leather gloves delicately thumb Bruce's watch (no longer on his wrist, somewhere between second 45 and 46 it has stopped being on his wrist), admiring it.

"You'll forgive me," the man says with surety. "Clocks are rather my thing, and this is an impressive piece." He turns it over and reveals the 'M. Brando' roughly scratched into the silver back. He frowns.

"What a shame," he says, placing it face side up on the table.

"Most would consider that the watch's most valuable characteristic." Bruce says, voice steady, hands neatly folded before him. Two inches from the knife. To his left, there is an open doorway to the kitchen. If he turns his head, he might be able to get a glance of Tim or Alfred.

He doesn't look away from the man.

"It is the arrogance of man," the man says, raising red eyes (sclera and all) to Bruce, "to think they can make their mark on time."

"...Is that supposed to be considered so literally?" Bruce asks, with a light smile he does not mean.

The man smiles lightly back, eyes crinkling at the corners. He looks to be in his mid thirties, clean-shaven. His skin is a dull blue, his hair a shock of white, and a jagged scar runs through one eye and curving down the side of his cheek, an even darker, rawer shade of blue-purple.

The man turns the watch back over and taps at the engraving. "Let me ask you this," he says. "When we deface a work of art, does it become part of the art? Does it add to its intrinsic meaning?"

Bruce forces his shoulders to shrug. "It's arbitrary," he says. "A teenager inscribes his name on the wall of an Ancient Egyptian temple and his parents are forced to publicly apologize. But runic inscriptions are found on the Hagia Sophia that equate to an errant Viking guard having inscribed 'Halfdan was here' and we consider it an artifact of a time in which the Byzantine Empire had established an alliance with the Norse and converted vikings to Christianity."

"The vikings were as errant as the teenager," the man says, "in my experience." He leans back in his chair. "I suppose you could say the difference is time. When time passes, we start to think of things as artistic, or historical. We find the beauty in even the rubble, or at least we find necessity in the destruction..."

He offers Bruce the watch. After a moment, Bruce takes it.

"The problem, Mr. Wayne, is that time does not pass for me. I see it all as it was, as it is, as it ever will be, at all times. There is no refuge from the horror or comfort in that one day..." he closes his hand, the leather squeaking. And then his face smooths out, the brief severity gone. He regards Bruce calmly.

"You can look left, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce looks left. Framed by the doorway, Tim looks like a photograph caught in time. A stream of coffee escapes the spout of the stainless steel pot he prefers over the Breville in the name of expediency, frozen as it makes its way to the thermos proclaiming BITCH I MIGHTWING. Tim regards his task with a face of mindless concentration, mouth slack, lashes in dark relief against his pale skin as he looks down at the mug. Behind him, Bruce can see Alfred's hand outstretched towards the refrigerator handle, equally and terrifyingly still.

"My name is Clockwork," the man says. "I have other names, ones you undoubtedly know, but this one will be bestowed upon me from the mouth of a child I cherish, and so I favor it above all else. I am the Keeper of Time."

"What do you want from me?" Bruce asks, shedding Wayne for Batman in the time it takes to meet Clockwork's eyes. The man acknowledges the change with a greeting nod.

"In a few days time, you will send Superman to the Midwest to investigate the unusual seismic activity. By then, it will be too late, the activity will be gone. They will have already muzzled him."

"Him."

"There is a boy with the power to rule the realm I come from. Your government has been watching him. The day he turned 18, they took him from his family and hid him away. I want you to retrieve him. I want you to do it today."

"Why me?"

"His parents do not have the resources you do, both as Batman and Bruce Wayne. You will dismantle the organization that is keen on keeping him imprisoned, and you will offer him a scholarship to the local University. You and yours will keep him safe within Gotham until he is able to take his place as my King."

This is a lot of information to take in, even for Bruce. The idea that there could be a boy powerful enough to rule over this (god, his mind whispers) entity and that somehow, he has slipped under all of their radars is as frustrating as it is overwhelming. But although Clockwork has seemed willing to converse, he doesn't know how many more questions he will get.

"You have the power to stop time," he decides on, "why don't you rescue him? Would he not be better suited with you and your people?"

"Within every monarchy, there is a court," Clockwork. "Mine will be unhappy with the choice I have made," he looks at Bruce's watch, head cocked. "In different worlds, they call you the Dark Knight. This will be your chance to serve before a True King."

Bruce bristles. "I bow to no one."

"You'll all serve him, one day," Clockwork says, patiently. "He is the ruler of realms where all souls go, new and old. When you finally take refuge, he will be your sanctuary." He frowns. "But your government rejects the idea of gods. All they know is he is other. Not human. Not meta. A weapon."

"A weapon you want me to bring to my city."

"I believe you call one of your weapons 'Clark', do you not?" Clockwork asks idly. "But you misunderstand me. They seek to weaponize him. He is not restrained for your safety, but for their gain."

"And if I don't take him?" Bruce asks, because a) Clockwork has implied he will be at the very least impeded, at worst destroyed over this, and b) he never did quite learn not to poke the bear. "You won't be around if I decide he's better off with the government."

"You will," Clockwork says, with the same certainty he's wielded this entire conversation. "Not because he is a child, though he is, nor because you are good, though you are, nor even because it is better power be close at hand than afar.

"I have told you my court will be unhappy with me. In truth, there are others who also defend the King. Together we will destroy the access to our world not long after this conversation. The court will be unable to touch him, but neither will we as we face the repercussions for our actions. I am telling you this, because in a timeline where I do not, you think I will be there to protect him. And so when he is in danger, even subconsciously, you choose to save him last, or not at all. And that is the wrong choice.

"So cement it in your head, Bruce Wayne," the man says, "You will go to him because I tell you to. And you will keep him safe until he is ready to return to us. He will find no safety net in me. So you will make the right choice, no matter the cost."

"Or, when our worlds connect again, and they will," his voice now echoes in triplicate with the voices of the many, the young, the old, Tim, Bruce's mother, Barry Allen, Bruce's own voice, "I will not be the only one who comes for you."

"Now," he says, producing a Wayne Industries branded BIC pen. "I will tell you the location the boy is being kept, and then I would like my medallion back, please. In that order."

Bruce glances down and sees a golden talisman, attached to a black ribbon that is draped haphazardly around the neck of his bathrobe, so light (too light, he still should have—) he has not felt its weight until this moment.

Bruce flips the paper over, takes the pen, and jots down the coordinates the being rattles off over the face of a senator. By his calculation, they do correspond with a location in the midwest.

"You will find him on B6. Take a left down the hallway and he will be in the third room down, the one with a reinforced steel door. Take Mr. Kent and Mr. Grayson with you, and when you leave take the staircase at the end of the hallway, not the elevator."

The man gets up, dusts off his impeccably clean pants, and offers him a hand to shake.

"We will not meet again for some time, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce looks at the creature, stands, and shakes his hand. It feels like nothing. The Keeper of Time sighs, although nothing has been said.

"Ask your question, Mr. Wayne."

"I have more than one."

"You do," Clockwork says. "But I have heard them all, and so they are one. Please ask, or I will not be inclined to answer it."

"What does this boy mean for the future, that you are willing to sacrifice yourself for him?"

There is a pause.

"So that is the one," Clockwork says, after a time. "Yes. I see. I should resolve this, I suppose."

"Resolve what?"

"It is not his future I mean to protect," the man says. "It is his present."

"You want to keep him safe now..." Bruce says, but he's not sure what the being is trying to say.

"I am not inclined," Clockwork repeats, stops. His expression turns solemn, red eyes widening. In their reflection, Bruce can see something. A rush of movement too quick to make heads or tails of, like playing fast forward on a videotape. "Superman reports no signs of unusual seismic activity. With nothing further to look into, you let it go in favor of other investigative pursuits. You do not find him, as you are not meant to. He stays there. His family, his friends, they cannot find him. His captors tell him they have moved on. He does not believe them, until he does. He stays there. He stays there until he is strong enough to save himself."

Clockwork speaks stiffly, rattling off the chain of events as if reading a Justice League debrief. "He is King. He will always be King. He is strong, and good, and compassionate, and he is great for my people because yours have betrayed his trust beyond repair. He throws himself into being the best to ever Be, because there is nothing Left for him otherwise. We love him. We love him. We love him. My King. Forevermore."

The red film in his eyes stall out, and Bruce is forced to look away from how bright the image is, barely making out a silhouette before they dull back to their regular red.

"I am not inclined," Clockwork says slowly, "To this future."

"Because of what it means in the present," Bruce finishes for him. "They're not just imprisoning him, are they."

"They will have already muzzled him."

Clockworks is right in front of him faster than he can process, fist gripping the medallion at his neck so tight he now feels the ribbon digging into his skin.

"Unlike you, Mr. Wayne," and for the first time, the god is angry, and the image of it will haunt Bruce for the rest of his life, "I do not believe in building a better future on the back of a broken child."

"Find him," the deity orders, and yanks the necklace so hard the ribbon rips—

Clack!

"sluuuuurp!"

"Master Timothy, honestly!"

"Sorry Alfred!"

[omtai]

got too crazy last night & made a fake Gerard Fangoria cover... 🧛‍♀️

📸: Jess Gleeson

[the-ultimate-nobody]

In which I, the author, finally writes a fucked up Arisu :D

[bread-that-draws]

Flowey’s so funny and has me so fucked up like he’s a talking flower. He tries to kill you upon your first interaction. He is ten years old. He is damaged beyond repair. He’s a flower named Flowey. He’s become friends with every single character. He’s killed all of them countless times. He knows everything about everyone. He doesn’t care anymore. He takes care of his mom when she can’t take care of herself. He’s killed her before. He doesn’t care if you kill her. He thinks she’s trying to replace him. He just wants to be himself again. He wants to destroy everything. He hates you. You’re the only one who understands him. He wants his best friend back. He’s terrified of them. He believes in kill or be killed because he died by giving mercy to the wrong person. He believes himself to be the wrong person. He doesn’t understand when you show him that kindness he showed others, even when you know he could kill you for it. He’s tried every route. He asks you if you have anything better to do when you try to do the same. He’s a direct reflection of the player. He’s a fucking talking flower named flowey and his only voice line is by Ronald McDonald and his officially licensed plush does a little dance for you

[inkskinned]

i keep thinking about hobbies and how i often spill over myself to pick up new ones. i have adhd, i end up trying something for like a month and then just getting far enough in it that i move on, satisfied.

and that should be fine; but it's never fine.

i am a pretty decent artist; but i can't just make art for my dnd campaign, i should be selling dnd maps and character designs and scene setting pieces. i can't just make my friends matching earrings, i need to get an etsy and ship them internationally and take bulk orders. i make pretty good props and decorations and use them to throw my friends parties - but i should be running a party planning business and start taking paying clients and networking and putting my skills to actual use.

for some reason, i never figured out the specifics of pottery. it was a fun class and i enjoyed myself - and still, i'm embarrassed, years later, that i put in all that useless effort. everything i make has to be stunning. stellar. i should have applied myself more. maybe i'm too lazy. maybe i'm broken and selfish and needy. actually creative people would have kept going; they would be bettering themselves at every possible opportunity.

we find ourselves in this trap, even accidentally: we need to commodify our time, because it is a commodity. if we spend our efforts and our time not earning, isn't that the same thing as burning free money? and god forbid you ever take up a hobby that ends up being more expensive than you thought. you sit in your car and you look at the receipt and in your head you hear a conversation that isn't even happening - your mom or your friend or your partner all saying oh great. not this shit again. it's always something with you, and it never actually means anything.

i have realized this horrible thing, recently - i'll get excited to start a project, pick up a new hobby. and then i just... stop myself. i start thinking about the amount of time it will take, and how it'll look in my monthly budget. what if i can't even produce a good enough final product. sure, it's exciting to think about how i could make my friend her own custom dice. but i'm just polluting the earth if i don't get it right. better not bother. better not try.

restless, i get caught in the negative space. the feeling that oh god, i want to create. and that horrible sense - yeah, but i don't have the time to just put to waste.