#there's coding there's baiting and then there's whatever THIS IS

[sillyfudgemonkeys]

Me: *reading a webtoon and the girls are a little too close* (≖_≖ ) Me: Is this bait? This feels like bait. Am I being baited? Cause..... rude if that's the case, I'm low key shipping them. MC: *states she wants to make her female friend her "Life Partner"* Me: *puts phone down and walks away* IF THIS IS BAIT JUST STRIKE ME NOW! TT0TT

[textilesimp]

i told an internet stranger i went to the goodwill bins with a friend and that i got a frying pan

they responded “how old r u to be getting fucking frying pans��

alongside other remarks on why is an old person on this website, why are you so behind on the times etc. like legitimately i think they thought i was at least middle aged mother

broski. girlypop. i’m twenty buddy how old are YOU????

but i mentioned i had an instructional recipe and maintenance book for how to use a microwave (presumably for first time owners) from the 70’s

and that, finally, was something that wasn’t old people shit

i’m pretty sure they thought i was a mom in her forties or older lmao

just. a lot of comments that made me think they were a maximum of 11 years old. idk i’m tired lol

[venomgender]

scott cramer worlds best youtuber

[elodieunderglass]

You posted a while ago about Grant Howitt's RPG There But For The Geese of God, where the players are archangelic geese trying to shepherd Martin de Tours into sainthood by whatever means necessary; you might also be interested in

His RPG Everyone is Seagulls, where the players are a flock of 30 seagulls and you can only communicate by loudly yelling at each other what you want to do, and

Sean Bean Quest, which is a modification of his RPG Goblin Quest in which you play five Seans Bean (in series, not in parallel), trying to ensure that at least one of you survives until the end of the movie.

Thank you so so much for thinking of me. I am hanging this up in my house in a beautiful frame and adjusting it so that it’s beautiful. I am grateful for your friendship and good taste.

I should be honest though. I actually know fuckall about roleplaying games. Absolute black hole of knowledge actually. People kindly and generously sent me the goose one because it’s highly elodie-coded (and you can see why! It’s elodie reblog bait!) and I admired and reblogged accordingly in complete support of the vision. No further thoughts or opinions. HEAD EMPTY. “Haha sounds great!” I say, instantly filing it where I put the isogenic cryptography I had to learn about against my will for work and which I refused to retain in any meaningful way. My brain has simply left the building to pick flowers. “I would enjoy that it’s right up my alley,” I say, eating the bottoms of the grass blades vacantly.

I have exactly three experiences of tabletop roleplaying games ever in my life and i should write a post about them but

- single session of dnd with older guys when I was a teenager

- shepherding children through an interactive storybook in which Bug, 4, simply kept assassinating their older sibling (they were not supposed to be able to do this??)

- playing a small amount of gloomhaven: jaws of the lion, in which I became distracted by hating the whole concept of unpainted ugly gaming miniatures so much that I made my own and then. Wandered off. Apparently forever

Anyway even if it’s wasted on me these are delightful and I’m happy to admire them conceptually and share them and hang them on the wall

[yandereunsolved]

Yandere self-aware Bruce Wayne—all the money in the world couldn't buy your love

cw(s): stalking combined with heavy obsessive ideation

Yandere Bruce Wayne, who was monitoring the CCTV cameras one day, became aware of a presence watching him. His paranoia and hypervilgilence sparked as he combed every corner of the cave and the manor, scowering for someone or something hiding in the shadows. Nothing; he could not find a single speck of dust out of place.

He eventually succumbed to slumber, and when he awoke, he felt eyes on him again. The feeling of being watched would come and go. He simply couldn't understand it.

However, he did become addicted to the feeling of being admired by someone. Even if that someone could be a danger to him.

Yandere Bruce Wayne did research when he didn't feel the inquiring gaze on him.

'Self-awareness'

"It is a possibility..." He muttered to himself. "In another timeline I am but a story. My hardships, my family and, my most vulnerable moments are simply a form of entertainment." He rolls his eyes. "Why am I not surprised?"

It only made him crave more knowledge about you and about this other world that he was not a part of.

Yandere Bruce Wayne learned how to see you. He had to go to some crackpot scientist who lived in a rundown apartment that definitely did not meet any code. Through a set of electric shocks, which made him question his sanity, he was finally able to see you clearly for the first time. It was as if he had been blessed somehow. He was never one to believe in any god, but he did pray and say thank you to whatever gave him self-awareness. 

Yandere Bruce Wayne hacked into your phone through a magic line Constantine set up. It was definitely worth having to help him set up a demon trap. A trap that he had to be the bait for. Still, he gains access to all the information about you that one could need. He spends countless hours combing over all your history, including your internet history.

You—like him? What is a... yandere? Oh.

He's watching you read this right now and smiling like a madman. A smile that could rival even the most unhinged of Joker's.

Yandere Bruce Wayne knows that he can't be too obvious. He could easily scare you off, and even if he could simply follow you through other forms of media, it still wouldn't be the same. Your attention is like a drug that some villian force fed him. It's a gaze that brings him comfort. He needs to keep it only on himself.

Yandere Bruce Wayne gets impatient. He only has your gaze. He isn't able to touch you. He isn't able to smell you. He isn't able to see you in all your glory. It causes him to grow agitated. He's more prone to snapping. He isolates himself even more now. Alfred does his best to get through Bruce's shell, but it seems much stronger now. He wants one thing: you.

He has always done his duty.

He has always saved the citizens of Gotham.

Doesn't he deserve something?

Doesn't he deserve just this one thing?

Yandere Bruce Wayne knows it can't be, but it doesn't stop him from dreaming. He fantasizes about what it would be like to be in your world, or you in his. He can't do it anymore. He needs you. How?

He looks at you, but he doesn't know if you notice it.

Damn dimensional time shit.

He'll get out of here eventually, and the first time he feels you will be the last time you leave his side.

[sadiesdoll]

hiii would you ever do a ellie x reader where the reader is like super duper rich and a little bit of a snob and brat but her and ellie are dating??

୨୧ ellie is capable of tolerating anything, including your bratty attitude.

contains: mild smut at the end.

When Ellie first met you, she wanted to throw you off the balcony.

You were sitting cross-legged on Dina's white leather couch, wearing something sheer and sparkly with sunglasses indoors and a wine glass in your hand like a goddamn celebrity. Ellie offered you a beer and you blinked at her like she'd handed you sewer water.

"Do I look like I drink beer?" you asked.

Ellie scoffed. "Jeez. Fuck me for trying to be nice.”

It was hate at first sight.

You were stuck-up, spoiled, dramatic. She was blunt, rough around the edges, and couldn't care less about labels—unless they were on a guitar pedal. You thought her boots looked like they'd been chewed on by a dog. She thought your purse probably had a security code.

But for whatever reason, the two of you kept running into each other. Dina's parties, bookstore openings, a concert where Ellie caught you looking way too long during soundcheck. 

And one night, when it was just the two of you on the rooftop, tipsy and sniping at each other in the moonlight—you kissed her.

Hard. With teeth.

"You're the worst," you panted.

"You're fucking unbearable," she muttered.

And she still pulled you onto her lap.

Now, you're dating. God help everyone.

Ellie never thought she'd be this whipped.

This down bad.

But somehow—she is. And honestly, it's starting to get concerning.

You throw tantrums when you can't find your lip gloss. You're always dragging her into overpriced boutiques, always late to dates because your outfit isn't perfect, always demanding her attention like you're a spoiled little popstar.

And Ellie?

She loves it.

You give her the silent treatment over the smallest things—she buys the wrong oat milk, forgets your charger, puts your cashmere sweater in the dryer—and she just looks at you like you're the eighth wonder of the world.

"You done pouting, baby?"

"No."

"Don’t mind it. You look really cute like this."

She's addicted to it. Your attitude. Your big, ridiculous sunglasses and your shopping bags and your scowl when someone dares to flirt with her in public.

"Ugh, people here are so thirsty," you hiss one night, practically draped over her at some party. Ellie just grins and lets you stake your claim.

You try to push her buttons constantly.

Rolling your eyes. Giving her that bratty little smirk. Saying shit like "I could do better" just to see if you can get a rise out of her.

But Ellie never takes the bait.

Not in public, anyway.

Because behind closed doors?

When you've finally gone too far—when you've huffed and pouted and whined just a little too much—Ellie grabs your wrist and yanks you into the bedroom with that look in her eyes.

"You wanna act like a spoiled little brat?" 

she growls, voice low in your ear. "Keep talking, princess. I’ll fuck that attitude right outta you."

You whimper. Instantly.

And it embarrasses you.

No one has ever had you this flustered, except her.

She bends you over her lap and makes you apologize with your face pressed into the sheets, muttering sweet, cruel things while her fingers work you open slow.

"Can't stand how fuckin' bratty you are sometimes."

Then a kiss to your shoulder.

"But I love it. God, I love it."

You're too pretty to punish. She says that every time.

Even when you're whining, even when you're begging, even when you're grinding back on her hand with tears in your eyes— Ellie's still kissing you like she worships the ground you walk on.

Because she does.

You're her spoiled little princess.

And she wouldn't change a single thing.

[avatar-anna]

It's Not a Competition (But It Is)

i just feel like this song is so reader coded in this series like she literally gets annoyed by how much she likes him and at first refuses to admit but of course she can't hide it forever...

Hockey Player! Harry x Figure Skater! Reader Masterlist

"What are you staring at?"

"Nothing. I'm not staring. Who's staring?"

You narrowed your eyes at Harry from across the couch. He was on one end, you on the other, as you studied for your respective midterms. You hadn't meant to stay after hooking up, but Harry offered his shower and an extra set of clothes and promised not to bother you if you wanted a quiet place to go over your notes, and despite the warning bells flaring in your head, you stayed.

As promised, there were no distractions. You were able to go over your psych notes in peace, the only sounds in Harry's apartment being the instrumental music he put on and the clicks of his keyboard as he worked on his laptop. It was comfortable, almost too comfortable, you thought. This wasn't the kind of relationship you anticipated when you and Harry hooked up for the first time. It was supposed to be strictly physical, transactional, a satisfaction of mutual needs.

But you felt it—Harry's stare as you reviewed key terms and quizzed yourself with your professor's review guide. There wasn't any heat behind the stare, it was more of a soft, warm glow. Affection. Harry stared at you with affection, and you weren't sure how to make the responding butterflies in your stomach stop fluttering so intensely.

"You're being a creep," you finally said, shifting in your spot on the couch as if you could physically shake off the weight of that stare.

Harry's brows raised above his blue light glasses, amused by your assessment. You'd never seen him wear them before, but they framed his stupidly beautiful face perfectly. You thought they softened his appearance, made him look less like the overconfident jock you knew too well.

"You really wanna know?" he asked, a playful grin on his face. "I don't think you wanna know."

"I asked, didn't I?"

Harry's grin widened before turning back to his laptop. "I just think you look pretty in my clothes. That's all."

His smirk was self-satisfied as if he knew what your reaction would be, which pissed you off even more. Before you knew it, you took a throw pillow and chucked it at his head.

"Ow! What the hell?"

"I look pretty in your clothes?"

"It's a compliment, princess," Harry said. "You would be the one to get pissy over something like that."

You sniffed. "Sorry I'm not at your feet like one of your adoring fans."

"Hey now, I never said I didn't like it. I like this thing we have going on. The banter. It keeps things interesting."

"Whatever."

"Would you rather I said you looked hot? Sexy?" Harry challenged, though his smirk told you he was playing around, laying a teasing trap to see if you'd take the bait. "Why can't I tell the girl I'm sleeping with she looks beautiful in my clothes? That's like every guy's wet dream."

You frowned and picked at your nails, trying to ignore the effect his words had on you. "You're sounding too romantic. Like you're my boyfriend or something."

Closing his laptop once more, Harry set it on the coffee table in front of him and turned toward you completely. He looked too soft, too cuddly, too kissable in his worn gray sweatshirt, his hair extra curly from the shower you shared together earlier. And when he shuffled across the couch toward you, the smell of his shampoo dizzied you, made it hard for you to focus on his words.

"You say that like it would be a bad thing," he said. His voice was light, but there was an undercurrent of weight to it. This was the conversation you and Harry avoided, danced around, hid from, at every turn. You could see it in his eyes sometimes that he wanted to have it, that he wanted more. But you...you just couldn't.

"We agreed—"

"Yeah, yeah. We agreed. Just sex," Harry grumbled as he pulled off his crew neck. "I can haul you over my knee and spank you all I want but I can't say you can't look cute in my clothes. Pathetic, Y/n, really."

You blushed, playfully swatting his hand away when he tried to push your—his—shirt up. "What are you doing? We already did that!"

"Well not-couples don't sit around studying together, so come on," Harry said, smiling as he play-fought you on the couch.

You giggled your way out of your clothes wrapping your arms and legs around him as he kissed along your jaw. "No, don't do that. This is strictly sex between us. Only girlfriends hold boyfriends like that."

"Don't make fun of me," you said, breathless from laughing.

"I'm not making fun, princess. Promise. We're just two people who love to fuck. And study together and train to—"

You cut Harry off with a kiss, fisting a hand in his hair tight enough to make him hum. The slide of his mouth against yours was familiar, practiced, as dizzying as the first time you kissed him. Since the very beginning, it had been easy with Harry. Too easy, too right. You thought it was just the tension between you and him finally snapping in half, that he'd finally pushed enough of your buttons and you just needed to get him out of your system. And then it happened again, and it felt just as good as the first time. Maybe even better. So it kept happening again. And again. Until you were staying over at his place and he had a drawer at yours and he laughed at your stupid jokes and you knew what he meant when he talked about hockey stats and his favorite place to eat off campus.

And now you were here.

You didn't know where "here" was, though. You knew where Harry thought it was, you knew what he wanted beneath all his teasing and joking. But you didn't know what you wanted. Or you did, and perhaps didn't know how to admit it.

"I should go," you whispered after, even though you knew you didn't have to. Harry's body was warm and sturdy beside yours, the hand drawing circles up and down your back and through your hair pleasant, calming. Your eyes were getting tired, blinking slower and slower as your head laid on his chest.

"Yeah," Harry replied, his chest expanding and falling as he sighed. "But I don't want you to."

You didn't either, though you didn't say it out loud. You just nestled deeper into Harry's chest and wrapped your arms around his waist.

And you stayed.

*.*

Harry woke to the sound of his phone buzzing noisily on by his bed. Too tired to make any sense of who was calling him at such a late hour or why, he didn't even bother sending it to voicemail, merely turning over in his bed and dozing back to sleep once the buzzing stopped.

And then it happened again.

That time, Harry did send the call to voicemail, believing it to be one of Harry's teammates trying to pull some kind of prank. By the third call, he was thoroughly annoyed.

"What?"

"Do you not like me anymore?"

Rubbing his eyes, Harry looked down at his phone, more specifically, the caller ID, for the first time. "Y/n? Is everything okay? Why are you calling so late?"

"It's Friday night why do you—hiccup!—why do you sound like you're asleep?"

"Because I was," Harry said, groaning before sitting up in his bed. Running a hand over his face, he asked, "Are you drunk?"

"No! Yes! Maybe a little tipsy. The nice bartender gave me a double shot for my drink," Y/n said, giggling to herself.

*.*

Harry woke up some more at her giggling, already reaching for the pair of jeans he'd ditched by his bed earlier. He'd gotten home after an away game earlier and didn't have it in him to go out, not to mention the pile of homework he left for the last minute. Y/n went out with her friends, insisting that she could go a Friday night without hooking up with him. Harry had laughed at the time, but selfishly wished she was with him now.

"How nice of him," Harry replied, trying not to let the idea of anyone flirting with Y/n bother him too much. "So, you're okay?"

"I—hiccup!—I'm fine! Why wouldn't I be?"

"I don't know, you're the one who called me out of the blue."

"Well, I," Y/n started, her voice drowned out by loud noise of whatever bar or party she was at. Then it all quieted as if she was suddenly alone. "I wasn't going to call you, but then I did."

Harry smirked. "Aw, did you miss me, princess?"

"No!" she snapped, perhaps a little too quickly. "No, but I just—I was ready to leave and no one else was and I know it was stupid of me because you're always tired after away games, but I thought—"

"I'm already on my way," Harry said, sliding off his bed as he picked up his jeans off the floor.

"Really? You don't have to. We're not—I mean you're not—"

"Send me your location, princess. I'll make sure you get home safe."

Y/n was quiet for a moment, presumably sending Harry her location while he shrugged into a t-shirt and grabbed his jacket. And an extra one for her, just in case.

"Maybe...Maybe I can stay at your place tonight?"

Harry's heart leaped in his chest, but he didn't let himself get his hopes up. Y/n was drunk, and he might've just wanted to hear the plea, the affection, in her voice. She didn't like him that way, or didn't want to admit that she did. He just needed to be patient.

"Course, princess," Harry finally said. "Sit tight, okay? I'll be there soon."

Skating always brought you clarity. Going through a familiar routine and landing tricks was what made sense. Moving through the music, letting the music move through you, helped you relax.

But today was different. Today you skated around the rink in circles, no choreography or music flowing through you. You skated in a daze, hoping you could leave your thoughts behind you with another lap, but they were as quick as you were as you glided across the ice.

"Y/n?"

Your most persistent thought of all.

You skated one last loop before coming to a stop at the rinks entrance. Harry stood on the other side, backpack on his shoulders and baseball cap covering most of his curls. It was a vision you were more than familiar with, you even knew the slightly concerned furrow of his brow.

"Everything okay? You weren't at the library."

"I—I just needed to skate," was all you managed to say, your breaths still coming out unevenly.

"Oh. Can I join you?" he asked, already shrugging out of his backpack.

"Just like that?" you asked him, blowing a stray strand of hair out of your face.

"Just like that."

Leaning across the barricade Harry kissed your forehead. There was a small smile on his face as he pulled away and gingerly pushed that same strand of hair away.

Because that was a thing you and Harry did now. You'd finally admitted to yourself what Harry had known all along, so now he was your boyfriend. It had taken a moment to wrap your head around it, though your dynamic with Harry didn't change all that much. Not at first, anyway. Until your first date at a bowling alley, then the second at a sushi place in town, then you began opening up about your home life, your family, sharing things with him that you never had before. Now you got extremely jealous when girls came up to him and tried to flirt, and Harry, who wasn't afraid to admit he'd always been jealous when he saw you flirt with other guys, wasn't afraid to scare those same guys off.

You and Harry were finally dating, and it was...good. more than good. It was—

"It was the date, wasn't it? Was it too much?" he asked later as skated beside you, having finally gotten his skates from his locker. Harry's skates were clunkier than yours, meant for speed and agility so he could race down pucks and out skate his opponents, while yours is slim and geared toward performing tricks. You watched them as they glided across the ice as you figured out what to say.

The date Harry referred to wasn't meant to be anything special, not any more special than the others were. But then Harry did what Harry did best and went above and beyond.

He somehow scored tickets to the ballet and surprised you with them and a candlelit dinner before the performance. It was perfect, all of it incredibly perfect. Harry in his suit and tie, different than his game-day suit, you in the fanciest dress you owned—pale yellow and off-the-shoulder, the bodice shaped like a bow.

It was a night filled with hand holding and kisses to your bare shoulder as you observed the performance. The seats Harry got were far from the stage, but you didn't care. You were enthralled by the dancers and the night your boyfriend planned for you, and Harry was just enthralled by you. You felt his stare all night, the same one he'd had since the first time you met, only now you knew what it meant.

Then at the end of the night, he walked you to your door, kissed you, and let you go inside. When you asked why he wasn't following, all he said was, "You have a competition tomorrow. I know you like to be alone so you can mentally prepare."

And that was that. He left, and you went inside and replayed the night in your head over and over and over again. You saw him the next morning at your competition, but you were too focused, all your feelings carefully compartmentalized so you could perform your absolute best. But the second you got off the ice, you thought of him, and only him, and all the ways he made you feel entirely too much and how you couldn't see yourself with anyone else.

It was too much, too many giant feelings to make sense of all at once. So you took some time to yourself the next couple days, and instead of meeting Harry at the library to study like you'd planned a week ago and headed for the skating rink instead.

"The date was perfect," you said now, your eyes trained on the ice beneath your skates. "It wasn't—It wasn't the date."

"So...you blew off studying with me because you...what? You just felt like it?" Harry asked, his voice carrying the slightest edge to it. Your boyfriend was incredibly patient despite your apparent aversion to dealing with your growing emotions. But he was still human, and honestly, you were a little annoyed with yourself too.

"No, I—"

"Then what's going on, Y/n? I know things haven't been easy, but if I'm coming on too strong and we need to slow down, then—"

"I don't want to slow down."

"Okay, then what—"

"I love you!" you said, coming to a stop in front of him. The words just tumbled out of your mouth, and now they wouldn't stop, like a dam had broken inside you. "I've come to the realization that I'm in love with you. A lot, and—and I'm overwhelmed by it and a little annoyed that you've managed to make me feel so much more than I ever planned to, so... that's why I didn't show up. I'm sorry, I just—I love you, I guess, and I didn't know how to tell you. But I also couldn't sit next to you and not say it either."

Harry said nothing for a couple seconds, looking down at his skates, then you, then back down again. Then he began to laugh.

You gaped at him. "Hey—You're laughing at me? I know it wasn't as romantic as you would've made it but, but I love you, you stupid fucking jerk!"

That only made him laugh more, which made you spin on your skates and glide away from him. He called after you, but you kept going, except he was a faster skater than you were and caught up to you before you wanted him to. Harry grabbed you by the waist and spun you around so faced him. He was smiling wide, his nose bright red from the chill of the rink.

"I'm laughing because you got to say it first," he said. "I'm laughing because I have been waiting for the right time to tell you, walking on eggshells for almost two years now, and you just—you beat me to it. That's all."

You blinked. Then laughed a little yourself. "So it was a competition? I won?"

"Yeah," Harry scoffed. "You won. Now stop stress skating and come with me to the library, you neurotic freak."

"Competitive ass."

"I love you," Harry said, using the smile he usually reserved for getting out of trouble or getting what he wanted. It was a smile you pretended you could resist, perhaps more for your sake than his, but now you didn't even try.

You rolled your eyes before kissing him, not confused or scared of the butterflies that erupted in your stomach as a result. " I love you too."

[lover-of-mine]

Okay, this might come as a shock to some of you but buddie was never about Buck alone being queer fucking his mid boyfriend on 911 offscreen. Buddie is about Buck and Eddie. Let's not erase Eddie from the narrative. Ryan and Oliver are trying their best with a showrunner who keeps changing their storylines with 12 hours of notice, but the act of using the both of them together in scripted and heavily edited interviews and segments after the show introduced the concept that Eddie was competition to Buck's ex AND that he might not be as straight as he says by the same ex scoffing at the concept, just for absolutely nothing to happen? Queerbaiting. Whatever gay stuff that's happening with Buck does not negate the fact that there is no gay stuff happening to Eddie. The baiting around Eddie is real. Oliver admitting that he agrees that Buck's bi coding involves his behavior towards Eddie for the first time and Ryan calling Oliver his love interest when those interviews and segments, that giving the way buzzfeed said their reps got shit cut, were approved and edited before airing, is basic queerbaiting. In the simplest way the word was created for. Their pr team is using the expectation of buddie to boost their views with no follow through. Hell, Oliver and Ryan mentioned the possibility of roommate era just for it to not be a thing. I know Oliver and Ryan are doing their jobs. I get that. For the last fucking time, I am not blaming Ryan. But the show was careful with how they use ryliver because they know what it looks like. This shit was intentional. And it is queerbaiting. Thank you.

[wolff-wh0re-04]

M high nd I just wanna post my Life 360 code or link or whatever it is so yall have my location at all times, see who wants to take the bait

I want someone to start stalking me, but I don’t know it. Then finally one day I get yanked into an alley and my face smashed into the wall. I can feel a man press up against me and start rubbing on me.

He growls in my ear about how misch of a stupid desperate whore I am, posting my location wanting anybody to use my virgin holes. He rips my shorts down and without any prep he slams into me while covering my mouth. “This is what you wanted no?” He asks as he starts thrusting ignoring my cries of pain. He laughs and picks up his speed. “By the time I’m done with you you will be broken, I’ll take you and never let you go, keeping your phone with us so perverted men like me can find us and use you with me” I start crying more. In and out. Over and over again. Until it starts feeling better. And better. Soon I’m a mess, moaning and begging behind his hand.

He starts laughing and tutting “oh this isn’t supposed to be pleasant for you darling” He slides out and rams into my virgin ass, pleasure turns to pain, and then into a pleasurable pain as he starts to rub my clit. I’m close, he can feel it. Suddenly he stops and just stands there panting behind me, I almost drop to the floor but he holds me up, behind his hand I’m begging for release. He pulls out and turns me around, picks up my leg and starts at my pussy again. I’m close again. He pulls out once more and slaps my clit hard a few times causing me to scream out, not caring about who could be listening or who could find us, maybe soon someone else that has my location will find us and join in allowing me to find release.

He shakes his head, a dark look in his eyes “desperate whores need permission to cum and I didn’t give you permission”

Suddenly everything goes black as he shoves my head back against the wall, I’m being taken, never to be seen again except for the few people online that find the special post.

[ckret2]

How about Scaramouche in general?

thanks for indulging my obvious baiting to get someone to ask about my Scaramouche headcanons, sorry it took me two days to write lmao. This ended up being a quick overview of his life all the way from being designed to the moment he decides picking a fight with Jack is a wise life choice.

so first to recap the headcanons I've already mentioned: Scaramouche's robot line was based off the X-model. Since the X-49 experiment found that the robot with emotions was a better killer and survived longer, Scaramouche's line got emotions.

Since X-49 held back and eventually retired due to guilt and a developing conscience, Scaramouche's line didn't get remorse or a conscience. It's no coincidence that he's Scaramouche the Merciless.

Since X-49 could be motivated to battle by loyalty/love/devotion, Scara's line kept the capacity for emotional attachments; but they don't want the bots bringing home stray dogs or eloping with some cute waitress bot, so they came pre-programmed with absolute loyalty... to Aku.

As far as we can see, Scaramouche's only ambition is to become and then remain Aku's #1 assassin. He mentions he'll get paid but he doesn't act motivated by the pay. We don't see him demonstrate any goals outside "do the thing Aku would want"—not even "do what Aku would want (so that I can get what I want)." What he wants is to do what Aku wants him to. That's aaall preprogrammed, baby.

Since this means his line was designed after Aku was told about the experiment with X-49, Scaramouche is somewhere under 50 years old.

in another recent post I mentioned that, since Aku's self-declared title is shogun of sorrow, it stands to reason that at some point he had an army of samurai, since that's literally what "shogun" means. Samurai were his thing until Jack came along. Now everybody's like ohhh THE samurai is Aku's enemy. Is the "shogun" title that he gave himself a minute after being born a joke to you??

Anyway—if he's used samurai before, at some point he'd go "I should fight fire with fire. Make me some samurai robot assassins." Not just to fight Jack, but like, if they work out, eventually they can be sent after him. So the scientists made a line of samurai robot assassins, pre-programmed them with combat techniques, then further trained them like they did that ninja robot.

And gave them matching commedia dell'arte names even though that has nothing to do with the samurai theme. Maybe the scientists were using them as code names in case anyone was spying on their project, maybe they were tired of the samurai theme, maybe the lead scientist was just a big theater nerd. So you've got Scaramouche, but somewhere out there are also a bunch of other similar-looking emotional robot assassins with names like Harlequin, Pierrot, Colombina, Pantalone, etc.

Scaramouche starts out looking and acting identically to the rest of his line: a dead serious bot with a kasa hat and robe and katana. And much like X-49, the samurai dell'arte got sent out into the world to kill, they started amassing experiences... they developed personalities.

over his first few years he acquires:

– A purple coat. his original robe got torn, he had to pick up something in a nearby town, he never requested a replacement for his original robe. To his knowledge, at this point he doesn't currently have any "tastes" or "opinions." But the coat. It compels him. In truth he probably would've latched onto whatever outfit he picked up first—pinstripe suit, sundress, clown costume, doesn't matter. He latches onto it because it's the first thing he ever chose for himself rather than had assigned to him.

– A fascination with jazz music. Latent code left over from X-49. like half the samurai dell'arte end up getting into jazz music. The other half do not get it at all.

– that accent. Not the ski-ba-bop-ba-dopping. The nasally inflection and cadence underneath. Picked it up from a neighbor. He got an apartment for in between jobs, and the Dead Serious Bot schtick meant he didn't do a lot of talking while working (and when he was home, he kinda just sat quietly in his room listening to jazz records contemplating life and waiting for a personality to develop). until he developed a little extroversion, he got more practice talking with his chatty neighbor than in the rest of his life combined.

– a new sword. His original sword broke, as long skinny blades that are approximately as hard as their wielder's skin eventually do. He went shopping for a new one. He knew what kinds of swords he was trained to use. He saw those swords. He also saw a goddamn scimitar. He got a goddamn scimitar.

– a dagger. He was having trouble learning how to wield a goddamn scimitar in the field.

– heeled boots; like Jack, he made the discovery that these are surprisingly effective for his line of work. Unlike Jack, he's secure enough in his robo-masculinity to keep rocking them even though women wear them too.

– structural modifications to his face so he can play wind instruments. Just as a hobby. Half the samurai dell'arte went "when we're not working we should form a JAZZ BAND." Sometimes they have jam sessions in local jazz clubs. (he wanted to play trumpet. Everyone wanted to play trumpet. fucking Harlequin got trumpet ugh. in retrospect he's glad he went with flute, he likes flute better.)

– A disconcertingly chipper personality, for a professional serial killer. never formally learns to dance but he's getting more extravagant with his body language—twirls and flourishes. he's still got all that precise combat training that he was preprogrammed with and trained in; but he's starting to care about how he looks doing his job. He likes what he does. He's good at what he does. He's ✨perky✨

– Singing training. Now he's ski-ba-bop-ba-dopping. By this point, he's got a fully-developed personality and sense of style. He's recognizably the Scaramouche the Merciless we know and love.

– A position on Aku's top assassins leaderboard. He's finally reached #1000! He stagnates there.

– a sudden raging dissatisfaction with the limitations of mere metal. He could be so much more, so much better, so much WORSE, if he wasn't held back by swords and armor.

– Training in how to use music to perform magic. It was not intended to be used for violence, but it turns out that part is pretty easy. bam now he's a wizard. You know how rare robot wizards are?

– structural modifications to let him use his voice for magic.

– A position in the top 100!

– a feud with the other members of the jazz band. The trumpeter is just jealous he's not the most impressive bot in the band anymore, now that the flutist is a better killer and better vocalist than the rest of them combined. Scaramouche doesn't know why the rest of the band took Harl's side, that guy's a jerk.

– A scarf. Because he liked it. He's now capable of getting things just because he likes them. It calls attention to his best asset, babe.

– Aku's phone number.

– An insufferable fucking ego (related to previous point).

– a dagger that makes things explode. Custom made, cost a pretty penny, Scaramouche helped with the design himself, it's got music magic woven in to boost that tuning fork trick it does. At this point, Aku's deep in his "oh who cares if Jack's still out there, I don't, I won't even send anyone to kill him, what does it matter anyway" phase; but Scaramouche remembers what his model was originally built for. For most of his life, that goal seemed so distant as to be totally abstract—but now...? He'd like to find out what a magic dagger can do to a magic sword.

– and finally... the numero uno spot, baby. 😎

By the time Scaramouche earns the long-coveted Aku's fave position, he's fully evolved into his own person. Out of everything he started with—his face, his voice, his clothes, his skills, his weaponry—the only part of him that's still recognizable is... his hat. same damn hat he started with. never changed it.

("gee puff did you come up with this whole long elaborate headcanon just to explain why scaramouche has a kasa?" shut up)

at some point he started to select his own targets rather than wait for them to be assigned. If you wanna make it to the top and stay there, you've gotta take initiative! He knows Aku would want somebody dead and they happen to be nearby, he goes after them—doesn't check if there's a bounty yet, doesn't check if another assassin in Aku's direct employ has already been assigned to the job. Never got in trouble for it; as long as the target ends up dead, Aku thinks it's funny if one of his assassins poaches a job from another. You snooze you lose.

Only target he was ever discouraged from pursuing was Samurai Jack. He got told don't bother. Aku's sick and tired of losing his best warriors, assassins, and mercenaries by throwing them against that impenetrable brick wall, and this particular 'bot shows a lot of promise, Aku would rather keep him on the roster for a while. Plus sometimes he texts Aku memes. Aku kind of likes the memes.

What Scaramouche hears is don't bother; you're not good enough to take him down.

And that's about the time Scaramouche starts plotting to slaughter a whole town and pile the corpses into a smoke signal.

[pigfartsviatardis]

Was discussing queerbaiting recently with a friend because we’re watching Once Upon A Time (trash, but shockingly well written trash in the first 3 seasons) and obs we both ship swan queen. I mean. Come on.

But we noticed that from the start of s3 onwards, there was noticeably less shippy stuff between these two. There’s still a bit here and there because a) lesbian mums and b) chemistryyyy… but it felt like the writers were intentionally backing off from that pairing and putting genuine effort into the male love interests for both characters.

You might think that becalming the swan queen ship would have annoyed or disappointed my friend and myself, the shippers. But tbh we both agreed that it was actually nice to see a writing team see a popular queer fandom ship, go ‘oh whoops that’s not endgame’, and actively NOT bait it.

Obviously everyone here is aware of the Golden Age Of Queerbaiting, the late 2000s/early 2010s; even if you’re too young to have actually battled through it, it’s deep tumblr lore. We all know the repeat and egregious offenders from that time - destiel, merthur, johnlock, whatever the main one was on teen wolf - and how gleefully these shows would dangle queer rep in front of our twitching little noses.

Recently, I’ve noticed a more insidious trend: the Male Friendship Scarcity Myth. The most glaring recent examples are nandermo (WWDITS) and jayvik (arcane), both of which were popular ships after the first season(s) of their shows aired and were subsequently given increased screen time and shippy scenes/storylines. In the case of nandermo, the romantic feelings (at least from Guillermo) were textual. Both pairings were given ambiguous endings where they were together, but not confirmed as, yknow, together.

And then both showrunners, after the shows ended, decided to step up to the mic and give a heartfelt little speech along the lines of ‘men are allowed to be friends without it being sexual, and it’s actually really important that we show this, because we need more representation of close platonic brotherly male friendship in media’.

Anyone who was around during the aforementioned Golden Age Of Queerbaiting, or in fact anyone who consumes popular media at all, knows that this is horseshit.

It’s only ever close platonic brotherly male friendship. Or at least, 95% of the time. Everywhere you look, from major fandom shows to mcu movies, platonic male relationships are often front and centre. That’s nearly always the canon. How often does a major mlm ship actually go canon??? Hardly ever. Even destiel didn’t; cas’s feelings were confirmed last minute, but the official canon dynamic between him and dean is still brotherly bffs.

Are these friendships often the subject of intense fandom shipping? Yes, as literally any close relationship between any two characters of any gender always will be. People like shipping! But the official canon, and the gospel truth held up by poorly disguised homophobes in fandom, is nearly always strictly platonic bros.

Anyway. All this to say, I’ve been disillusioned recently seeing this myth pop up in every comments section on any jayvik-related content, that we have a lack of male friendship in media (we don’t, we have a lack of male friendship that isn’t queer coded to super turbo gay hell and back in media). I was even more disillusioned seeing the exact same rhetoric being spewed by those involved with WWDITS, which is ironically a show jam packed full of close male friendships THAT INVOLVE CASUAL SEX. The call was truly coming from inside the coffin on that one.

So, unexpectedly and somewhat depressingly, swan queen and OUAT have been a balm for the soul in the midst of all this. No queerbaiting (at least not where I’m up to), just good old fashioned straightwashing. At least it’s honest 🤷‍♀️

[funishment-time]

What do you think the age range of the Hundred Line cast is going to be? I'm nervous that most are minors, and then some have weird scenes X(

this feels a little like a bait question and if it's not, i apologize. regardless, Kodaka's stated he doesn't really do "ages" as he feels they're limiting. we'll probably never know for sure how old they are.

and if you want a random Kuma's take:

they're not minors. to me, they're 18 and in high school, which is a thing a lot of people seem to forget is very much a real possibility in many countries. same with the Dangans. same with some of the younger Rain Code characters.

why? because i'm an old person and it saves my sanity. i don't want a game where a 15 year old falls coochie-out twice in the first three hours (Danganronpa 2). i don't want a game where one of our heroes is an extremely adult man trying to get with high schoolers (Rain Code: Desuhiko being 18 and out of school is not great, but loads better than if he's like, 25). i don't want a game where a minor is openly telling me about, and quite possibly climaxing to, her kinks on screen (V3).

contrary to popular belief, older fandom folk are not automatically predisposed to wanting to see underaged anime boys or whatever. (how about that.) i widely prefer that if Weird Fanservicey Things and other Weird Shit are going to happen to these young folks, then at least they're adults.

people can view these characters how they want, of course. i always say i am not an Arbiter of Fandom. i think if you see them as minors people should respect that, and those who don't see them that way should be respected, too. so in the end you'll have to make your own decision. me, though, i'd rather like to play these games without feeling like i accidentally stepped in on my little sister's strip poker game with her 10th grade buddies. it's uncomfortable otherwise.

[morphpride-2025]

Morph Pride 2025 - Introduction

Mark your calendars, because the Morph Pride event is now returning this upcoming Pride Month in the year of our Lord 2025! Taking place from Sunday, June 1 to Saturday, July 5, this month-long celebration of our dearly beloved favourite shapeshifter goof and queerness will (hopefully) be a blast.

Here's the plan:

Just like last year, we will be bringing back the colour-coded weeks. They are as follows:

Week 1 (Sunday, June 1 - Saturday, June 7) - Red, orange, yellow

Week 2 (Sunday, June 8 - Saturday, June 14) - Green, blue, purple

Week 3 (Sunday, June 15 - Saturday, June 21) - Black, white, silver, grey

Week 4 (Sunday, June 22 - Saturday, June 28) - Pink, gold, super suit + any colours not mentioned above

You may use these colour schemes to inspire outfits for Morph, etc.

You do not have to use these colour schemes! They are provided as inspiration. You also do not have to do every single colour scheme if you want to do one. You do not even have to use every colour in the set.

What about the final week, you ask?

Well!

Week 5 (Sunday, June 29 - Saturday, July 5) - WILD WEEK! During every day of this week, there will be a different prompt (think... fanfic prompt) and you can submit ideas via this form. On Monday, May 26, I will release a three-day long poll with some of the ideas from that form for people to vote on. The top results will become the prompts during this week.

What do we do with these prompts? Follow them by means of fanfic, art, video edit, or any form of fan content creation, or completely disregard them and go wild. IT IS COMPLETELY UP TO YOU.

YOU DO NOT HAVE TO FOLLOW THIS SCHEDULE! IT IS ONLY FOR INSPIRATION.

YOU DO NOT HAVE TO BE A CERTAIN KIND OF FAN CONTENT CREATOR! LITERALLY EVERYONE IS WELCOME TO PARTICIPATE TO ANY EXTENT AND IN ANY WAY THEY LIKE. This means you can make fanart, fanfics, video edits, collages/moodboards, anything!

MORPHERINE SHIPPER? MADDIEMORPH SHIPPER? MORPH X PSYLOCKE? JEANMORPH (Jorph??)? MORPH X SCOTT? POLYAMOROUS SHIPS? ALL SHIPS WELCOME except ones that involve incest, pedophilia, or any weird stuff. You're also welcome to create content that doesn't involve ships. I don't care.

CROSSOVERS? Sure.

GREY MORPH ENTHUSIAST OR TAS MORPH TRUTHER? FEMME MORPH, MASC MORPH, OR ANDROGYNOUS MORPH? THEY/THEM MORPH, THEY/HE MORPH, OR HE/THEY MORPH? MORPH, KEVIN, OR SYDNEY? It's a free country, Morph is non-binary, and they're a shapeshifter. Do whatever you want.

THIS EVENT IS LITERALLY JUST BAIT TO CELEBRATE MORPH AND PRIDE MONTH!! LET YOUR CREATIVITY SOAR!

Done with your creations? Post them under the tag #morphpride2025 and tag me at @morphpride-2025!

Questions, comments, feedback? Feel free to ask me by means of askbox, reply to this post, or DM! You can also find my main blog at @makuyi13.

I will post the final event information on Thursday, May 29!

[deliciouskeys]

Me: I already wrote Tentacles for last kinktober. It's old hat now that it's actually part of canon. Why bother.

Me after staring at @vanshoundd and @annetess' art about it for like hours: Okay maybe I'll write it after all. (Thank you for your art 🤤)

Cozy corner kinktober 2024 prompt #11: Tentacles

Free and Wild and Beyond Good and Evil

Butchlander 3.1k; TW: noncon, violence, teratophilia, uh... idk just not very wholesome at all. Please excuse me.

There was never any real plan, Butcher admits to himself as he drives down the empty dark highway. Something something, Frenchie said the virus might be strong enough to kill Homelander, something something, it would have to be airborne which would start a supe plague and make everyone piss and moan about Butcher committing biowarfare genocide, something something, it was going to be a last resort. A plan Z, only nebulously conceived. So what was Plan A, really? What was good for the ganders (Ezekiel, Victoria) was unlikely to be good for the goose, but Butcher just can’t help but crave the visceral feeling of ripping Homelander apart, if not with his own bare hands, then at least his tumor’s jacked up bare hands. Cancer— it was really living up to the name. Butcher feels like he’s been possessed by an alien creature, cancriform, heinously ugly, and unbelievably strong. It’s just too tempting not to try, even though trying and not succeeding isn’t really a good option at all with a near-omnipotent supe like Homelander.

Butcher just has so little to lose. He’s a husk of a human being, and he feels more like a shambling, crumbling meatsuit to carry the cancer to its destination, its rendezvous with fate.

“I’ll get you your revenge, don’t you worry,” Kessler assures him and Butcher wants to hurl just a little bit knowing his cancer can just talk to him, choose whatever guise makes him feel at ease, through a literal neural link to his brain, even though Kessler seems to have chosen headquarters in a metastasis somewhere near his solar plexus, shooting tentacles out into the outside world like the rays of a black sun. “I’ll get you your revenge and you’ll get to experience every moment of it. I won’t leave you hangin’.”

+++

Homelander should have known not to take such obvious bait. Homelander should have remembered that the last two times William Butcher took it into his head to fight him, he very nearly succeeded in overpowering him. Or at least depowering him, with the help of a certain relic from the 1980s. At least that wildcard is still stashed in the federal freezer in DC. But Homelander should have realized that William Butcher announcing that he was ready to keep their scorched earth promise meant he came to play. Maybe he was touched that William called Vought’s headquarters and asked to speak to him. Maybe he was flattered to hear his phrase be used like code between them, even though they never seemed to entirely agree on its meaning. Maybe he was genuinely craving to finish William off before his illness got to do those honors.

Something prompted him to zoom over to the abandoned warehouse in Jersey City, without consulting Sage, without trying to locate Ryan and make sure he was safe, without doing much of anything besides walking straight into the ambush. Can it really be called an ambush if it’s announced beforehand? Homelander counts it as an ambush, because he expected to see William at half speed, that much closer to death with that growth in his brain no doubt spreading further. Instead… instead, before he can even locate which corner of the warehouse William’s heartbeat is coming from, a dark sticky tendril rapidly twines itself around his face— around his eyes first and foremost. Homelander let out only one snarl before something similar winds itself around his neck and begins constricting all breathing. Whatever it is, it’s moving fast, violently fast, and Homelander is astonished to feel just how strong whatever is trapping him is. His fingers scrabble at what feels almost like a plant vine around his face and neck, but he cannot wedge his fingers in and pry it away or apart. It’s squeezing him tighter and tighter… from what godforaken obscure corner of hell did William pick up this supe with boa constrictor powers? That Homelander can’t recall from Vought’s files at all? 

Homelander tries not to panic, tries to orient himself, but he just feels more of whatever has him in its grips touching his legs. Not only touching his legs. Wrapping around his ankles, lassoing and pulling them flush against each other so that Homelander loses his balance and ends up suspended in the air. He thinks he’s hovering in the air through his own power, but whatever is holding him has got an iron grip and he suspects that he’d still remain suspended in the air even if he dropped himself down, held by this… thing, sticky, reeking of something oddly familiar and off-putting. The long vines holding him start winding their way around his body in tight coils towards each other, the one at his ankles proceeding to spiral up around the rest of his legs and the one from his neck proceeding to wrap his shoulders, pin his arms straight to his sides as it travels to meet its twin. Homelander is terrified to realize that no matter how much force he exerts against the long rope-like sentient arms, he can’t free himself. He’s never been overpowered like this… but that’s not really true is it. Last time he got pinned down against his will, William was one of the three perpetrators and Homelander had no doubt he was the ringleader. So where is he now? Homelander can hear his heartbeat, can smell him, his cigarettes, his beard oil, the tea molecules circulating in his veins and out his pores, and yes the vile stench of disease, and it’s overwhelming and all around him. 

When Homelander renews his struggle to free one hand, a vine snaps against his knuckles painfully. “Knock it off,” William’s gruff voice tells him. Only then does it finally dawn on Homelander that the mystery supe managing to wrap him up like a mummy is Butcher himself, and that the sickly odor is exactly that— the smell of something that should be inside the body, the smell of something greedy and selfish and hogging all metabolic resources. It’s what William smelled ever so faintly of last time he saw him in the hotel kitchen, and now it’s on full blast so Homelander didn’t even place it as the same smell at first. A faint smile passes Homelander’s lips, always feeling pleased to finally recognize something. But that’s about all he has to be pleased about. The situation is dire— he cannot move and now he feels the distinct sensation of William’s two… arms? Vines? Tentacles? Trying to rend him in half. In vain so far, but the tentacles are so forceful, so persistent, that Homelander becomes worried when he hears popping sounds around his compressed ribcage. It’s not his body losing integrity like poor Vicky’s did though— it’s his suit giving up the ghost and getting shredded, the tentacles accidentally peeling him out of his clothing, rolling pieces of it toward his neck and others toward his ankles. Homelander tries to open his eyes, look through. Just getting a glimpse of the scene could help him figure out his best chance for escape, but the tentacle wrapped around his head is squeezing it tightly, as if hoping it can pop his skull open like a nut. It can’t, but Homelander also can’t open his eyelids against the constant pressure. He feels a breeze across his skin, he feels tatters of his suit still hanging off random limbs, but he’s largely naked, and the tentacle regroup, wrap around him again, and this time Homelander can’t help but squirm. It’s just too much sensation against his bare skin. ‘Stop’ he tries to plead but the tentacle squeezing his neck shut doesn’t let him do more than wheeze hoarsely and unintelligibly.

“I ain’t enjoyin it, I’m trying to rip him in half, hard as I can. Ain’t my fault he’s a durable motherfucker.”

Homelander desperately listens in, trying to identify someone else’s heartbeat, breathing, anything, trying to figure out who William is talking to, but all he hears is the cacophony of blood rushing through each tentacle as they twist and tighten ever more around his body. He can’t make out anyone else’s presence in the warehouse.

He still struggles against the grip he’s in, still tries to wriggle the hundreds of tentacle coils loose, but he has a sinking feeling that he’s immobilized until Butcher decides to relent.

+++

They’ve been in this deadlock struggle for more than an hour. Butcher isn’t so much physically tired as mentally weary. Homelander’s nude, and Butcher has never seen him like that before, even though most of him is hidden under the tentacles trapping him in place. Butcher watches the supe’s body periodically still making a valiant effort to escape, muscles shifting, flesh bulging around each tentacle constricting him. His skin is shiny and Butcher’s not sure if it’s the supe’s sweat or whatever clear sticky mucus his cancer’s tentacles keep secreting.

“Look at you two perverts. You’ve found a new bonding exercise!”

“Just shut it,” Butcher says very quietly, through gritted teeth, hoping the supe in his clutches is too preoccupied to overhear him talk to himself like the madman he’s become.

+++

Homelander wonders if the long time without taking full breaths is taking a toll on his brain functions. He’s stopped struggling against his confines. The tentacles can’t hurt him like they did Vicky— that much is clear. And Homelander is for some unfathomable reason both panicked and blissed out. He’s panicking at the level of strength he’s faced with here… He can’t bear to say it, but Butcher’s tentacles seem stronger than him. That doesn’t seem possible. Maybe they’re also ebbing his strength so he can’t get away. That’s a terrifying thought about a terrifying power. But he also can’t help but sink down and relax his body. The tentacles wrapped so tightly around him, trying to rip him in half, are also holding him so confidently, like a warm angry embrace. He knows Butcher’s trying to kill him, but not having his eyesight and not having enough oxygen is making his mind reel with bizarre thoughts in the darkness. There’s a warmth in his chest, knowing William is staring at him, knowing William is trying to twist and wring him out like a human towel, to no avail, not knowing how long it’s been because time has lost all dimension, but knowing William has been obsessed enough to hold him suspended in the air for quite a while.

He gasps when he feels a free end of a tentacle caress his face. The sensation could never be mistaken for a human hand by texture— the thing creeps across his skin leaving moist trails, moves unctuously with no bones inside it— but he can feel the intention behind the movement and it’s William through and through. And with his eyes forced shut, he can imagine the real scene but also see it as William spooning up behind him, holding his entire body in a chokehold, and caressing his face. It doesn’t matter if it’s affection or lust or even hatelust. Homelander leans into the touch, not only because he thinks distracting William might open up an opportunity to escape, but because firm, strong touch like this is instantly addicting.

+++

“The fuck is he doing?” Kessler laughs, watching Homelander clearly trying to push into the touch. “I was just going to stuff his throat, see if I can’t get him to stop breathing completely.”

Butcher doesn’t reply. He thinks it’s funny that Kessler has the need to explain his intentions. They share a brain, after all. They both feel it, no matter how they deny it. Butcher won’t deny it. If he can’t rip him apart, he wants to fuck Homelander in every hole he has. Maybe try to stab a new one into being while he’s at it. Enough with the foreplay. He presses a tentacle against the supe’s lips, preparing for a fight to push in, but the fucker parts his lips and offers no resistance. The only fight he encounters as he plunges in deep down his throat is he has to loosen his own grip on the supe’s neck, to allow some space for the tentacle to travel through.

+++

Homelander may have welcomed the tentacle into his mouth, but he still bucks in discomfort, gag reflex attempting to launch the thing back out, tears squeezing out of the corners of his shut eyes at the pain, yes the pain of feeling the tentacle invade him deeper and deeper, the pain of the tentacle’s diameter getting thicker and thicker as it pushes itself in, until Homelander feels like his throat can barely accommodate it, burning pain in his lungs as his airways are completely blocked off. No oxygen at all now. He won’t die from this, but he might start to get delirious, if he isn’t already. He can’t even moan, his vocal cords have no space to vibrate, stretched taut around the thick tentacle still plumbing his esophagus and god knows what else. So he can’t emit a sound, can’t really budge in protest when another tentacle presses into him from behind. He can’t say his body lets the tentacle in, because his body feels like it’s doing everything in its power to push out whatever just forced its way in. But it’s futile, and it’s not even under his voluntary control. His voluntary control is to quiet down and surrender to the sensations. Yes, he’s being violently spitroasted. Maybe Butcher still hopes there’s some path to killing him here. Homelander’s mind can’t even be bothered worrying about that possibility. He feels like he’s drifting, consumed by an uncanny deja vu, as if he’s been here before. Suspended, weightless, immobilized, attached, blind, muffled. At first he thinks it’s something from his lab days, one of many memories he’s largely buried and never unearths. But even though he’s anything but, he feels safe. Not much of what went on down in B6 felt safe. Maybe he just feels safe in the knowledge there’s nothing he can do, but it feels like more than that. With his eyes still forced shut, a strange vision materializes in front of his eyes. He’s in the womb, unborn, curled up and cramped but oh so warm, warm walls touching him on every side, muffled voices far away above him, his mother talking to someone, swaying when she walks and the fluid around him moving slightly with each step. Is it even possible that he could retain a memory of something like this? He grasps on to it, whether it’s a real memory or just a fever dream, because it feels so cozy, so safe, so loving, and even when he’s brought back to reality, to his body screaming for air, screaming for being able to free itself to move, screaming to push the thick intrusions inside of him back out, the alarm bells in his body seem far away and dull and irrelevant. He’s incredibly calm, maybe in a drugged, oxygen-deprived way, but it feels like bliss. Like fucking enlightenment.

+++

“He’s getting off to this shit. Un-fucking-believable.”

Kessler might feel the need to comment and distance himself from what they’re doing, but Butcher stays silent, lest talking break the spell Homelander seems to be under, watching the supe’s limp, pliant body accept everything he gives it.

“You’re one sick puppy, you know that?” Kessler comments, clearly uneasy as Butcher reaches a tentacle out to wrap around Homelander’s cock and that’s the one thing that causes his body to jerk violently again, but only once, accepting this too.

+++

Feeling that part of him touched brings Homelander out of the memory. It feels good compared to everything else inflicted on him so far, but it also brings him back to concrete, painful reality in a way he doesn’t like. He gags when he feels the thick tentacle slide out of his throat, scraping across his teeth as it exits. Homelander closes his jaw a few times, feeling soreness in his joints and in his throat, mouth full of thick saliva mixed with whatever sticky residue the tentacles leave everywhere. He coughs, spits, cries, there’s snot leaking from his nose and he can’t even wipe it off. He tenses when the tentacle around his head unravels as well and he blinks, adjusting to the light before staring down at Butcher standing below, finally seeing where the tentacles are coming from. His lasers power up, not even a conscious decision but probably a response to all the pain stimuli and seeing the culprit, but just as quickly a tentacle still wrapped around his forehead swivels his face away, and the laser cuts across the warehouse wall, missing the target.

+++

“Hoho, that was close!” Kessler laughs but doesn’t criticize the strange decision to uncover his captive’s strongest weapon.

Butcher looks on impassively as he fucks in and out of his nemesis’ lily-white ass, which gives a satisfying jiggle on every thrust of the dark tentacle. His mouth free now, he’s able to give little plaintive sighs and moans at each motion, and Butcher kind of wishes he could see his facial expression, but it’s just too much risk to have his eyes pointed anywhere but away.

“Do it,” Kessler says leaning in next to him. “You know you want to try.”

Butcher shrugs and  briefly unravels the tentacles holding his legs together. Homelander bucks, as if trying to make a break for it, as if his upper body isn’t still being held fast by a bunch of other tentacle and as if the tentacle fucking him isn’t making it absolutely impossible to slip out backwards. Two tentacles wrap themselves around his legs, spreading them wide, probably painfully wide, because Homelander’s lasers go off again, a pathetic attempt at defense through offense again, considering his head is being held in a vise making sure he can only see the wall.

“That’s it, do it for her,” Kessler says, nodding slightly toward Butcher’s opposite shoulder. Butcher isn’t going to turn. He knows who’s standing there and he doesn’t want to see her face. He knows damn well this isn’t justice for anything she suffered. Just two monsters going at it, pretending they don’t absolutely love it. Homelander’s done pretending. His body shudders against the tight grip Butcher has on him, and spills on the floor with a sad sounding moan, visibly sagging in his confines before making the most pathetic movement to try and get away from the intrusion still going on behind him.

“Fuck him raw. Fuck him to death. A man’s got to have a limit doesn’t he?” Kessler cheers him on.

Butcher’s not so sure.

AO3 link

[giorno-plays-piano]

Her Fault

Pairing: yandere!Toji Fushiguro x reader

Warnings: implied noncon, spiked drink, stalking, kidnapping, obsession, mention of Stockholm syndrome, Toji being a part of a gang.

Words: 1.2k

Summary: Toji knows nearly everything about her. Who she is, where she works, what's her address, where she keeps her keys, the code to unlock her phone... Except for the last two things, he didn't even need to have someone to spy on her because she told him everything herself. Somehow, she felt like she could trust him, poor girl. He appreciates her lapse in judgment.

_________

"You should try something new for a change," Toji says with that smug expression on his face, making the woman next to him frown. "No offense, but those pathetic margaritas will be the end of you one day."

For a second, she looks stunned by his audacity, but it doesn't take her long to bite back at him, "Says who? The I-only-drink-whisky guy?"

He lets out a laugh at that, shaking his head. "Fair enough. How about we both try a new thing?"

As she stills, contemplating his offer, he already knows he'll win. She will order whatever he tells her to, and she will drink it like a good girl, not being able to tell the difference between the real drink and whatever concoction he will give her. Wouldn't work with a margarita she's been ordering ever since she appeared here one Friday evening.

He first saw her about half a year ago, wearing a fancy black dress and high heels like she was at the gala, not a local bar. Her hair was perfectly coiffed, and she wore that classy sort of makeup that suggested she was either at the wrong place or came here straight after work for god knows what reasons. Toji had no idea why she would show up at this bar dressed that way. Did she want to get laid and didn't know how?

The guy sitting next to her at the counter probably arrived at the same conclusion but dumbly decided to chase after her in the most stupid fashion, giving Toji an excuse to send him "I-will fucking-end-you" look and flex his biceps: girls digged that shit, and he was sure she'd take the bait. Naturally, the drunk dumbass left in a second while the woman looked impressed and thanked him for help. It was only natural to strike a conversation.

Pretty much first time going to a bar, she confessed, ordering a margarita. Why? She was a workaholic and, in addition, despised drunk people who couldn't control themselves. Why did she finally come? Wanted to find out what it's like since one drink couldn't hurt that much.

He thought she smelled really fucking nice.

Surprisingly, he didn't bang her the first night because she had a way with words that made him talk more than he usually did, and, by the time she was about to leave, he didn't feel like spoiling her first bar experience. She was probably going to return, anyway. Besides, Toji didn't like feeling so much at ease with a stranger, given the specifics of his work, so he was going to ring someone he knew to do a quick check-up on her and make sure that evening wasn't some elaborately planned scheme. God help her if it was.

But she was just an ordinary woman with an ordinary job with no relation to his business, so when she came the next Friday, Toji thought it was fucking nice to actually talk to someone for once. Why not? She wasn't even looking for a hookup, just for a human company.

That time, she wore a lovely dress that hugged her curves in all the right places, too, but she wasn't flirting with him even the slighest bit. He wasn't sure if he should have been offended by her lack of interest or felt good because she wanted to actually know him.

Since then, every Friday, she waltzes into the bar in her pretty dresses, smelling delicious, lands on the seat next to him, and talks to him like he's a friend. Not once has she batted her eyelashes at him or realized he was flaunting his physique one way or the other to flirt with her. She does, however, seem interested in how he's doing without being invasive or patronal, and it's been a really long time since anyone was that close to him. It genuinely feels good to see her face every Friday and hear her voice.

Toji knows nearly everything about her. Who she is, where she works, what's her address, where she slips her keys, the code to unlock her phone... Except for the last two things, he didn't even need to have someone to spy on her because she told him everything herself. Somehow, she felt like she could trust him, poor girl. He appreciates her lapse in judgment.

"Does that guy from work still bother you?" he asks, giving the barmen a sign to make that cocktail for her and looking back at her as if he really needs an answer. In reality, he already knows she has rejected the creep, and it pleases him to no end.

"No, thank God," she huffs, wincing like from a toothache. "Why the Hell do I attract all sorts of assholes? My own damn father has been an ass to me, too."

"Huh, your father?" Toji sends her a smirk. "Got daddy issues?

He can tell her face is burning even without looking at her expression.

"Oh my God, Toji!" She slaps his hand slightly, embarrassed and annoyed at his antics. "Why are you saying it like we're in a porno?"

That gets a good laugh out of him, and she visibly relaxes, smiling, before she promptly excuses herself to the bathroom, and the barmen finally lands her drink on the counter, secretly nodding to the man on the other side. There's nothing really dangerous in there that wouldn't get out of her system in a day, but that's enough time for Toji to finish everything he has planned.

Really, it's her fault for being naive and so fucking pretty. He could have already fucked her ages ago and forgotten all about the woman, but she just has to be too damn nice for her own good, making him long for Friday night and hear her talk. Besides, what is he supposed to do when she doesn't date and doesn't see even his most obvious attempts to flirt with her? He takes the easiest way out, really.

The drugs in her drink will make her pliant like a kitten, but, considering it's her third cocktail, it'll be a piece of cake to make her believe she just got drunk and ended up sleeping with him. Then he'll explain how she confessed to him and mention he likes her too. Depending on how it goes, Toji's prepared for 2 different outcomes: one, she accepts, and they start dating before he makes his next move; two, he chains her to his bed and waits till the Stockholm syndrome or whatever this thing's called kicks in and rewires her brain. Logically speaking, he prefers the first one, but his patience is wearing thin, and now he contemplates if he should just go with the second plan, anyway.

When she comes back, her delicious scent making him hard again, Toji sends her a smug smile and hands her the glass. Whatever she does, he knows where she'll end up after tonight.

__________

Tags: @minshookie29

[fairrytype]

prompt: ten warnings: n/a pokeshipping.

Ash jumps, startled, when Gary clamps a hand on his shoulder. He tears his eyes away from the dance floor, his breath still caught somwhere in his throat.

Before he can ask why the man beside him is staring at him like he’s just won a battle, Gary smirks, “That’s the sixth time,” he says, sipping from his drink casually.  

Ash just arches a brow and, reluctantly, takes the bait. “Sixth time?”

Gary scoffs. “I should get you some binoculars to make it less obvious.”

Ash quickly turns back to his own drink, his face warming with embarrassment before he can stop it. He’s been gripping his glass so tightly for the last five minutes that his hand is starting to cramp into a claw, but he busies himself with it regardless, hoping it will hide the way his cheeks are probably turning pink.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mutters.

“Turns out another year away didn’t change too much, then,” Gary says, his voice laced with amusement.

Ash knows it’s an empty insult. Whatever petty back-and-forth he and Gary used to thrive on years ago is mostly behind them, but he still sputters out a lame “Shut up” mid-sip of his cocktail, more out of instinct than anything. He wipes his mouth on the sleeve of the dress shirt Dawn had forced him into earlier. It’s far too tight around the neck, but Dawn had shot him a look over a steaming iron and warned that if he showed up to his own party in a hoodie and cargo shorts, she’d disown him for committing a crime against fashion.

Ash could admit she might have had a point; everyone else was dressed up too. Guests had arrived head to toe in a dress code Ash hadn’t even been aware of. His mom had gone all out again for the party, with gold and green colour-coordinated decorations and tropical floral centrepieces to celebrate his Manalo Conference win. The whole garden was full of familiar faces, soft dresses and sharp suits, all gathered around tables beneath lanterns as the summer skies starts to darken.

Amongst the crowd, he watches for a moment as Brock spins Bonnie in a ridiculous circle that she keeps demanding to go faster under. Professor Oak is leading his mother in a dance that doesn’t match the upbeat tempo of the music playing, and Pikachu is darting between feet with Piplup and Psyduck in tow.

And his frown melts.

For a moment, Ash forgets all of Gary’s meaningless comments, focusing instead on the fact that his oldest friend and oldest rival had even bothered to show up. Walking into the garden earlier to the sound of his companions and friends celebrating had made his chest squeeze just as tightly as it did now.

He couldn’t have asked for a better welcome home.

But…

He catches the way Misty’s hair shimmers again under the lantern light as she spins, red strands catching the glow and dancing with her, and he becomes aware of the eyes on him as much as his own on her.

“That’s seven,” Gary states. “You’re staring.”

Ash turns away. “I'm not,” he lies.

Then, less than a second later, he’s looking back, blaming it on the fact that Misty shrieks with laughter. The swift scowl he’d been directing at Gary fades as she grins, her head tilting, eyes crinkling in delight when May grabs both her hands and pulls her into another twirl.

Gary sucks on his teeth. “Eight times in the last ten minutes.”

Ash just groans. “Do you count everything?”

“Only when it’s this entertaining. Did they not teach you how to ask someone to dance in Alola?”

The insinuation leaves Ash making a noise that isn’t quite a word, somewhere between a scoff and a cough. He turns to the buffet behind them and starts loading his plate, shoving food into his cheeks like a Patrat storing berries. “I’m not asking anyone to dance.”

Somehow, even the fancy cheese and cured meats taste different than they had minutes earlier. He forces himself to chew, to swallow a painful mouthful, and to stare at his shoes instead.

If he hadn’t already thought it before, he did now: Gary had no idea what he was talking about. Ash had been darting around guests since he'd arrived, and he'd danced plenty, with or without Misty. He'd only spoken to her twice all evening, both brief, both pleasant enough, but that didn’t mean he wanted to dance with her. Maybe he just wanted to talk. And that, he knew, could come later.

Party or not, being home always meant seeing Misty.

But even he was aware that this wasn’t like the usual times he’d returned home to find her flopped across his bed before scrambling to the garden for a battle with him. No, Misty had arrived at his party looking like she’d stepped off a Contest stage, with something sparkly in her hair that matched the way her dress looked like glitter when she shifted.

And, Ash thinks hurriedly, it’s not like he wasn’t allowed to look. To notice that her hair was longer than it had been on her trip to Alola.

“Thats nine. Still staring,” Gary says lazily, not even bothering to sound smug this time.

“I am not,” Ash hisses under his breath.

Gary just shrugs and pops a piece of pineapple into his mouth from Ash's plate. “Sure. Just don’t wait another eight years to ask her for that dance.”

He’s about to ask Gary what exactly is in his drink that has him acting insane, but there’s a weight to the comment that forces Ash to pause.

Eight years. They have passed quicker than he'd like to admit, celebrating a victory he'd been chasing all that time, standing there in the same garden of a house he left all that time ago.

When he left. When he met Pikachu, and met—

And once more, he finds red hair in a crowd of green and gold. This time, Misty glances up, catching his eye from across the garden and offering him a big, familiar smile.

His mouth goes so dry that he has to throw back the remainder of his drink just to force down the lump in his throat. His stomach flips, bubbles, at the mere thought of approaching her. He can feel, suddenly, the space that time has carved out without his permission.

Ash decides he doesn’t want to get used to whatever that feeling is.

Without another word, he shoves his empty glass into Gary’s hand. He tugs at the collar of his shirt, loosening the top button. Determination sets on his face, and he takes a step forward. It's more of a stomp than a stride towards the dance floor, which Gary is probably glad to have a front-row seat to after Ash has spent the last five minutes denying having any interest in.

But that seems to matter less and less with each step, because by the time he reaches her, Misty’s face lights up so brightly that it’s the only thing he can focus on.

Gary's laughter, however, still manages to filter through the crowds as he calls after him:

“I think that counts as an even ten, Champ!”