#tw: bar

[lazymblr]

[welcome-to-afton-robotics]

for  an  angsty  starter . for michael afton

Angsty Starter For: @luposcainus ! (Possible Triggers added in edit tags)

Michael doesn't let his grief overtake him often, he's a man who focuses on what's truly important in this life: Undoing the misdeeds of his father. His mission should be the only focus he has and everything else should come secondary to it. In a sense, he helped contribute to the kill count William had acquired by forcibly shoving his brother into Fredbear’s jar. That day? Michael lost the man he loved to grief and grief made a monster out of him. In desperation, a man would do anything to put his family back together and that act in itself was a selfish one. Michael couldn't be certain as to when William’s goals shifted from fatherly desperation to self-preservation but the single thing he could say with confidence was that his father became a cruel creature.

No matter his intent, he did unspeakable, horrible, gut-wrenching things to those children and he couldn't forgive William. His memories of the Father he once adored are too tainted now to ever think of forgiveness, to ever think of taking a different path in life that wasn't retribution. Perhaps his desire to redeem himself in the eyes of his brother and God did help fuel his mission further as well. There is an undeniable hand that it played in how he evolved as a person. He was no longer terrorized, he no longer bullied, he just existed as Michael, with no added title or descriptor.

On days where the burden became particularly heavy, he'd allow himself a rare visit to Junior’s. Michael despised that bar with a passion, it's the very one William frequented to drink away his sorrows and pain in those early days. Whenever he enters, the older patrons look at him with pity. Do they recognize him as his father’s son? Do they see him in the same light as him? Those unspoken questions infuriated Michael.

He didn't want to be seen as William. He didn't want to be seen as his son.

Michael does his best to ignore as he takes his seat and focuses on the menu.

Just ignore them, Michael, just ignore them. They do not know you, they do not know him like you do, just ignore them.

[tittyinfinity]

I was hanging out at the karaoke bar, chatting with a beautiful woman, and we were really hitting it off. I threw a couple of flirtatious comments her way. She giggled nervously, but abruptly stopped and looked at the floor.

She told me that she was too nervous to hit on people because she's trans and worries that people will view her as a predator and that she might get hurt.

My heart sank. I let her know that she could hit on me in whatever way she wanted and I would LOVE it. We spent the rest of the night hanging out and flirting. We ended up making out. It was great.

But I can't stop thinking about how that wasn't the first time a trans woman has said that to me. About how unsafe it is for some women that they feel the need to give out fucking disclaimers to have normal interactions with people.

We have GOT to make the world a safer place for trans women. It pisses me off that there are men at the bar who are openly predatory towards me without fear of consequence, yet a trans woman is too scared to even fucking call me pretty. And that's because she IS more likely to face worse consequences for lesser things! Like what the fuck!

You need to always check on your internalized biases. Being queer yourself doesn't absolve you of transmisogynistic thoughts and behaviors. Being bi/pansexual doesn't mean you don't hold those biases either! If you feel differently about a trans woman hitting on you than you feel about a cis woman or a man hitting on you, you need to evaluate that.

Trans women, I love you so fucking much. You should be able to express attraction and love as freely as everyone else. I hope you can always feel safe around me. And I'll never stop fighting until you can feel safe period.

[frownyalfred]

Alcohol tips for newbie writers (or non drinkers!):

At bars, people who order “chasers” after their shots are ordering something to wash down the taste of their shot with. This can be juice, soda, more alcohol, or even pickle juice

Hard liquor is generally sold in stores as shots (tiny bottles), fifths, liters, and handles or in ml (50, 100, 200 etc)

Most people can’t finish an entire fifth of hard liquor (vodka, etc) on their own without being very ill

Conversely, many people can finish an entire bottle of wine on their own without being ill

Liquor can be “bottom shelf” or “rail” or “well” -- all synonyms for the cheapest version of alcohol a bartender has. Bars generally keep several “levels” of alcohol stocked

You order a drink with the alcohol first, then the mix -- e.g., a “vodka soda” or a “Tito’s and tonic”

When you “close out a tab”, you pay for all of the drinks you’ve had that night. Either the bartender already has your card (you “opened a tab” earlier) or it was quiet enough that they just kept an eye on you and tallied your bill up at the end

“Doubles” are drinks or shots with double the standard pour of alcohol

In the US, most shots (pours) are 1.5 oz by default. 

Mixed drinks (gin and tonic, vodka lemonade, cosmos, etc) are generally made up of 1-2 shots and a mixer 

If you don’t specify which type of alcohol you’d like in a mixed drink (vodka cranberry, for example) the bartender will put whatever the “house” liquor is -- and this depends entirely on the establishment. A dive bar will pour rail by default, whereas a nicer tavern might make all vodka cranberries with Tito’s

PLEASE TIP YOUR BARTENDERS THEY WILL REMEMBER YOU I PROMISE

[cashthecomposer]

Small businesses are awesome.

This guy, a veteran and park ranger named Steve, opened this place called TreeRock in Asheville, NC as a sort of passion project, to celebrate Mead and Cider, and showcase an incredible selection of the world's first alcoholic beverage.

I just had an hour and a half long conversation with the guy. He's so personable and knowledgeable, and I had an absolute blast- I tried like 10 different drinks, and they were all awesome, and he told me about the history and making of each and every one. After a while, I decided this is my new favorite place to go.

But they're closing, in March.

These past few years have been devastating for small businesses, and they are no exception. They are going to close in March, unless something drastic happens that changes things.

So if you're in Asheville, or you know somebody in Asheville, or you have been meaning to go to Asheville to bury that body in the trunk of your car somewhere along the Appalachian trail but you just haven't gotten around to it yet, please stop by TreeRock for a flight of meads, ciders, and beers from all around the world, for less than the cost of a Chipotle burrito.

(also they love dogs!!! my dog had a great time, and I'm sure yours will too!)

[zu-is-here]

<– • –>

[danandfuckingjonlmao]

so five and lila being a thing is going right next to allison literally sexually assaulting luther in the box of things we are absolutely under no circumstances accepting as part of canon right

[philmbro]

dan and phil, youtube legends (derogatory)

twitter tiktok

[one-time-i-dreamt]

I caught a murderous goldfish because I recognized his eyebrows. Later, that same goldfish and I were hanging out at a bar and we were pretty tight because it turned out he was actually pretty chill.

[lazymblr]

[royalarchivist]

Richarlyson: You're skinny sir, are you eating well these days?

Pac: Not really. To tell you the truth, I've been eating... I stole, together with my son, we stole some cupcakes from the Federation. I ate some, but I know chocolate isn't the best thing to eat, right?

Richarlyson: 12 kilos D:

Pac: 12 kilos?!? No– what? My god. My god... Am I malnourished, Doctovo? Am I- Am I malnourished?

Richarlyson: You weigh less than a pitbull, sir.

Pac: Less than the singer? Damn... [Laughs]

Richarlyson: [Hits Pac]

[cosmicdreamgrl]

𝘧𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘫𝘬 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘴: (104/?)

[datura-tea]

the real treasure of the sierra madre (the head of the man who put a bomb collar on you)

[faeriekit]

Health and Hybrids (XXIII)👽👻💚

[I can't remember the original prompt posters  for the life of me but here's a mashup between a cryptid!Danny, presumed-alien!Danny, dp x dc, and the prompt made the one body horror meat grinder fic.]

🖤Chapter navigation can be found here🖤 Click to browse previous updates.

💚 Ao3 Is here for all parts 💚 (now featuring mediocre mouseover translations, only available on a computer)

Where we last left off... J'onn broke the news that Danny thinks he's going to be forced into combat in exchange for his medical care. Everyone disliked that™.

Trigger warnings for this story:  body horror | gore | post-dissection fic | dehumanization (probably) |  my nonexistent attempts at following DC canon. On with the show.

💚👻👽👻💚

COME GET YOUR NEW ART HERE 💥🍳!!💥 IT'S FIBERCRAFT!!Shoutout to @rainbowbeansprout for crocheting a fic accurate injured ghost Danny!! That's outstanding!!

💚👻👽👻💚

So, Wally broke all of the bones in his legs yesterday.

Which is…not ideal. Still. He’s pretty used to it at this point, though, and he’s already mostly healed.

It’s just that. Well.

…The rest of healing is kind of…time-consuming.

So Wally’s in basketball shorts and a mask and a t-shirt he’d started using as pajamas when he was in college and he’s on the med floor of the Watchtower, and yet another physical therapist is helping him bend his leg back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, because he’d tripped in the middle of the Speedforce and busted everything hip-down.

So. (Back, and forth. Back, and forth. Back…) This sucks.

“Do we have to do this every time?” Wally asks, as if there isn’t a team of medical professionals kept on hand to deal with Superpower-wrought Super Medical Problems.

“Do you have to shatter your legs every time?” the PT asks back wryly, which, hey! The pressure pressing up against his bare foot is an additional stressor to the sass. “Bend this more for me, Flash. You can do it.”

Wally grumbles, and pretends the angle his leg is bending at doesn’t make him wince. Wow is he going to have to build his flexibility back up again.

The physical therapy room looks just like any other gym, basically; a lot of squishy mats in playful colors, a lot of grippy tape; a LOT of wipeable vinyl surfaces that can be sanitized at a moment’s notice. It smells kind of weird and plasticky and kind of like alcohol cleaner.

It’s not his favorite room in the Watchtower, but, eh. It could be way worse. What’s unusual is the whirrr of the door opening and closing in one of the private care rooms for another patient, since, you know...HIPAA and all that. Wally assumes. Or is it costume confidentiality once you leave Earth's atmosphere...?

Usually everyone knows who’s stopping in for PE through the sheer power of the Justice League gossip groupchats. (There’s at least nine. Wally’s in four of them. He aspires to be in two more by April.) There hasn’t been a big fight that requires long-term medical care in a while, and there’s no one Wally can think of who’d need this kind of recovery.

Something’s buzzing at the outside of his awareness, though. It sounds kind of…

Wally perks up. “Hey, the alien kid’s here!”

The PT holding Wally up at the waist hums. Her name is Cindy, and judging from their previous conversations, she thinks that Wally is the dumbest man alive. “There’s a million of those, Flash. Which one?”

“The one who bit Superman,” Wally adds.

Judging by the face Cindy makes, this clarifies nothing.

“Most recently,” Wally stresses, carefully not wincing as his leg gets stretched out again, only to be pulled back into position as tightly as before. “OW. Cindy, you’re killing me.”

Cindy makes a strangled noise. She asks: “What, again?” which is how Wally remembers that he got torn back out of the time stream not all that long ago, and it may be a big gauche to joke about your own death with the people who care about it.

Whoops. Wally winces. “…Nevermind?”

The other PTs make various fussy and annoyed noises, but the alien kid is wheeled onto the other side of the medical floor’s only gym. (The actual training floors are on another level. Wally wishes he was there. Alone.)

(Without four PTs clinging to his legs at all times.)

Wally waves. It’s a nice enough gesture, and now that the alien-phantasm-turned-flesh-and-blood-boy is more physically embodied than he used to be, the boy even deigns to carefully wave back.

The kid’s PTs—Wally thinks at least one of them is from the team that supervises Bart and his super-powered-leg-problems—end up encouraging the alien kid’s chair round to the soft mats where the kid can lay down. He ends up in the exact same position Wally is—horizontal on the floor, legs forcibly pinwheeled by enthusiastic but firm PTs.

Wally can physically feel the kid’s astonishment and discontentment buzzing in the air as he figures out what’s being done to him. Wally can’t help but laugh.

The kid angles his head towards the speedster. His face still looks—well, it looks…bad. It looks bad, unhealed and still threatening to weep neon green body fluids; there’s a wet, living crack running up and down his face that makes eye contact kind of hard. His hands are all spidery—this kid can probably hold and grip things, but the previous breakage have left his hands a little too easy to splay, a little too oddly-angled. He’s too thin to keep himself fully upright for long. When he looks at you, his eyes shake like a poorly lined-up television signal.

Martian Manhunter had said that he’d once looked like a healthy, happy human child. His current form is a reflection of the injuries he’d experienced since.

...What a thing for a kid to go through. Wally wouldn’t wish this sort of injury on anyone.

“­Alright, up you go,” the PT above him—Rhys, Wally remembers at the very last second—orders, and Wally is prompted to let the man help him back upright. “Over to the bars for you. You think your legs are up to bearing that kind of weight as you try out walking?”

“…Sure,” Wally lies to Rhys. It’ll be fine. Probably. By the time he gets over there, his legs might have already speed-healed by then. “Hand me the—?”

“Yeah, yeah, here’s the crutches. Don’t destroy yourself trying to make this happen, okay?”

So Wally gets set up at the glorified playground equipment in his least restrictive gym clothes, one long iron bar under one arm, and one long iron bar under the other. Two full-size physical therapists spot him as the speedster completes the most strenuous task available to him at the moment: walking across a very short distance without putting his full weight on his legs.

Wally puts one shaking leg in front of the other. The steps are slow. The urge to zoom to the end of the little bowling lane he’s stuck in—and therefore shatter his legs under the speedforce, again—is irresistibly temping.

Healing sucks. And Wally’s even got the longer end of the stick.

In the end, Wally sticks the landing. He is unreasonably sweaty. He is miserable. But he makes it to the end. Every one of the witnessing PTs applauds as if this is a great success. It’s literally not. It’s the inevitable result of pushing himself too far for the third time this year.

A question buzzes through the air, fluffing through Wally’s hair and the little fine hairs up and down his body. It’s nothing but inquisitive—whatareyoudoing whatareyoudoing?

Wally lets the PT maneuver a chair underneath him. It gives him enough breathing room to turn his upper torso, and he ends up catching the eye of the little alien kid in the corner. He’s sat on a yoga ball, two members of his medical team and one of the kids’ PTs trying to get his attention back to his exercises.

“Hey,” Wally realizes suddenly. “Your casts are gone!”

The kids’ legs are actually bare, which Wally’s never seen before. They’re twiggy, sure, stretched taut over a bone frame, and discolored and pale, but they’re legs. Wally hadn’t even known the alien had possessed legs until he’d formed a physical body months and months ago.

“Dude, that’s great!”

Happy/smug/proud vibrates through the room, making Wally’s teeth buzz. The kid smiles through a half-split lip, and bounces on the yoga ball ever so slightly.

“Good,” the kid says, surprising Wally, his PTs, and the kid’s usual medical team. He was talking already?! He thought J’onn had said—

“Hurt?” the boy asks, concern/concern flooding through the air. Oh. Right. He’s probably here for his busted legs; it would make sense that by virtue of the setting, Wally would be injured too.

And, sure, Wally busted his legs, but he at least heals with all the swiftness of the speedforce. “Meh.” Wally waves off the question. “I’m fine. It’ll be quick for me; some rehab and some lunch and a few days off, and I’ll be in shipshape.”

Wait. Wally’s eyes scrunches up. Is using wordplay appropriate with this kid…?

“Pain?” the kid asks, and turned his attention to the closest member of his medical team. “He pain?”

The medical professional sighs, which finally clues Wally in that the man is no longer masked. Hey, the kid is out of medical isolation! “The Flash has his own medication, thankfully. His doctors know what to do.”

The kid frowns. He doesn’t get it. He looks at Wally, and he looks at the staffer, who shrugs. “It’s the usual indicator word he uses for pain medication. He’s wondering if you’re hurt enough to need some.”

Wally hums. On one hand, it’s sweet that the alien kid is worried about him. It’s a huge step upwards from the alien who spent all his time hiding in abandoned meeting rooms and occasionally biting Superheroes.

On the other hand, the kid doesn’t just look worried that Wally might not be getting care; he looks scared.

Something happened to this kid. Something he can't shake off.

Wally breathes in, and breathes out.

—And breathes in sharply when Cindy starts wiggling his feet. She doesn’t respond at all to his glare, because she is a professional, and he is not a big baby of a superhero.

Mean.

“I’m fine,” Wally finally responds, trying to alleviate the kid’s concerns through sheer vibes-telepathy alone. Who knows if it’s working, but it makes Wally feel better about trying at the very least. “I’ve got my own team to fix me up, and they do a good job of taking care of me. Even if they’re bullying me at my most vulnerable.”

“Anything for you, boss,” Cindy volleys back cheerfully. “Gimme your other leg.”

The tension in the air slowly dissipates. The kid doesn’t stop shooting occasional looks at the unadorned, half-out-of-uniform Flash, but he does let Bart’s little PT team get to working on stretching out his previously-bound now-physical legs and getting him upright—if only for a few seconds at a time, balanced precariously by humans who actually touch his back and arms and hips and legs.

Wally’s session wraps up before the kid’s does. He’s not in any rush. He gets onto the walking crutches Rhys leaves out for his temporary use and lopes over to watch, occasionally hooting and applauding when the kid pulls off something no one’d been sure he could do.

The double handed high-five Wally offers him at the end is punctuated with shaky eye contact, two working hands, and a green-threaded beaming grin.

*

Diana cheerfully digs into her kebab lunch, plastic cutlery pushed to their maximum limit before threatening to break under her prodigious strength. “You know, Batman,” she starts, beaming, “My charge gave me his name the other day.”

Bruce sets down his muenster-ham-and-whole-wheat sandwich mid-bite. “I’ll need to hear everything,” he says immediately, to which Diana tuts.

“Oh, Batman, I could never break his trust like that,” she says, sweet as anything. She finesses a bite of lamb from the skewer and takes a neat bite.

“…Wonder Woman,” Batman says.

“Hm?”

“Diana.”

“Is there something you needed, Bruce?” Diana asks, pleased with herself. There genuinely is very little that could be done with a vague description of a now-altered human form and a first name alone; besides, she genuinely does feel that hearing the boy’s name come from others’ lips would be upsetting for him. Danny offered his name to Diana alone, and so it shall remain until hers alone he offers it to others.

Still, she is not above bragging.

“I need information.” Bruce’s face underneath his mask is stone.

Diana dips a second chunk of lamb into a little container of tzatziki sauce. “Well, then,” she points out, “Shouldn’t you spend some time building rapport with my charge, then?”

The feared Batman of Gotham, father of a half-dozen highly trained heroes, bristles like a wet cat. The demeanor is almost comical. He knows what he looks like to non-Gothamite children. He knows his suit will make this fight for common familiarity an uphill battle.

Diana smugly works through her lunch and ignores Bruce’s silent brooding as he does the same.

[konigsblog]

tw: stepcest, non-con/rape, intoxication, manipulation, toxic!simon, age gap (reader is early 20s, simon is mid thirties)

stepbro!simon who's a mean bastard. with no morals, and the only thing stopping him from taking you whenever he wishes being the law. yet, that mentality doesn't last very long, when he has you drunk — so drunk you can't even think straight for yourself, raping your swollen cunt on repeat for hours. so much built up sexual frustration. this was everything he'd wanted, everything he'd wanted to do to his annoying, dumb stepsister. he desired and fantasied of this moment for so long, that even after cumming deep inside your hole for the third time, he couldn't pull out. no, not just yet.

with a cigarette between his teeth so he can ignore the stress of people figuring out how disgusting he is, and the sensation of your pulsing walls around his fat, meaty cock — he felt as if he was in heaven. eyes rolled back and eyebrows furrowed, moving your limp figure to the rhythm of his hips smacking into you. “dirty. fuckin��. thing’...” he spat, speaking through gritted teeth while smacking into you with force. your body jolted, and when you squirmed and sobbed out hopelessly, he gripped the back of your hair and pulled it tightly, forcing your back to arch whilst keeping you restrained. “tha’s a girl... takin’ this cock like ya’ were made fir’ it...” he grumbles, eyes shut tightly while rocking his broad hips against you roughly.

“uh-uh--quit cryin’, dollface. ya’ know you’r enjoyin’ it, pretty girl.” you cry and weep, panting weakly. you feel so numb and sore, with blood on your thighs, almost dry from being used for ages. “such a good stepsister, ain’t’cha, slag!?” he yells beside your ear, causing you to throb and squeeze around him tightly. you nod meekly, eyes closed in an attempt to ignore the pressure of your immoral stepbrother. inhumane.

stepbro!simon also, adores pulling you around with him. he loves being risky, especially when he knows that people would slut shame and degrade you for sleeping with your stepbrother. he almost wants people to know. so when the 141 meet you, his larger and calloused hand takes yours and wraps around his shaft beneath the table at a bar. you jump at the heat, the thickness, the wetness. although hidden, you're on edge and trying to avoid the way your panties are absolutely soaked in your slick. and he's nonchalant and chill about it — because he knows that he'll get the benefit of the doubt, that people won't care as much as they care about a slutty, needy stepsister...

stepbro!simon who absolutely hates your guts when you come home drunk. you're not supposed to drink without him. only he can rape and take advantage of you in your drunken state. so after ploughing into you ruthlessly and mercilessly, he leaves you with his cum rolling out your slit, and your eyes puffy from crying. while he smokes a cigarette, he'll jerk off to the sight of your shaking body, cumming all up your back and ordering you to perform something for him as compensation for getting him all worried and riled up. perhaps by using some toys?

stepbro!simon will 100% tease you, as you're so easy to rile up and get all pissy. so he can fuck that pretty mouth while muttering, “jus’ puttin’ a better use for tha’ pretty mouth.” and slapping you between breathers, before restricting your breathing by pinching your nose, shoving and stuffing his massive cock down your throat, leaving you with a raspy, strained voice. listening to you attempt to scream out hoarsely and plea for ‘no more’ as he continues with his assault. ;3

[jennyandvastraflint]

sing unspoken prayers with my lips on yours

Hrm, so I commissioned art from @rosenkranz-does-things again, this time about this very uh, gay fic. AND I AM GOING INSANE OVER HOW GODDAMN BRILLIANT THIS ART IS!!

Aaaaah! After writing a fic quite recently in which Jenny kills someone to save Vastra, I felt inclined to commission Roz because just LOOK AT THEIR ART! Gosh the sheer SKILL in this! I love how vibrantly, agreesively red the blood is! It contrasts so well against the background, Jenny's clothes, and Vastra's face. Gosh, the way Vastra is so still and calm in her worship of Jenny and the intimate kiss!?? AHHHH this is just perfectly captured, and then Jenny's despair, her clinging to Vastra for dear life with her hand and gosh her facial expression!! Can we talk about her face! Because she looks SO hot with blood on it! Roz you mad genius! (Hey also, two of those splatters look a little bit like kiss marks on first glance, and it's driving me insane! (positive. VERY positive.) I don't know if it was on purpose or not, but omgggg) They're just everything to meee, and Roz you deliver every single time, you never miss! Just. AHHH! People, go commission Roz for beautiful art!

I'll be over here staring at this for one billion years now, byeeee <3