#((this is NOT meant to be actually mean this is not a real threat to anyone ever))

[vaguely-concerned]

in his and davrin's banters, lucanis exhibits a certain little shit energy I don't think we see him have with anyone else other than illario and honestly I am living for this

[happy74827]

A Smile From Hell

[Homelander x Female!Reader]

Synopsis: Despite the amount of unpredictability The Homelander has, he still catches you off guard with something as small as a smile.

WC: 3576

Category: Angst, Supe!Reader {TW — Homelander for obvi reasons}

In honor of Season 4’s weekly releases, this one is for the Antony Starr girlies (and you @summerrivera777777)

『••✎••』

John fucking terrified you.

He terrified everyone, really.

He had the power to level an entire city block with a glance. He was strong enough to crush a man's skull with one hand and fast enough to catch a bullet. He was an unstoppable force of nature. He was The Homelander, and he was a threat to anyone who stood in his way.

But, the thing was...

You knew everything about him. Everything.

And he absolutely despised that, but there was nothing he could do to change it. You had seen him at his most vulnerable and pathetic. You had seen his humanity, it’s amazing he still has any after the way Vought has abused him, and you had seen his inhumanity.

Jessica, or Sister Sage, had confronted you on several occasions, trying to get you to tell her your secrets. She wanted the upper hand on her arch nemesis, the only one in the world who was a threat to her. It was her mission to end the reign of the superhero she hated most, and she was willing to do anything for it.

You could see right through her, and you didn’t need magnificent amounts of intelligence to do so. You could see the fear in her eyes. You could see the doubt in her face, hear the strain in her voice, feel her uneasiness when she was near him.

John knew it, too. He just simply chose to ignore it. He had grown used to being the scariest man in the room. It’s been that way his whole life, and it seemed it was going to stay that way.

But, despite all that fear, she came to you for answers. Again.

And this time, the question was a simple one. It was so simple, yet completely understandably complicated.

How are you allowed to live?

That was a question that stumped you. It took you a long time to grasp the meaning of it, the specific answer she was looking for.

After a few clarifications, you finally understood what she meant.

She wanted to know why John allowed you to live. She wanted to know why he hadn’t killed you. She wanted to understand why you were the only person alive after calling him by his name.

Not his stage name, his real name.

For being the most intelligent person on the planet, you’d think that she’d be able to understand it. I mean, the answer was right there, in front of her face. She didn't need to be a genius to figure it out; all she needed was a little more insight.

A little bit of understanding.

"Respect," you said, your voice soft. Your words were clear, though, and she heard them perfectly.

The confusion on her face was evident, as was her disbelief.

"What?"

"It's respect. Anyone I respect is someone that deserves my respect."

She snorted.

"Right," she said. "Like he could actually respect anything other than himself."

"He's capable of it if that's what you're thinking," you told her. "And this isn’t about him respecting me; it's about me respecting him."

She narrowed her eyes at you, her suspicion rising.

"Why would you respect him?" she questioned. "You're not blind; you know exactly who he is."

Yes, you did. You knew more than most, and compared to The Seven now, you probably knew the most. His actions? Completely unredeemable. He was, in fact, a monster; there was no arguing that. He was a horrible, twisted, monstrous individual; no one would deny it.

His actions weren’t excusable, but he had an explanation. A reason for why he was the way he was.

He wasn’t born a monster; he was turned into one. That… that was the respect part. You respected him because you respected his story. You respected his pain. You respected his anger.

You respected his past; anything after that was on him.

"I don’t like using stage names to those I respect enough, so I call him John. He allows it because he knows I don’t mean it the way others would if they used his name; it doesn't hold the same power with me."

She rolled her eyes at you.

"Same goes for you, Jessica; I have no desire to call you Sister Sage."

Her flinch was barely visible, but you still caught it. Again, what is intelligence if not knowing the chances of a particular outcome?

"I’ve noticed you don’t call Deep or that fire chick by their real names."

You just smiled, leaving her to solve that answer for herself, and it didn’t take long at all. You knew the exact moment she came up with a conclusion. She was quite predictable, in that regard. Maybe you should’ve been the big-brained hero instead.

And now, you really should’ve been because when you turned down the hall, catching wind of the elevator doors opening, you knew he had listened to it all.

But you didn’t say anything, and you really didn’t say anything after a simple glance at him.

He was completely drenched in blood, a look that would terrify even the toughest of men. But not you, oh no, you were very used to that. He’s done a lot worse.

Besides, you were too distracted by the fact that the blood wasn't his. Too distracted by noticing how this time was different. He was smiling, but it wasn’t his usual cruel smile. This time, it was genuinely happy.

Relief, almost.

It reminded you of the night you two bonded. No, not that type of bond. The bond that told you both that you weren’t alone.

He had a friend, but he wasn’t really your friend. You don’t believe you could ever consider him one. Not really, not with the things he has done.

But, still, you were the closest thing he had to a friend. You were the closest he had to an equal, a person he could relate to. Jessica carried the same intelligence (obviously a lot more), but the similarities between the two of them stopped there.

You had a similar history but different outcomes.

And that reveal between the two of you happened that night. This was way back, even before Starlight joined. Back when The Seven was in its prime.

Stillwell threw a party, something she always loved to do before Teddy became her focus. It was the usual: people in fancy dresses and suits, lots of champagne and liquor.

The difference, however, was the main focal point. Usually, given Vought’s status, all of The Seven members were the main event. Everyone was mandated to wear their hero outfits. It was a great way to advertise and get people to buy more of the products.

The theme this time, however, wasn’t about the group. It wasn’t about any of you. For the first time in a long while, John wasn’t in the spotlight.

Due to this, Stillwell banned everyone from wearing their costumes. No capes, no spandex, no leather, no masks. Just suits and dresses.

It was nice, actually. A little break from the norm. It felt good to go a night without the tight leather on your skin. You were actually surprised at how well it was received.

The rest of the members of the group seemed to be having a wonderful time as well.

Except for one.

He was standing in the corner, glaring at everyone. Madelyn had an entire argument with him about the suit. You weren’t there, but you knew exactly how it went.

His costume was a part of him. It was a symbol. It was a mask. A representation. An embodiment of who he was. Without it, he was a naked target.

Madelyn clearly did not give a single shit. In the end, the argument resulted in the two of them getting into a screaming match, causing him to storm off in a fit of rage.

So, there he was, standing alone, seething at anyone who passed him. Madelyn won; of course, she did, and she didn't even bother trying to apologize. She wasn't sorry.

She was just mad that he refused to listen in the first place.

But, hey, that wasn’t your problem. You were enjoying yourself. The night was going pretty well; the alcohol was flowing nicely, and the music was just right. You were dancing and laughing and having a great time.

But, of course, things weren't always easy for you.

You weren’t expecting it to last long; you weren’t one to have good luck. You knew, deep down, that the night was going to come crashing down on you. You were just waiting for the ball to drop.

The ball dropped the moment you decided to go cheer up the sourpuss.

It was obvious the way his shoulders tensed, and his head tilted ever so slightly. He knew you were approaching. He was aware.

"Don't," he said.

He was clearly angry, and you weren’t smart enough not to push. This is where Jessica’s powers would have benefited you greatly.

You ignored his warning, walking up beside him, mocking his stance.

"You okay?" you asked, your tone soft and light, a hint of playfulness.

His eyes flicked over to you, and the glare he gave was terrifying. His eyes were so intense, and his teeth were clenched. You could see his jaw tensing.

He was a volcano, ready to erupt.

You could practically see the steam coming out of his ears.

"I'm fine." Humorously enough, it sounded like the opposite.

"Really?"

He turned his head to look at you, his anger increasing by the second.

"Don’t you have anything better to do?"

You shrugged. "Yeah, but I'm choosing to talk to you."

He looked away from you, grumbling, "And why's that?"

"Because you’re ruining the party," you answered. "Miserable face and all."

He rolled his eyes. He actually does this a lot, believe it or not. It's the only expression he has besides anger that isn’t fake.

"And why do you care?"

You shrugged again. "I care about enjoying myself, and I can't do that when you're moping."

He turned his head towards you. He was not amused.

"Go find someone else to entertain yourself with.” He pointed behind him. "I’m sure Deep will be glad to show off his fish facts."

That one caused you to make the same face he had moments ago. The absolute look of disgust on your face was enough to bring a smug grin to his own.

He knew exactly what he was doing.

"Don't make me throw up, John."

The name.

It was a simple slip-up, nothing more. But, of course, it meant so much more. This was before everything, so it doesn’t seem likely that a slip-up like that wouldn’t result in consequences, but it secretly was a turning point.

He could've killed you.

He could've easily grabbed you and thrown you across the room, and no one would be able to comprehend what had happened until after you were unrecognizable.

He didn't, though.

No, instead, he stared at you, his face blank, and his mind processing. You were nervous, of course. You had no idea what was going on in his head.

After a minute, a look of realization came upon him, and you could see the exact moment the gears started turning.

Then, a simple hum fell from his lips. One said he wasn’t expecting it but was deciding whether to accept it.

Then, after a few seconds, his face relaxed. His jaw was unclenched, his eyes softened, and his eyebrows relaxed.

"Let’s have a chat."

Uh oh. That’s a code red—a sign of danger.

You were so done.

And yet, for some odd reason, you followed him. You don’t know why. It was a stupid move, in your opinion. You should've run while you had the chance. You should’ve listened and just punched fishlips or something.

You didn’t, though.

You followed him, allowed him to fly you somewhere private, and just waited. You waited for your imminent doom. You were going to die; you were sure of it.

But, for some reason, your death never came.

Instead, the two of you landed on the tower’s roof, the cold New York air hitting you hard. He had set you down on your feet and went all the way to the railing.

You stood awkwardly, waiting for him to turn around with those beams in his eyes, but they never came.

He was just looking out into the city, his back turned to you, his hands on the railing.

After a few minutes of silence, he turned his head, looking at you through the corner of his eye.

"Aren't you going to ask?"

Ask what? What was there to ask?

There were plenty of things to ask, actually, and yet you had no idea what the right thing to ask was. Because, again, even here, he was unpredictable and unreadable.

You didn't want to anger him; you knew that for sure. But you were also tired of his mind games. It was a constant battle of wit, and you were sick and tired of being left in the dust.

So, you chose something simple to say. Something easy, yet not so simple to answer.

"Are you going to kill me?"

You wouldn’t be surprised if he turned around with a smile and answered yes.

He didn’t, though. Oh no, he stayed turned, staring into the city, his eyes searching. Searching for what you didn't know.

"No."

Simple and clear.

You didn't respond, and he didn't elaborate. It was silent, and it was cold, and it was a tense moment.

But you didn't leave. You just watched him, watched his movements. The way his shoulders hunched over, his head tilting down, the grips on the railing, the way his hair slowly became unstuck due to the wind.

You always thought his hair looked better when it wasn't slicked back, but this is the first time you've ever seen it that way. It was… it was nice.

Then, his shoulders relaxed, and his head straightened. He didn’t turn around, and he didn’t speak. He just looked over his shoulder at you, his eyes piercing yours.

Even with a few strands of hair on his face, his eyes were so sharp and clear. So blue. So cold.

It felt like they were reaching deep into your soul.

It was terrifying. He was terrifying.

"Do you remember your parents?"

The question took you by surprise. It wasn’t what you were expecting, but then again, this whole encounter was the definition of unexpected.

"Yes. Why?"

His eyes scanned yours as if looking for a lie. Then, he turned back around, leaning on the railing.

"I can't remember mine," he said. "Sometimes I wonder if I even had them."

Oh. Oh. This was huge. This was a big one. You had to search deeply even to find out his actual name. Now, here he was, telling you of his past.

Of all people, he chose to tell you.

You didn’t know how to feel about that.

You were honored, yes. You were excited, definitely. But, most importantly, you were worried. Is this him letting you in? Or is it him preparing you for your demise?

It was an unknown territory, a field of landmines. You knew a lot about his past already, but now he was aware of the fact that you knew. He knows, and yet he is still giving you the information.

Why?

"I mean, it doesn't make sense. Everyone has parents, right? And I couldn't have been born out of nowhere. So, I must have had parents. A mom, a dad, some form of guardians."

His face was scrunched, and his eyebrows were furrowed. You could see the way his brain was working. He was really thinking about it, wondering how the pieces fit together.

He was struggling to make a connection, and he was mad at himself for not having it.

"I'm assuming your childhood wasn't the best," you said. You knew it was a risky move, joking about his past, but so far, he seemed to like the boldness and humor.

And he did, in fact, let out a snort.

"Understatement of the year."

You smiled but quickly stopped. It was a serious conversation, and smiling probably wasn’t the appropriate reaction.

Silence filled the space again, and he was back to thinking. He was trying; he was really trying. But he just couldn't.

It wasn't the fact that his parents were a mystery; he's come to terms with that. It was the fact that he couldn’t remember anything.

All he remembered was the torture, the pain, the experiments… nothing about how he got there. Nothing about the people before the scientists. Nothing about a home. And the fact that they were currently building a fake one for him made him so angry.

It was a mockery—a complete joke.

He felt all of these emotions and yet couldn't express them.

And he was frustrated. He was pissed off and tired and angry and sad and empty and-

"Did you rip off your tie?" Your eyes had caught sight of his bare neck, the black fabric missing.

It was the only way to pull him out of his head, and, to your surprise, it worked. You could see the moment he snapped back to reality, the moment he was pulled away from his mind.

"Yeah," he answered. "It was suffocating me."

You could tell.

His hair became more unkempt due to the wind. The strands of hair on his forehead were getting in the way, and it was getting annoying. Not for you, no, but for him.

For you, it was… humanizing. It made him seem a little less like a god.

He lifted his hand, his fingers gently combing through the locks. It was a struggle, a normal struggle that you've had with your own hair.

Plenty struggle with deviating the locks away from their desired location. You've had your own fair share of moments.

But this was the first time you'd seen him experience it. The first time witnessing him do something so simple and basic.

Such a human thing. It had you wondering what else he was capable of.

He sighed, his hand dropping back to the railing. Again, it is a normal thing to happen. But, it had you smiling, the corners of your mouth curving ever so slightly.

The action did not go unnoticed.

"What?" he asked, not even bothering to turn around.

You shrugged. "I've just never…"

Your mind kept changing images. His hair, his eyes, his shoulders, his jaw, his nose, his ears, his neck, his hand, his lips, his chin, his cheekbones, his eyebrows, his skin…

Everything is listed in your mind, including the little imperfections and details that make him, well, him. This was the first time you saw him anything other than perfect.

The perfect monster he was, the god of all men. The man of the century, the one to take the world by storm. The strongest, the smartest, the best.

The symbol, the image, the mask.

The facade.

This was the first time you saw him as just a person. A human being. Just a regular guy.

"Sometimes I wonder how different life would be if you were…"

Normal.

The word was at the tip of your tongue. You could've said it; you should've said it. It was the truth. It was obvious.

But you couldn't.

He knew where your sentence was going, though. Of course, he did.

"If I was… what?" He still wanted to hear it. He was looking for validation, and he wanted it from you. His eyes were on you, his body turned, but there was this one odd thing.

A smile.

It wasn't his usual one. The one you were used to. The one that made everyone scared and uneasy. No, this was a real smile.

A soft, small one, but still a real smile.

A true smile. As if he knew the words you were going to say, as if he knew your thoughts, and he found them amusing.

You found him amusing.

And just because of that, you didn’t give him the validation.

"It’s fucking freezing out here," You coughed in hopes of successfully changing the subject. "I’m gonna get a jacket."

He was going to argue, but you were already walking off, telling him you’d take the emergency ladder down.

Nothing was spoken about that night. No words were exchanged.

But something had changed. Something had shifted. You weren’t quite sure what it was, but it was something.

So, seeing that genuine smile again in that elevator was a shock.

He had the same face as he did on that roof. It was that smile. That one specific smile.

Capable.

That's what it was.

He was capable.

He was capable of feeling and being human. He was capable of being something other than a monster.

He was capable.

All he said to you when you walked by was a simple goodnight. Something so small, yet so big. This time, those words seemed to have a little more meaning.

So, just to raise his unsettling mood, you winked and said, "Goodnight, John."

Again, a smile.

The smile.

It was hard to continue walking, and it was even harder not to turn around. But you did.

You did it knowing you were going to have a hard time sleeping. Knowing that, no matter what, you weren’t going to forget that smile.

The demon that still had a little bit of humanity in him.

A demon that was capable.

[redrosydiaz]

actually can we talk about how tommy started his answer with "not as much". meaning he was still worried. meaning the "competition" being "out of the way" actually literally meant nothing to him because that threat was still so real. meaning eVEN FROM 800 MILES AWAY AND COMPLETELY UNAWARE EDDIE DIAZ WAS STILL THAT BITCH 💁‍♀️

[dyns33]

Honorable mistake

Hi @loo-looland ! After an eternity, here what I did with your ask ! I hope you will like it, I liked writing it even if it took so long. Sorry again for that !

There must have been some mistake.

Y/N had repeated it several times since waking up on what was obviously another planet, knowing full well it wouldn't do anything to improve her situation.

The other people thrown into the same place were obviously soldiers, assassins, men and women capable of fighting and defending themselves if necessary. She had none of those skills. She cried as she cut herself with paper.

Not mean, but not ready to die for a stranger, the group had allowed her to follow them, until they were attacked by shadows and separated.

Now alone, weaponless, lost in this jungle, Y/N tried not to cry as she searched for a way to survive as long as possible, looking for a way home.

She could tell that wasn't a good idea as she approached what looked like a village, filled with these creatures with humanoid bodies but monstrous faces. However, since it was stupid, they wouldn't look for her that close, she just had to be discreet.

Luck wasn't on her side at all, as she was spotted almost immediately, entering what she had thought was a simple cave, but which was actually a sort of underground temple, where several of these predators were, all turning at once to stare at her.

Reflexively, she raised her hands, holding back a sob.

"Wait ! Please, have mercy. I'm not armed, I'm not a threat."

"… Kar'dokh, karu a'in ?"

"Sorry, I don't understand. Please."

"Ooman," the only one wearing a mask said in a strange voice as he approached. "You, not a warrior. You, no business here. Why you here ?"

"I don't know… I was going home and woke up here. Please, don't hurt me."

From what she understood next, she was on Yautja Prime, homeworld of the Yautjas. The one who had spoken to her was named Kar'dokh, and he was the one charged with finding and bringing worthy opponents to the rite of passage for the young warriors.

As she had been saying all along, he had made a mistake in selecting her, and so the elders decided she was now his responsibility.

For a moment, Y/N thought he was going to kill her. He could have, very easily, with just one of his giant hands, but while it might have been a merciful death, it would not have been honorable. These beings killed for food and for honor. She was neither fair game nor a match for him.

So it was decided that she would stay with Kar'dokh until the next great hunt. He would then bring her back to Earth, exchanging her for real opponents. This would take several cycles, and Y/N had no idea what that meant. Weeks, months, years, it was impossible to tell.

What seemed more impossible was that she would start to like it here. At first, she would completely panic at the slightest noise or movement. With or without his mask, she could see that her reactions amused Kar'dokh slightly.

"Ooman jumps. Like Lek'be."

"I don't know what it is."

"Small animal. Weak. Afraid. You, not afraid. I protect."

If they found honor in hunting, the Yautjas also found it in everything they did. And since Y/N was his responsibility, Kar'hokh cared for her as if she were the most precious thing in the world.

There were many times when he forgot that she didn't understand, that she wasn't as strong, as fast as him, or too tired to want to obey his orders, but he remained calm, waiting for her to stop shaking before resuming his activities.

Knowing she couldn't go far, between her fear of dying in the jungle and the fact that the entire village was watching her, Y/N often found herself alone. He had never forbidden her to leave the hut, but after several attempts at walking, she had decided she preferred to stay inside.

The Yautjas clearly weren't used to seeing an "ooman" up close, alive, and without going to kill them. They had studied the weaknesses, strengths, and weapons, but most of the Earthlings' characteristics were uninteresting. Yet, everyone was looking at her, and the younger ones even dared to approach, to ask questions or touch her hair.

"Tz'aqal ! Maak'a' li toch'ok !" Kar'hokh had growled when he saw them do it. "We a'an !"

"They didn't hurt me."

"Not important. Ooman, my responsibility. Mine. No touching."

"Great. You can stop calling me "ooman", please ? My name is Y/N, I'm not a dog."

"No dog, no. Dogs erocious. Y/N, little one. My Y/N."

While their species was familiar with humans, the reverse was absolutely not true, and it took Y/N some time to understand that Kar'dokh's protective and more or less gentle behavior with her wasn't normal.

With another individual, he would have acted more violently, more coldly. He would have made her sleep on the ground, forced her to hunt for her food, and he would have been delighted when the time to get rid of her finally approached.

Except that the day of his departure for the opponent selection was imminent, and the Yautja seemed anything but happy.

With a determination she didn't quite understand, he brought back plenty of prey that he proudly placed before her, waiting for a compliment. Purring with pleasure when she was impressed, he then skinned the creatures to take his trophy, but also to offer her one, and prepare the meal with what was left. Once finished, he would lift her up and bring her to his bed, so she could sleep on him.

And the night before the big day, he finally decided to be clear.

"My Y/N. Mate with me. Stay."

"… What ?"

"Me a worthy male. Prove it. Strong, providing and protecting. Strong seed, strong pups. Stay."

"But… Wait a second," Y/N stammered, shaking her head to make sure she wasn't dreaming what was happening. "You want me to stay with you ? And be lovers ?"

"Mate."

"Yeah, same thing. But me ? I'm human ! You could find a great warrior, you'd have beautiful little warriors with cute mandibles ! Is it even possible for a human to have a baby with a Yautja ? Not that I'd accept, I'm just asking."

"Advanced technology. Fix. Mate."

"But why me ?"

He didn't understand her hesitation. Of course Kar'dokh didn't. For them, there weren't things as complex as feelings, love, all that bullshit. They found a suitable mate, they courted them, and if they were accepted, they mated for life. Simple and effective.

There must have been something resembling love, or at least something equally illogical, for him to want to keep Y/N among all the possibilities available to him. Kar'dokh was a great warrior, respected, almost an elder. He was spoiled for choice in the village and all over the planet.

But he had wanted this little Ooman, captured by mistake. He had found her reactions amusing, he had found her body desirable, he had loved that she accepted his gifts. He would have a unique mate. If she would have him.

"Can I never leave ? Won't I return to Earth ?"

"Learn to hunt. Prove worth. Then right to hunt on other lands."

"Uh… I don't really feel like killing other humans for sport, thanks. I'll wait in the hut."

"You wait… So you'll stay ? Mine ?"

It was madness. One word, a simple "no," and even if he had been upset, she knew the honorable warrior would have taken her home as promised. But after all this time here with him, Y/N had probably lost her mind.

She nodded shyly, and when Kar'dokh didn't move, she thought he didn't understand what that meant. Then he took out his helmet and armor, before lifting her to carry her to the bed, but not to sleep this time, so he must have understood.

[namjooningera]

Hii can I request any yandere JJK men with a reader whose on a hunger strike or refuses to be handfed by them? Ty ^.^

Yandere JJK react to y/n refusing them/not eating

Characters: Gojo, Geto, Nanami, Toji, (NEW) Sukuna (king ver of Sukuna)

AN: just reader being a lil bratty (real) also I just added Sukuna as a new character tehe. Tell me how it is 👀 however since he’s a yan I am making him softer towards y/n (but insaner towards other ppl yk?) also he’s a king in this one so

TW: starving, SLIGHT physical violence, threats, force feeding, tiniest bit of infantilization (gojo & Nanami)

Gojo:

No he won’t allow it.

He won’t allow you to act like a child and refuse to eat or drink. At this point he’s worried because you won’t do anything. Like a dead doll standing as still as possible to not be caught moving.

Nothing scares him. But you do.

So he took matters into his own hands and tied you up in a chair, hands to the armrests, legs to the feet of the chair, chest binded and rope littered all around the rest of your body tied to the helpless chair.

You screamed since you couldn’t kick, bit since you couldn’t hit, tried to refuse and refuse and he just didn’t know what to do. Seeing you hurt yourself, not eating as a protest to your involuntary stay, god it was torture to him. Like his own punishment.

At first he let it go. Tried to hand feed you your favorite snacks and placed a cup of cold water at your lips. And everytime you smacked it away from you. He watched your favorite snacks hit the floor and soil the carpet. The water spill and create a wet mess on the floor boards.

Why couldn’t you just be good and eat? Drink? Please stop refusing. At one point he almost started begging you. Hands at his chest, put together, eyes wide and sad, his mouth profusely spitting out begs and whines of how he just wanted you safe and healthy.

You didn’t listen.

You probably should’ve, or at least acknowledged his damn presence, because what he did next what’s unpredictable.

Tying you up in that chair and force feeding you. He made you your comfort food in hopes you’d actually want to eat it on your own. You didn’t. Which is fine. It just means he had to take extra precautions. His hand swirled the spoon of food around in the air, blowing raspberries as he said,

“Here comes the airplane!” As if you were some stupid child not wanting to eat your greens.

The spoon flew to your mouth but you moved your head to the side the only thing you could move, avoiding the spoon and it’s food.

His smile dropped just the tiniest bit but he continued his ministrations.

“Babe! Here comes the airplane Kay? Say ahh!” He announced once again in that awfully positive attitude, nudging the spoon at your lips, which you kept sewn shut.

“Come on babe, just open up~” but you didn’t, and he was getting impatient. “Babe?”

You didn’t look at him, didn’t dare open your mouth or even glance his way.

He snaps, grabbing your jaw and pinching your nose. You gasped, not being able to breathe, and without a second thought, that spoon of food was shoved into your mouth. He let go of your nose, and scooted his chair closer to yours.

“It’s good right? I added extra flavoring just for my girl. I know you like it that way.” He giggled, as if he didnt force the food down your damn throat.

“Here comes the choo choo train!” He whistled, and you realized that he enjoys babying you the way he does, even if it meant going against your will.

Geto:

This man does not play around either.

Coming home to you after a long day with what he calls “monkeys” just to see the untouched food still sitting on the table from when he made breakfast. He had brought take out- just to find out that you haven’t been eating in the first place.

He made that for you, took time out of his day to cook, make breakfast for you, the time where he’s normally busy. But alas, he cleans the dishes and runs up to your room and knocks on your door. It doesn’t matter if you don’t want him in he’ll come in anyway.

“I noticed you didn’t touch your plate. From this morning. It’s night now.”

Your stuffed into the sheets, messy covers over your body and head in your pillows. You don’t answer. You don’t think he deserves one.

“You haven’t eaten all week.”

He shuts the door behind him and storms towards you. It’s obvious that your silence is making him angry. Normally, you ignoring him doesn’t make him upset, he understands how you might feel…uneasy in this kind of situation. But hurting yourself? That’s not something he’ll allow or even tolerate.

He grabs the sheets and tugs them off of you, revealing your drained form. You groan and cover try to tug the sheets back to cover your body but he throws them to the floor and glared at you.

“You know why you’re so drained? It’s cause’ you won’t fucking eat.”

You don’t answer, you don’t want to answer. You just want the bed to swallow you whole, and the ground to open up so that you may fall into the abyss and disappear.

“I don’t want your fucking food.” You say, instead.

“Why not? Is it not to your liking?”

You grumble and glare up at him, finally lifting your face from the pillows.

“You’re not to my liking- Suguru I wanna go home-“ “enough!”

He cuts you off quickly, shutting you down almost immediately, which causes you to stuff your head back into the pillows.

He groans seeing this and slowly shuffled onto the bed with you. His mouth came down to your ear where he whispered

“If you don’t at least try to eat, I’ll make you.”

A shiver ran down your spine, you knew he wasn’t fibbing. You slowly got out of bed but he was quicker then you, pulling you out by your arm and sitting you up against the bed post.

He brought the takeout food and opened the bags of food on the bed, handing you a plate and utensil. You took it hesitantly and kept it on your lap. Not opening the food.

“Well?”

You shook your head. This was your way of protest, against him holding you captive, running a cult, being a damn curse user-

“You’re going to eat.” He demands, and you just shake your head and look to the side of you, away from him. You know he’ll force you- but you can’t help but refuse him anyway.

And without a second thought, he grabs the food then you, hoisting you into his lap without a single chance for you to fight back. One arm caging you in by your chest and arms, stopping any movement from you, the other bringing a spoon to your mouth.

“Eat, darling, or it’ll get worse from here.” A smile adoring his lips and licking the tips of your ear.

You finally take a bite of the food, his arm that basically were bruising your ribs to stop your movement finally unclenched around you and gave you a second to breathe.

“See? That wasn’t so hard. Now open up.”

Toji-

“Yer’ not eating your food.”

You’ve slumped down on the chair in front of him in the dining room, swirling around the water in your glass cup, the food in front of you untouched.

“I’m talking to you, doll.”

But you ignore him, watching the whirlpool or water in your cup, ignoring his very obvious angry presence.

“You haven’t eaten in days. You know what’s’ that gonna do to you? You’re gonna faint.”

You again ignore him and sigh, head resting on your hand that rested against the table.

“I’m talking to you.”

You don’t look up. You know it’s a lousy way to protest this invuluntary stay but you can’t think of anything else. He’s basically taken away any other form of protest you could ever possibly have, he’s controlling and fuck is he actually smart. His protectiveness on the kind of level where he made sure you could never fight back or hurt yourself in the process.

As your dazed, zoned out in your own thoughts, you don’t see him get out of his seat and grab you by your arm, forcing you up and off the seat and the floor.

“Didn’t yeah hear me?”

You wince at the fact your arm is being held above your head and you’re practically hanging from it.

“I heard you okay.. I’m not hungry.”

He huffs and puts you down. “Not hungry? It’s been days, doll. Days.”

You just shrug, rubbing your sore arm from being hanged up by it.

“If you don’t eat, I don’t mind feeding you like a baby bird. I’ll eat it up then force into your mouth with mine.”

“Y-you’re so crude, Toji..” You almost whine, disgusted by the thought.

“I’m not kidding.”

You sit back down at your seat, his eyes watching you pick up the fork and start to stab at your food.

“What did I say?”

“Okay okay.” You whine, finally sticking the fork in your mouth, making eye contact with him as you do, glaring at him.

“Tastes bad.” You whine.

“You little-“

Nanami-

Nanami is quite the patient man. You don’t want to get out of bed? Fine. You don’t want to shower? Fine. You don’t want to touch him? Fine. But you don’t want to eat or drink? That’s fucking pushing it.

When he first took you, he made sure you got all the proper nutrients you need, took care of your hygiene and made sure you were perfectly physically healthy.

He’s been putting down food at your nightstand for every meal, sometimes snacks in the middle of meals as well. He feeds you such a good amount that’s supposed to keep you full for every second of the day. Keep you satisfied. And pantries filled with your favorite snacks (the healthier versions, however), and a mini fridge with your favorite zero-sugar healthy drinks. With water, of course.

But you haven’t touched any.

He notices that every meal he puts down at your nightstand is untouched. You lay still in bed, so still he thinks you might be dead. Well you might be, with the absence of food eating at you.

And the pantry is untouched so is the mini fridge, and all the snacks he left for you in the middle of the days start to pile up.

At first he didn’t mind it. He got it, you might be nauseated or feel sick at the fact your away from home. That’s fine. He’ll give you time.

But then days go by.

And he just gets so worried about your health.

He encouraged you as much as he could but wouldn’t push it, he didn’t wanna scare you away. But at this point, it was just ridiculous. He watched from work, on his phone with the app that connected all his security cameras, watching as you hovered around the kitchen. He knew you were hungry. So why torture yourself?

At this point it was torturing him, not you. Well maybe that was the point to it. But he couldn’t take it anymore. He felt like a terrible caregiver. He was supposed to take care of you and protect you as your lover- that’s the damn reason he took you in, in the first place. So why couldn’t you see that? Why couldn’t he help you?

But Nanami is a good man, with zero bad intentions. So he decides first he can try bribing you. He makes your favorite dishes, the smell wafting in your room and up your nose. He places it at your nightstand, with your favorite cold drink next to it. The perfect combo. He does this for a while. No matter how hard the food is to make, whatever bullshit combination he needed to construct, however simple or complicated, he made it.

And yet you didn’t eat it.

He tried buying you material things, giving you extra little privileges like time in the garden or extra TV time, but you don’t even use them. You don’t even care.

And he can tell that you would, if you had the strength to. But you don’t, you’re weak. Probably because you’ve gotten so weak. But your hoping, your begging, that maybe he’ll see your weak body and finally get you some help. Maybe he’ll realize this is hurting not helping you, and he’ll let you go. You know the Nanami you’ve always known is deep down beneath the insecurity of his yandere self. You just need to find it right?

He got home that night. Late. His mind buzzed with work, eyes tired and body sore from constantly staying in his office chair, clicking the keyboard and staring at a screen. He’s been looking into a job for jujutsu sorcerers- but he thinks that’ll take too much time away from you.

He dragged his body into the house, closing the door behind him and quietly yelling out, “Sweetheart, I’m home.”

He hoped you’d flock to the door and he’d feel your warmth- but obviously that was just a dream to him and you never did so. Staying hidden away in the your room or wherever you were.

He decided to prepare a late dinner for the both of you, hoping some time together could encourage you to eat.

He dragged his body to your room. He just needed you, needed your warmth, your kindness, your loving presence and any kind of physical and emotional attention you could give him.

But as he opens the door to your room, he sees the breakfast he left on your. NIght stand, still left untouched.

“Sweetheart. This has gone too long. I respect all your decisions, and that you might be upset with me, but I need you to eat.”

Your wrapped up in the sheets, ignoring him, face stuffed in your white pillows.

“Honey, dear. Please, look at me.”

You can hear the desperation in his voice, the almost begging in his timid voice that almost makes you choke.

You look up at him, soft dead eyes staring up at his concerned ones.

“I made your favorite meal again. I know you don’t want to eat, but can you at least come sit at the table with me?”

You know this is his soft way of trying to convince you. And you also know that he wants you to sit at the table so he can feel like you two are an actual couple not one from hell.

You get up, which makes him sigh of relief. Thinking that you’re giving him a chance. Obviously, that’s not your idea, but you’ll let him think so.

He gently takes your hand, leading you downstairs to the dining table. You see he decorated, putting candles on the table, brought out the fancy silverware and china, the wine glasses and table cloths that matched the fabric of the silk pillows on the cushioned chairs.

“Sit, my love.” He pulls your chair for you, with a gentle smile. You can see the relief in his eyes when you sit, and he pushes you in.

You’d be flustered by such a gentlemanly move if it wasn’t for the situation you were currently in.

He sits in front of you and pops open the white wine, the insanely expansive white wine, pouring some in both of your glasses, he raised his up to yours, in which you ignored, and he clinked his glass with yours.

“Ready to try? I simply perfected the recipe-“

You place a spoonful of food in your mouth, before spitting it out right at him, shocking him and making yourself laugh for the first time in so long.

You soiled his expensive blouse, the shock of your behavior making him spill his wine, his eyes wide and looking down at his ruined blouse, then to you, then to the spilled wine, then to you.

You just giggle, smirking in victory at his dazed response and how you won’t let yourself be pushed around by him.

But what you don’t expect, is for this extremely caring gentlemanly man to slam down the cloth from on his thighs down at the table, getting up as he unloosed his tie.

“I’m done.”

And your smile drops in a way that makes you realize you won. He’ll let you go, he’s finally done with you he’s gonna let you go-

“If you want to act like a child I will simply treat you like one, until you can behave like an adult.”

Your eyebrow raises at that. What? Wait what?

He throws his tie off his neck, grabbing your hands and tying them up. You try to fight him off you but he’s strong, he didn’t even try.

He leaves, and your relieved, a little scared that he left you tied but at least the mad man is gone. But then he comes back with a toddlers seat. A fucking child booster seat.

Your eyes widen as you realize what he meant. “N-no no way! I’m not sitting in that- I won’t even fit-“

“You know I bought this.. I bought this hoping our first child could use it..” he sighs. “But I guess you can be the test drive..”

“N-no! Your crazy! Your insane! I won’t even fit in it I won’t!”

“You don’t have a choice.” He cuts you off. “I’m tired of watching my love kill themselves off just because you’re upset. You can be upset just don’t hurt yourself.”

He places the child’s booster seat next to you, at the table.

“You either eat, or fucking sit here and I’ll feed you. Well? Do you want a baby bottle too?”

Sukuna:

Catching the eye of someone so murderous and evil is just the most hell filled unfortunate thing that can happen to you.

And it did.

You found yourself being coddled and “loved” by a monster. He’s pure evil, and you’re his. There’s no denying it. You’re the chosen one.

As his maids touch up your hair, give you a manicure, clean your face of the tears and blood from biting your lips, you stare at them with desperation in your eyes.

Save me.

You think, but they won’t. They’re loyal.

Sure, Sukuna hasn’t done anything actually bad to you, but he’s locked you up, like a princess in a tower. You hope that your prince in shining armor will save you, that he’ll come running with his horse and sword, armor and shield in hand.

But he never does. And if he did, you’d never know because Sukuna probably killed him before he even got a chance to get a glimpse of your pearly eyes.

A maid brushes your hair. You think. He’s taken away all your forms of protest.

When you stopped taking care of yourself, that was fine, he ordered his maids to wash your hair and clean your body, do your skincare and paint your nails. Even go as far as to brush your damn teeth.

They’d use expensive amounts of creams and moisturizers, the kind even the bourgeoisie couldn’t afford. Perfumes from across the land and hair oils from different kingdoms.

All these things, just for you.

When you didn’t want to get out of bed, see the sun, he made sure you were made to get that vitamin D every morning, a small stroll before and after breakfast in the garden, with of course, the guards watching you.

He pampered you, without even being there. Made sure you were healthily entertained with your favorite books and games, all your devices you humans use to take up time. He even brought a festival worth of people to greet you when he took- when you came. Circuses, fire crackers, acrobats, all those to welcome you into his palace.

And you took it all with a grain of rice.

You didn’t want to be here, you didn’t mean to pique his interest. But you did. And now your stuck. You even heard the townspeople whisper of how the man who forced everyone on their knees to worship him is now worshiping you. A mere boring human.

So you decided to find your own way to protest, something he can’t force you to do or make other people do for you.

Eat.

You sat at the large dining table, him on the long other side, watching as he ate, watching him with no love or adoration in your eyes. While he would hold the stars for you. He’d bring them down for you if you asked.

“Well? Is it not to your liking?” You hear him slur from his side of the table.

“No.” You know this is dangerous. The cruel king, he could have your head.

“What’s not to your liking? I’ll have it changed.”

You shove the plate away from you. “It’s all bad, I don’t wanna eat.”

Maybe you should’ve used different words, different wording to your protest because Sukuna simply didn’t understand it was a form of protest.

“It’s that terrible? Very well. Servants, carry the chef who decided to cook my woman this rechid food and have him publicly executed.”

Your eyes widen with dismay and shock and you look at him. “What? Executed?”

“What? What did you expect, woman? Anyone who feeds my soon to be queen something not up to par, they shall be ridden with shame. With, or without their head.”

He says it with such a nonchalant attitude, as if he isn’t talking about death.

“I-I no. It’s not bad, actyally. Hah. I just meant.. I wasn’t hungry.” You try to solve this mess you accidentally dragged others into.

“Your dramatic show of disgust was simply because you aren’t… hungry?”

He looks at you almost confused, the big plates of foods surrounding him. He had a surplus of hunger, the kind of hunger only you can satisfy.

“I… I apologize.” You think about giving up on your plan, you don’t want to drag people into this, have them hurt because of you. “I just.. actually prefer your food.” You lie.

“My food?” He smirks. The maids and servants look around in fear, some even annoyance, expecting your head to fly off and blood to soil the floors after you basically asked to share food-his food, with you.

“Very well then. You may sit close and satisfy your belly with my food.”

He pats the seat close to him, different from the seat your sitting at now, far from Sukuna. Everyone stares at you with bewildered shock, that the cruel Sukuna is willingly sharing his meal with you, that he hasn’t offed you or anyone else in his vicinity for your request.

You waddle over to him, sitting next to him, and he watches you try a piece of meat, lamb, off one of his large family plates, as if asking for your approval, to see if you like it.

You hum, the food is actually prepared amazingly well, a lot better then the streets of the poor sides of town you had to buy your meat from.

He nods at you, and continues to finish his meal as well, practically clawing and savagely ripping apart the food at his hands, like some animal.

Everyone’s always been afraid of the way he eats, as if he’s ripping apart someone’s flesh and bones, but to you it’s kind of pathetic. Like a little puppy and its chew toy, slobbering over its bone. Instead of saying this however (which he’d have your head for), you go for taking a small folded table cloth napkin and wipe the blood from the flesh of his food off his cheek, cleaning off the smeared gore that he doesn’t seem to notice.

He looks down at you, huffing as a sign of appreciation at your small sign of affection, and you look back up at him with the same look.

You hate this cruel man, the man who’s killed hundreds and hurt people and hurt you. Who stole you.

But as you look up at him, the folded napkin in your hand still poking at his dirtied cheek, you can’t help but think that perhaps the cruel king and the prince in shining armor are the same person.

And that’s Sukuna for y’all 😈😈🔥 guys why did I accidentally make his fluffy what

[gobbogoo]

I LOVE Dungeon Meshi's Realistic Fantasy Races

Ok, I had to stop for a moment to gush about the fantasy races of Dunmeshi, and all the consideration that's been put into them, because they actually follow a degree of natural/evolutionary logic not found in most fantasy stories!

Half-Foots (halflings/hobbits):

So we all know these fellows have excellent hearing and smell, but have you considered WHY? It's an adaptation to counteract their size. Humans (called tallmen in this setting) rely so much on eyesight because we're really tall compared to most animals, giving us a fantastic vantage of our environment. Half-Foots don't have this advantage, and therefore rely on their other senses. It's also much more important for them to be able to detect unseen threats and move quickly, because their size makes them ill-equipped for direct conflict.

Dwarves:

So Dwarves are depicted as MUCH stronger than tallmen despite their size, right? This is because strength is determined not by size, but by mass, and dwarven bodies are very dense! Yet this comes with the downside of their bodies burning more energy and overheating much faster, which is why dwarves are also shown to be heat-resistant, and why they tend to wear lighter clothing that exposes more skin! Their night-vision is also better than humans' due to their semi-underground lifestyle, while their hearing remains about the same since sound naturally carries in caves. Their hairiness is also likely a direct adaptation to counteract magic, as it's been shown to form a natural buffer when left unwashed.

Gnomes:

Gnomes are supposed to be evolutionary cousins to dwarves, and it shows! They share a similar height, but are less muscular and have peculiarly-shaped ears, almost mirroring the difference between human and elven ears. Their affinity with nature and spirits also makes sense, because physically they're in an awkward spot compared to the other short races, lacking both the hefty strength of dwarves and the light nimbleness of half-foots. Being less equipped both for fight and flight, it makes sense they'd instead adapt the instinctive ability to read their environments and mitigate its threats through cohabitation.

Elves:

Like gnomes, elves are in a physically awkward place, however it's even more extreme. Their relatively light and weak bodies make them ill-equipped for direct conflict, and while likely able to move faster than tallmen due to weight, they lack the half-foot's danger-detection senses. This makes them seemingly helpless, however interestingly it actually explains why they're so advanced compared to other races! They were basically forced to coordinate problem-solve, and control their environments out of necessity, which is reflected in their more controlling and direct relationship with magic and nature compared to gnomes.

This actually mirrors the real-world difference between humans and neanderthals. Anthropologists believe neanderthals weren't actually dumber than humans, but that their superior strength and durability meant they weren't forced to problem-solve or control their environments like humans, meaning they seemed less advanced.

[nomsfaultau]

Dark sbi where Tommy accidentally kidnaps Philza, not knowing he’s a crime lord. And he swears it was an accident! He just, you know, panicked. Tommy and Tubbo were just minding their own business slapping graffiti on a building (practicing their art skills, you see) when a cop started screeching at them, apparently not an appreciator of the fine arts. And since Mrs. Innit would KILL him if he got arrested, Tommy panics and takes a hostage, shouting at the cop not to take a step further or he’ll kill the random civilian he’s ducked behind so he can’t get shot.

Meanwhile Philza isn’t entirely paying attention, and realizes there’s suddenly a small child sheltering behind him from a cop. He gives the cop the nastiest look imaginable, which causes them to back off enough that Tommy thinks his plan is working. Once the negotiations start Philza is baffled by who would have the gall to kidnap him, and so poorly at that. Frankly it’s an umbrage to face the work of an amateur.

Well, till the abductor asks his name. “…do you not know who I am.?”

Tommy squints at the guy. His suit looks kinda fancy? Is it better or worse for him if he managed to randomly capture some Wall Street schmuck? “Hell no,” he hisses. “And I don’t care. I’m a dangerous guy alright? You don’t know what I’ll do to you.”

Philza’s laugh causes the cop to advance, wagering the situation isn’t intense. But because Tubbo’s ‘Yes And’ game is a force to be reckoned with, he casually pulls out a nerf gun (painted to look real for a prank on Ranboo) and trains it on the cop. Philza is positively delighted as he realizes just how amateur his abductors are. Oh this will be a riot to watch.

With more bluffing than Tommy knew he had in him, promising the hostage 20 bucks if he pretended to go along with it, the pure manic chaos bleeding from Tubbo’s eyes and ample gun waving, and creative use of spray paint in the eyes of the chasing cops, Tommy and Tubbo somehow manage to book it. For some reason the hostage keeps up with them instead of escaping. Huh. Can you develop Stockholm syndrome that fast? Tommy would ask, but he’s panting from sprinting. And as they live in an unjust world, hostage guy isn’t even breaking a sweat despite the three piece suit.

“You’re not going to get far on foot,” Philza murmurs. As corrupt and useless as the cops are for most things in this city, he doesn’t imagine there’d actually be that much fuss over a random man being kidnapped, but he wonders what they’ll do if spooked a little more. It’s been amusing thus far. The boys bicker, then elect to force him to drive as neither have licenses. They don’t ask him to drive to their homes, instead some secondary location. Smart, albeit Philza will definitely know both addresses within the hour.

While Tommy is busy ‘threatening’ Philza about the consequences of not getting them there, Tubbo just leans over from a bag of chips he’s munching on and offers them to Phil. Tommy rounds on him, less for showing exploitable kindness to the hostage and more for eating the Doritos that were meant to be his. Philza almost chides them for revealing each other’s names, but decides it might just be easier to hand them notes at the end of this. So far they aren’t getting a passing grade in abduction. But he has to admit it’s far more entertaining than the ‘business’ meeting he was planning to attend.

(Techno, meanwhile, hasn’t heard from Philza and is going BALLISTIC trying to figure out who kidnapped him. From the police report Phil just kinda went along with it, and looked terrified after a private exchange with the abductor, which has to mean the threat is ungodly to convince the Angel of Death to submit. Techno’s about to have a panic attack imagining the unthinkable horrors happening to his best friend, and is only holding it off by doing atrocities about it. This is the THIRD secret criminal organization he’s ripped apart in the last two hours and PHILZA ISNT HERE EITHER!?)

Philza has decided he likes his kidnappers. They’re not experienced in the slightest, but they make up for it with bravado, determination, and a certain lack of rationality that is necessary in the line of business Philza is in. Yes. They’ll do nicely if given a little guidance.

It’s half an hour before either of them notice Philza is driving aimlessly and they don’t recognize the city around them at all. “Hm? Next time I don’t recommend you give the hostage control of the vehicle. I could have immediately driven to the police station.”

Tommy frowns, almost more nervous at the implication the obvious blackmail would go unused. “…why didn’t you?”

“There’s no love lost between the cops and I. And even more importantly, you amuse me. I like your…potential.” He grins at the soft click of Tommy covertly trying the handle and finding the car doors locked. “Getting out at this speed is almost always fatal, Tommy.”

Tubbo lifts the muzzle of the fake gun towards him. “Let us go right. now.”

Philza leans over, ruffling Tubbo’s hair. The teen gulps at the glimpse of the holster Philza’s jacket was hiding, sharing a wide eyed look with Tommy. “I’m not exactly scared of foam bullets, mate.” He chuckles lowly at the tension freezing both of them. “Relax. You’ll be home by dinner. After you went through all the effort of kidnapping me to avoid trouble with your parents, I don’t intend to ruin it. I like you two; you have spunk I don’t see often. After all, it takes a lot of guts to kidnap the leader of the Syndicate.”

[ckret2]

i come to you today with another samurai jack AU. quick recap of where this AU diverges from canon:

("hey i haven't seen the show and idk what's going on" okay, watch this from 9:56)

Every once in a while somebody goes "do we really KNOW Aku (as a separate entity from the space blob) is inherently evil? or did he just immediately turn evil due to the fact that his very first interaction was his creator telling him he meant to kill him? how would things have gone differently if that hadn't happened?" and I went okay, sure, let's roll with that.

AU where the emperor DIDN'T immediately give Aku a motive to hate humanity and just sort of claims him. that's his son now.

and that's Jack's brother now.

listen, I've made jokes in two different posts about Jack & Aku having the same birthday and y'all should have interpreted that as a threat.

Aku is NOT allowed to name himself Literally The Word "Evil." He gets named Kage. And being called Literally The Word "Shadow" is edgy enough to satisfy him so he goes with it.

Since Jack never gets named "Jack," he's going by his real name. which in this au is Hikari, because adoptive twins named Light and Shadow feels like the kind of corny symbolism this show would jump all over.

it's also an actual phrase: 光と影 (hikari to kage, "light and shadow") meaning "rise and fall; ups and downs; shame and glory; bright side and dark side; light and shadow"

I wonder a lot about the fact that Aku's just, like, created as an adult. We know he's capable of developing and changing—he does during the course of the show—so like, he hasn't been static since he was born. What was he pre-loaded with, then, and what came later?

what if he looks adult to human eyes, but mentally he's just a young child that can already talk & fight. "Guy tells baby he was trying to kill him; baby throws a tantrum and decides to take over the world"—that feels like a perfectly proportionate emotional reaction for an actual newborn less than five minutes old for whom this is not only the worst thing to ever happen to him, but the ONLY thing to ever happen to him.

This isn't how I interpret Aku by default; but it IS how I'm interpreting him in this AU so that he can mentally keep pace with Jack and so that he has to "grow up" even though he already looks grown. Sure, this means that at a week old he's saying stuff like "if that odious daimyo visits Father again today, I will rip his body asunder and send his charred skull back to his grieving children" but he's also saying stuff like "why does my brother get a blanket but I don't? 🥺"

"oh," you say, "so this is like a nice soft AU where nothing bad happens?"

NO. It's an AU about a demon tree child under constant pressure to make himself smaller & less threatening so everyone stops fearing him, and he's never quite small enough or unthreatening enough unless he's literally disguised as something other than himself—and sometimes not even then.

It's about the less favored son who can never seem to do anything right enough to gain his father's approval. Sometimes he almost thinks his father hates him. But that can't be true, right? After all, his father went out into the wilderness with a potion and some hocus-pocus to make him on purpose, and why would he have done that if he didn't want him? Surely there isn't some other secret reason his father made him that he doesn't know about. Is he just not living up to his father's expectations? Is he too much trouble?

At least his brother loves him unconditionally.

[leonalovesalot]

Freaky on camera IV

Brother’sBestFriend!ArtDonaldson x Camgirl!Reader

18+ MinorsDNI

wc: 2.9k

.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._

The next few weeks were spent in your room, alone, or out with your friends. You were doing everything and anything you could to avoid Art. That night replayed in your mind every time you closed your eyes, and that same nauseating feeling continued to overwhelm you.

After the subtle threat that Art spat at you, you stood there frozen. Your eyes were blurry because they were brimming with tears. You thought he’d panic and apologize profusely because he was your big brother’s friend and you trusted him to do good. But from what you recall, he just turned around and walked out of your room without uttering a word.

You were petrified, to say the least. This cam-girl side hustle was never supposed to creep its way into your real life. It was your own world where you could indulge in your darkest desires and feel secure about yourself in doing so. And somehow, in an instant, that world crumbled.

It was all Art's fault.

So, since then, whenever you hear Patrick mentioning plans with Art, you just grab your car keys and leave the house. When he stays the night, you crash on a friend's couch.

You couldn't talk to anyone about this because that would mean exposing your confidential persona. Left to your own devices, you thought a lot about your next moves.

Interestingly enough, as the days went by, your fear began morphing into anger. Mainly because it was so unlike you to just cower and stutter like a bitch in the face of some guy. Giving Art that kind of power over you made you tremble with rage. It was so humiliating. The way he felt like he could control and take advantage of you. You would never, ever let that happen. You would never give him that satisfaction, even if you had to risk being found out.

You had taken a hiatus from your camming. Some of your viewers were upset and left angry comments on your profile as if you owed this to them. The parasocial attachment some people had formed with you was quite appalling. Like they'd just die if you weren't squeezing your tits for them twice a week. Absolute losers.

In just a small amount of time, you became bitter and revengeful.

You weren't going to stand idly by as the pathetic, second-rate men of the world tried to tear you down.

You'd start with Art Donaldson.

Art, Art, Art.

Oh, how he surprised you by revealing himself to be such a complete and utter scumbag. It was saddening too, because you always thought he was a sweetheart. He and Patrick were always giggling and running around together as kids. Even as they got older, that playfulness and love for one another never died down. It was so endearing and you always admired the strong bond between the two.

But now?

You didn't know how to feel.

Did Patrick know about this side of Art? They told each other everything so it wasn't totally out of the question. But there's no way Art told Patrick about your camming because Patrick had been acting the same around you. Phew.

When the summer semester began, you were actually glad. It meant that Art would drive his awful self back to Stanford, and you could finally walk freely through your house without being on high alert all the time.

It was time to put your plan into motion.

.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._

Art had a confusing summer break. He was expecting some more friction between you and him, but you going MIA after that night was unexpected. He wondered if he'd gone too far when the following Tuesday, YourRoxy had announced a hiatus. He was sitting in his childhood bedroom, lotion in hand, only to be blueballed.

This wasn't what he wanted. He wanted you to continue, he wanted to be next to you while you did. He couldn't get enough of you. Yeah, he did kind of blackmail you but he didn't think you'd just give up and turn into a recluse.

That wasn't you.

He had heard stories, through Patrick, of how you had no problem standing up to the mean kids in elementary school. You once told off this one older kid, Eddy, who would bully Patrick, during recess, on the playground. He'd tease Patrick about being on the shorter side as an eleven year old. Now that Patrick was a lot taller and muscular, he often mentioned how he wishes he'd run into Eddy again just to show him how much he's changed. But even back then, as a tiny eight year old, you saw your brother in distress, marched right up to Eddy, and made him cry.

Art loved that story.

After getting back to school for the summer semester, Art lost himself in his lectures, practices, and games. It was only syllabus week and there was already so much to do, he couldn't believe it. He was taking two classes this term and it still seemed just as hectic as when he'd take four.

He went right back to just, surviving. Nothing out of the ordinary, no excitement in his life. He didn't even feel like relieving stress by jerking off anymore. Without you, it wasn't as fun.

On the Friday of his first week back, he trudged to his dorm tiredly after practice. He was exhausted all week because the time off school had ruined his sleep schedule. So much so that he almost fell asleep in his lecture today, and then again while showering after practice (standing up). He was glad to be done around four p.m. and decided to just sleep the whole day.

He reaches his door, and takes the Yonex tennis bag off his shoulder. He opens the small zipper at the front and takes out his key and sticks it into the entrance of his dorm. Art unlocks the door and yawns as he walks in.

His eyes widen at the sight before him, and his yawn becomes a gasp as he recoils, back hitting the doorframe.

There you were. Sitting on his unmade twin bed, twirling a strand of your hair around your finger. You wore the tiniest denim shorts—they were basically panties—along with a tight black top. You looked unbelievably sexy.

"Finally," you sigh, "I aged like ten years waiting for you." You didn't look the least bit surprised when he walked in. This is the Y/N he was used to. The one that exuded confidence and poise.

Art just stood there, hand wrapped around the doorknob while the other held his bag.

"You gonna come in or...?" You stand up and stretch your neck, tilting it side to side.

He slowly takes a step inside the dorm room and closes the door behind him. He drops his tennis bag on the floor by his foot and gulps, suddenly hyperaware of how small the room is. It definitely wasn’t meant for two people—especially not two with this much sexual tension between them.

"So how was practice-" You begin to ask casually, but Art impatiently cuts you off.

"How did you get in?" He looked tense—angry, even. Like he couldn’t believe that you had the nerve to show up unannounced after avoiding him, and letting him believe he had destroyed you.

You scoff, annoyed that he cut you off. It was your biggest pet peeve.

"You made your boyfriend a copy of your key, remember?" You say, reaching into your back pocket and holding up the key—with the tennis ball keychain—that Art had given to Patrick in case of an emergency. Earlier today, you had simply walked into Patrick's bedroom and taken it from his bedside drawer. It was too easy.

Art rolls his eyes and your sarcastic remark.

"What're you doing here?" Art asks slightly irritated. To be honest, he was just so tired and you were literally standing in the way of him and his bed.

The corner of your lip curled up, "you don't seem happy to see me."

Art inhales sharply, "I'm- I just- why're you here?"

You put your hands in your pockets and rock back and forth on the balls of your feet. Your cool demeanour was a stark contrast from Art’s cautious one.

“Well, our last encounter left us with a lot to discuss. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Art swallows. He didn’t understand how the tables had turned. You were in his dorm, on his college campus, and yet it felt like you had all the power. Whereas, when he was in your house, he seemed to be the one running the show. That confused him, but he took a deep breath and tried to get some of his mojo back. He had nothing to be afraid of, he reminded himself. You were the one playing the dangerous game of how-do-I-not-get-caught-today? Art was in the clear.

His eyes meet yours, suddenly a little more confident. But you didn’t back down, you just smirked. You felt excitement, like you both stepped into a ring and were ready to see who would come out on top.

“Sure, yeah.” He nods.

"Good, so we're on the same page," you walk over to his desk and push his laptop aside. You hop up and sit on it. Legs swinging.

Art's eyes follow your every movement. He couldn't predict what you'd do next which made him all the more nervous.

"I was shocked when you came into my room that night.” You kiss your teeth. “The way you talked to me—just thinking about it makes me wanna—” You pause and shake your head.

You didn’t finish the sentence, but Art knew it was probably something along the lines of 'bash your head in'.

"But, I'm here to speak about what you said to me. I wanted to know whether you were all talk." You cross your arms.

Art mulled it over. Was he serious? Did he want your money? Did he really want to blackmail you—to make you hate him? Well, yes and no. The last thing he wanted was for you to despise him—but he knew it was already too late. Fuck, he just wanted you around. He liked you. Even now, when you were pissed at him, he didn't want to be anywhere else. He had gotten a taste of you and didn't want to go back to the way things were. And if he came clean—told you he didn’t actually give a fuck about the money—he knew he’d lose whatever this was.

"Well, I'm not." Art takes a step further into his room, "I meant it."

Your brows raise like you were impressed, "did you now? You seriously want me to split my earnings with you?" You scoff.

“Yeah. And if you don’t—well, I’m sure you know what’ll happen.” He was starting to feel at ease.

You listen and nod slowly, a smile creeping onto your face. Not from joy, but from the sheer absurdity of it all.

"Right, you'll run off and tell Patrick." You tilt your head and stare at the carpeted floor. It’s surprisingly clean—no stains, no socks, not even a little lint. You hadn’t pegged him as the tidy type. Cleanliness was actually a quality you found very attractive in a man. But seeing as that man was Art Donaldson, you knew the spotlessness on the outside didn’t translate to the inside.

"It's a pretty straightforward situation, Y/N. I mean, I'm letting you buy my silence." Art looks smug as he sees your jaw clenching, knowing he was getting to you.

"Letting me?" You chuckle in disbelief. "Art there is no fucking way I'm going to just let you walk all over me like this." You were being stern.

"Oh okay," he shrugs, "then I guess I'll just call Patrick and let him know his little sister is an exhibitionistic freak."

Your lips part at his comment. It was far from the truth and you hated that he reduced your secret profession down to some sick fetish.

"Like you're any better," you slide off his desk and stand up straight, "Blackmailing me because you're just some privileged asshole with affluenza."

“You can say whatever you want,” Art says with a shrug, his expression cocky. “But the fact remains—you’re fucked.”

You let out an artificial laugh. “You do realize that if you tell Patrick, I’ll be more than happy to fill him in on your little diabolical scheme, right?”

You were acting a little unhinged—but he was getting used to it. In fact, he was starting to enjoy it. It gave him a glimpse of all the colours of you. You could be so intimidating when you wanted to be. And, to his surprise, he found that… attractive.

"And you do realize that I'll just deny it, right?" Art smirks as he mocks you.

You roll your eyes, "he wouldn't take your word over mine, Art. I'm his blood."

"Maybe, but I have tangible evidence," he nods toward his laptop on the desk, "just one click."

“You’re insufferable, you know that?” Your anger was starting to surface again.

“Careful,” Art warns, fire in his eyes. “You wouldn’t want to make this worse for yourself by running your mouth.” That fire wasn’t going out anytime soon.

You gasp, then bite back, “You’re just as deep in shit as I am, Art.”

Intrigue flashes across his eyes, "really? How so?"

"I mean, the fact that you were lurking on my profile for God knows how long! Did you feel no shame, Art?" You take a step closer to him. "I'm willing to bet that, even though you were shocked to see me, you definitely couldn't stop yourself from getting hard. I bet you even jerked off." you whisper, "while moaning my fucking name."

Art's expression hardens and he takes in shaky breath. "Even so, you have no way to prove that," he chokes out.

Your tongue clicks, annoyed that he was right. "So if I give you thirty percent of what I make after each session," you think out loud, "you'll leave me alone?"

Art was surprised that you were beginning to give in. He was slightly let down that you weren't as full of spunk anymore.

"That's what I said, yeah." Art walks over to his bed and sits on the edge of it, looking up at you.

Now it was your turn to mull it over. You wanted nothing more than to scream at him and storm out of his stuffy dorm room. But you couldn’t risk being found out. What if he wasn’t bluffing? You couldn’t take that chance. Still, this deal wasn’t good enough. You needed more—a guarantee. Maybe even something on Art.

"Fine." You exhale heavily, "but, I'm also going to need a little something of yours."

Art furrows his brows, "what do you mean?"

You take a step closer and it forces him to tilt his head further to meet your gaze.

“I’ll give you the money—but I need some assurance you won’t fuck me over. You know, like take the cash and snitch to Patrick anyway.” Your uncompromising demeanour was back and even though you had to give him what he asked, you were still only going to do it on your own terms.

"I wouldn't do that to you, Y/N," he says, starting to sound almost genuine.

You snort and cut him off. “Well, you can’t blame me for not trusting you. Before that night, I thought you were a decent guy. And now? Well... I think the opposite.”

A frown crosses his face, but you didn't care.

You continue, "I need to know that if I promise to follow through on my end, there is absolutely no chance of you ever slipping up." You emphasized every word in the sentence. You weren't messing around.

Art agrees with you and nods, "okay, that's fair."

"Good." You were glad that the two of you were finally in agreement.

"How do we go about this then?" Art swallows, his neck beginning to ache from staring up at you.

You stare down at the floor as you thought about what would be enough to reassure you. You didn’t have to hold back in front of him; after all, this whole dilemma was insane to begin with.

You finally speak up.

"You have to film with me."

Art's eyes widens in shock and he gulps, "what?"

"I didn't stutter," you walk closer and were basically standing between his legs now, staring right into his blue eyes. "that way I know you won't even think to utter a word about me."

Art couldn't comprehend the words coming out of your mouth, filling his ears. He couldn't fathom how out of hand this had gotten. Film with you? Were you two really going to fuck in front of your viewers? Oh God, he would get to see you naked in person. He'd get to touch you, run his hands over your beautiful body, and have you all to himself. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, feeling a familiar tug in his shorts.

“I don’t know if that’s the best idea, Y/N,” Art stammers, nearly choking when you grab his jaw between your index and thumb, shutting him right up.

"We're doing it," you smirk at the accidental double entendre.

"If I go down, I'm taking you down with me."

.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._

Thank you for being patient with me!!

I hope you enjoyed this chapter!!

Next part will probably be the last :))

Tags <3: @won-every-lottery @improbablynotpoppy @challenger-fan-club @x0teric @theynothem @bigsattirn @coolgirlsyndrome @jamespotteraliveversion @idyllicdaydreams @tamprongsobsessor

(Let me know if the tags aren’t working)

[lazy-ahh]

MASTERLIST ! ! !

sincerely hope you enjoy your time here! 🫴💝

MARK GRAYSON

one-shots

› [ORBIT (YOU BURN BRIGHTER WITHOUT ME)]

you loved him in the way people love stars—knowing the light is already dead by the time it reaches you. mark grayson was made of collisions: his hands, his heart, his promises. you didn’t mind the bruises. not until the day you became one of them. (or: in which love is not enough to save you, but it’s the only thing either of you knows how to bleed for.)

› [YOU WERE ALWAYS IT FOR ME]

in which you hear something you weren’t supposed to. too bad mark grayson doesn’t know you’re awake. too bad you’ve loved him just as long.

› [TROUBLE LOOKS GOOD ON YOU]

you’re a disaster wrapped in kevlar and bad decisions. mark grayson? he’s sunshine in spandex. you shouldn’t work. you don’t work—except when it’s 2 am and the city’s quiet, except when his hands find the cracks in your armor like they were made to fit there. except when he looks at you like you’re something worth loving, and for once, you don’t have the heart to tell him he’s wrong.

› [FIVE MORE MINUTES]

you just wanted a snack—was that too much to ask? but with mark grayson's warm, shirtless body pressed against yours, his hands tracing lazy patterns over your hips, and that stupidly perfect smirk ghosting your shoulder... maybe hunger can wait. after all, who needs food when your clingy, ridiculously hot superhero boyfriend is determined to keep you in bed forever?

› [ISSUE #27: HOW I (RELUCTANTLY) FELL FOR A NERD]

you've spent months pretending mark grayson is just some awkward comic book nerd—until one conversation about seance dog ruins everything. now you're stuck noticing things: how his stupid sweater hugs his arms, how his laugh sounds like a dying seagull (...in a cute way? and also why is his voice kinda hot-), and worst of all, how he might actually be the only person who gets you. william is suffering. you're in denial. mark is, as always, a disaster. this is war.

› [THRAXAN DRESS CODE: SMASH OR PASS]

mark grayson has survived battles, aliens, and the horrors of thraxa—but none of it prepared him for the real threat: you, utterly obsessed with how good he looks in that stupid, shimmering thraxan outfit.

› [THE WAY HOME FEELS]

debbie grayson has two sons—one by blood, one by choice. mark grayson has known this since he was ten, when you first started tagging along after school and never really left. seven years later, nothing's changed: you're still her favourite, still folded into their family like you were always meant to be there. and mark? well. he's just desperately in love with his best friend, watching you move through his house like it's yours, wondering if you'll ever realise his heart has been yours just as long.

› [YOUR PERSONAL CHEWTOY]

what started as a silly tiktok trend quickly spirals into something far more intimate when you convince your superhero boyfriend to try the viral "bow challenge." but between mark grayson's effortless strength, his flustered giggles, and the way he melts under your touch, you quickly realize this is about so much more than snapping a piece of silk.

› [THE SOUNDS HE MAKES (ARE ONLY FOR YOU)]

mark grayson purrs. it’s a secret only you know—something between a biological quirk and a love language, vibrating against your skin every time you touch him just right. and god, do you love finding new ways to draw it out of him.

› [CALL IT WHAT YOU WANT (I'LL CALL IT LOVE)]

mark grayson has a problem: you. specifically, the way you laugh at your own pranks, the way your hands always find their way to him, the way you call him 'pretty boy' like it doesn't ruin him every single time. (he wishes it meant something. he wishes you'd mean it.)

› [OVERDUE FEELINGS]

in which you’re just trying to finish your damn homework, but mark grayson keeps being distractingly… mark. (leaning into your space. bumping knees under the library table. accidentally reciting love poems like they’re about you.) it’s fine. you’re fine. (you’re not fine.)

› [YOU, ME, AND THE GHOST OF HIM]

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

› [THE WAY LIFE GOES]

you died a hero. you fought your way back from the grave. but the worst part isn’t the scars—it’s watching mark grayson live a life without you in it.

› [YOU KNOW WHAT ELSE GOES GOOD WITH GAMING?]

you’ve waited weeks for him to return from his mission, and now he’s here, warm and insistent against you, while your ranked match blares ignored on the screen. the worst part? you don't mind losing. despite the weeks of hard work. you want his lips on yours, his weight pressing you into the chair, the way he murmurs "i missed you" between kisses like it’s a confession. but you’ve clawed your way to this rank-up game, and you never quit—even when mark grayson’s tongue is lapping up the precome leaking from your tip and your fingers are trembling on the keyboard.

series

› [ALMOST, BUT NOT QUITE]

childhood best friends aren't supposed to stare at each other's lips. they don't linger in quiet moments, hearts pounding, stealing glances that last a second too long—close enough to cross the line, but too scared to take the leap, scared of ruining the one good thing close to perfection in their lives. mark grayson knows this. you know this. yet here you both are... two idiots who'd rather choke on their words than admit the truth.

› [ALMOST, BUT NEVER QUITE (pt. 2)]

a hundred almosts. a hundred times mark grayson nearly tells you—with his hands brushing yours a second too long, with his voice cracking when he says your name, with the way he looks at you like you’re the only thing that makes sense in his chaotic, superhero life. but ‘almost’ doesn’t change anything. not until one quiet night, when the air between you crackles with everything unsaid, and the line between friendship and more feels thinner than ever.

(or: mark and reader are disasters in love, dancing around the truth until neither can pretend anymore.)

-

GOGGLE-LESS! MARK GRAYSON

one-shots

› [HOW TO (NOT) CONFESS YOUR FEELINGS VIA ATTEMPTED MURDER]

they say violence is a love language—and yours is practically poetry. mark grayson knows this better than anyone. (or: the one where you punch him in the face daily and he still looks at you like you hung the fucking moon.)

-

MASKLESS! MARK GRAYSON

one-shots

› [(YOU WERE) MY HOME]

you memorized the exact shade of brown in mark grayson’s eyes. the way his laugh crinkles his nose. how his hands always tremble after a fight. he memorized the way your body went limp in his arms when the kryptonite hit. how your blood looked smeared across his suit. the exact second your heartbeat stopped. (he’s not your mark. but when he kisses you like he’s drowning, you let him.)

-

MOHAWK! MARK GRAYSON

one-shots

› [ME? CARE? LOL. LMAO.]

imagine the most unhinged version of mark grayson—now give him a mohawk, piercings, and exactly zero self-preservation instincts. this is that fic. (also maybe some feelings. but we don’t talk about those.)

› [CHAOS LIKES COMPANY. A.K.A I LIKE YOU]

you always imagined your grand exit would be more dramatic—maybe a hail of gunfire, a building collapsing in slow motion, at least a decent fucking punchline. instead you're testing a theory: if you disappear now, will mark grayson (your idiot, your disaster, the love of your shitty life) even notice? were you gonna be a tragic loss that haunted him forever, or the weird stain on the couch he learned to ignore?

› [I HATE YOU (I LOVE YOU)]

mark grayson is seventeen, stupidly powerful, and completely incapable of handling you—his childhood rival, his best friend, the person who drives him absolutely insane in every way possible. you fight, you shove each other into lockers, you steal the last fry off his tray every damn day. and yet, somehow, you're the only thing he can't seem to live without.

› [LOST STAR]

when a tamaranean crash-lands on earth with his powers locked behind strange cuffs, the last person he expects to meet is mark grayson—mohawk, piercings, and all the attitude of a pissed-off superhuman. but after a very unconventional first encounter (involving lips, language barriers, and zero personal space), the two find themselves tangled in something neither expected. now mark’s stuck babysitting an alien who follows him like a lovesick comet, touches him like he’s something sacred, and looks at him like he’s the entire damn universe. worst part? mark’s starting to like it.

› [BLACK AND BLUE]

what do you get when you mix a snarky kryptonian with a mohawk-sporting, emotionally constipated invincible? a whole lot of bickering, brutal takedowns, and unresolved sexual tension that could power a city. you and mark grayson have been dancing around each other for years—fighting villains, fighting each other, and definitely not thinking about what his hands would feel like under your shirt. but when a simple mission leaves you both bruised and breathless, that thin line between rivalry and something else starts to blur. and maybe—maybe—you’re both finally ready to cross it.

-

OMNI! MARK GRAYSON

one-shots

› [HIS TO KEEP]

they’d call it toxic. you call it love. mark grayson decides what you eat, what you wear, when you come—and you wouldn’t have it any other way. after all, who needs freedom when you have him?

-

SHIESTY! MARK GRAYSON

one-shots

› [TIS' BUT A SCRATCH]

you’re bleeding out. you’re definitely bleeding out. but hey—if you play it cool, maybe mark won’t notice? (keyword: maybe.) turns out, hiding a gaping wound from your superpowered, hyper-observant boyfriend, mark grayson, isn’t exactly your best idea. especially when said boyfriend is the kind of guy who swears like a sailor, fights like a berserker, and somehow still manages to be the most overprotective idiot alive.

-

SINISTER! MARK GRAYSON

one-shots

› [THE THINGS YOU'D DO FOR LOVE]

you’d follow mark grayson anywhere—even into the dark. when he asks you to betray everything you once stood for, you don’t hesitate. not when his hands are the only ones that still feel like home.

series

› [A BEAUTIFUL, MONSTROUS THING]

mark grayson, also known as invincible, is a sinister conqueror who decided to kill thousands of people alongside his father. they call him a monster. you call him yours. (and when he smiles at you—all sharp teeth and ruined cities—you don’t flinch. you smile back.)

› [YOUR SON, YOUR BLOOD, YOUR UNDOING]

love is a weak human thing—until it isn’t. until it’s mark grayson’s hands around his father’s throat, his lips stained with viltrumite blood as he gasps ‘mine’ like it’s the only word left in his vocabulary. (or: the one where legacy means nothing, and you mean everything.)

› [HONEY ON HIS LIPS, VENOM IN HIS KISS (MY LITTLE BUMBLEBEE)]

a chillingly sweet one-shot where mass murder is just foreplay, where pet names are whispered between executions, and where the only thing more terrifying than mark grayson’s power is how desperately he’s adored by you. when a foolish hero tries to stand against you both, they’ll learn the hard way: this couple kills together—your hands just as bloody as his, your smile just as sharp. after all, why should the world get to keep its heroes when you could keep mark all to yourself?

-

VILTRUM! MARK GRAYSON

one-shots

› [THE WRONG UNIVERSE TO LOVE YOU IN]

this one wants you back. the problem? you don't belong to him. you belong to the mark grayson who loves eve, the mark who will never know you loved him first, the mark whose laugh still echoes in your dreams. now, as his fingers wipe blood from your face with terrifying gentleness, reality splits open: stay and die for a love that was never yours, or let him steal you away to a world where you were his—where you'll always be second to a ghost of yourself. (he promises to be better. you almost believe him.)

› [ORPHAN OF THE VOID (MEETS HIS RUIN)]

rule #1 of being a space outlaw: always put yourself first. you've survived slave markets, alien mobs, and the cold void of space—but none of it prepared you for mark grayson. in another life, you might’ve run. but his hand fits too perfectly around yours—and for the first time, you’re not sure you want to escape.

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

JASON TODD

one-shots

› [HOME IS WHERE YOU ARE]

the blood on jason todd's gloves isn't yours. the ache in his chest is. it's been there since the first time you kissed him - this relentless, terrifying need that claws at his ribs whenever he's away from you.

› [TRACING SCARS]

in the quiet hours between nightmares and dawn, jason todd lets himself be vulnerable—just for you. tracing scars instead of reopening wounds, sharing breath instead of bullets, he learns that some things are stronger than the past.

› [THE CROWBAR WASN'T THE WORST OF IT (WATCHING YOU FORGET HOW TO SMILE IS)]

you'd recognize jason todd anywhere—even through the armor, even through the years. the arkham knight moves like a ghost, but you know the weight of his footsteps, the hitch in his breath when he lies. and when he saves you from a bat to the skull, you do the one thing that might break you both: you pretend not to know him, the boy under the armor who still wears your old hoodie beneath his kevlar.

› [IT WILL COME BACK]

twenty five times jason todd warned you not to love him, and one time he begged you to stay.

› [CLOSE ENOUGH TO HURT (CLOSE ENOUGH TO HOLD)]

jason todd doesn't ask for hugs. he asks you to punch him instead. it's your job to read between the bruises.

› [LIKE WE WERE KIDS AGAIN]

"you stayed," you murmur, voice cracking like the childhood promises you both broke. jason todd doesn’t answer—just holds you tighter, as if his arms could undo years of hurt. (they can’t. but tonight, with your laughter muffled against his chest and his fingers tangled in yours, maybe "broken" doesn’t have to mean "unfixable.")

series

› [I THOUGHT OF YOU BETWEEN THE BLOODSHED]

jason todd comes home to you with bruised knuckles and a heart too full to name. the red hood is all sharp edges and violence, but with you? he's just jason—achingly tender, disarmingly soft, hands that break bones cradling your face like you’re something sacred.

› [BETWEEN THE BLOODSHED (pt. 2)]

the red hood is all sharp edges and violence—but with you? he's just jason. aching. tender. hands that break bones cradling your face like you’re something sacred. and tonight, jason todd doesn’t want worship. he wants to be ruined by it.

(´▽`ʃ♡ƪ)

[raiffeldrakon123]

DP X DC X TF │ Prompt 1

The Ghost Investigation Ward —colloquially known as either G.I.W. or "Guys in White" by Amity Parkers— had started to become a serious problem for Danny.

At first, they weren’t anything he couldn’t handle. Just a more trigger-happy version of his parents, except with government funding and more manpower, meaning they caused more collateral damage than even Jack’s driving on a bad day. But then something changed.

It started after the passage of the Anti-Ecto Laws in the United States —Danny still wasn’t sure how the G.I.W. managed to push those through. After that, their numbers grew. Their agents were better trained, better equipped, and their aim had actually improved. It still wasn’t enough to pose a real threat—Danny could dodge and lose them with ease—but it did elevate them from an annoying joke to an actual concern.

Then they started capturing ghosts. Not the sentient ones —at least, not yet— but even that was too much for Danny to ignore. He began breaking into their bases near Amity Park, freeing the captured spirits whenever he could. That, in turn, escalated things even further. Phantom was already Enemy Number One to the G.I.W., but now they were hunting him with even more fervor. And, as if that wasn’t bad enough, Jack and Maddie took this as a challenge, upgrading their weapons and stepping up their own ghost-hunting game.

All of this meant Danny was exhausted. It was starting to show —at school, at home. Not that Jack or Maddie noticed; they were too busy obsessing over their tech. But Jazz noticed. So did the ghosts who fought him. And against all odds, they started to worry. Word of Danny’s condition eventually reached Frostbite, who took it upon himself to check in on him.

What he found deeply concerned him. The stress, the constant fighting, the sleepless nights —it was all taking a toll on Danny’s core. If it continued, it could have serious consequences. Frostbite urged him to take a break, to leave Amity Park for a while and recover. But Danny refused. If he left, who would protect the town? Who would stop the G.I.W.? Frostbite assured him that he and his tribe could handle it, but Danny wasn’t convinced.

That is, until everything went wrong.

During one of his break-ins at a G.I.W. facility, an agent managed to land a shot —some kind of specialized ecto-weapon that temporarily disabled his flight and intangibility. He had freed the ghosts, but now he was stranded in enemy territory with armed agents closing in.

Desperate for an escape, Danny ducked into a random room —and found himself staring at a car. A Rolls-Royce Phantom Series II.

It was sleek, elegant, and completely out of place in a government black site. The only unusual detail was a strange, robotic, head-like symbol on the grille guard. But Danny didn’t have time to question it. The doors were unlocked, so he jumped in and immediately started hotwiring it.

It took a few tries —and a lot more ecto-energy than it should have— but finally, the engine roared to life. Then something weird happened.

Before his eyes, the Phantom’s pristine exterior shifted —its paint morphing into a sharp black-and-white color scheme, the interior taking on a black-and-green color and with a faint green glow. And then, to Danny’s complete shock, the car spoke.

It sounded confused. Disoriented. Like it was trying to understand why it was alive, when it had been so sure it was dead.

Danny, however, didn’t have time for an existential crisis —his or the car’s.

“Save the questions for later,” he snapped, slamming his foot on the gas.

The car obeyed, tearing out of the base at breakneck speed.

Once they were clear of pursuit, Danny finally exhaled. He transformed back into his human form, only to realize that, somehow, the car transformed with him. It still spoke. It still moved on its own. And it still had questions.

Danny, meanwhile, had one of his own.

Maybe Frostbite was right. Maybe it was time to leave Amity Park.

But where would he even go?

Then it hit him —Gotham.

Jazz had mentioned thinking of going there to study psychology. Maybe she wouldn’t mind if he tagged along? He remembered his parents saying Gotham had an abnormally high level of ambient ectoplasm, which would make tracking ghosts incredibly difficult the last time they had visited the place with them. That could work to his advantage.

Danny glanced at the car.

“Hey,” he said, “you got anywhere to be?”

The car didn't answer him with words this time. It simply rumbled, almost thoughtful.

Danny smirked.

“Yeah. Me neither.”

Looks like they would probably be heading to Gotham after all.

[polaritydisturbed]

Guys, guys, please—I can't do this. This episode isn't about painting UNIT as some flawless institution under unfair attack. It’s about a deeply flawed system. One that, on little to no evidence of an actual alien threat, invades a small town in full SWAT gear. That’s not meant to be a good thing.

It’s a story where the person in charge literally releases a dangerous creature to prove a point—and that same institution is being targeted by a misinformation campaign. And yet, despite those serious flaws, they do ultimately act to protect people. That’s the tension. That’s the point.

Let me be clear: this is an allegory for COVID and the online grifters and influencers who took advantage of the pandemic to spread hate and gain popularity—and who continue to do so now.

It’s about how institutions—even when compromised, bureaucratic, or short-sighted—still have the capacity to do good. They’re made of people, many of whom are trying to hold the line, trying to save lives, trying to do the right thing while the ground shifts under them.

But those imperfections? They make it easy for grifters to walk in and sell a fantasy. People like Conrad don’t actually want to protect anyone—they want control. And they know how to dress up that pursuit of power in the language of liberation. He says he’s standing up for you, for “truth,” for “the people,” but really he’s weaponizing frustration, anger, and distrust for his own gain.

Conrad always knew aliens were real. He wasn’t trying to expose lies. He was trying to punish UNIT for not recruiting him. That’s it. His whole crusade is built on a personal grudge. He rejects the Doctor’s reality not because it’s implausible, but because he wasn’t chosen.

That’s the core danger here: villains who tell you exactly what you want to hear. Who appeal to your cause, your values, your righteous anger. They frame themselves as underdogs, rebels, visionaries. But when you look closer, their plans are hollow. Destruction for destruction’s sake, dressed up in whatever narrative gets clicks and followers. People saw what they wanted to see in Conrad. Whatever oppressive system they hate, he claimed to be fighting it. He let you project your beliefs onto him—just like grifters do in real life. He made destruction feel like justice.

Ruby drank the vial, Conrad didn’t. That vial was the only thing that negated the Shreek’s vomit-based marking system, and by refusing to drink it, Conrad didn’t just risk his own life—he put everyone else in danger. Just like those that refused to take the vaccine.

And Kate, in releasing the monster, represents those who, during the pandemic, felt frustration and helplessness. She symbolizes the moment some threw up their hands and said, “If they won’t take the vaccine, let them die.” But that mindset didn’t solve the problem; it only escalated it. The monster had already shown it could mark more than one person, and there was no guarantee it wouldn’t strike again. The monster, like the virus, didn’t distinguish between those who made bad choices and those who couldn’t protect themselves. And she released it anyway.

By surrendering to that frustration, she was putting the vulnerable at greater risk, the very people who needed protection the most.

This mirrors the situation with COVID: surrendering to misinformation or personal pride jeopardizes the lives of the vulnerable, children, the immunocompromised, and those without the same choices or protections.

It was only because of Ruby that those consequences didn’t spiral out of control. Ruby didn’t just save lives—she prevented Kate’s breakdown in judgment from becoming a catastrophe.

So no, this isn’t “UNIT good, Conrad bad.” It’s a story about nuance. About how flawed systems can still serve the public good, and how those flaws are exploited by bad-faith actors who don’t care about truth or safety. It’s a warning: be careful who you believe, and why. Just because someone says what you’re thinking doesn’t mean they’re right. And just because a system needs fixing doesn’t mean you burn it all down.

The episode holds up a mirror to us and asks: what do you do when the systems meant to protect you fall short? Do you give up? Do you burn down the establishment, ignoring that it would put people at great danger? Or do you recognize that while the system is flawed, it still has the capacity to do good, and that dismantling it without a plan and without care for who gets caught in the fallout can cause more harm than reforming it ever would? It challenges us to sit with discomfort, to hold more than one truth at once.

Conrad had valid grievances, but his actions still endangered lives. UNIT made mistakes, but it still stood between humanity and annihilation. Rejecting nuance in favor of easy answers may feel righteous, but it often leaves the most vulnerable to pay the price.

That said, I do think the episode would’ve been stronger had the Shreek actually attacked or marked someone else during that final confrontation. Even just one more target could have underscored the point that the threat was indiscriminate—that Kate’s decision risked more than just Conrad. It would’ve made the stakes more immediate, and made Ruby’s choice feel even more necessary.

And yeah—I really hope we get an episode someday that digs into the tightrope UNIT has to walk. How do you hold them accountable without exposing the dangerous technology and classified knowledge they safeguard? But that's not what this episode was targeting.

[ayumigotabittoolonelyquitted]

Gooner GF (for him) x Gojo Satoru Headcanons

Synopsis: you as his gooner GF.

Pairings : gojo Satoru x gooner reader.

I had so much fun while making this hehe!

♡ The Ultimate Supporter

You’re the type of girlfriend who hypes Gojo up a little too much, and he loves every second of it.

When he walks into the room, you gasp dramatically:

> "Oh my god, it's him. The strongest. My man. My king."

Gojo eats it up like it’s his lifeline. He literally pauses whatever he’s doing just to bask in your praise.

♡ Saying Some Real Questionable Things…

Sometimes, you get a little too comfortable when hyping him up and say the wildest things:

> "Babe, if you told me to bark, I would. But not in a weird way -- WAIT I DIDN’T MEAN-"

Gojo is already grinning like a menace, eyes sparkling behind his blindfold.

“Oh? What was that? In a weird way? Tell me more.”

You immediately start backtracking:

> "No, no, no, I meant it platonically—wait, that's worse—SHUT UP."

♡ gooner Mode ACTIVATED

Every time he does anything remotely attractive, you’re fighting for your life.

Gojo, pushing up his blindfold: “It’s a bit hot today, huh?”

You, gripping the nearest surface: “Please be serious right now.”

You once accidentally whispered “god’s favorite soldier” when he cracked his knuckles. He never let you live it down.

♡ Physical Affection = Mandatory

You always have your hands on him, his arm, his waist, his thighs when he’s sitting down.

You once grabbed his biceps mid-conversation and went:

> “This is unfair. These should be illegal. You’re a walking threat to society.”

Gojo just smirks and flexes on purpose like the menace he is.

And you gasp.

♡ Accidental Down-Bad Moments

You have unfiltered reactions to him sometimes.

One time, he licked some ice cream off his thumb, and you audibly gasped.

Gojo turned to you, grinning:

> “You good there, sweetheart?”

You immediately shook your head and said, “I think I need to go to church.”

♡ Gojo Encourages It

He lives for your reactions.

He starts doing the most on purpose,rolling his sleeves up slow, stretching with a smirk, leaning in just to fluster you.

“You like what you see, baby?”

You shove him, groaning: “I was literally minding my business.”

♡ The Apologies Come Fast

The second something too weird slips out, you’re immediately apologizing.

“I didn't mean to say I’d drink your bathwater, that was a joke,WAIT STOP LAUGHING.”

Gojo? Crying from laughter.

“Nah, nah, say it with your chest, baby girl.”

♡ You Make Him Feel Like a God (which he is)

Even with all the chaos, you genuinely adore him, and he knows it.

Whenever he doubts himself, you pull him into a hug and whisper:

> “You’re Gojo Satoru. No one is above you.”

And , he actually believes it. Even though he is sometimes insecure, you were always there.

♡ Dropping the Most INSANE One-Liners

Sometimes, words just come out before you can think.

Gojo, running his fingers through his hair: “Man, my hair’s been so messy today.”

You, without thinking: “I could fix that with my mouth.”

A full ten seconds of silence.

Gojo just slowly turns to you with the biggest shit-eating grin:

> “I’m sorry, baby, what?”

You drop to the floor in shame.

♡ The 'Would You Still Love Me If I Was—' Conversations

“Would you still love me if I was a worm?”

“Yeah, babe, I’d build you a little house and protect you.”

“…Would you still love me if I was your student?”

“…Babe, what the hell?”

You immediately realize what you said and start apologizing while he cries from laughter.

♡ Gojo Weaponizing Your Down-Badness

He figures out your weaknesses and abuses them.

If he knows you lose your mind when he rolls his sleeves up? He starts slowly unbuttoning them in front of you, eyes locked on yours.

You, gripping the table: “You need to stop.”

Gojo: “Why? Can’t handle me?”

You, shaking: “No, actually. I can’t.”

♡ Sleepy You is Even Worse

When you’re tired, your filter completely disappears.

One time, you rolled over in bed, half-awake, looked at him, and whispered:

> “If I die, make sure they bury me face down so the world can see you kiss my ass.”

Then you immediately fell back asleep.

Gojo sat there, staring at the ceiling, wheezing.

♡ Randomly Possessed by Horny Thoughts

You could be having a completely normal day, and then Gojo does something minor that just short-circuits you.

He stretches, his shirt lifts a little, and you suddenly have to sit down.

You once whispered ‘thighs so thick I forgot how to breathe’ out loud.

Gojo heard you. He hasn’t let it go since.

♡ You Call Him Some Absolutely Questionable Names

“My little meow meow.”

“My sexy Minecraft Steve.”

“My velcro shoelace prince.”

Gojo: “Babe, what the actual hell are you saying?”

You: “I don’t know. I’m scared too.”

♡ The Accidental Public Embarrassments

You’re so used to saying unhinged things that you forget other people can hear you.

At a restaurant, Gojo’s rolling up his sleeves, and you mutter:

> “I should call him daddy.”

SHOKO. NANAMI. EVERYONE HEARD YOU.

Gojo is crying laughing while you stare at the table, contemplating your life choices.

♡ The Apologies Come, But It’s Too Late

You, burying your face in your hands: “I didn't mean that. I swear.”

Gojo, wiping tears from his eyes: “Nah, babe. You totally meant that.”

You, weakly: “Please let me live.”

Gojo: “Not a chance, father-caller.”

♡ Despite All of It, He Adores You

Your chaos is his favorite thing in the world.

He wouldn’t trade your unhinged thoughts, weird nicknames, and random thirst comments for anything.

Even if you embarrass yourself daily, he thinks you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

[dailyadventureprompts]

Hearthfire Health and Resting Overhaul

Artsource

TLDR: You can solve nearly all problems with D&D's powercurve (and a lot of other problems beside) by limiting the overall hitpoints your party gets, basing it off profficency bonus rather than character level.

If you’ve played anywhere close to as much d&d as I have, you’ll notice the game tends to play best at levels 3-8. Lower than that feels like being trapped in the tutorial, with players denied the majority of their interesting character options and the DM having to use kid gloves or else risking a party wipe. High level play invariably breaks down as player abilities trivialize most encounters, forcing the DM to reach deeper and deeper into the monster roster to provide adequate challenge, making more work for themselves in the process. There’s a definite sweetspot, and like anyone with a head for game design I want to widen that sweetspot to encompass as much of the game as possible. 

As is typical of someone who’s into game design; I’ve bit off more than I can chew, deciding to build several interlocking rules changes/subsystems that I think will help me make the game function more like I want it to. This isn’t going to be for everyone, but if you’re feeling the need for a rules lite overhaul to rebalance how you plan encounters/ the rigours of adventure, this might be for you.  

Here’s the overhaul in short form: 

Character HP is determined as (Max Class HD + Con modifier) X proficiency bonus. This means they keep the same Max HP throughout the tier (1-4, 5-8 etc)

This means that low CR enemies stay relevant for far longer, making encounter building more reasonable. Likewise this prevents mid/high CR enemies from being trivialized.  It allows you as the DM deploy mundane threats ( a steep drop, a detachment of city guards, the threat of a building catching fire) as legitimate challenges well into the later chapters of the campaign.

Temporary HP can be gained from using improved provision consumables (including those harvested from monsters), or by resting at inns and better establishments in town. A hardy, homecooked meal gives the party the strength they need to take on greater challenges, far more than a diet of salt pork & hardtack. In rare cases permanent HP boosting items can be sought as treasure. 

Long resting in the wilderness is more difficult, requiring the party to find a safe campsite and spend provisions. Making sure they don't burn through these finite resources before encountering the real challenge makes for a great resource management challenge to go along with exploration based gameplay, acting as an informal ticking clock.

First, A small Testimonial: I've now tried this system with four different groups, and while there's still some bugs to work out I can say it feels a lot closer to my ideal form of d&d than the baseline rules. Planning combats is SO EASY, and I can actually scare my players with big monsters again. I've dropped the weird XP calculation and I can now use the group's level as a budget for medium-challenge combat encounters. Lower HP totals on both sides keep fights fast and punchy, which means I can fit more of them into a session, getting more progress through a gauntlet of challenges. While considering implmenting this system, I also encourage you to take a look at some of my combat hacks, which help to supplement fights the same way this system is meant to supplement exploration.

PROVISIONS: In order to get the benefits of a long rest while travelling you need 1) A place to set up camp that's not exposed to the elements 2) To spend a use of your provisions

Rather than beancounting individual servings per person, provisions are tracked through "The provision die", an abstract representation of what your party has left to eat that ranges from a d4 to a d20. This works off a depletion die system, meaning that every time provisions are used (generally once per night) you roll the die, and if it's a 1 or 2 it shrinks a size category. If it shrinks while it's a d4 the party is officially out of supplies and starts taking levels of exhaustion.

The base price or provisions is 5gp for a d4 depletion die, larger sizes of die may be bought based off the linked chart.

Alternatively, provisions (of an enhanced rarity even) may be salvaged from a monster, dungeon meshi style.

Without the extra carrying capacity from a bag of holding or wagon, the party's provision die is limited to a D6. Going offroad is tough, requiring characters to live off the land.

Living off the land generally requires a survival check with a DC based on how verdant the area is. Failure can mean a lack of finding anything suitable, or a delay in trying to acquire necessary provisions.

Features that can keep people fed like the outlander background or goodberry spell prevent the exhaustion buildup but still do not allow a long rest.

If ever the party is traveling for a week or more between settlements, their provision die drops by one size, regardless of how many times in the week they've rolled.

A party can buy better rations (consumable) or improve their camp gear (permanant) in order to gain temporary hitpoints when they consume provisions. A common upgrade will get you 2 class HD in temporary hitpoints, an uncommon will get you 4, a rare upgrade will get you 6. Enchanted camp gear (such as high quality tents, enchanted cookwear, rare spices) may also grant other bonuses when provisions are consumed, such as resistance to weather effects, bonuses to saves against fear, or even inspiration.

HAVENS: If the party is sticking in one place for a while it's likely that they'll be doing so in a Haven such as a tavern, outpost, or perhaps even their own bastion. Havens are rated on the same rarity system as camp upgrades and provisions are, which determines their overall level of quality and the amount of temporary HP they bestow per night.

As a guideline, if the party has to pay to stay in a haven, it costs 1sp per person per night for common accommodations, with the associated rarity price jump: (5 silver for uncommon, 5 gold for rare). Many inns have varying levels of accomidation, so some party members might chose to spring for greater amounts.

[anatay004]

THERE WAS A TANG of venom in your mouth. You could taste it, the bitter crimson that seeped through your teeth as you chewed on the inside of your cheeks. You tried to keep your head from aching, perhaps, if you shut your eyelids for a moment — just for a second, you thought you might actually escape him.

"Ms. (Y/N), how wonderful it is to see you again," Snow spoke from across the desk, his voice was quiet but vehement— it almost made you shiver. "Please, take a seat."

Nauseously, you sat across from him.

The study ensued with a straining silence that made the skin of your arms prick with uneasiness. Snow had bothered to travel across the districts to visit your home; it could only mean one of two things: either you were in trouble or he wanted something from you.

"I won't take much of your time, Ms. (Y/L), as long as we agree to not lie to each other, this will be a short conversation, I can assure you."

I'm definitely in trouble, you thought.

"Of course." You managed to answer.

Up close, you could see the lines of evident age that marred his face. How long, you wondered, until time peels the skin off his bones clean?

"Katniss Everdeen," Snow venomously spat, and you couldn't help, but give him your full attention. "Do you recall the name?"

The new Victor from District 12.

The threat of rebellion.

"I do." You limited yourself to answer.

"Good," Snow breathed out. "You see, she is causing me quite a few problems. None of which are tethered to you, of course, but they eventually will. Unlike you, Ms. (Y/N), she dismisses the cause of the Hunger Games, the mercy that we offer by keeping one of the 24 tributes alive. She's challenging, I’m afraid."

Unlike you.

You wanted to dart him a glare; his words were a backhanded compliment. When you killed your partner in the games — your friend, you involuntarily enlightened a sense of honor in the Capitol. Your disoriented conscious due to the venom of one of the jellyfish in the arena eulogized Snow's message: there are no real allies and no true loyalty between the districts.

This was far from the truth, of course.

You never meant to win the games by killing your ally from the same district. When the dam's collapsed and the waves of water drowned almost everyone in the arena, you'd managed to swim back to the surface. But the lack of oxygen and poison from the jellyfishes had already interfered with your sanity. And when he'd rushed to help you back to your feet, you'd confused him for a Career. It was only a matter of minutes before the cannon boomed.

Your eyes glossed at the memory.

"With that being said, she, alongside Peeta Mellark, will try to seek refugee in their act of love to gain sponsors and win the games again.”

Your eyebrows knitted together.

Again?

"I want you to dissipate that advantage, Ms. (Y/M)." He must have read your expression. "I want you and Finnick Odair to annihilate their strategy by doing exactly the same thing."

You blinked in sudden disbelief.

He wanted you back in the Hunger Games. He wanted you back with Finnick Odair, with the only person he probably knew you cared the most about. You tried to quench the searing pain that was burning inside your chest. The air started to rush out your lungs, but you managed to compose yourself in time as Snow tilted his head to the side to examine you quietly.

"There's nothing between – " You tried to come up with an excuse, with anything that could've eliminated Finnick from this plan, but he raised an eyebrow in silent question and the words froze immediately on the tip of your tongue.

"We agreed to not lie, Ms. (Y/M)."

You pressed your lips together. "Right."

He stifled a faint grin. "You are the Capitol's favorites, the most beloved Victors. Even more than Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark."

You didn't know what to answer. His plan was already arranged, there was nothing you could say that could make him change his mind. If anything, he was merely being considerate by taking the trouble of giving you a heads-up.

"Finnick and I haven't spoken in weeks." You breathed out, which wasn't a lie. After years of breaking up and getting back together, the romance eventually ended when you discovered the sexual arrangements that had happened behind your back for years. When Finnick had decided to finally shut you out his life after he’d explained his backstory and decided you were not good together.

The slight curve of Snow's lips indicated that he knew this already — of course, he did.

"I know," Snow confessed. "but the people from the Capital don't, Ms. (Y/N). Therefore, you have an advantage at hand, you can fool everyone, make the Capital forget about the lovers from District 12, and...you will have my protection."

You looked up then and examined his face very carefully. There wasn't a hint of deception in his expression, he was being honest and that scared you the most. He promised your safety; he promised your victory.

"What about Finnick?" You found yourself asking, without even thinking.

He smiled. "You see, you almost got me fooled, Ms. (Y/LN). Imagine just how easy it would be to fool the Capitol if you could just step forward.”

You swallowed hard.

"But to answer your question, Ms. (Y/L), Mr. Odair will be protected if he succeeds in convincing me. And, who knows, if you achieve to sell your romance act, the Capitol might even advocate for two winners again. Wouldn't that be lovely?"

He was lying.

He had to be.

Hope retaliated in the pit of your stomach. "I thought we had agreed to not lie to each other."

His eyebrows jumped. "So did I."

After the conversation ended, President Snow stepped out of your home without another word as a fugitive car approached your home. Within a few minutes, he swiftly disappeared into the leather backseat and the vehicle drove off.

You tried to keep your head from reeling, but your muscles momentarily numbed as you simply stood outside, inhaling the ocean's breath. You couldn't coherent a single sentence, for a moment, you even struggled to pinpoint whether the conversation with Snow had been real or not.

What would Finnick think?

What would anyone think?

You exhaled sharply, but before you could collect yourself, Finnick's frame stumbled into your line of vision from across the Victor's Village. You faltered on your spot almost immediately, muscles wracked with evident tension — and he must've noticed, because trepidation soon glossed over his green irises.

As if he'd suddenly realized who had visited you.

"(Y/N)!" He began to call.

Instinctively, you began to retrace back your steps inside your house (in hopes to avoid him), but he was faster and twisted the polished handle before the door could even shut close behind you. You jumped in shock, a startled expression donned on your face as he invited himself in. "What happened?"

Your mouth went dry. "I..."

"— Did he hurt you?" His voice went up a few decibels, and you struggled to find the strength to open your mouth. "(Y/L), did he hurt you?"

You managed to shake your head. "No, he..."

Finnick reached for your arm. His muscles were tense, but his touch was gentle and you instinctively leaned in. "He's going to reaped us into the games, he wants us to follow the love act that Katniss and Peeta pulled."

His eyebrows knitted together in thought. "What?" He breathed out, trying to decipher the mixture of emotions that flitted across your face in a matter of seconds. Every sentiment that threatened to register on your face before Snow was finally shattering before Finnick.

"He wants to kill them off," You found yourself repeating, a hint of desperation notched down the timbre of your voice. "He wants us to take their sponsors, but he said he would protect us, Finnick. He promised he would and I – "

A sob strangled your throat, for a split second, you couldn't manage another word. He instinctively wrapped his arms around you and pressed his lips to the side of your head. You immediately indulged in his warmth and your senses immediately heighten at the whiff of his scent. Belatedly, you realized it had been a while since he’d last embraced you. And it wasn't until he was rubbing your back and whispering that everything was going to be okay when you finally noticed that you were trembling.

"It's going to be okay, love." He whispered.

Love.

And then it finally clicked.

What he’d done to you.

You wrenched away from him as though his skin had suddenly torched you. You took several steps back as you tried to muffle the sob that was ripping through your lips. Finnick faltered for a second as he tried to find the right words to remedy the hurt that you felt, but when he noticed the familiar betrayal in your gaze — he pressed his lips into a thin line.

He didn't know what to say anymore.

"I need to get some sleep."

"Sweetheart, wait — "

"Goodnight, Finnick."

And with that, you turned your back to him.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Reality-Based Communities

I'm on a 20+ city book tour for my new novel PICKS AND SHOVELS. Catch me in CHICAGO with PETER SAGAL next WEDNESDAY (Apr 2), and in BLOOMINGTON next FRIDAY (Apr 4). More tour dates here.

Remember the Global War on Terror? I know, it's been a minute. But there was a time when we were all meant to take terrorism – real terrorism, the knocking-down-buildings kind, not the being-mean-to-Teslas kind – seriously.

Back in the early oughts, I remember picking up a copy of the Financial Times in an airport lounge and flipping through it, and coming across an "advice to corporate management" column in which the question was, "Should I take out terrorism insurance for my business?" The columnist's answer: "The actual risk to your business of a terrorism-related disruption rounds to zero. However: a) your shareholders don't understand this, an b) your insurance company does. That means that you can buy a very large amount of terrorism insurance for a very small amount of money, making this a cheap price to pay to mollify your easily frightened investors."

I never forgot that little piece of writing. It was a powerful reminder that successful large-scale enterprises must attend to the world as it is, not as ideology dictates that it should be. This was – and is – a deeply heterodox position among the ideological defenders of capitalism, who continue to uphold Milton Friedman's maxim that:

Truly important and significant hypotheses will be found to have "assumptions" that are wildly inaccurate descriptive representations of reality, and, in general, the more significant the theory, the more unrealistic the assumptions (in this sense)

https://pluralistic.net/2025/02/17/caliper-ai/#racism-machine

These ideologues – who often cross over from boardrooms into governments – are with the GW Bush official who dismissed a journalist as a member of the "reality-based community":

When we act, we create our own reality. And while you're studying that reality—judiciously, as you will—we'll act again, creating other new realities, which you can study too, and that's how things will sort out. We're history's actors…and you, all of you, will be left to just study what we do.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Reality-based_community

But ultimately, someone has to make investments and plans that take accord of the world as it is, the adversaries they face, the real and material emergencies unfolding around them. When the Pentagon announces that henceforth the climate emergency will take a prime place in its threat assessments and budgets, that's not "the military going woke" – it's the military joining the reality-based community:

https://www.defensenews.com/opinion/commentary/2021/10/26/the-pentagon-has-to-include-climate-risk-in-all-of-its-plans-and-budgets/

This explains the radical shear between the Wall Street Journal's editorial page – in which you'll learn that governments can't solve any problems and markets solve all problems (including the problem of governments) – and the news reporting within, in which the critical role of the state in regulating and fueling markets is acknowledged.

The tension between the right's ideologues in boardrooms and governments and the operational people in charge of keeping the machines running has only escalated since the War on Terror days. There's an important sense in which leftists – as materialists – are playing the same game as these operational managers of capitalism. Take Thomas Piketty, the socialist economist whose blockbuster 2013 book Capital in the 21st Century argued that rising inequality threatened capitalism itself:

https://memex.craphound.com/2014/06/24/thomas-pikettys-capital-in-the-21st-century/

By analyzing three centuries' worth of capital flows, Piketty showed that when inequality reached a certain tipping point, the result was societal upheaval that continued until so much capital had been destroyed that inequality was reduced (because everyone had been pauperized). Piketty appealed to capitalism's technocrats to institute redistributive programs. His point was that building hospitals and schools was ultimately cheaper than paying for the guard-labor you'd need to keep people from building guillotines outside the gates of your walled estate.

The rise and rise of surveillance tech, and its successors, such as lethal drones and offshore gulags, can be seen as a tacit acknowledgment of Piketty's thesis. By lowering the cost of guard labor, it might possible to stabilize a society with higher levels of inequality, by identifying and neutralizing the people who are radicalized by the system's unfairness before you get an outbreak of guillotines:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/08/13/better-to-have-loved/#less-lethals

But reality is stubborn. Capitalism's defenders can insist that society will continue to function while wages stagnate and greedflation stokes the cost of living crisis, but ultimately, the military can't afford to have a fighting force that's in hock to payday lender usurers who are tormenting their families with arm-breaker collection calls:

https://www.nakedcapitalism.com/2025/03/payday-loan-apps-cost-new-yorkers-500-million-plus-new-study-estimates.html

As Stein's Law – a bedrock of finance – has it, "anything that can't go on forever eventually stops." The ideologues of capitalism can insist that Luigi Mangione is a monster and an aberration, an armed freeloader who wants something for nothing. But privately, their own security forces are telling them otherwise.

Writing for The American Prospect, Daniel Boguslaw reports on a leaked intelligence dossier from the Connecticut regional intelligence center – a "fusion center" created as part of the War on Terror – wherein we learn that the American people sees Mangione as a modern Robin Hood:

https://prospect.org/justice/2025-03-27-intelligence-dossier-compares-luigi-mangione-robin-hood/

Many view Thompson as a symbolic representation of both as reports of insurance companies denying life sustaining medication coverage circulate online. It is not an unfair comparison to equate the current reaction toward Mangione to the reactions to Robin Hood, citizens may see Mangione’s alleged actions as an attack against a system designed to work against them.

https://drive.google.com/file/d/1hM3IZbnzk_cMk7evX2Urnwh5zxhRHpD5/view

The Connecticut fusion center isn't the only part of capitalism's operational wing that's taking notice of this. Today, Ken Klippenstein reports on an FBI threat assessment about the "heightened threat to CEOs":

https://www.kenklippenstein.com/p/fbi-becomes-rent-a-cops-for-ceos

The report comes from the FBI's counter-terrorism wing, which (Klippenstein notes) is in the business of rooting out "pre-crime" – identifying people who haven't committed a crime and neutralizing them. As Klippenstein writes, Trump AG Pam Bondi and FBI Director Kash Patel have both vowed to treat anti-Tesla protests as acts of terror. That's the view from the top, but back on the front lines of the Connecticut fusion center, things are more reality-based:

[The public] may view the ensuing manhunt and subsequent arrest of Mangione as NYPD, and largely policing as a whole, as a tool that is willing to expend massive resources to protect the wealthy, while the average citizen is left to their own means for personal security.

Any good investor knows that anything that can't go on forever eventually stops. The only question is: will that halt is a controlled braking action, or a collision with reality's brick wall?

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/03/27/use-your-mentality/#face-up-to-reality

Image: Lee Haywood (modified) https://www.flickr.com/photos/leehaywood/4659575229/

CC BY-SA 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0/