#But! This isn't the last you'll see of all of them.

[dhoranbolt]

Laundry Day

a/n: been sitting in the drafts, maybe I'll edit to make it a fic later if yall interested.

When Sukuna's girl just can't seem to reach the last piece of clothing in the washer.

Pairing: Sukuna x fem!reader

cw: 18+ MDNI, suggestive, no actual smut tho

Laundry days were lazy days, meant for half-assed hair styles and the baggy shirt that sits in the back of the dresser, condemned only to see the light of day when other clothes needed to be washed. They were meant for tiny cotton shorts, and fuzzy calf socks.

All of which drove Sukuna insane with the need to bend you over the nearest surface while he fucked you through it.

Instead here he was, banished to the other room because he couldn't keep his hands to himself. He scoffs. This place was half his too, why should he have to stay out of the laundry room.

Walking by he glances into the offending room and he's immediately stiffening.

You're so cute, on your tip-toes, half your body inside the washing machine, trying in vain to grab cloths at the very bottom. Sukuna just can't help himself - or maybe he can. Which is why he's quietly walking your way now, tongue darting out to lick at his lips.

"You having fun in there?" He asks, leaning against the doorway. You pull back and looks at him with equal parts determination and dejection.

"No, I can't reach the last sock! Sukuna can you please?"

"I would," He raises his hands with a shrug, "but I've been given strict orders not to enter." You're narrowing her eyes at him, lip twitching.

"You're here now so what's the difference?"

"I'm not in the laundry room, I'm at the doorway." You groan in frustration and he just smirks. You'll be groaning for other reasons soon enough.

"You're so unhelpful, it's the best." Moving to launch yourself back into the washer in hopes the momentum will help you reach further into the drum.

And it does, but now you stuck in limbo over the side, feet not even touching the floor anymore.

"Aha! Got it!"

"Good job, I'm so proud of you! Try to get back out now." The sarcasm dripping from his words is palpable, and it's quiet a moment before your hips begin to wiggle. A deep chuckle rumbles from his chest.

"This isn't funny, a little help would be nice." You huff. It's fine, Sukuna's tired of keeping his hands fo himself anyway. He moves behind you, planting them on your hips.

"Manners?" You roll your eyes as you take a calming breath.

"Please help me Sukuna."

"Oh I'm going to help you alright..." He presses his erection into your ass, and your stomach flips.

"Sukuna no not here-" He gives his hips a rough test roll up into yours.

"I don't think you're in any position to be making demands, hmm?"

"I can't even move Sukuna-" he's too busy sliding one hand from your hips to pull your soft shorts and panties aside.

"Good."

Tags: @saiki-enthusiast

[swiftiethatlovesf1]

A race for love p.12

Hii guyss, I've been MIA these past few days but I'm back so I hope you enjoy this part. If you've missed part 11 or the other parts you can find them on my masterlist :)

Formula 1 is all about speed, but in this story, the real race isn't just on the track. Read on to find out who will win the ultimate race-for your heart.

- Spa 2023 -

You wake up to the warmth of Franco's arm draped around you, the soft rise and fall of his chest steady and comforting. For a moment, you just stay there, enjoying the peaceful quiet, his body snug against yours. His grip tightens slightly as he stirs, his lips brushing the top of your head.

"Good morning," he mumbles sleepily, pulling you closer into his embrace.

"Morning," you reply, your voice soft as you nuzzle into him. The morning light peeks through the curtains, but you feel like you could stay here forever, wrapped up in this cocoon of warmth and affection.

Franco shifts slightly, leaning down to press a gentle kiss on your forehead. "I could get used to waking up like this," he says, his voice playful but sincere.

You smile up at him. "Me too, but I should probably get going before my dad wonders where I've been."

Franco groans softly, tightening his hold on you. "Just a little longer?" he pleads, his lips finding yours in a slow, lingering kiss.

You laugh against his lips, feeling a rush of warmth in your chest. "I wish I could," you say between kisses, "but I have to get ready. I'll find you later in the paddock, okay?"

Franco sighs dramatically but finally lets go, watching you with a playful pout. "Fine, but only because you promised you'll come find me later."

You kiss him one last time, savouring the softness of his lips before you pull away. "I'll see you soon," you whisper, giving him a quick wink as you grab your things and head for the door.

When you arrive at the F1 paddock, the energy is buzzing with anticipation for the day's practices. As you step into the McLaren garage, you're greeted by Lando and Oscar, both of whom are lounging around while they wait for their turn on track.

"Look who decided to show up!" Lando jokes, waving you over. "Busy night?" He wiggles his eyebrows teasingly, making Oscar chuckle.

You roll your eyes, but you can't help the smile that forms on your lips. "Please, you know I'm here to keep an eye on you two," you shoot back, plopping down next to them. "Someone's gotta make sure you don't get into trouble."

Oscar smirks. "Yeah, because we're the ones who cause all the trouble around here."

The three of you spend the next hour laughing, making jokes, and trading playful banter. The lightheartedness of it all helps ease the nervous excitement bubbling in your chest. It feels good to be back in the paddock, surrounded by friends.

As the time for F1 practice nears, Lando and Oscar start gearing up, and you take the opportunity to slip away. You send a quick text to Franco, letting him know you're on your way to the F3 paddock.

When you finally arrive, you spot Franco from a distance, pacing back and forth, his phone pressed tightly to his ear. His expression is tense, and his voice is raised, though you can't make out the words. As you get closer, you catch the tail end of his conversation.

"Just forget it, alright?!" Franco snaps before hanging up the phone abruptly, his jaw clenched.

You approach him carefully, concerned by the frustration etched across his face. "Hey," you say softly, touching his arm. "Is everything okay? Who was that?"

Franco startles slightly, but his expression softens when he sees you. He takes a deep breath, running a hand through his hair as he tries to shake off whatever had him so riled up. "It's nothing important," he says quickly, forcing a smile. "Just... a stupid thing, don't worry about it."

You tilt your head, sensing that there's more to it, but Franco's already changing the subject. "So, you found me," he says, pulling you into his arms with a grin. "Does that mean I get a good luck kiss after practice?"

You smile, but your curiosity lingers. "Of course," you reply, leaning in to kiss him gently. But as you pull away, you can't help but wonder what was really going on with that phone call.

Tag list: @hs2016

[suusoh]

(pwp or something idk. just got horny in the tags of my last post about eddie not looking anywhere else but at his wife and only his wife while doing his husbandly duties.)

cw: female reader, sex, eddie's orbs, overuse of the word staring because I want you to start feeling annoyed and maim this man, slight yandere (maybe if you squint?) cheesy and unfunny frank valli reference at the end.

———

he's staring at you again.

Eyes fogged with a love sick haze in them at the absolute sight of you, his wife, all warm, soft, and pliant under him. You try to close your eyes from time to time, but even when you open them again— it just comes back to the first thing you see which is this man on top of you, mouth switching between grinning and gasping, and eyes wide open.

"...Eddie?"

He hums tenderly. "What is it, dear?"

"I-I.. can you just-"

It's so hard to talk when his hips don't stop moving despite his concern. The weight and absolute mass of him on top of you and grounding you into the bed with each thrust makes it all the more harder to think straight.

Thoughts on how to sound out your request begin to blur and buzz out with him fucking into you like this. In and out, in and out, inside of you. over and over again as he buries himself deep within your cunt. your pubic bone practically connecting with his, and sending sparks of heat inside your belly with each time he ruts himself into you.

"Just what? What does my darling wife want?" He starts searching your face for any indication or answer to complete it for you what you want him to do now. Still looking at you intensely.

Looking. He keeps looking. Which is, sort of the thing you wanted to point out in the first place.

"You're... o-oh- oh-"

"I...?" he acts as if he's not quite catching on. Pondering for a second with the sounds of your moans and wanton sighs, and the creaking of the worn out bed acting as background noise to aid his thinking.

"Oh! I'm doing a swell job is that it? Is that what you're trying to say, dearest?" he lets out a content loving sigh, and your breathe stutters as he picks up his pace. "You and your words never fail to make me blush, my love."

Another particularly good thrust has you arching your back, of which he's making sure his eyes connect with yours once more while you writhe and wiggle underneath. But your wriggling quickly eases from bodily pleasure, to slowly morphing into a sense of discomfort now.

Because he's staring at you.

Again.

Which should be good isn't it? Eye contact during sex is a sign after all of a good partner paying attention to your needs. And with someone like Eddie, him paying attention to your needs is the tiniest sliver of hope you cling onto to make sure his reason for keeping you alive is a bit more... cemented, substantial even. Gives you a little bit more reason (or delusion) to believe he'd be inclined to make this relationship, make you, last longer.

(Compared to the alternative route of him using your body for his own sick dispositions, and casually stringing you all up when he's done.)

Though you're sure that this is not the type of bedroom eye contact many normally wish for.

"Y-you... you're.." you try to murmur out again.

Not that you should talk about having anything normal with this man. You might as well find the solution to world hunger long before you find anything even remotely "normal" in this place.

It's not that you're expecting him to do things normally, but can't he... can't he just... do something else maybe?

Look anywhere but you for just a split second, maybe bury himself into your neck, or close his own eyes to focus on the feeling of his cock getting squeezed, or look at any other part of your body that could possibly entrance him; mouth, chest, stomach... hell, you could even hope that he tries to glance down at your clit? Maybe marvel at the sight of where the two of you connect, since that's all his fucked up baby fever mind thinks about anyways?

You'll take anything really, just one small thing to act as a reminder that you guys are indeed having... sex— and not engaging in some sort of impromptu staring contest out of nowhere.

Because his eyes are doing absolutely nothing but looking into your own and as they continue staring at you.

and staring at you...

and staring...

and staring...

and staring...

Jesus fucking christ you don't think he's even blinked in the past few seconds anymore.

You let out a mix of a whine and a groan, opting to shut your eyelids close and try to shield your face away from his unmoving eyeballs by trying to wiggle your hands free out of his grasp (him and his damn insistence to hold hands while making love as he calls it.).

"What is it my love? Must I pay you a penny for your thoughts perhaps?"

"You keep staring... "

You try to wiggle free again, inadvertently adding onto the delightful friction between your parts and his— to which he gets a small shiver of his own at the roll of your hips. A light laugh escapes him at your captivating and somewhat fruitless display. He finally gives reprieve to your brain's rising fear of being uncannily perceived at, and blinks.

"Ohhh, my darling."

He lets go of one of your hands so that he can cradle your face, tilting it so he can capture your mouth into a kiss. humming into your mouth, but the humming isn't just the usual sighs of pleasure, as you can pick up the movement of him saying some words.

He pulls apart from his half kissing-half speaking into your mouth, as he slowly begins to playfully laugh again.

"You can't blame a man for looking at his wife when she's like this; all breathless and beautiful, now can you? I sure can't!"

Said wife that he just knows for certain was sent down by god all-mighty himself into the 7th circle of hell named "mount massive asylums".

When Eddie sees you, he can't help but imagine your rotting carcass somewhere else. An alternate place where those filthy bastards could have gotten their hands on you, torn you limb from limb (if they didn't have the patience to pull your teeth and your eyes out first), then have their way with using your dead body as a urinal afterwards.

You must have been scared to not have your dear husband around to protect you from all the nasty violence around the asylum, weren't you darling?

No, no. No meed to fret now and get your panties in a twist! None of that here. Not when your dear ol' Eddie is here now.

You are very much alive and perfect, preserved by your own sheer dumb luck or maybe by fate itself to be kept alive long enough for him. Just him.

And under his care, your body is experiencing the furthest thing from excruciating physical pain right now, isn't it darling? Feels good, yes? To have your husband make love to you like the passionate man he is. Lest he's supposed to take in the sight of you rolling your eyes back and your legs hooking around his waist, pulling him in for more as something otherwise?

Oh goodness him... It's almost too good to be true.

And he really can't take his eyes off of you.

[moonsandmobilityaids]

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three

Content Warnings: Adult content (female masturbation), mostly accurate depictions of being an onlyfans creator (hi, I am one), reader is fem, uses a wheelchair, and has cerebral palsy.

The sun is already high in the sky when you finally stir, blinking against the daylight that spills through the gaps in your blinds. You feel a strange lightness in your limbs, an unfamiliar energy that pulses beneath your skin. It's been a long time since you woke without the familiar ache of exhaustion clinging to your bones.

You sit up, stretching your arms above your head and letting out a soft groan as your muscles protest the movement. Ignoring them, you swing your feet over the edge of the bed, reaching for your laptop on the bedside table. The screen lights up at your touch, and you load up the website, showing the notifications from overnight.

With a sigh, you scroll through the comments and messages from your subscribers. Some are simple—expressions of thanks or admiration, questions about your next post. Others are more personal, sharing intimate details of their own lives or asking for advice. You respond to each one with care, typing out thoughtful replies until your fingers cramp on the keys.

Setting the laptop aside, you stretch again, before transferring to your wheelchair. You wheel to the kitchen, fixing a quick breakfast before returning to your desk, where the screen glows with new notifications, but one name catches your eye—ProngsPlayground_free.

A small smile tugs at your lips as you open his message, expecting the usual mix of charm and flirtation that has become his signature. But as you read, something shifts in your chest, a warmth spreading from the pit of your stomach to the tips of your fingers.

ProngsPlayground_free: Good morning, love. The three of us spent another night watching your videos. Padfoot was all jokes and grins, saying no other creator could hold a candle to you now. 😏 And Moony? I've never seen him pay such close attention to anyone who wasn't me or Padfoot. He's usually the reserved one, but there's something about you that's got him hooked. So, know this—we'll be waiting for your next post, eager to see what else you have in store for us.

The last line lingers, and you find yourself reading it again. There's a playfulness to it that's almost audible, a self-assured tease that doesn't just hope for more content—it expects it. Prongs is confident that you'll perform again, and the thought of them waiting, eager for another glimpse into your world, sends a thrill up your spine.

It isn't the first time a subscriber has alluded to being captivated by your content, but something about the way Prongs phrases it—speaking not just for himself, but for his two boyfriends as well—makes you feel seen in a way you haven't before.

The idea that they're out there, watching you, wanting more... it ignites something within you. A spark of anticipation, perhaps, or the beginnings of an addiction to their attention. And you want to give them what they're waiting for. You want to keep them on the edge of their seats, hungry for more.

The warmth spreads from your stomach, pooling in your chest and reaching for your cheeks. You are acutely aware of the potential reality: three men, their faces hidden but their identities etched into every line of text, dedicating their evening to you. They sit somewhere out there, beyond the screen's glow, watching your videos, discussing you, laughing, perhaps even blushing at your words.

You shake your head, attempting to dismiss this peculiar sensation. It's not real, not in a tangible sense. It's just another fan interaction, albeit a rather intense one. But no matter how much you tell yourself this, the image persists. You picture them sprawled across a couch, shoulders brushing, eyes glued to the screen as it plays back your life. Prongs lounging with an easy smile, teasing the others; Moony, quiet and observant, taking it all in; and Padfoot... he'd be the one to get flustered, wouldn't he? The thought sends another wave of warmth through you.

Your hand drifts down of its own accord, fingers ghosting over the fabric of your shorts before they creep beneath, touching skin that's already prickling with anticipation. The shorts feel too tight all of a sudden, constricting, so you kick them off and shift from your wheelchair to the edge of your bed.

Your eyes flutter shut as you let your mind wander, fingertips tracing a familiar path along your inner thigh until they brush against your folds. A soft gasp escapes your lips, and your heart rate quickens.

Reaching out, you grab your phone, thumb scrolling through playlists until you find the one you use for filming. It’s an almost subconscious choice, but it speaks volumes about what you're about to do. You can practically feel the camera on you already, capturing every breathless sigh, every shudder, every quiver of delight.

There's something about filming yourself in these moments that heightens the experience. The knowledge that others will see, will watch with bated breath, stokes the fire within you. It's intimate, yes, but also performative—and right now, that thought sends a thrill down your spine that's more powerful than anything else. It always does.

Your camera is set up in its usual spot, angled to capture every movement and expression. You’ve spent time perfecting the soft lighting that reveals just enough, yet leaves room for your viewers’ imaginations to fill in the rest. Adjusting your position on the bed, you ensure you’re within the frame before giving a small nod of satisfaction. A shiver runs through you, not from cold but from the thrill of what you're about to do. The excitement ignites a warmth in your belly, spreading outwards until your skin tingles with anticipation.

You place your favorite toys—a sleek dildo and a powerful vibrator—within easy reach, already envisioning how they’ll be put to use. Your breath hitches as you imagine the pleasure they’ll bring, the way your body will quiver and clench around them. The camera is rolling, capturing this intimate moment for strangers who will only see a sliver of what you truly are. But right now, it’s not about them—it’s about you and the heady rush of being both the performer and the audience.

Leaning back against the plush pillows, you let your hands roam. They slide over your stomach, tracing the curve of your hips before moving upwards to cup your breasts. You close your eyes, letting out a soft sigh as your fingers gently pinch and tug at your nipples. They harden instantly under your touch, sending jolts of pleasure straight down to your core. Imagining those unseen eyes on you, you can almost feel their heat, even though there's no one else in the room.

Your fingers trace a delicate path to your clit, applying just enough pressure to keep you teetering on the edge. It's tantalising, the slow build of pleasure, but it's not quite enough. You crave more, and you know just how to take it.

You reach for the dildo, its cool surface sending a shiver up your spine as you position it between your thighs. Slowly, oh so slowly, you push it inside. Your body clenches around it instinctively, warmth spreading from your core as you begin to move your hips. The rhythm is languid, each roll of your hips bringing the toy deeper within you.

You gasp, eyes fluttering shut as you imagine Prongs' teasing grin, the way his voice would hitch when you touch yourself. What would Moony sound like if he were here, watching? Would he be able to keep quiet, or would soft groans escape his throat? And Padfoot... you can almost hear his breath catch as you slide the dildo in and out.

The thought alone sends a rush of heat through you, stoking the fire that threatens to consume you whole. Your hand trembles as you reach for the vibrator, fumbling slightly before you manage to switch it on. The hum of the device is instantly comforting, promising relief and release.

You press the vibrator against your clit, letting out a soft gasp at the sudden onslaught of sensation. The pressure, coupled with the waves of vibration, is intense but not overwhelming—it's just what you need. You let your head fall back against the pillows, your body arching off the bed as you surrender to the pleasure coursing through your veins.

"Fuck," you breathe out, the word barely audible over the buzz of the vibrator. You start moving the dildo again, slow and deliberate at first, but growing more frantic with each passing moment. The dildo fills you up perfectly, hitting all the right spots as you grind down onto it.

The pleasure is intense, a heat that starts in your belly and radiates outward. You can feel the familiar tension building, coiling tighter with each second. It won't take long now—not with the way you're teasing yourself, not with the thought of being watched. Your hips tilt, seeking more friction from the toys. Your breaths come out in short, ragged gasps, and you let yourself get lost in the sensation, in the fantasy of those boys, in the thrill of knowing this will all be caught on camera.

The buzzing of the vibrator against your sensitive flesh teases you closer to the edge of release. You push your hips into it, gasping as the pleasure intensifies. The stimulation is perfectly focused on your clit, while the dildo hits your g-spot with each movement. It's too much, and yet, not enough.

And then, suddenly, you're there—the build-up shatters into a wave of heat and sensation that sweeps over you in an overwhelming rush. Your body clenches around the dildo, quivering as the orgasm takes hold. It's all-consuming, leaving no room for thought or doubt—only the exquisite release.

A soft moan slips past your lips, your hand finally slowing its pace as the tremors subside. You let yourself bask in the afterglow for just a moment longer before pulling out the dildo and switching off the vibrator.

Your chest heaves with exertion, the flush on your skin a testament to the intensity of your climax. For a few heartbeats, you simply lie there, catching your breath and allowing the tendrils of pleasure to recede. Then, slowly, you sit up and glance towards the camera.

It's still recording, the red light blinking steadily in the dim room. A record of everything you've just shared, every intimate detail laid bare for the audience on the other side of the screen.

A satisfied smile tugs at the corners of your mouth. You hadn't planned to do a video today, but sometimes, the most authentic content isn't planned—it's birthed from moments like these when the mood simply takes over. There's a rawness to this video, a vulnerability that can't be scripted, and you know your fans will appreciate it. They always do; they relish the glimpses into your real life, the shared intimacies that make them feel closer to you.

Easing off the bed, you reach for the camera, pressing the button to end the recording. A quick playback confirms what you already knew: the footage is perfect. The angle highlights your body in all the right ways, the lighting casts an inviting glow on your skin, and every movement you made was captured in tantalising detail. There's a sense of pride that swells within you, not just for the quality of the video, but for the authenticity of the pleasure it depicts. Your followers will love this, you're sure of it.

Without wasting another moment, you upload the video onto your OnlyFans page, labeling it simply: A little spontaneous self-love 💋

You set a modest fee—not too high to deter, but enough to hint at the quality within—and send it as a pay-per-view message to all your fans. It's a little pricier than most of your content, but you know it'll pique their curiosity. After all, they've been clamouring for more intimate glimpses into your life like this one.

The upload bar fills slowly, and as it does, a shiver of anticipation dances down your spine. You lean back in your chair, satisfaction curling your lips into a smile. Prongs and his boyfriends will never know they were the muse behind this creation—that will stay your little secret—but you can't help but wonder if they'll purchase it, if they'll sense the connection that thrummed through you as you filmed it.

A part of you hopes they do.

As the last sliver of the progress bar turns blue, you release the breath you've been holding. The message goes out, a beacon calling to your followers, and you sit back, waiting for the first reactions, the first purchases.

Taglist: @alohastitch0626

[andessence]

What a thing to ask him! Is this what you want? He gives it. Isn't that enough? What Armand wants... The question that seems much more mysterious is what Louis wants. Louis looks him over with hungry eyes, lets his hands card through Armand's curls and caress his features (memory, again: hands freckled with paint turning his head this way and that, lingering over lips, pushing past them...) but for all these sure signs of desire there are doubtful doubles: the withdrawal, the asking and re-asking, the untouched camera.

Armand knows what he wants; he merely loathes to speak it. Louis seems not to know his own desire at all.

To be teased like this with such an ambivalence in the face of his own too-eager abasement smarts horribly.

What does Louis want? If only he can find it, he will be it. So Armand weaves through the tendrils of thought that Louis exposes, back to what is unoffered, what Louis does not mean to show him, and he sees Louis's desire, in harmony with his own. Yes, yes, tear at him, mark him, crush him so that he can that adoration that consumes. ... And then he sees Louis's evaluation of him — just another mask. Turning his stomach. As if the embarrassing, overt desire Armand shows down on his knees is cheap, false.

Amadeo opens his mouth and bites Louis's thumb. Just quick, just a moment of tensed jaw and searing eyes, and then Armand is turning his face away, letting the digit slip from his lips. "The moment's whim passes. You lose a thousand instants of opportunity with your indecision." And he stands, takes a turn about the room, locks eyes with that ghost of his hanging in the line of a thousand other of Louis's little voyeuristic conquests. Does Louis merit another glimpse of this break in him again? Just because Armand wants to give it does not mean that Louis deserves it.

He lands at last on the daybed concealing Louis's coffin, leaning on one palm planted on the mattress, drawing one leg up and letting the other rest in a loose extension— a pose his Maker's fellow artists had liked for its long, sweeping lines and softly tilted head. "Maybe here. The light is better. Should I make myself comfortable? It seems I'll be waiting quite a while for inspiration to strike." That earnest, longing look that had haunted his features has been cut with a smoldering impatience. "Do you think you'll manage before the sunrise?"

impossible not to touch him, to want to cover armand's skin in loving kisses and tender bites, to have him here, on his knees, to bloody him, heal him, bruise him, and kiss the bruises away. louis is no longer the restrained catholic he'd once been, no longer wallowing in denial of himself. paris has opened him as a flower blooming beneath impossible sunshine, and his fangs are biting the insides of his mouth, sickening him with the taste of his own blood. uncontrolled, too impulsive. what is this sensation inside him that makes him want to tear armand apart? his evil nature, wretched sin, seeping in when he tries to be gentle, when he tries to be gentle. ( show me the only way you know how to love. )

armand upon his knees is not the same bared creature in the photograph hanging above him. a new mask, then. is this what he wants louis to capture? a vulnerable shred of him, but not the whole of it. louis could raise his camera, snap this second into an eternity. armand, always there on his knees, showing louis the pieces he wants louis to see. why does the idea of it make his stomach turn?

he doesn't lift his camera to this moment. lets it rest against his chest, staring down at the floor, as though ashamed to see the pair of them like this. he wants to see armand true. no more lies, no more hiding. ( he does not understand what this means. he cannot begin to understand what it means : and maybe if he did, he wouldn't want to see it. ) louis doesn't wanna ambush him into it. ' is this how you're comfortable? '

louis reaches his hand to armand's head, placing his palm atop it ( a priest giving benediction, a saint and a sinner, but then, shouldn't louis be on his knees? ) then carding the sharpness of his fingers through armand's hair, the course of his hand loosening his curls. his hand traces the points of armand's cheekbones, his jaw, his shin. his thumb brushes over armand's lips, pressing over the bottom one. ' is this what you want? '

[oxytoxic-skeletonin]

The End of a Multiverse(...?)

Synopsis The end is nigh, the cosmos is going to be collapsed, and there was not a damn thing they could do about it. But perhaps, even if everything is destroyed, something might survive.

Even if this is an awful end, it feels nice to write about and for characters I created and loved for many years of my life.

CW; Badly written combat, a literal war, copious amounts of body horror (Iktatra's not the sole one to blame this time!), descriptions of immense gore, and a lot of major character death.

-

This was bad. Eviveru knew that things were looking bleak. Even as he watched Kittara's fist shatter through the skull of that bitch. Nevaerys Merathalae, servant of Xul Mekuriz, Eld of madness and destruction.

Her laughter echoed from her broken jaw, and the mouths of that thing she kept in her body. It's tendrils roping backwards to pull Nevaerys from her assailant. "I'll let you all on in on a little secret~!" The insane look in the blue haired woman's eyes didn't fade for a moment. Her mouth twisted into an expression of glee. "The barrier that protected your cosmos is gone~! We've won this battle, before you even gathered your pathetic forces!" Kittara snarled, glaring her singular eye onto her. "We'll not fall without a fight." the Korathin woman called out, charging ahead once more to attack the thing that once was human. The amount of people they gathered to fend off the servants of Xul Mekuriz was paltry compared to the strange energy Eviveru could feel in the air, ebbing from all around them.

-

Arethinel's blade clashed against Wylli'vyrr's rapiers, the elven mage struggling beneath the fallen paladin's might.

"Aheheheh, I could rrrREALLY use a hand here, guys!!" Wylli'vyrr yelped. "I have gifted Humankind, and Mankind alone with the glory that is MY creation! Filthy creatures such as yourself, do not belong in MY world." Arethinel hissed, the mad paladin leaning down to drive the blade closer to Wylli'vyrr's head.

His efforts to harm the elf interrupted by bullets pelting the side of his face, tearing through his cheeks. "EY. Don't go touchin' Kitt's man, ya fuckin' asshole!" Meara called out, weaving through the battle between undead forces and eld-serving bastards as she continued firing at Arethinel with her guns.

-

"E... Eviveru... Something's wrong..." Okka'lier stammered out, a cold shiver ran down the Esyrrlian elf's spine. He backed lose to Eviveru as they stood back to observe the mayhem. "Yeah, I know..." Eviveru grit his teeth, swinging his hand outwards to cast out minor bolts of electricity at the forces that got too close to the back line. Most of them shrugging off the blow.

That wasn't the part they had to worry about. Evi grew a wicked smirk, as he quickly called down a powerful bolt of electricity to strike himself. Feeling electricity course through his body was always euphoric. Directing the flow of electricity towards one target and casting it out at the forces that drew ever closer.

He watched with the glee that he only felt as he felt that electricity flood into the body of his target, frying them from within, before scattering in chains to the prior foes he marked.

The sizzle as it tore through every foe between each mark was the only good thing in what was happening.

-

Speakers crackled to life on the Magitech mouse's head. Ornax mustered as much of his courage up that he could. Raising his thumb to his mouth and activating the microphone held within. "COME ON, EVERYBODY!!! LET'S GIVE THESE JERKS THE SHOW OF A LIFETIME!!" Ornax called out, the speakers of his ears amplifying his voice like a loudspeaker. The Robomouse pulled a song list up on his HUD. "IT'S NOT OUR CURTAIN CALL, NOR IS IT OUR SWAN SONG." Play an invigorating file with drums of war, drop in some techno beats, and spin some tunes. "I MAY BE TONIGHT'S DJ, BUT I AM NOT ABOUT TO BE A DEAD MAUS, AND WE ARE NOT GONNA BOW TO THESE GUYS!!!"

A wide grin on his face, as Ornax cupped a hand over the side of his head and nodded along to the music he mixed. Letting the magic he manipulated in his body flow out with his songs.

Ornax grinned more as he watched how the beat, how the music pumped up his allies, how he could tell that the magic was imbuing his allies with the inner strength that he lacked.

He hoped Mom and Dad would be proud of him. Standing against the end of everything.

"LET'S GIVE THEM A PERFORMANCE THEY'LL NEVER FORGET!"

- "Hah, knew tonight was missing somethin'." Karlos grinned, the pauldrons affixed to his shoulders sparking with his magic. Letting every thread he could latch on to anything around him.

Each of his 'adopted' hands holding weapons of various makes as he danced through the battlefield.

Karlos laughed like a maniac, while he cut down undead and cultist alike.

Heh, 'picking up' extra hands as he lobbed off limbs of his foes. Never got old watching people freak the fuck out when they saw their own hands or arms coming to life under his control.

Limbs, weapons, even the sands beneath his feet. They all were something he could use against this army of absolute fuck clowns.

He could take 'em, he could take ALL of 'em. And he would happily take it all from them. After all, these bastards were quite literally trying to take everything from everyone.

A lucky blow landed on one of Karlos' hands close to his body, cleanly cutting it in half.

.... That hand. That was...

"You FUCKER, that was the ONLY one that worked with smart phones!!"

Every hand with a gun tracked onto his assailant, an orcish cultist, and opened fire.

Swiss cheese, like the jackass deserved!

God damn it. That was the one bad thing about losing his original ones to those jackasses in the labs.

"HOW THE SHIT AM I SUPPOSED TO MAKE PHONE CALLS NOW?!"

-

"LARCENERS! Status report!"

Devaux called out, using levitation to stay above the madness below.

They weren't heroes, they were thieves.

The Lavender Larceners were meant to procure artifacts of terrible power, to keep them hidden from those that would abuse them.

It was agony to put his crew, his family against this threat.

But desperate times required desperate measures. It even called upon them to distribute some of these artifacts to their allies.

"SA, We're 'oldin' the line, but nawt by much!!" he heard Estoran call out. Anxiety clear in his voice, which only made Devaux more worried.

The only thing that gave him comfort was seeing Otto's 'magnum opus' of his close, the "Giant mecha" as Haruki had called it, to where he heard Estoran's voice from.

Haruki wasn't hard to listen for, he could hear the Shuri twin laughing as he weaved through the battle.

"Missed me, missed me, now you gotta-- Oh ew, definitely don't kiss me!" Haruki made a sound of disgust, Devaux could imagine the sneer of disgust on the mouse's snout. A toppling sound. "Haru, you'd be lucky if you got kissed tonight." Fumeiyo, his sister, sneered as she yanked her blade out of the spine of her mark.

Devaux smiled, at least the two of them could still find it in them to banter. That meant that they weren't completely in despair at the circumstances.

"HEY!!! I COULD get a kiss tonight if I wanted to!" Haruki yelped back.

Fumeiyo chuckled. "Well, might as well get it tonight. From the sounds of it, if it's not tonight, it's never."

Haruki gave pause as he just stared at his twin.

".... CHEEEEEEEEEEERYYYYYYYYYYYYYYL!" Haruki yelled out. He swiftly dodged another foe. "YEAH???" Cheryl responded from a distance, her voice still as chipper as ever. "THE UNIVERSE IS ENDING, CAN I GET A KISS???" Haruki yelled out again. His sister made short work of the foes that had their attention on him.

"OKAY~!!!" Cheryl said, cleaving her claws through another undead troop's armor like butter. "COOL!!!" Haruki responded. Fumeiyo looked at Haruki with amusement. "CHERYL. THINK YOU CAN MAKE THAT A DOUBLE ORDER?" Fumeiyo called out. "YUP YUP! WILL DO~!" Cheryl made another swing. Her arm was caught. "Oh no, oh no, no no no n--" Her bloodcurdling scream resounded through the battlefield, as she felt it torn clean off. "Cheryl!"

Devaux wasted no time, quickly flying towards the sound of her scream. Quickly conjuring an array of shadowbolts to strike the goliath of a cultist holding Cheryl's torn off arm. "FUCK FUCK FUCK-- CHERYL!!! OH FUCK DID I JYNX IT?!" Devaux could hear Haruki's voice growing closer and closer, the Shuri Twins were likely on their way to lend backup.

"Don't, you, DARE, touch, MY, CREW!" Devaux roared out, casting a ball of antimatter at the cultist before they could raise their weapon at him.

It was painful to watch, seeing someone, anyone, implode inwards as their own armor compacted inwards in noisy fashion.

But he was not going to overlook such a transgression.

Cheryl whimpered on the ground. Trying to hamper over towards her removed arm. Haruki scampered to her side, checking over her. "CHERYL, Are you okay?!" Fumeiyo followed suit, she swiftly yanked her lavender scarf off and wrapped it around the remaining stub of Cheryl's right arm.

"B-Boss... D-Do you think Otto can get it back on...? L-Like, usable..??" Cheryl sniffled.

Devaux sighed, his whiskers twitching. "We'll have to get you to him as soon as possible."

He wasn't going to risk Cheryl bleeding out, and while her bones couldn't break, her flesh could still tear.

"LARCENERS. FALL BACK!!" Devaux called out. Hoping the others would hear him amidst the chaos.

-

"ORUNA'AJA. WHAT'S THE CHANCES OF US MAKING IT OUT OF THIS ALIVE?" Eviveru called out towards the seer. Oruna'aja, Seer of Jyll'Nybbek, Eld of knowledge. The Xelyrr woman's eyes on her head only ever opened when she'd look into the future. The eyes that covered various parts of her body served fine to let her see the world around her.

"I am sorry, Eviveru. The future is... Gone. For all of us, we will not survive this."

Okka'lier shivered, a look of horror dawning on the young elf's face.

"I thought you said before that MY stupid ass would outlive even the stars." Eviveru growled out. He hated this.

It would have been fine if it was just him that got to experience an eternal death. More than fine, it's what he'd always wanted.

But for everyone else around him, good people, who had a reason, and a drive to live... It was fucked up beyond belief.

"You... You're correct." Oruna'aja perked up, as if having an epiphany. She turned her head towards Eviveru and opened her eyes. Looking at the pastel rainbow lights held within her eyes was always unnerving as shit.

"There... Is no future. For any of us... You... Have a future."

-

So much bloodshed, so much organic material to consume strewn about, so much genetic material to utilize.

Iktatra weaved through battle as though it were a dance, the tendrils from her body lashed out and rend through countless, poor, brainwashed fools.

It was disappointing, were she to have obtained the godhood she desired, perhaps there might have been some hope for these people.

Still, the majority of them tasted so rotten.

It's entirely likely they still would have died to her.

After all, the sweetest fruit is the most ripe and decayed.

A smile on her face, as she consumed every bit of genetic material that touched her cells.

So much new information to analyze, so many new people to mimic, so many new powers for which to call upon.

A battlefield truly was a doppelganger's buffet.

A tall armored man roared out as he charged for her, sword drawn.

Awh. It was cute.

A smile of adoration on her face as she saw him raise his weapon.

A look that didn't fade, as his blade tore through her shoulder, it's momentum stopping in her chest.

She stared at him, her smile widening as he tried to pull it from her, and found it wouldn't budge.

"Awwwh, that wasn't nice dawwring. If I had a heart, you would've cleaved it in half." Iktatra pouted.

It was delightful to watch the man grow pale and that look of fear bloom upon his face.

"My turn~."

It was always so fun to make her created body make sickening pops and tears, as she split it in half. Revealing rows upon rows of teeth, tongues, and eyes.

Gasps of terror as a would-be predator became a meal were always such beautiful sounds.

The moment the man's body flinched to flee, it was too late. The many tongues lashed out and wrapped onto the man, harshly pulling him in to her fleshy iron maiden. His scream lasted but a moment, as she closed her body, she could hear the beautiful pops of his bones and armor as they were crushed inward.

Mortals of flesh and blood were much like those treats that Meara loved... Squishers, was it? Sweet candies that popped as you bit down.

Come to think of it. Where was her darling Meara in this mess?

- "GOD, FUCKING. DAMN IT. That's FUCKING BULLSHIT!!" Eviveru growled out, feeling the electricity coursing off of himself in his anger. Oruna'aja sighed. "Though you wish only to darken death's door with your presence... It shall never come for you... As I told you before, civilizations will crumble, kings and emperors shall fall, gods themselves will be forgotten and--" "And planets shall die and stars will fade out yadda yadda yadda, the thing is that I'm going to be STUCK with the fact that out of EVERYONE here, I'M THE ONLY ONE WHO'S GOING TO SURVIVE THIS." Eviveru roared out, seething with rage.

Okka'lier shivered, Eviveru could feel the elf doing his best to use his magic to soothe Evi's temper. "I'm... I'm h-happy... I'm happy you'll at least be okay"

Eviveru looked down, seeing the lavender doe eyes looking up at him.

"Evi... You... Won't forget about me, right?"

"... Okka'lier... If I could make it be you that'd survive instead, I would... You deserve it far more than I do...." "I-It's okay... If you remember me, then... W-Well, I'll always be with you." Okka'lier smiled, through the tears that were prickling his eyes.

God damn it.

-

Maddened laughter echoed out upon the battlefield, as it was clear something had changed in the air.

"THE ELEVENTH HOUR IS UPON US~!!" Nevaerys called out.

Kittara disarmed a nearby soldier, using his blade to block an incoming sword. Her hand crushing the disarmed soldier's throat with ease.

She couldn't use a weapon, they always broke with the force she swung them with. But they could be used to parry.

Nevaerys was an elusive opponent, she hid herself behind what poor souls they controlled, living and dead.

Kittara caught glimpse of sickly tendrils firing forth from that woman, she swung her arm to throw the blade towards them.

She hit her mark, lack of depth perception be damned.

But many more seemed to grapple onto their mark, and yank back.

Kittara watched Arethinel hastily pulled towards Nevaerys.

"Come, Arethinel! Xul'Mekuriz still has need of us~."

They're... Retreating?

No...

"Savor your dwindling last moments, for this world shall be reborn anew, and I, SHALL BE IT'S ONE, TRUE, GOD." Arethinel called out.

He.. Always called that out, whenever he failed against them.

Nevaerys wasted no time in opening a portal in the air. And pulled Arethinel in with her.

No. They left far too hastily...

Kittara's hackles raised, she could feel it, the darkness encroaching far faster than it had any right to.

Wylli'Vyrr... She had to find Wylli'vyrr!

-

"Eviveru, I understand.. It is upsetting... I foresee nothing but darkness for so long... I had lost hope, but then I saw it..." Oruna'aja recollected, her brow furrowing.

God damn it, did they have any time for being--

"SPIT IT OUT." Eviveru snarled.

"She does."

Eviveru stared at Oruna'aja in disbelief.

"... what."

"A woman. She spits out your hand. Your hand exists. She is overcome with fear, and flees. But your hand exists. And from the rest of it, you follow after..." Oruna'aja explained. Eviveru sneered, that sounded like the typical seer bullshit. Sometimes he wondered if Seers were just high off their asses most the time.

"Eviveru. We may not be able to save our cosmos... But we... Nay. You can warn another. We were unprepared for the foe we face... Warn them of Perniciem. Prepare them for what they may face." Oruna'aja's voice was dire.

Electricity sparked off of Eviveru as he grew increasingly irate.

"The fuck-- You mean you're asking me to be a MESSENGER BO--"

Okka'lier's scream of agony cut Evi off. The Essyrlian elf crumpling to his knees and gripping his head.

"Okka'lier! Shit... Did I--"

Okka'lier clawed at his skull, screaming in agonizing pain.

Eviveru crouched down, and hugged onto Okka'lier. Fuck... That wasn't from his electricity.

Okka'lier naturally felt the lives of animals around him, and was in tune with nature. He felt that pain as if it were his own.

Evi braced the back of Okka'lier's head, as Okka'lier's screams died down to sobs. His body shook like a leaf. "E... Evi... E-Everything's... D-Dying.." Okka'lier choked out.

It pissed Eviveru off to no end that there wasn't shit they could do.

"I.. I know. At least--"

It wasn't supposed to happen that fast.

Eviveru had been through a land slide before, felt the earth cascade down on him in a flash and crush him beneath it.

This was far less merciful.

In a mere blink, he went from holding onto Okka'lier to try and calm him down...

To feeling everything and everyone crushed together.

It was miserable being conscious for a short period of it.

Feeling his body crushed completely, compacted by bodies of friend and foe alike.

The sickening crunches far more deafening than the screams Okka'lier had made prior. He knew broken bones of his own friend were stabbing through what little of him he could feel.

He knew that the blood around him that he could comprehend was a slurry of so many people he knew.

All their lives, snuffed out in a blink of an eye.

It was bullshit.

None of them deserved that.

Eviveru drifted in and out of consciousness.

Sometimes? He was aware that he was dead. He knew and enjoyed the comforting embrace of the void.

And sometimes, he was aware he was nothing but mixed bits in crushed viscera.

Sometimes he swore he could hear voices.

Chatter, chatter, lots of it.

Others were still there. Alive? Entirely unlikely. But still there.

That or he'd gone insane.

Which was unlikely. He sure as shit didn't believe anyone else would survive. Nor would he want someone to be alive in this mess.

Sometimes it felt like the remains of everything around him moved. Moved a lot. And sometimes it was extremely still.

He hated it. He'd rather be dead.

Every time death's sweet embrace took him from the horrifying mess that remained? He was thankful.

He didn't know how long it lasted.

Perception of time becomes warped when you're dying, and coming back to live, and barely aware in the soup of the cosmos that was your own home.

Eventually? He felt a thump, a portion of his left hand. His pinky, ring, and middle finger once more feeling.

It twitched.

It wasn't long after that he felt himself succumb to death again.

And then Eviveru opened his eyes.

A gentle blue sky overhead. Clouds in the sky, white and fluffy. The sun beaming down upon him.

He could hear the breeze through the grass that he laid upon.

Man... He never thought he'd be thankful to be alive.

At least this alive was better than mashed up alive.

Eviveru groaned, as he slowly rose to his feet, grumbling.

Why the fuck was he the one who had to get stuck delivering a message.

Oh yeah, because death was a bitch who wouldn't take him, no matter how hard he wanted it to.

If death was some manner of entity he could speak to? He would happily lay into them for not carting his ass to the void permanently.

He sighed, conjuring forth his staff. Thank fuck that his clothes were so soaked in his magic, that the damn curse he endured thought that it was a part of him.

He really didn't want to get stuck on a murder spree of any person who looked at him stark nude.

"... Where the fuck do I even start..." Evi grumbled, glowering at the land around him.

Countryside, not a settlement as far as his eyes could see.

Well at the very least, he wouldn't have to deal with any humans anytime soon.

Fluffing his wings, Eviveru paused.

He knew where he'd start.

"Hey gods, divines, eldritch entities, what the fuck ever?"

Eviveru called out.

"You fucking suck."

Yep. That was a good way to start trying to save this place, and whatever shitheads lived here.

[cinnamon-flame]

I'm trying to figure out a Winter design that I like, this one is okay but I feel like I can do better

[abeycnce]

"IT IS, AND COMBINED WITH SIX OF CUPS, it encourages balance in transition." A lesson for both of them, perhaps, as they settled into their respective places in town. Her guard steadily dropped as he stopped tiptoeing around the obvious. He asked the questions he wanted to and, in doing so, drew on the topics she held far too much interest in. "It's a blend of herbalism and kitchen witch practice." After nearly three decades of practice, it felt intuitive, but had it always been that way? "As a kitchen witch, I see food as a medium to transfer energy and intention — last week I had a customer ask for a protection spell. It can be as deliberate as scoring the dough with a protection symbol, or as simple as sprinkling crushed sage on top of a roll." She laughed then, a full-bodied sound. "Divination might be the most uncertain branch of magic. The universe has a bad habit of speaking in riddles." Her shoulders raised in a noncommittal shrug. "I wouldn't be surprised if they could. What did you write about?"

Palmistry, unlike tarot, was a practice she had never taken the time to learn. However, if he could draw meaning from lines etched into skin, there was an opportunity to push further. "You might give it another try sometime, there may be something to what you've felt." Untapped power is a waste, her mentor would chide. She paused, her expression softening in thought. "I can show you sometime. I'm rusty, but I know enough to set you on the right track."

Reagan nodded in understanding, remembering what it had first been like establishing herself in the town. "It's strange, isn't it, stepping into the role of a business owner? I still struggle with it, and I was an accounting major." Learning names and faces, likes and dislikes, slowing her pace to suit Cardinal Hill's sleepy atmosphere — it all took time. "You'll figure it out," she decided. Then, teasingly, "And if you don't, you'll have your tarot to fall back on. Something tells me there's a crowd out there that would eat up a traveling tarot brother duo."

Copper smiled at what Reagan said in reply, and he didn’t think she was just being to make him feel better. It felt like she meant it. “That’s true,” Copper conceded. “I mean, something can be too sweet, like too much of a good thing. And sometimes bitterness is more interesting.” It definitely seemed less appealing on the surface, but what Reagan had said was true, that it added depth. “It’s kind of like Temperance,” Copper went on. “That’s a card in the Major Arcana of tarot, and it’s all about moderation and balance.” He liked that comparison. And it definitely seemed like Reagan was the right audience for such a statement because it was pretty clear that she knew exactly what he was getting at with his magic comment. So Copper decided to stop being coy, and he asked, “Is that really a branch of magic, or is it just something that’s intuitive for you? Divination is more my brand, but even that I’m not always certain of. But then are you ever certain of anything with divination?” Copper knew that sometimes it could be difficult to interpret things in this field of magic. What Reagan said made sense to Copper, and he remarked, “I wonder if people used to be able to sense that sort of thing when I would write. I used to really love that.” Copper would have to ask Aris, he decided, and he tried not to dwell on the fact that he hadn’t written anything in awhile. 

The term that Reagan used sounded familiar, though it took Copper a moment to place it. But then it came to him, and he said, “Oh, like reading tea leaves?” Nodding, he confirmed, “Yeah, I have, but I don't know how good I am at it. I prefer tarot or palmistry. But there’ve been times that feel different, like where I really understand what the leaves are saying, and there’s always this underlying thrum of power during those times. 

It was clear to Copper that Reagan wasn’t going to tell him a name, and he didn’t blame her - they didn’t really know each other after all. So he just nodded and said, “I might, though I don’t know a lot of names yet. I’ve been working hard getting the hang of running a tea shop. My background is in publishing, so it was all very new to me.” Reagan’s way of looking at the situation was nice, but it was more complex for Copper. Still, that was something he would keep to himself for now. They both had their secrets it seemed. “I don’t know if this is where I’m meant to be yet, but it’s okay for now,” he told Reagan honestly. Part of him wasn’t sure about “outing” Aris as a witch, but it seemed okay to say that to another witch, so Copper nodded. “Yeah. He’s adopted like I am, but our birth moms were both witches.”

[kineticallyanywhere]

Monkey’s Paw pages 107-112 ( START HERE || ao3 || previous || next (ongoing CW: violence) )

AU after episode 62. The Omega Dads try a more desperate gambit, but   careful what you wish for. Our dads find alternate versions of themselves in a strange dreamscape.

If you die in the dream, do you die in real life?

HEADS UP: I assume you saw the last update before this one, expect follow up on that and the fighting won’t stop there. For fight scenes going forward, expect something in the area of popular shonen. No guts falling out, and probably no chopping off any limbs but like... you listen to this podcast! probably! we’re gonna get rowdy. it’s dungeons and dragons. anyhoo.

Finally a woman in this comic and she has to be in a scene with Willy.

Sorry it took a month longer than expected, forgot to account for 6 pages of color. Anyway we’re back! and we’re going back to our boys next time and going back to less background for meeeeeeeeee thank youuuuuuuuu. Luckily at least I could limit myself to the same kind of methodology I’ve been drawing the other backgrounds with, there’s just more that has to there cause it’s not just a forest its like, a persons house. which could absolutely have been filled with more things but then it would have been 2023 by the time you got this update so screw that. also yes the details of her house do change between panels yes it’s intentional yes it saved me.

the other thing I guess I’ll address here is spoilers. The comic takes place kinda mid-episode 62 and so, mostly for funsies, will not outright spoil anything after that. Wizened readers know exactly what Willy threatened Tilt with, anyone somehow reading this before finishing season 1 will not. Further on this note, certain revelations provided by season 2 will not be changing this comic! That’s not to say this comic is going to go against season 2. Season 2 absolutely is going to inform more than 1 upcoming scene, but only in the way of characterization. This takes place well before season 2 and so can’t outright reference season 2 events, but characters who appear in season 2 which also appear here can absolutely be informed in their writing here by their future behavior (or re-contextualized current behavior).

and now I’m STOKED to get back to drawing THE BOYS see you next time!

[jackredfieldwasmyjacob]

btw after four years i finally finished all data from my iberian-inspired fakemon region. if you even care

[frankthegoblin]

going to add on to this to bring attention to some of the illustrations of siphonophores from German biologist, Ernst Haeckel's book titled Kurnstformen Der Natur ("Art forms in Nature").

I'm adding this bc well. just look.

BAM.

BIBICALLY ACCURATE MARINE CRYPTID

siphonophores will never not freak me out. stop doing that its SCARY but also please don't ever stop doing that you ethereal marine cryptid

[atalana]

this is just a vent post you can interact with it or not i don't mind just i gotta put it somewhere

[alex51324]

Useful article from CNN on election-night misinformation.

Key takeaway is that pretty much whatever happens, Trump will claim it's evidence that the election is being rigged against him.

Some additional things to keep in mind--particularly if you haven't been through many of these before:

The winner may or may not be projected on election night. How long it takes depends on a bunch of factors, having to do with the logistics of ballot-counting and how the statistical analysis comes along. Getting a projected winner by midnight and the count taking several days are both well within the range of normal, and neither one suggests that anything nefarious is happening.

Counting of votes always continues for several days after the election, until every vote has been counted. This happens regardless of whether or not the media have "called" a winner, or a candidate has conceded.

Media outlets project election winners based on the data that has come in and their statistical models--they do not "declare" or "decide" who won. The major outlets are very motivated to avoid an incorrect projection*, so if they make a call, it's because they're really sure they have enough information to accurately predict the outcome of the final count.

Usually, when this happens, all of the major media outlets are making the same projection around the same time--within the same hour, at least, and often in the same 10 minutes or so. If there's an outlier, there's a good chance they're either guessing or propagandizing.

Candidates do not get to call the race in their own favor. There's a decent chance Trump will try, but also it's also normal and expected for both campaigns to talk like they're expecting to win; e.g. introducing their candidate as "the next President of the United States" when appearing before supporters at events. (My guess is that if he does try, the mainstream media outlets will simply sanewash it as typical election-night bravado, which is actually fine.)

The only thing that means anything, coming from a candidate/campaign, is a concession. This will often happen after the media has called the race for the other candidate; it usually isn't a surprise. A normal campaign will often go quiet--stop sending people to talk on TV, etc.--when they're getting ready to concede. (Trump arguably** still hasn't conceded 2020, so no one is particularly expecting him to concede any time this coming week.)

It's normal for the numbers to change a lot. There are always some surprises, but there are also standard patterns: results from the southeast usually come in a clump, and put a lot of electoral votes into the Republican column, early in the night. Democrats usually pick up the west coast states, which of course are the last to close their polls and start reporting results***. For the swing states, where we'll probably see a lot of reporting on very incomplete vote totals, results will start coming in first from the rural areas, which lean red; cities take longer to count their votes--because there are more of them--and lean blue.

The more uncertainty there is about the outcome, the more you'll hear about the evolving numbers--news networks have airtime to fill, and there's only so many ways you can say, "Still too close to call." Try not to obsess over these numbers; the news networks have people specially trained to analyze this exact kind of data, and if they can't say how it's going to turn out, you're not going to know, either.

If it ends up being too close to call for several days, there will probably be reporting on small, county-by-county vote dumps. It's important to realize that this is all still the original count of the votes, not a recount or "finding new votes." We only hear about it when the election is so close that these relatively small numbers of ballots are likely to affect the outcome, but it happens every single election. In 2020, Trump repeatedly claimed that ongoing counts were some how irregular, and sometimes demanded that counts be stopped when the current total showed him in the lead. This is, to be clear, nuts; the full & complete count of the votes always takes more than just the one day, and it's a bedrock principle of democracy that every valid ballot is counted.

(* Back in 2000, the Bush-Gore election with the whole Florida debacle, several major news outlets did project winners too soon, and then had to walk back their projections.

This definitely contributed to the chaos that night, and may have also contributed to the widespread perception that Bush was the "real" winner and Gore was dragging the country through multiple recounts, in those first few days when the initial count of wasn't even complete in some states.

As a result, responsible media outlets are much more cautious these days about election-night projections.)

(**On January 7, 2021 he made a statement that was taken as indicating his understanding that Biden had won, or at least that he knew he wouldn't be staying in office, but he never stopped saying he won.)

(***This often looks like the Republican being miles ahead, and then suddenly California reports in and they aren't anymore. Expect Trump to pretend that this is somehow shocking, even though the last time a Republican won California was 1988.

Similarly, he will also pretend to be surprised when, for instance, Philadelphia turns in their first big batch of results, and Harris's numbers jump up.)

[acid-ixx]

ch.4: again &. again (platonic! yandere batfam x neglected! gn reader)

directory: preq, chapter one, chapter two, chapter three, chapter four

read until the end for an author's note.

tw: self-esteem issues, alcohol abuse, allusions to self-harm.

"baby bird, i know i haven't been talking to you much as of lately. but i just want to let you know that we miss you alright?"

not delivered.

"i really regret ignoring you, we all do. i'm-"

he hesitates, then deletes the last word of his message.

"—we're the ones in the wrong for everything, alright? you blocked me, i'm sure you did for everyone else too, i get that, but we care for you now and that won't change anytime soon. please remember that."

not delivered.

"and it pains me seeing that you're not replying to my messages at all, baby bird. but i promise i'll-"

dick bites his lips at the mistake of addressing himself only rather than that of the family, but a greedy part of him wants you to read the messages and to see only him in spite of everything rather than them, feeling a sense of... need to be the first and only one you see when you think about accepting their apologies, even if he's writing to you whilst simultaneously trying to get his family in your good graces.

dick doesn't know it. why he's suddenly obsessed with you. you? yes you, his stupidly precious sibling, the one who looked up to him, frail and wronged by the world, with so much drive behind that stare. third child of bruce, yet second youngest in the family. the one that got away, the one he has never once saw outside that one memory of glinting, awe-inspired eyes that told more stories than poets, drew more emotions than artists.

nobody saw you outside of your status as the manor's ghost— but compared to your other siblings, he knew you the most. he wants to be the only man good enough to be considered your brother, your oldest brother; an obligation he's willing to uptake just for you. he wants to be the only one with the authority to call you his baby bird. he doesn't know why, despite the thirteen and a half years, it's him wanting, no, needing to see you again.

you, just you.

every bits and pieces of you.

in his mind, it's just him and you. in your tiny little bedroom, with your dozens of sketchbooks and diaries, with only your brother, dick, to accompany you. in your own little world, as you speak to him of your dreams and passions with nothing else in your mind. you'd look up at him with sparkling eyes, look at him like he means everything in the world to you, and he'd see you as his world.

when he thinks of that, the more he hopes of the possibility of you reading his messages; his declaration of never leaving you alone anymore. and with hope comes along this dread that you'd reply with a nasty reply, or that... you'll never bat an eye him anymore.

dick doesn't take a second glance to correct his mistake again this time.

"i promise i'll be better for you baby bird. my little hatchling, my little one. i discarded you, someone so precious. you must've felt hurt, no? i get that, i'm so sorry you have to go through that because of me. but look! you have me now, we have each other now! and that might not be enough yet to mend the bridge i left to fall, but if you just, please reply to me, or anyone else, then we can fix this. i promise, baby bird."

not delivered.

"you won't ever feel hurt anymore, or sad or lonely. hell, even bruce is getting you a new bedroom fixed up, isn't that great!? i'll even convince the old man to make sure your room is close to my old one so you can visit me anytime. i'll even stay over at gotham for even longer, just for you! and i'll spend my time with you, with just the two of us, okay? nobody else can disturb us. i'm sure you'd like that too."

not delivered.

"and we can hang out anytime you want, no? sleepovers, movie nights, journalling— all the cool stuff you wanted to do with me in the past, we can do now! and it'll be fun with you, i can see it happening alrrady, i just know it. you can't convince me otherwise, baby bird."

not delivered.

"that's why i'm begging you to unblock me, little one, or to at least read all my previous messages, please? :( i'm still so sorry over how i treated you in the past. i've nothing to defend myself over how i acted towards you. i was so delusional, ignoring you when all you clearly wanted was to spend time with me, with the family."

not delivered.

"we can even have that dinner together, remember?! at that fancy restaurant you talked about, yeah? my treat, of course. you can order the entire damn menu and i'll leave you room for seconds and desserts. i can even make arrangements to get bruce to rent out the entire restaurant so it would just be the two of us plus the family, but mostly just us— that would be good! then you can sleep at my room after we get home to the manor since we're turning your old one into an atelier just for you! i'll even carry your cute little figure up any flight of stairs whenever you get tired."

not delivered.

"i promise i'll really make it up to you baby bird!!! <3"

not delivered.

"for all the times we neglected you, left you thinking you didn't deserve a spot in the manor (which you truly do, it's us to blame for never seeing it that way), made you feel negative emotions towards us— i'll take your pain and turn that into joy, i promise."

not delivered.

"and if you do manage to read through all this, please remember..."

not delivered.

"i love you so much, alright? we'll find you soon, and you'll be happier with us, i'm sure of it. i love, love, love you so much my baby bird."

not delivered.

he sighs, resigning his thoughts all to himself as he checks his phone every minute for a simple ring of notifications just from you. he prefers to leave his phone in silent mode from the multitude of other contacts bothering him, but god forbade if that means he'd scroll past to a single reply of yours, then he'd rather burn in hell.

and anything is better than the pain inflicted on him when it comes to the thought of you ignoring him.

because after all, he does mean it when he says he loves you, his baby bird, his adorable little sibling.

he'd rather hell than you seeing him any less of an older brother.

what takes longer? is it a seed growing into a bud, a bud into a bloom, or a flower to fully shrivel and die?

how long does it take for it to be considered worthy? deserving of attention and the rightful spotlight to attain its needs for life?

what takes its time? what other variable does it need for it to survive in such harsh conditions? if it's forcefully pried open as a seedling, as a bud growing in a field full of weeds sapping, draining it of its nutrition, or in a scorching, desolate desert, or pestilent lands; would it still be considered a flower?

what does a seed need to grow into a flower? beautiful, treasured, with vibrant colors reflecting off the surface of each petal, growing pollen for every pollinator to spread its bountiful success you call development?

what does it require?

everyone knows the answer, some could only be ignorant enough to turn the other way and reject the idea altogether.

it needs care, nourishment — healthy soil building a strong foundation, its home with roots carefully embedded in the ground, then it also requires water, a source of life given to it in specific times with just the right dose, and sunlight kissing its stems and petals warmly — and finally, love.

lots of love, attention, and patience from mother nature herself and its caretakers we call humans.

but how could a flower receive any, if not, all it needs, if it's raised under a marshy, overgrowth rainforest that speaks of death and cruel poachers that could step on the bloom of any moment?

how could a flower live, let alone survive, if its careless caretakers who took it away from its fertile lands neglect it of its requirements to grow and bloom into its rightful imagery?

just how?

you are a flower.

and you will wilt soon the longer you live in what you once thought was your home.

growing in cracked, dry soil, with no water nor sunlight aiding your growth.

you are a flower.

who had been loved by your creator, mother nature herself; your mother. but you've never once felt the care nor love of your cruel humans you call family, your father had never once saw your budding petals, kissed it, patiently watered or spent time outside in the sunlight with you. your brothers don't notice your dehydrated pets, shriveled leaves and bent stems, nor do they tend to it. your sisters don't decorate the pot you reside it, they don't talk to you every time you sag down in loneliness and isolation as you are forced to stay in the same place and witness the same scenarios over and over again.

not much knows it, but flowers, much like any plant, can communicate, they can feel. and when they do, they do deeply.

and you are a flower. a flower worthy of being pressed into books, storing your beauty forever. a flower worthy of being situated into a stunning arrangements of bouquets, worshipped through birthdays, dates, weddings, and even funerals.

you're a flower, and you're beautiful and deserving of praise and honor from your stages in life as a seed, from a bud, to a blooming flower. yet you're neglected the same way ignorant trespassers would step on growing blooms, uncaring for sabotaging their life completely, and oh-so easily.

you're a flower, a symbol of nature's fertility, resilience, and tranquility.

you symbolize your mother's long standing determination to care for a child whose father looked other ways but her. who raised her seedling with care, watered them with stories of fairytales: fantasies about prince charmings who take their flowers away from barren lands to spoil them with rich soil and neverending sunlight, about princesses who stop by flower shops to awe at the arrangements of bouquets, eyes glazing with fervor as they recount each and every symbolism every unique flower shares.

your mother places you in your favorite, decorated pot: your shared bedroom with her, and she kisses your cheeks, your forehead, your chubby little fingers, the same way the illuminating sunlight kisses at your flushed body whenever you two would go out for your walks.

she was your mother nature, and you were her precious flower.

you were once a blooming bud then, and you wished you would still bloom now.

how could you grow into what you're worth, when even you couldn't grow without the love that was taken from you?

what about the care, the patience, the determination she once held in her warm gaze, now cold and fading with life the last time you saw her; would it all be a waste?

how could you grow now?

and yet you don't even need to ponder for solutions. the answers were clear, clear as the water your petals used to bathe in, clear as the rain that pitters against alfred's car windows the same day you were taken away from your mother's hold—

you simply wilt.

8:31PM.

your friend said she'd pick you up quarter to nine, so you'd at least have the time to prepare and make yourself look good. but right now...

god, right now, you don't feel anything good, not even a wee bit of it at all. ever since he texted you, you feel like shit, utterly repulsed. vile, like the image of you vomiting every contents of your stomach— and now you're going out drinking with an empty one. you can already feel the bitter taste of heavy alcohol mixing in with the acids of your stomach.

you can already feel the breakdown you're having right now as you remember how fucking broke and useless you are for having to ask your friends to treat you to drinking because you have nothing left to offer beyond the fucking taxes you have to pay and the nearly due rent and bills.

you have nothing to offer. you're so shitty. you deserve to die.

the more you stare at the mirror, the more your eyebags seem to deepen, your lips began to dry, and the pit in your chest sunken.

and that makes you exhale even deeper, ignoring the way your throat constricts on itself in instinct.

your eyes flitter to your fingers, nails bitten, skin ripped at the seems with dry blood staining chipped cuticles.

when you looked back at your reflection, you want to cry even more, seeing an image of a moving pile of flesh. all puffy skin and sagging eyes.

you don't remember the last time you felt pretty about yourself.

whether it was in the manor, or back when your mother was the only one raising you— it seems like your memories are in shambles right now.

you don't remember the last time you looked in a mirror, looking healthy, fresh, and proud of yourself for dressing up in your style. in the back of your mind, there will always be hatred, resentment for how you look. and right now, you hate how you every bit of your appearance because...

because you look exactly just like an image of your mother and bruce wayne. a reminder, your punishment for your parents' beautifully tragic affair with one another. a billionaire who courted the lowly dirt-class slut of gotham.

yet you're uglier because you're not them, you couldn't be them. you're not picture-perfect brucie with slick-black hair and a face like fine-aged wine, or the image of your sultry, "man-eater" mother in her lingerie. you're just, you— you've inherited all the stupid flaws you wished you could shave off your damn body.

you remember seeing your father's face in television with your mother beside you by the couch, combing your hair and giggling when your eyes had lit up at the sight of the rich man. you haven't once took your eyes off the news channel whenever he appeared, looking at bruce, always enamored with his aesthetics, only to never notice your mother's tired eyes, or how shaky her fingers would sometimes become.

"momma, that's daddy, right?!" you asked her whilst the side of your body was pressed against hers, with all the enthusiasm a child could muster. your grin was wide, eyes peeled to the screen, enough to ignore the flinch in your mother as you had once thought it was her igniting with the same excitement as yours.

she simply leans down and kisses your cheeks, her eyes, a beautiful shade of your eyes color, albeit lighter in hue, never once left the crown of your small head, ignoring the headline for the news about 'brucie's new fling caught on camera!'.

your mother was so glad you were still illiterate at your age. she wish she could never break off the illusion that it was her who simply birthed to you, with no face for a father. maybe you would've never ask her about why he had never once came to visit your small family, why you could never meet your other siblings, or why he's seen with multiple other women by his side every time you open the television.

you ask at frequent intervals; it makes her wish to strip away the past in which she chose to tell you who your father was. you would've experienced less heartbreak, she would've never seen the way your eyes would dim at her every excuse, or the way she felt your heart crack at the seams, only further breaking hers.

yet after a while, she replies and buries her thoughts, ignoring the tears that lid her eyes. with not so much enthusiasm in her light voice, with the undertones of guilt and sorrow digging deep throat her throat, but it was enough for young, little you to jump on your springy couch with her response.

"... oh, yes, that's your papa...! isn't he so nice looking—?"

"and handsome! i'm so lucky to have such beautiful parents! i wish i was as pretty as you, momma, and daddy too!"

when you had looked up with haste, glinting eyes staring up at her with a wide grin, some baby teeth still present, others absent from your gums, yet you displayed admiration no less; your mother just as quickly wipes her red eyes and sniffling nose with the worn sleeves of her sweater and reciprocates your beaming energy with a small smile.

she wishes you'd dismiss her previous melancholic expression, replacing it with the same fond, yet tired gaze she always offers you, wishing you'd be as oblivious to the pain it brings her to see your hopes and dreams of meeting a father you could only admire through a screen or article. yet you're always so perceptive, so interlinked with her reactions that she's sure that one of the few positive traits your father had given you. she should've expected your words, yet her broken heart finds a path to heal whenever you sense her pain and soft a bandage to the cracks of her bleeding scars with your kindness.

you would always be her little flower. the one she'd nurture in a garden filled with rosy bushes and scarring thorns.

"—you're so beautiful, momma, even if you cry because daddy isn't here with us, or you're too tired taking care of me. you're beautiful because you're my mother, and i'll take you over everything in the world..."

and you tell her, an inaudible whisper to your voice, with eyes that were once wide, beaming with joy, now gazing at her with softness like the wind kissing blades of grass in a gentle dance. you look at her, and she stares back, eyeing your chubby cheeks and lips the same shape of hers, the ends of your lashes curves the same way as hers, and your voice matches her like a lullaby when you speak every vowel in a soothing lilt.

you calm the hurt in her chest, replacing it with a mellow warmth. she even forgot the tears that slowly dripped her eyes, all replaced with the comfortable softness of her precious child's palms, smooth and cozy, resting on both of her cheeks as you pepper her crying face with kisses.

she holds both your palms caging her, and allows the your hold to linger for longer. the silence ensues, yet you both embrace the unsaid assurances.

it's times like these where she realizes you encapsulate the beauty of both worlds.

it's moments like this, she sees herself in you, and maybe she could lead herself to believe that she is beautiful, because she sees her beauty through her child, her grace.

the memory only further deepens the guilt in your heart.

if there's one word to describe you now. it would be disgrace. to your father's honor, and your mother's legacy. for easily letting yourself go, for being so weak, for being the line that jumps between two polar opposites of one another; trying to traverse their path of belonging.

you're a disgrace, a mistake, and you deserve to be treated as such.

it was why you never find yourself beautiful. a person such as yourself would always find allure, worth in all things chaotic - you live in gotham after all - but never find that same value in yourself as you look at your reflection that distorts your image even more, making you uglier and uglier the longer you look.

split ends everywhere, hand tangled, reddish eyes from nearly crying again.

even if you beat at yourself, erratic and impulsive, even if your skin is colored an ashen blue and purple, rotten shades of yellow and red, you think of yourself ugly and repulsive.

no matter how much color you try to bring into your bleak, repulsive life, at the cost of hurting yourself to become pretty— every part of you will always be that ugly, little duckling in comparison of your siblings who always outshone you.

dick with his playboy body, jason and his towering one, tim with soft boyish features, damian's silky tan and smooth skin, and duke's baby face.

you couldn't even have your hair frame you as perfectly as steph's light blonde hair does, or share barbara's proportionate face, or look as gracious yet deadly like cassandra.

you're nowhere near as special, you're not like them. you have features too unique, yet out of place, and you couldn't bring yourself to be conventionally good-looking.

you hate yourself so much. you hate every little mole, every little pimple, every damn imperfection that litter your body, making you even lesser than what you already are.

your family; mother, father, brothers and sisters, god, even your fucking friends! every time you sit by them side-by-side, you'd feel insecure, imperfect, an eyesore and you just want to strip away every part of your limbs one by one if that meant replacing it with even better ones; all for the sake of at least feeling pretty.

you remember the first time you tried to find a sense of style, and damian's comment and– god fucking damn it—!

your hands found its way to your brushed hair, tangling itself through already fragile strands to rip at the seams. you don't care, you don't fucking care, you pray to any god out there to get them out of your head, pleas unheard, you're always left to hurt.

"what are you trying to achieve with that, huh? what even are you trying to think with that horrendous color combination? what are you, a clown? even that damned joker has more coordination than you think you could achieve."

in front of his friend, jon kent, with a scowl on his ever-so angry face and his hand already making a way to grip his sword; an absolute threat to dice you up shall you ever bother being in the same room as him.

he said that to you... you're older, you could've been stronger, could've at least found a semblance of fight in your bones. but no! god, no. your life was ruled with fear with damian wayne being the demon haunting you in the manor, always making living harder, making breathing a heavy task.

how could you ever fight back? not when you've conditioned yourself to tear up at the slightest bit of noise, feel goosebumps prick your skin when you hear someone raise their voice at you, and your heart rate hasten at the slide of a knife against any surface?

you! you who's so fucking weak to even make a comeback. you, who ran away with wide, traumatized eyes. because you're scared, so fucking fearful of an even bigger cut to your skin marked by damian— even if you're accustomed to cutting yourself with even deeper gashes.

because it's him that you fear, not the pain, not anymore. just him and his contempt at you for ruining his pure bloodline just by you being his half-sibling.

you don't want a repeat of your first meeting, or any meeting with him at all. not when you'd drown even deeper in a pit of fear every time you stare at his glaring, emerald eyes. one that tells you he chose to merely not kill you out of the goodness of his heart. but he will, god he will if he feels you've been too comfortable in his presence.

every damn time, everytime you feel fear, you see green. you hate green, any literal meaning of it, every implication of itx even seeing it, and fuck! your outfit has green embellishments.

you feel even uglier, yet the twinge of fear immediately overpowers any concern your had with your appearance. it's as if eyes were suddenly on you, and it's not only yours staring at you in the mirror.

your lips wobble, snot began blocking through the passage of your nose.

fuck, fuck, fuck.

why?! why can't you just forget about them all. why, why, why?!

you bite your lips harshly to conceal the pained whimpers from the back of your throat, but it doesn't work. it only makes the fear worse.

tears rim at your eyes, you merely wipe them away. your heart attempts to beat out of its gilded cage, yet you swallow your quivering chokes and proceed to continue staring at yourself in the mirror, dressed in a rush, with nothing to conceal your ghastly eyebags and sunken skin.

and green. you'll see it everywhere now. fuck, would dick send out damian to kill you now? you don't know, you're scared but you can't chicken out, not when your friend is already near to your apartment. god you wish you had beer in your cabinets instead, but you're broke and unprepared for life and your hair's all in a tangle and you just fucking want to die.

your hands grip at the edge of your sink, you look at your mirror and see the blood on your already bitten lips.

not even concealer can cover the damn scars all over your face all through the neck.

calm down.

you stare even deeper at yourself and ignore the green, trying to think of something else—

something less emotionally scarring, like your appearance. even if it brings you great pain, too, you'd rather that than your family. no more of them, fuck, no more. even if you stare at your eyes and see that familiar mix of colors of your mother and bruce's eyes. the shape of your face, even the curve of your brows all resembled your late mother— and you miss her, her captivating beauty that you never saw aged like fine way before she was taken away from you. you see bruce in the strands of your hair and the way it sometimes fray when too stressed. you see them in every image you wish to erase of yourself.

yet your genetics are nothing to them, not when you can't even care for your tangled hair or ashen skin.

even the dead looked more lively than you ever could.

with a pale complexion, with scars that litter all over your shoulders, wrists, and hidden parts of your body, one you're too ashamed to show anybody— it was no doubt that you looked pathetic and erased the beauty that both your parent's cultivated. and it makes you wonder; would it really be worth it?

would it be worth it if the people around you see you?

you with your melancholic eyes, trying to find an escape in a maze you call your mind? you can picture yourself drinking alcohol until you reach the domain of death, sitting in a stool, alone, as you nearly empty the contents of your stomach remembering the sole reason why you're there in the first place.

would it be worth it if all eyes suddenly were on you? they turn to you to gaze at the ugly bruises on your body, they mock your appearance, call you names, look at your sniveling, red nose and warm cheeks intoxicated from all the heavy liquor you'd down, and whisper. they'll whisper insults, slurs, and every known jab until it's all their words that pierces through your eyes, until the loud bass becomes mere background chatter for all the gossips that ensue.

are you actually going to do this right now?

you don't know, you don't know and you wish never cared as much.

all you could really focus on was your eminent goal of getting out of your stuffy apartment, to rid of the paranoia that somehow, you're being watched over in the confines of your four walls and that the familiar image of green will come attack you. the more you think, the more the hairs on your skin start to raise with every known intention to signal you of your anxiety.

eyes, they may be everywhere.

eyes, eyes, eyes. as you stare at your eyes, you try to ignore emerald eyes, they dilute even further. you gulp, yet your focus remains distorted. images flash at the mirror, and suddenly they're here, with you, with their eyes. bright blue for some, dark green for another, and they all gaze at you with contempt. one's hand claws at your throat, the other pins your wrist down on the edge of the sink. the eyes glare, and they never soften. yours merely shook, unblinking as your breathing becomes heavier; trapped in the cages of their wanton staring.

you yelp, then blink. when you did, they're gone. and you're back to looking at the same image of yourself. you grimace slowly.

ugly, with dry skin and falling hairs. the worst version of you, the normal version of yourself— there was never a best version for you.

as long as it's you, you'll never be enough.

all you wanted was to drink with your friends at a club; some working nightshifts at the location you're going to— yet you want to back down. want to take your phone by the corner of your vision and cancel your sudden plans.

but you're scared, you're so fucking scared of any new messages.

hell, even finding the contacts for your friends was a task in itself you wish to never repeat. with jittery fingers trying to type of messages and blurry eyes navigating through the screen of your slippery, glass screen protector.

you're scared, rightfully so.

you're scared to find his message once more suddenly popping up, your fingers accidentally pressing on it like the clumsy swine you are, and rereading that damn heart over and over again.

you slam your dominant hand against the tiled sink, hard and uncaring for the pain it induced all throughout your body. the tremors of the impact shook you to your core, yet you seethe in your breath and don't allow yourself respite to let the tears flow freely from your already red eyes. you feel your heart beating erratically through your chest, the shivers controlling your body, the shrieks that you contained within you— and you enchain them all with no respect for yourself.

you deserve this. you deserve to be hurt, to be punished for your actions, for your mistakes, for your sins.

even if your hand became swollen, splotched with varying shades of disgusting purples and yellows, you won't treat it with medicine. even if the sharp edges of the sink broke the fragile layer of your already scarred palm, and bled profusely with that familiar shade of red; you won't rush to wrap it with gauze or even spare a droplet of betadine. even if by the next day you'd have to write out your overdue assignments with that specific hand, then you'll force yourself to learn through the other and punish yourself again if you fail once more.

you deserve this.

and as your phone pings, lighting up to show you a notification of one of your friend's messages about being ready to pick you up by the lobby of your apartment's ground floor, you ignore your injured hand and the bruises on your knees from falling so abruptly on tiled floors just moment's ago. you dismiss the ache of your head, the soreness of your eyes and the disgusting beat of your heart.

you ignore the pain that wrecks at your entire body, in favor of destroying it even more, just as you deserve.

you don't recall how many shots you had before you're nearly passed out by the bar, sitting on its stool with your head leaning on one both your arms crossed, drool close to slipping out of the corners of your mouth and heavy eyes lidded, about to fall into the depths of sleep.

you're sure you looked wasted, absolutely drop-dead drunk with no thoughts circulating in your head other than the pleasant buzz in your ears and the flash of colors in the disco balls blanketing the entire room with its neon lights. your face must've been an unearthly shade of red, and you can already feel just how blazen it is, and how your fingertips are ice-cold to the touch (probably colder than the marble you lay your arms upon). in other words, you're actually wasted.

and it's so worth it if it means it gets you to forget. and forget you did, because you can't even dig deep into your head to even remember a single memory of whatever grief you went through earlier in your apartment. not even the throb of your head from when you pulled your hair from its roots, all to the way you slammed your dominant hand on your bathroom sink, bruising it with unnatural shades of purples and yellow.

it makes you omit every type of pain, both physically, mentally, and emotionally. it doesn't cure you of your ails, but god forbid you if you just want to savor moments where nothing but a mind numbing headache is the only feeling present in your current state.

the remix of songs were long forgotten in your mind, they all become an amalgamation of miscellaneous sounds. your body is so inclined towards the flat, rectangular cool surface of the marble glass of the bar that you can guarantee you could sleep here, especially since black behan to cloud both your vision and your mind.

everything feels so hazy, and pleasant, and straight-out peaceful that the screaming tandems of equally drunk clubbers and the occasional sobers holding up their friends who sang along with whatever remix the dj comes up with, or the forming crowd as people began to rock and dance to the bass that shakes up the entire floor to the point you can feel vibrations run along your spine— didn't register within the crevices in your mind.

all you can focus on, is the gratifying pleasure ll alcohol induces in your body. gone is the feeling of fear that emanates off of every inch within your body. your bones don't feel as if it's locking up everytime you feel eyes on you, and your throat doesn't certainly feel constricted with the lack of flow of blood anymore.

god, this is why you've never once regret drinking right after the moment you turned eighteen— not when it's positive effects outweighs all the negative emotions that rule over your body.

you couldn't even notice a man with shades (seriously, who wears that to party? isn't the club dark enough?) sitting beside your drunken form in the corner of your eyes, raptured in the thin line between focusing on reality and drifting off to dream world. you don't even bat an eye to his muffled giggles and the way he twisted his stool just to admire the view: you.

you're oblivious to the entire commotion happening within the depths of his mind because you couldn't feel any aptitude to danger right now— thanks to the effects of the hard liquor overtaking whatever fear you've felt being watched long ago.

or maybe you just felt safe beside the stranger. or, you're merely drunk. you don't know.

fuck, you're so close to passing out.

you don't know where your friends are, where they came running off to but you know you won't be getting out her sooner or later and you definitely don't have a ride home. so your only way back without getting ambushed as a completely vulnerable citizen of gotham, is by a safer, more convenient means of a ride— but that certainly wouldn't be safe if your friends are as equally drunk, or even more so, as you. but does your hazy mind care? no. not when you flip your head to rest on the other side once the other side became hotter that you notice a conveniently attractive man staring right back at you with an entertained grin.

as if your existence alone makes him happy. as much as your mind keeps blanking out, that mere implication made your heart pang just a teensy bit. of pain, or pleasure, or mere joy, you don't know. but you do know that it triggered some unknown feelings and you don't want to feel.

you want to drink some more, feeling solemn all of a sudden just from staring at him. you're sure the obvious frown on your quivering lips and the heavy, hot sigh

and it doesn't help that his face seems similar. the longer you stare, the more his grin seems to sharpen. confidently? or shyly? you can't seem to gain a clear image of him; what when rainbow lights are blazing out through the holes of the disco ball and your eyes recently just opened to your near journey to traverse through sleep.

all you can make out to be is his jet-black hair, side bangs framing the left side of his face, a faint outline of an eyebrow piercing

you also took note of his spiky jacket— yet what draws you the most to him are his sunglasses that he chose to wear conspicuously in a damn club of all places.

he's attractive, to say the least, but he triggers a set of emotions deep into the cages of your imprisoned heart that sets itself free. he gives you a sense of nostalgia, of familiarity that you can't pinpoint but feel; like you've seen him before but don't know when. your eyebrows furrow in and your eyes squint at him, unknowing to the judgement you're subjecting him in. your lips wobble, though, because his presence just makes your heart feel something, akin to pain but not quite, and makes your head buzz that you just want to cry as a reaction.

he, the stranger, don't know it, but he makes you all sad, primal emotions overtaking any drunkenness you feel as deep tremors buzzed into the confines of your chest, until all you're doing is staring at him with pouting, downturned lips and sad, puppy eyes; rimming with salty tears.

you don't know why you feel sad all of the sudden, and you can faintly see through blurry, watery vision how his face shifted from entertained to worry, eyebrows raised and eyes wide open at your sudden mood shift.

maybe you or him could've spoken up, you more so, but you're just so emotionally drained and overwhelmed today that you began sobbing silently without breaking eye contact with the man.

despite you wanting to say anything: an introduction, a question opening up as to why he's staring at you, or even a mere phrase telling him to "back off"; the only words that came out from your parched throat, all from trying to reason in your head on what a proper sentence should be, were:

"you're hot," and if you were sober enough, you would've felt sheer embarrassment and shame from eyeing the boy, but you're not— and because you're not sober, or any bit sane, the next few sentences you spewed out were all coherent, yet wonkily pronounced utterances paired with teary eyes and sniffling nose, as you can't seem to control the feelings of melancholy in your heart and the sudden emotional burst from your ramblings.

"thank you, you too, actually— but are you alright-"

"you're so hot, god, please. i don't know..." you gave him no time to speak as you hiccupped, lips wobbling even more than you can imagine. and you're trying your damn best to rid of the urge to punch at your chest as a coping mechanism through the multitude of emotions eating you up and away. but you never realized you were trying for an absolute stranger, palms fisting into itself as he stares at you worriedly all of a sudden.

"like... you're familiarly attractive, i—" the next few sentences were incoherent as your words bubbled around you like detergent soap. your fingers found itself into your face as you try to wipe off both tears and nearly dripping snot as you continued rambling drunkly.

"you just! you're hot, for me, i don't know... i'm just, we all—eughh... i don't know, i'm so sad..." and you truly are, for no reason at all other than seeing the man. poor him, must've felt so ashamed that he's the reason you're crying but at the same time... nothing can really stop you from ceasing your tears.

at least, that's what you've convinced yourself to believe in. that you're truly incurable of the ailment of being constantly depressed with nobody to aid you with your troubles. not even your friends, nor past therapists that you've consulted.

you've nothing to comfort you, and that makes you even more solemn than ever.

the simplest of emotions felt, the deeper and complex you take it out to be. sadness, or moreover depression, the horseman of apocalypse that destroys any hope you've tried to kindle with your life.

it makes you all the more burst into a wave of even more tears.

"... okay, okay, wait here for me, alright?" he suddenly stood up, hurriedly, probably unsure, or disgusted by you. you're unsure about what he's saying, too caught up crying that you simply nod to whatever he said and continued on with your episode.

as you're left alone, you allow your tears to dry only cry once more. when he left you, you weren't aware but you just felt even more lonely. at pushing away the only company you had after your friends left you in the dust, you feel depressed and regretful and all emotions related to grief and you just want to drink some more but you don't know if you can take it anymore!

god, it all returns to pain. pain you thought you could bury deep once you took multiple swigs of alcohol.

pain that makes you want to bang your head against the marble of the bar—

and you're so close to doing so, but only stopped when your blurry vision sets itself on the man returning with a handkerchief and a cold glass of ice water. at his kind gesture, you simply teared up even more, pouting when he walked your way and looked at you with a sheeping grin.

when he sat right back up on the stool seated to your right, he hesitated with his hold on the handkerchief near your face. but the moment he gathered up his pride and pressed it against the unnatural blaze of your cheeks, you merely leaned closer to his palms, eyes closing as you can feel the tears cease itself finally at the blind comfort he's unknowingly providing you.

"there, there... be careful, 'kay stranger?"

he mutters, a light chuckle accompanying him. it's only now you can finally focus on the cool churn of his voice and the , with your eyes close and the haze of your thoughts washing away, leaving you breathless in your respite— not restrictive, nor lonely, but still short of breath.

this reminds you of the times alfred had to hold you in his arms everytime you threw a tantrum at the manor.

it made you realize that the months, a near year even, after leaving the manor, made you crave physical affection. making you feel like a husk of yourself when not given. you feed off of the scraps of physical lovez to the point that even this man who's wiping away the tears from your cheeks makes your heart beat faster, in a comfortable manner.

sensations. he once told you that if you feel too deeply within, then to ground yourself you must feel beyond interior ranges of emotions.

and that's the technique you've been willing away from your head for so long. because it always requires another person in the room to comfort you, to simply touch you softly, gently like you're porcelain the same way the stranger is pressing damp fabric against your tearstained cheeks and hollowed out eyes.

the pain you've felt was because you're merely touch starved. alone, in a space where everyone has someone, and a no one can't have anyone.

but now that you do have a someone, no matter how dangerous he could've been outside of your impression of him, you feel the pain lessen, the heavy burdens become featherlight at his kind gestures of wiping all the salty tears from your face, the runny snot from your nose with no rush whatsoever.

"feel better now, hon?"

"mhm..." a long, drawled out yawn emits from your mouth, yet you're too comfortable with him to even care, suddenly feeling a wave of drowsiness after your emotional episode.

after he finished wiping your face, and felt it considerably cool down from the damp fabric, he placed it on the bar, one hand on your face keeping you stable. yet his other hand promptly went back to your cheeks.

he chose to do this of his own volitions, even leaning closer as your head finds itself slowly dropping to his clavicle (careful to avoid the spikes from his peculiar designed jacket), looking up at him and staring at his gray eyes.

the man looks down at you as you now realize he's cupping your face. at the implication of your entire ordeal with him, you might've felt flustered sober, but you're just so drunk that any spacial awareness for the proximity between your bodies just disappeared and left you with the need to sleep within the confines of the safety this man left you with.

you don't know it, but yet again the man smiles down at your adorable antics, finding the way you're absolutely trusting of a stranger both stupid, yet endearing. because he's no more stranger, and heaven bless him because he's so glad he's the person who approached you rather than anyone else because you looked so cute, and his crush on you may have lead him to stalk you occasionally just to ensure you're safe— that doesn't erase the gesture that he did it purely because gotham is too dangerous for your own good. and he's glad he trusted his human side of intuition, rationalizing with himself that today just seems to be the day you'd bump into danger if he's not there.

you're so stunning up close... how come tim never once found interest in someone as admirable as you is a mystery. but you trusting a stranger in your vulnerable state is much more.

and he's grateful he's that stranger.

because he may be a stranger to you, but a familiar one. and you feel safe, a feeling you haven't felt in so long that you simply just melt against him like clear putty; because you're transparent with what you feel right now.

and right now you feel warmth. not the uncomfortable one that blazes through your (now) cool face when you were drunk, nor the burning one whenever you thought of your family— but a pleasant one. like sitting near a fireplace as you watch the embers crackle, drinking hot cocoa whilst a quilt covers your body from the cold of the winter. you feel this way at his kindness, at his efforts to help you contain your emotions to a reasonable degree.

"what's your name, kind stranger?" you mutter on his chest (how come your head is laying on it, actually?) hearing the soft thumps of his heart. it's warm, he's warm and every bit of comfortable, as he does his best to move slightly back to remove his jacket and drape it over your body before he could reply to you, chuckling whilst doing so because you looked up at him with your eyes conveying every damn emotion that made you feel soft.

"it's conner, conner kent. call me kon, though. or yours if it's you." he purrs. it took you a minute to register his obvious flirting but what comes after is an absolute flush on your body and you recoiling from his hold as you look back at him, mouth agape. the tips of your ears were warm, and every bit of

an overexaggeration to his flirting, sure. it makes you look less appealing in your eyes, extra sure! but it's been so long since someone last attempted to flirt with you; but most were under the guise of when you were still a wayne and... and not as yourself. you! you who sports so many imperfections that—

"haha! is it strange to say that you look so cute whenever you look at me with wide eyes in the short span of time we just met?"

he slides in through your train of thoughts before you could delve even deeper through self-deprecation. and you're glad that he did because... god, he makes you want to shamelessly gloat as a reply. you've never had someone complement your eyes before, actually...

"i'm..." you look back at him after you stared down at your palms, heat overtaking your entire body. yet again it wasn't uncomfortable, and just the right temperature. you stutter your name afterwards, making sure it's your mother's last name that you highlighted implicitly and not bruce's.

he seems to grin even wider when you introduce yourself. that's when his next reply generally warranted you to nearly burst off your seat out of sheer diffidence.

"well," he says your name, tasting every syllable in his pierced tongue. "your name tastes sweet, dove. but i think your face is even sweeter now that you're not crying — not saying that isn't cute too but you're so stunning now that i look closer at you without any barriers. your eyes, especially, they're like some mix doe and siren eyes, or whatever my other friends talk about in social media. point given, you're drop-dead gorgeous in my eyes."

it all comes naturally from him that your brain merely shortcircuited and fried itself comprehending his message, forgetting you were drunk in the first place replacing it with a flush in your heart, the pit of grief and despair replaced with the lighthearted need to banter or reply meekly at his shameless flirting right after he comforted you.

this is the first time you felt something for someone's romantic gestures, instead of that wave of nausea that accompanies you.

he makes you feel... pretty about yourself. in a good way, in a way you don't feel the need to hide your insecurities for once and instead allow his eyes to flitter around your entire face, analyzing your features because... because he simply makes you feel pretty the more he stares at you.

yet all you did was take his hand on your own, a sudden burst of confidence even you couldn't explain, and played with it, as you pouted in reply before thinking— using his hand-now-turned-fidget-toy — of a good enough response.

you simply said, coughing before continuing, "i don't take back what i said moment's ago. you're hot too, even if my vision was obstructed by my tears."

"oh, really?" he smiled gently and allowed your hands autonomy to play with his. it's like telepathy, he knows it's automatic that you crave physical affection and attention and he's willing to provide you that solace.

"now that you're not crying— you think i'm even more handsome?"

you snort at his question, then took a step back with your thoughts to properly study him. neat, yet messy hair, piercing on the eyebrows and on his tongue (hot), sunglasses and spiky jacket draped upon your shoulders— goddamnit, of course he's hot! and you made it efficiently clear that he is, with your hands fiddling pattern against his soft, yet calloused hands, by squeezing it.

"yes, you are even more handsome, kon..." brief and concise, just how you like it. even if he gave you an entire essay describing you in his eyes, for you, you prefer actions; and you did so by simply being affectionate with the stranger, now acquaintance you have a slight crush on.

you'd never expected this turn of events, but it was a pleasant one and one you'd never really want to trade with anything else now that you've met kon.

so when he opened his mouth to spew something else, your ears perked up to listen and your mind, albeit slowly sobering up, prepared itself to reply to whatever flirting, conversation topics, and anything random it is that he wishes to talk about to you.

you smiled at him whilst he talked, he reciprocates as always.

yet this time, you weren't afraid to hide just how joyous you feel, for once, having a person interested in you not only physically but with your interests, too, as your conversations kept shifting to things about you.

it made inclined to learn about yourself, too. and that makes you happy, and fuzzy in the insides the more he asks you questions beyond your favorites. like in movies, he didn't simply just ask your favorites and you replied with an answer and moved on, no! you both discussed the emotional depth it impacted you with, why symbolism matters so much, and why in the near future you'd both inevitably meet up, you'll both watch it together.

that makes you feel excited.

you even forgot the main reason why you're here in the first place; to drink. now, though, it seems like you just wanted to talk to kon all night long.

fortunately for you, that's how the rest of your night went. with a pleasant buzz in the background, the sounds of remixes all drowned out in your ears as you favor the chatters of the man beside you, with the tremor of his voice a comfortable volume and his tone laced with freshly made honey.

when your friends finally ran back to the bar where you all collectively agreed to meet up at once everyone's shenanigans were finished, they giggled drunkenly whilst some sober ones whistled at seeing your hand unknowingly massaging his palms like a stresstoy and the jacket draped upon your shoulders.

the moment you returned it to him, he joked about wearing it every second now since it reminds him of you, and how it's his favorite piece of attire now beyond all his other clothing. you merely blushed and ignored the cooing of your friends behind you.

you didn't feel concerned over not seeing him anymore, as he had given you a slip of paper with his number on it in through a tissue with paracetamol pills wrapped around it (like the thoughtful gentleman he made himself out to be when he excused himself a second time to get those items, since you'd left your phone with one of your friends; you swore you felt a blush creep into your cheeks and heating the tip of your ears), you instead felt a pang of longing and furrowed your brows, looking at him as if asking if you'll see him around anytime soon as he reciprocates with a sure grin that makes you feel a wave of feather like affection.

he left shortly after, striding to you as your group recollects all your stuff and whispering a, "text you later, dove. stay safe for me, alright? don't let any other strangers get to you."

you're glad this night would end on a good note, willing away any prior doubts towards spending the night in a completely foreign street and expecting fir criminals and thugs to break in but no! you can't help but admit that your new... interest, conner, made your night a thousand times better.

and his little nickname for you... haha, you're so flustered thinking about texting him tonight. you'd neglect your assignments for now if it meant messenging him right after you get home, safely, for his sake.

when your group all came outside though, that's when things shifted.

time is a construct. it's complicated and structured like that as well. it can either be too fast, or too slow. when your friends had taken their sweet time to spend the night dancing about the dancefloor, when you'd taken the precious time to flirt and talk to kon; that's when you all collectively realized that their damn cars were stolen.

the air suddenly shifted to this thick atmosphere when you all stepped out, one that can be sliced through with a sword, and you swore—

god, you swore this night couldn't have been any better with the turn of things, but now. right after you got out the club, it all took a turn for the worse.

this is it.

you're going to die today.

you're going to die, in some dirty ditch, your friends nowhere to be found, with nobody to save you.

nasty bruises already began to form on your skin, one with harsher colors of purple, blue, and yellow on your wrists and other patches of skin; way harsher

the man in front of you was gnarly, but you've no time to judge as he kicks you in the guts.

matted brown hair lay atop his head like a bird's attempt at a near, he has an odor that reeks of sewer rats, piss, and feces, and an unruly beard that houses bits of his leftover.

he holds a weapon whose shape you couldn't make out with your hazy vision, body nearly cramping in on itself once he kicked you again.

straight in the abdomen, with brute strenght accompanied by his worn leather boots decorated with glinting spikes that sparkle under the moonlight's glow.

in the abdomen, spikes.

blood first, then curdling pain next.

no noise rips through your ears, only wringing ever present, but your mouth opens, and you can feel its tender chords crack as a scream erupts from your throat, shrill and resounding from the deepest depths of the cockpit your mouth has to offer you; uncaring for the man in front of who who suddenly covers his ears and grits his teeth, who looks at you like you're mad, yet unlike same way his two other lackeys from behind look at your like you're the creation of carnage itself.

pain shot throughout your body, most especially at the core of the holes that pierced through your clothes and right inside your skin. and as your bulging, teary eyes try to look down with an agape, whimpering mouth, his shoes still connected to your body; you could only hold off so much of that familiar taste of acidic bile paired with that lingering scent of cheap booze.

tears were a byproduct of the misery, as it began to escape from your already puffy eyes. when the man released his legs fron pinning you down, your sobs only worsened as your unpinned, shivering arm try its damned best to cover the already leaking blood.

six holes, the diameter of the more than half of your finger, was what you could make out in your line of sight. the blood that leaked from them looked black, you couldn't find where the gradient of black and red connects, your only certainty in this situation was that you'd bleed to death before help could come to you.

the spikes were as long as a toothpick, a crimson puddle lay dripping on the floor.

your legs were shaking against your will, your eyes frantically search around you yet your pinned once more, his larger body framing against your own, providing no room nor qualms for an escape.

but the only escape you wanted was one from the pain of his pressing against your injury, even more blood spilling out of its confines. your tears only hastened its descent from your shaky eyes.

when your mouth opened for the nth time to wail out, he seethed in a breathe and threatened you, with his breath as vile as his entire being, that smells like every mix of synthetic chemicals from cigarette flavors, all expired, with teeth rotting and sporting yellow and black wallpaper.

gross, so gross. you want to die when the stench hits your nose. you shrivel in yourself, you couldn't breath.

"listen here, little bitch, you quiet down or i kill you. and 'ya either give me everythin' you own in your damn possession, or i'll kick you even more until a thousand little holes will fuckin' make you bleed to death, hear me?"

hearing his statement only made the adrenaline pump even more fight of flight into your heart. but you can't do either, you can't, not when you're still hazy from the fucking alcohol and the self defense tools in your tiny pouch were thrown a few feet away from you.

you've nothing to defend yourself.

oh god, oh shit, fuck.

you want to die, you want to so fucking die than go through the same pain of nearly being abducted or held hostage again.

yet your eyes could only close, your teeth kissing your bottom lips, biting hard to drown out another pained scream. whimpers, god, they're so loud yet you can't help the whimpers and the broken faucet from your eyes. even if you beg your own body to stop, it doesn't listen to the pleas of your mind.

the only thing it can focus on is the pain. recreant, volatile pain.

a moan escapes you, shaky and prolonged. the only other emotion that you could experience after is sorrow.

you didn't expect your pleasant night to end off in such a tragic note, but as your attacker held you by your throat with one hand, a knife pointed against your face, the next that happened was your head slammed roughly against the wall; a dull, beating ache lulling the back of your head after the momentary spark of pain— you're reminded that this is reality, and you're close to losing consciousness quick.

you're going to die.

bloody, a sobbing, dissociating mess, with your thoughts spinning around the same way the stranger and his lackeys laugh — bared yellow teeth, with the smell of ichor prevalent in their clothes, predatory eyes leering at you like you're prey — at your drunken moans of pain.

you're going to die.

"well, you gonna answer me or what, bitch? you wanna die!?"

he shouts you with spit that sprays all over your face, flashing you a grin and by extension flashing you his ugly, bared teeth. some missing were in his gums, others were artificial, most rotten like him.

you're going to die.

alone, in a ditch. bloody, laying in a pool of your own crimson the same way you saw your mother drowns in a puddle of hers.

you'll die like her—

what an honor.

the more you think about the situation, the more you're led to believe that the only way to solve this was through death alone, with no restrictions, no buts or ifs. you've no fight left in your body, or any weapon to fight. you're drunk, defenseless and if you actually managed to escape, you'd still bleed to death in some unknown alleyway. if you're lucky, a stray police may find you and give you a proper burial. but you remember you're in the living incarnate of hell in america, you'll never have a proper death.

this was night in gotham. your death alone only adds to the already astounding high percentages of all the other lives lost to the same twisted fate. you were no different. and to die early than to suffer from torture is better.

i mean, who would give a shit if you die tonight, right? your family— wrong! alfred would panic at your disappearance, but he'll forget about you like he did others, you're sure of it. that's why he still chose to fucking serve the wayne's instead of fully taking your side. if he had to choose between saving you or the people he swore his loyalty onto, he wouldn't hesitate. you're sure. even if the thoughts made the doom in your heart heavier. even if you know your story would never be covered nor acknowledged, you still year

but life is unfair, everything is. that's why you're here now, in a dark fucking alleyway with men who'll more than take advantage of your dying body and leave your corpse in the dump after. life is unfair, yet it's even more cruel in gotham. you should've expected this, should've known that a turn of events could be possible. you'll feel regret in the afterlife, only for a life that could've been well-lived, but never for the choice of living through the torture you call being a wayne.

so you came to the conclusion; confident for once after living for thirteen and a half years walking on eggshells around a manor.

this is not as bad as their neglect.

you smile in response to the guy, genuine and filled with grace as your heart that once pounds against your chest now slows down to a calm pace, finally at peace. with no other intention than to rattle him even more, to the point of choosing you to kill with his own hands as brutally as he likes— so you finally take a well deserved rest from life.

you gather saliva at the center of your tongue, ignore the taste of blood that swirls, nor the soreness of your throat and the crimson dripping down your nose.

when he looks down at you, disoriented at what you're doing, you spit at him, all the beating in your heart hastened, yet slowed down as quickly as you heave in a final breath.

... you're finally going to die.

"FUCKING HELL, YOU DAMN CUNT—!"

you close your eyes, bracing yourself for the knife that would hopefully stab you in the face, or the chest, and think of your last thoughts. you thank alfred for caring for you for those thirteen years, you hope you win your mother's graces in the afterlife even if she discovered your deliberate choices for killing yourself in the spur of a moment, and you wish your old family a happy life living without you, even if they already did so for so long.

all you needed was seconds to conclude your prayers.

but they weren't answered as you wanted them to be, not when you open your wide eyes to what was supposed to be a glint of silver piercing through the middle of your face was replaced by a bullet, quick and precise, shooting through his cranium without mercy, body immediately laying limp within those seconds.

the other two behind him were good as dead, too, your savior not wasting any moment to end their lives then and there.

and as you stumbled from the grip released from your body, your torso nearly crumpling in on itself, a flash of familiar, metallic red enters your vision when you'd look up from your savior who's huge form now meticulously acts as your shield from the brutal carnage that lays upon your line of sight and a pillar of protection trying to help you stand from the pain that shot through your lower abdomen.

but you don't want to stand, you want to drop dead right now. you don't want this, you didn't want this to happen.

instead of gratitude, dread fills your lungs with water and your fingers were left to tremor.

he looks down at you, you couldn't make out his expression, but you could feel the anger coursing through his body, the same as the day you first met him when he was still newly rebirthed, like it's telling you of his unadulterated rage at witnessing the scene before him. his body shakes, heavily, and his grip on your hands tighten, a mechanical groan drawling deep from his automated voice banks that changes his voice.

yet all you feel was fear overtaking your entire body prior to the comfort at the prospect of death.

you'd rather die than this.

even you couldn't believe the whimper of his name from your wobbling lips, as your body, out of instinct despite the pain, tried to push itself against the wall, away from him.

he only moves to hold your waste protectively, like a... brother suffocating his younger sibling with blankets when they complain it's cold. overbearing, disgustingly affectionate; you don't want it.

you feel cold.

this day could've been any worse— and it took a turn to the all worse scenarios you could imagine.

"jason...?"

"angel..."

a single familiar name was spoken, yet a new nickname was introduced. angel: the same way jason swore what you looked like when he sped through his motorcycle after hearing a shriek from all across the streets, finding you, bleeding and beaten to a pulp, with your attacker almost stabbing you.

of course, who wouldn't hesitate pulling a gun against someone trying to kill your precious? jason doesn't even need to choose.

and whether he did it in the name of justice and respect to his moral code, or because finding someone with a familiar face, sharing the same hopeless, yet death-accepting expression as he did back when he died— it all doesn't matter in the heat of the moment now.

what matters is that his angel is hurt and the madness in him festers the longer you bleed out in his arms, defiant and fearful all the same.

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

PLEASE READ: 11,000+ words. AND I LITERALLY HATE THIS CHAPTER (new least favorite fr) 😭 this decision is so impulsive i gonna regret it soon. chapter 5 will be released after a few days and i promise it has more action than this I SWEAR. first parts are always boring. anyways, there're so many song references in this chapter and for the next chapter. if any of you could guess what they are, i'll be rewarding all of you with something special. otherwise, please leave comments for this chapter! what motivated me to write was reading everybody's comments and inputs, about the love they have for this series as much as i do. interactions, asks, comments, they're all important and dear to me and i heavily appreciate it. so more interaction = more content. after all, i'd rather a post with little likes but with no interaction than a post with no interaction but all likes.

otherwise, i can't add anymore to my taglist so taglist requests are closed!

taglist: @lilyalone, @secretomelettetroops, @earlqurl, @simpingfor-wakasa, @amber-content, @ruiroku , @okaybutfullhomo , @trasshy-artist , @obsessedwithromance, @jjsmeowthie, @fairy-lenaa , @ilovvmyhusband , @6uuyuuhgy, @plsfckmedxddy, @lavender-moony , @sweetheart-era, @chemicalsandghosts , @darling006 , @starringyau , @samanthahanes, @rosecentury , @jaythes1mp , @pi1nkl0ver , @i-thirsty-boy, @sharks-are-cool-l, @silverklaus, @traumaramacenter , @maddimoon , @anxrq, @thedarknesslord , @h0rr0r-10ver-69 , @lazy-idate , @cupids-pretty-boy , @alishii, @mel-star636 , @sitepathos , @freakyotaku059-blog , @dirtydiavolo, @sunbleachedantlers, @24hrsoflanii, @ceramic-raven , @une-lueur-dans-la-nuit , @tdickensstuff4 , @thickerthanthieves , @arlandvery , @distressed-lezbo, @bunbunboysworld , @bellethesleepypotato, @nebuluma, @alliwantisadonut, @alishii, @kusakiguzen, @sirenetheblogger, @emmbny, @ryukyuin, @solkara, @starsdotalk, @nightstarblue, @huhuhhuhh, @shadowpup163, @sunshine-skz, @24hrsoflanii, @bazellawrites, @pato-spoiler-27, @harumy07cat, @rains-mae, @funnybunnyxxx, @littlelilithspost, @howisgroguthiscute, @yuyuzi-ling, @tullipam, @coldcrusadehideout, @princessloveweird, @hybridcon

[icemankazansky]

A Simple Guide to Not Being Afraid to Write Comments to Fic You Read

I've seen a lot of posts about the current state of fanfiction comments. Writers, especially writers who have been in fandom for a decade or more, are frustrated by the lack of comments, and have noticed a definite decline in comments (and all other forms of reader interaction) in the past ten years or so. Many readers feel daunted by the expectation of leaving comments, afraid they'll do something wrong. As a fandom old maid, the latter confused me for a while, until I realized that most of the people who feel that way probably have not been taught this form of communication.

But your loving fandom elders are here for you. Come along as your auntie tumblr user icemankazansky makes this shit easy.

The easiest way to think of fanfiction comment etiquette is to compare it to something you likely already know: Gift Receiving Etiquette.

Fanfiction began as largely a gift economy. And a lot of it still is! You'll see authors participate in exchanges like Yuletide and Id Pro Quo; those are ficswaps in which authors write for a specific person to specific prompts. And even outside that, fanfiction is not written for money; authors write and post it simply for the joy of creation and community with fellow fans. Fic is posted free for anyone to enjoy. Is that not a gift?

So. When you as a reader finish the chapter or story you're reading and you are faced with the comment box, try to follow the same etiquette you would when receiving a gift. (And even if you didn't love this gift and it's not your favorite gift ever, we already know that it's more useful than the products from your cousin's MLM that they're passing off as gifts, because you read the story. At the very least, it entertained you for the time you took to read it.)

The big rule of gift receiving etiquette is not to insult the person who gave you the gift, either directly or indirectly. That's it. Full stop.

I've been seeing a lot of comments lately that are just along the lines of, "Thank you for writing this story and sharing it with us." A+, top of the class, full marks, you're doing amazing. If you don't feel comfortable commenting on the story itself, that is perfect feedback. And that's the most basic way you respond to a gift, yes? Thank you for the gift. Thank you for thinking of me. Thank you for sharing.

Does this rule mean that you cannot say anything at all that might be negative about anything? No, absolutely not. What you want to avoid is saying something that is, at its core, a negative evaluation of the author or their work. Let's do some examples.

Character A's obliviousness about Character B's MASSIVE crush on them made me so frustrated! I was tearing my hair out internally screaming, "JUST LET HIM LOVE YOU."

✔️ Excellent comment! You're allowed to have all sorts of feelings about things that happen in the story, and in fact authors LOVE to hear about any emotions they made you feel. Yes, frustration is not a positive emotion, but the thing you are expressing frustration about is not the author themselves or their shortcomings.

Contrast that to:

I was really frustrated that it took you so long to post this chapter. The cliffhanger at the end of the previous chapter had me tearing my hair out, and then you just left us hanging FOREVER!

❌ Nope! Here what you are expressing is frustration with the author and how fast they come out with new chapters. Imagine your sister buys you a gift for your birthday, but she isn't able to give it to you until the next week, and you respond with: "What took you so long?" I think Emily Post would frown on that.

Reframing

The way you say something and the point of view from which you give feedback can have a HUGE impact on the message you're sending. Let's take the last comment (the one about wanting an update) and see what happens when we reframe the same sentiment as a positive:

I was SO EXCITED to see that you updated this story! I have really been looking forward to seeing what happened after the cliffhanger in the last chapter.

✔️ Now it's not an insult. The author will be happy to know that you are happy to see new work from them.

This idea extends beyond the story itself: to the fandom, the characters, the pairing, the tropes, etc. Let's do some examples.

I looooove reading about these sexy boys SO IN LOVE even though the movie you're writing about is SOOOOO problematic.

❌ Nope! Assume that the author enjoys the canon, characters, pairing, etc. in the stories they write. This comment is insulting to the author because it basically says, "That thing you love is not great, and you should probably feel bad for liking it." Imagine your aunt gifts you a sweater from a popular retailer, and you respond with, "This is so cute, I love it! It's a shame that it was made in a sweatshop." Do you have a valid point about the canon or the retailer's business practices? You very well might. Is this the proper time and place to talk about it? Absolutely not.

Let's do a reframing exercise. You should be very careful about how you approach commenting negatively on anything in the story that appears in the tags list, but you can make it a compliment and good feedback if you have the right perspective. See the difference with these two approaches:

I kind of think frottage is disgusting, but I liked it in this story.

❌ Nope! You just told the author you think their kink is disgusting. That's like telling your poor aunt who is just trying to keep you warm this winter that she has awful taste in knitwear. Try again.

Frottage normally isn't my kink, but I love your other stories with this pairing, so I decided to give it a try, and I'm SOOOOO GLAD that I did! This story was 🔥🔥🔥

✔️ "This normally isn't my thing, but you made me expand my horizons!" Authors love to hear that. That's like telling your aunt, "I never thought this color looked good on me, but I look so cute in this sweater! I'm so glad you helped me step outside my comfort zone, because I'm the better for it."

thank u, next

The last thing I want to address is this new trend I've seen in commenting lately: placing an order. If your mom surprises you with new headphones, you don't respond with, "I wanted the white ones 🙁," or, "You should get me a new phone, too." It's easy to see why that isn't appropriate in a gifting situation, and it's also not appropriate when commenting on fanfiction.

Let's do some examples:

This fic was soooo cute, but it would have been a million times better if Character A had been with Character C instead of Character B.

❌ There are a few things going on here. Number one, you're telling your mom you wanted the white headphones, not the ones she actually bought you. You're also disparaging the A/B pairing that the author chose to write about, and as we discussed, we can assume that the author wrote the pairing because they liked it. Even if it's not their favorite and/or they also write A/C, they made a choice for this story to be A/B, and the comments section of a fic is not the place to question choices the author made in their own work.

You should write a story where Character Z who is not even in this story does [thing that is vaguely referenced in the B plot].

❌ "You should get me a new phone, too."

I want a sequel. 😞

❌ "Thank you, next!"

You can reframe this kind of sentiment if you are careful about it, and it's not all you say.

I really loved this story. I would be so interested to see these ideas explored further if you ever decide to write more in this universe.

✔️ Not "gimme." Not "more." This is, "If you build it, I will come." It is a HUGE difference.

You already know how to do this. You know how to graciously accept a gift; just use that same etiquette, and boom! Now you know how to fearlessly write a comment to fic you read. You're doing amazing. Go forth and comment.

[sugume]

CONJUGAL VISIT w/jujutsu Kiasen

Description: in which an inmate of a prison or jail is permitted to spend several hours or days in private with a visitors

More: Fem!Reader, explicit content, unprotected sex, some d/s dynamics with Toji, American prison system? (idk if other countries allow this lol?) 

☾ Ryomen Sukuna 

He's been in solitary for so long that you start to think you'll never see him again. He finally fixes his attitude enough to come in contact with others and eventually gets some visitation rights. Get used to having sex with him here because the guards inform you he isn't leaving for a long time.

 “s’too much Kuna!” You whine into the flat pillow but your boyfriend Sukuna could care less and keeps pounding into you from behind.

“Think I care slut? Been away from this pussy for months now, shut up and take what I give you.” He grits out, pushing deeper into your back with one hand, fisting your hair with the other. He’d be damned if you tell him what to do after all this time away. Do you know how spineless he had to act in order to get this visit, on his ‘best behavior’, desperate to finally be able to sink in some cunt after being surrounded by irrelevant men and guards with their heads up their asses?

“Feels s’good,” you moan when Sukuna hits your special spot. “I’m gonna cum!”

“That fast slut, it hasn't even been ten minutes” He chuckles, leaning down to bite your shoulder.

“Missed you, ‘Kuna, c-cant cum ‘out you.”

“Can’t do shit without me, bet you can’t even function out there without me,” He groans in your hair, you don't understand half of what he’s saying you just nod mindlessly and slam your hips back on his cock.

“Then cum on my cock, whore.”

☾ Gojo Satoru 

He's on a mission that requires him to go to jail. The prison warden is in on it, but that doesn't mean your boyfriend doesn't want to experience the "real deal." He convinces the warden to allow him weekly fuck sessions because he says he can't complete the mission without them.

“i-Im gonna cum ‘Toru!” you whine aloud, to far gone to be embarrassed that your boyfriend is fucking you on scratchy sheets in a bed that probably hasn’t been thoroughly cleaned in years or the fact that multiple other girls have probably been in the same position you’re in with other inmates, on the same bed.

“So tight love, haven't you been using your dildos in my absence?’ he questions as he thrusts into your glistening cunt. Watching as you throw your head back, tears running down your cheeks.

“They’re too small ‘Toru!” You wrap your legs around his hard ass trying to get him as deep as he can.

“Aww, they can't make you cum as hard as I can, can they love?” he pouts against your swollen lips. You shake your head furiously, listening to the sounds your squelching cunt makes when he thrust back in, his balls slapping hard against your ass.

“Think i'll ask if I can get out early on good behavior. I can't leave my girl unsatisfied now.” He chuckles before diving his tongue into your mouth.  

☾ Toji Fushiguro 

Your mans got locked up again! This isn't the first time, nor will it be the last. You don’t know how he convinces the guards to allow you to visit time and time again, but you won't complain. You always miss him when he's gone every few months. The guard just sighs when he sees you’re here for visitation again

“You miss me, little girl?” he grins, sticking thick fingers in your already sopping cunt. “You know I always miss you when you’re gone, daddy.” You gasp, your back hitting the cold concrete wall behind you when Toji curls into your g-spot. 

“So so bad.” you whine, grinding your aching clit on his hard stomach, legs tightening around his slim waist when you find the perfect spot.

“You wanna cum little girl?” he asks while marking up your neck. He needs others to know you’re taken and if he can't be around you at the moment he’ll make it known another way.

“Yes Toji!” You scream.

“Yes what?” He stops his fingers.

“Yes daddy,” you whisper, moving your hips desperate to not lose the orgasm you were chasing. “Please make me come daddy, please!” 

“That's what I thought little girl” He says before continuing his movements and biting down on your heavy bottom lip.

☾ Choso Kamo

Too ashamed that he ended up in prison to allow you to visit him for a while. After much reassurance from you that you don’t look at him differently he finally comes out of his shell and makes friends. Get’s out early on good behavior.

“You think someones watching?” You mumble, looking back at the camera in the corner of the dark lit room.

“F-fuck baby, don’t fuckin’ stop,” Choso whines, gripping your waist, trying to make you bounce on his stiff cock. ‘Who cares if they are, baby? They won’t touch.”

You turn back around and grin down at your boyfriend “mmm, isn't that how you got in here in the first place Choso, beating up a man for touching me?” You start grinding on his cock again.

“Do anything for you, baby.” He moans gripping your waist when your tight walls start squeezing down on him, trying hard not to bust a nut so quickly.

“Yeah,” you moan out, feeling his cock twitch in you. “Now you’re stuck in here for months away from me.” You pout and claw at his chest when Choso starts to bounce you on his cock. God, if only he didn’t beat that man up you’d have this every night.

“Worth it.” He looks up at the camera, imagining the security guard looking down at your ass recoil when he slams you down on his cock