#a plot was in here somewhere

[vindickyoutive]

black noir being the father that stepped up :)

here’s a little snippet of ‘black noir being the father that stepped up’ WIP :) the explanation written in the heading is simply: ‘noir passive aggressively forces his way to see the experiment he technically risked his life for’

At first, he thought they were fabricating the truth just so that he’d be one-hundred percent convinced. The notion had come off to him as ridiculous, simply a stretched hope, something that wasn’t even remotely possible considering all of their limitations - and yet, all of it was real, unfolding right in front of his eyes. His one eye, for the time being.

A week had passed since the fight, since Soldier Boy’s abduction, Noir hadn’t healed properly, but that’s the least of his worries. Luckily enough, he pulled through. With the extent of the beating he had received, the severity of his injuries, including how close he had felt to his head being completely smashed inward - the scars littering his face, his head, being alive right now was all he could ever ask for.

The child, three years old now, Noir found out he was born April-May nineteen-eighty one, had bleached blonde hair and he kept chewing on his fist as he sat on the cold, pasty tiled floor, his other hand yanking at the blanket sprawled over his tiny legs.

Although he made no noise that indicated any interest in what he was seeing, Noir had lifted his hand to press his palm against the glass and slowly leaned in, ogling the boy, body language exuding infatuation.

Vogelbaum was saying something next to him, but he wasn’t listening, he kept staring at the baby, listening to the echoes of the toddler humming an unrecognizable tune.

Vogelbaum slips up and says ‘John’ in reference to their little labrat. John’s name is the only piece of information Noir feels the need to retain, the doctor begins to correct himself, seeming a little perturbed at himself due to his moment of slippage.

Noir was already repeating the name over and over in his head.

He goes inside to see the toddler, Vogelbaum lets him albeit reluctantly. Noir wonders how long he’s been carrying this invisible air of intimidation that causes individuals to sway, he questions if these people even trust him. It’s not like they trust Payback at all. Noir was the only one who decided to stay around much to the discomfort of everyone else.

Once Edgar mentioned the replacement was ‘still a child’ he knew he couldn’t leave.

Vought did a necessary task in the midst of being one of the most corrupt companies in capitalist America, and that task was getting rid of Soldier Boy. Yet, even then, they’ve once again caught themselves meddling in something sinisterly heinous, again. Noir thinks about their track record as he shuts the door behind him, the toddler scooting back, tilting his head at him as he strides over, he thinks about the evils of raising a child like this, in this type of facility.

Noir kneels, holding his hand out.

John has big blue eyes that were intensely locked onto his hand, his eyebrows dark brown, and the back of his hand has slobber on it as he extends it, touching Noir’s palm curiously for a few seconds, his wet stubby little fingers wrapping around his pinky.

Noir tilts his head and wiggles his pinky finger, curling it before poking it out, John is thrown into fits of giggles at the small action, flickering his eyes up at him, his small, white baby teeth on display as he grins at him.

His smile reminds Noir of sun rays peeking over the horizon, blanketing the skies with a fuzzy pink color before it diminishes into a blinding brightness, his laugh reminds him of singing birds twiddling about in the trees in the mist of early dawn, and when John had lightly squeezed his entire hand around Noir’s pinky, the man had felt his breath catch in his throat.

A page is turned over, and he lets himself relish in this moment, this is the most content he’s ever felt, and it’s with Soldier Boy’s son, his greatest nightmare’s very own offspring. That only keeps him grounded though, because that man is gone, and John is what is left, the potential for him is promising, and Noir is going to control it, nurture it.

From the beginning, as soon as he walked in, there was this sense of protection that crashed over him, and in this moment, the longer he plays with the bubbling boy, ignoring Vogelbaum standing outside the door, peeking through observantly, he lets the waves wrap around him.

It’s like a kilt, warm, snug.

[illusoryfem]

By Kazuhiko Tsuzuki, Aqua

[jonnolovesfob]

[thelaurenshippen]

a remake of "you've got mail" called "you've got kudos" about two fic writers who make flirty comments on each other's fics, only to realize that they already know each other because they used to be on opposite sides of a fandom war when they were teenagers under different usernames

[mothtral]

the family notices immediately that their aeon has their benevolent eye on you. how could they not? their aeon’s gaze is a weight they’ve known like the back of their hand since childhood, and it’s always noticeable when xipe… lingers on someone. especially an outsider.

one by one, members of the family approach you. asking if you need any help, if you’re enjoying your stay, do you need help getting back to your room. oh, don’t worry about it, it's no trouble, here, let us carry your bags.

sunday personally shows you around the forbidden zones, a gloved finger held to his lips to quiet your excited giggles. at first, he wondered just what drew xipe to you, but after spending night after night at your side… the picture becomes clear, with you are the main subject.

the family must be doing something right, because sunday shares with them the dream he had. xipe visited him and shared how pleased they were that the family has treated you so kindly. but they want all of them to do more. do anything that would tie you to penacony permanently.

xipe is saddened that they can’t claim you, another aeon having laid their filthy claws on you prior to your visit to penacony. no matter. things like this can break. it just takes a little time. thankfully, the dreamscape is a wonderful place where reality and time are things of the past.

(second part in another post.)

[haunted-xander]

kh2 except Sora & Riku stay on the islands and go to a school post-game and also this happens bc I think it's funny

[justallihere]

“Was it impolite when I fucked you every night for the past week?” He asked it in a low voice right next to her ear, and was pleased when she drew in a quick little breath and shivered. “Because I was definitely staring at you then, and I seem to remember you enjoying it.” 

[magpiesketchins]

(PREV) | (START) | (NEXT)

: )

Shout out to @goalieflashflight, @jellymish-art and my partner for helping me out with this page when it was kicking the crap out of me.

[grinchwrapsupreme]

some extremely important pictures of gundham from the despair arc

[kit-screams-into-the-future]

Okay I saw more of your art and had to come back (if it’s okay)

Maybe this time….King Marty? Like in a kings outfit with the septor

and crown and stuff? Idk

no problem at all! i'm just happy you enjoy :D

anyone with any remote knowledge of historical dress from any vague period or region please avert your eyes.

[bbnibini]

I wonder if it's a design choice or the devs themselves can't make up their mind, but why did Solomon's eye colour "change" in NB? The chibi sprites in the OG show his eyes are shades of grey to brown/almost gold-bronze.

The NB chibi sprite shows his eyes to be dark blue and brownish-gold.

Don't even get me started with the cards and merch that can't make up his effing eye colour

To my Solobesties (I'm calling Solomon stans this now. I think we formed a strange kinship after lesson 17 even if we never interact lmao), especially artist solobesties, hats off to you and your service to the community.

My personal HC is kinda a spoiler for uhhhh something I'm writing, but here it is:

"It's just…your eyes are like you: I can't figure them out." "MC, I-" "No! No! Solomon, I'm sorry! No…it's not like that, I promise! Look at me, won't you? Please look at me." So he did. His eyes trembled as he met with yours. How could he have hidden this part of himself for this long? How could you not notice? How could you forget? How could Father be so cruel to him and you for simply existing? You traced the corner of his lips with your thumb as you held him by the cheek. He was leaning onto your right hand, unable to maintain his gaze. He was surprisingly bashful. Adorably shy without his facades. But he looked like he would crumble even with a gentle word so you did not say anything. He looked at you expectantly, then looked away as your gaze burned onto him for too long and muttered, "You can't figure me out?"in almost a whisper, after a long-drawn out silence, weighing in his words, watching your expressions and body language. Afraid, so deathly afraid. You smiled. "It's like I'm looking at a mirror. Sometimes it's silver, sometimes it's midnight. When you look at the world around you and then look back at me, I feel like you've captured the sky and the oceans in your eyes. It's beautiful." His face was red all over, even to the tips of his ears. It was such a shame. You haven't even said everything you wanted to say to him yet. That he was the moon and the stars to your daytime; gold and silver gazes, looking after you from afar in the many branches of realities he couldn't be as honest with you as he was now. Ah. What will you do without him now? How can you give this up after remembering everything? You knew it was selfish, but you love him. Both of him. Every part of him just as much as he loved you and every part of you that existed. But now, you had to say goodbye. Again. How truly unfair.

[forwhump]

a/n; I’m sorry I keep posting 😭😭😭 remember when I hated it more than anything ?? now I can’t stop

I actually have a list of requests now (!!!!! 🥹 !!!!!!) & I swear I cross my heart I pinky promise if you asked me for something I WILL post for you !!! if you were kind enough to request smth from me I’ll actually write & post anything you want forever just not chronologically in any form at all, that’s all LOL

I found this first when I was perusing the wren folder so that’s why this one is up but NEXT TIME, next time it will be softer & there will be caretaking I promise

just a little bit of wren’s first night in the district first, that’s all <3 (spoilers : it’s horrible) @ doughnut this one’s for you 😚

tw/cw: kidnapping, captivity, rape, noncon, humiliation, psychological torture, sexual torture, misgendering, transphobia

sexual servant whumpee, creepy whumper

There are a glorious few moments, when Wren first opens his eyes, that he isn’t scared.

He’s in pain — the pain starts before consciousness does. But he isn’t scared. It’s a small mercy.

Instead, he wakes to that pain. Groggy, it’s hard to tell exactly what hurts, a sort of fog much the same as trying to wake from unconsciousness. As he wakes, as the fog of sleep clears, the pain settles and Wren couldn’t tell exactly what was hurting because everything hurts. He groans, and even his jaw hurts. He tries to groan, anyway, but the sound is muffled because he’s gagged, a strip of cloth pulled tight and knotted at the back of his head.

For a second, for a split second, Wren doesn’t really think about it. Still barely conscious, he barely considers the gag, and thinks, instead, of the knot at the back of his head. He can feel where it’s tangled in his hair, tugging at his scalp with each exhale. He’s face down, and as he blinks his eyes open, he doesn’t really notice the concrete, but the sheet of his hair.

Wren doesn’t wear his hair down. Wren hasn’t worn his hair down since he was a very small child, a child beauty pageant queen, and his mother would spend hours brushing and oiling and meticulously braiding it for him. He doesn’t think he’s had a haircut since only a few years after that. By the time he was old enough to decide for himself what to do with his hair, he was proud of it. He has great hair. But he also has really long hair, and it’s a pain in the ass. Really impractical, at times.

This is what Wren thinks about. He doesn’t wear his hair down. Why is his hair down? It’s pooling on the concrete around him, and why would he have —

The concrete?

Everything hurts.

Wren’s gagged.

That’s when he gets scared.

It’s the most scared he’s ever been in his life.

Wren’s been scared before. He would be lying through his teeth if he said he hadn’t. He’s never been scared like this. He’s never felt anything like this.

It’s an infection, a parasite that burrows deep into his chest, into his core, and it spreads through him quickly, churning through his bloodstream, just under his skin. He’s shivering, and he doesn’t notice, not right away, that it isn’t only because he’s scared. It’s only when he rolls onto his back that he realizes just how cold it is, so cold his breath clouds the air above him. His hands are tied behind his back, and he traps them against the ground beneath him as he rolls over. It’s why his arms, his wrists, his hands, his shoulders ache — his hands are tied so tightly at his back his fingertips are buzzing with static.

There’s only a single light in the ceiling above him, something fluorescent. Its glow is orange and its flicker, irregular, buzzing with shorted electricity. Something starts to burn low in Wren’s stomach, and the contrast to the cold in here and in his bloodstream is enough to make him gag.

The room is empty, except for him and that fluorescent bulb. It’s concrete on all sides, an empty concrete cell, and the only door is an iron slat carved out of one wall, the bolted, armed doors of a military hanger.

Wren can taste his heartbeat. His hair is down. What the fuck is —

And he can still barely keep his eyes open. Blinking slowly, he braces his hands behind himself and manages to push himself up from the floor, not far but far enough that he can lean heavily against the wall across from that door. His skirt is flouncy, red and white gingham layered with tulle, and it settles in a fan across his lap as he sits up. His eyes close on their own, too heavy to be —

They fly open again just as quickly. His skirt?

No, it’s —

No, he’s not wearing a skirt. It’s a dress, and only then just barely. It’s short, and it’s so tight around Wren’s waist that it hurts, and it hurts a little worse each time he breathes. It’s a child’s dress, and something about that makes Wren more uneasy than anything else. He tries to swallow, and it makes him sob.

He’s wearing cowboy boots. They aren’t his boots.

What the fuck is going on?

It’s so fucking cold.

Wren tries to stand, leaning his weight against the wall, but his legs are shaking too badly and they give out from under him. He falls hard. This time, it has nothing to do with the cold.

He tries to take a deep breath and it catches on something in his throat, something that makes him sob. He isn’t sure when he started crying, but his tears are cool on his face.

What the fuck is going on?

He isn’t so fortunate that he has to wonder for long. Huddled against the wall, shaking so hard he might be pulling himself apart at the seams, Wren cries. He tries to stand, to pull his hands free, to make any sense of his surroundings, and he can’t, and he cries. For a time, the only sounds are the hoarse, panicked hitching of his sobs and the constant, droning hum of the fluorescent bulb above him.

It starts with a chirp, with a weird, technical sort of beep. Wren doesn’t even get the illusion of relief, of somebody coming to his rescue — something is really, really wrong. What’s going on? There’s another beep, then a series of more beeps, and then a sound, through the door, like muffled thunder.

Wren’s heart beats at the back of his throat.

When the door opens, it opens slowly. A man fills the doorway, and he makes Wren’s blood run cold. He looks like something from a nightmare, something so horrible Wren can’t even really fathom him. He doesn’t look real. He can’t be. All black, a monster, the shadow of a monster, except for the cowboy hat, perched low on his head.

For a second, for a naive, blissful second, Wren doesn’t recognize him. He doesn’t recognize the dreadful black uniform or the macabre silhouette. He doesn’t remember how limp Robin had been.

Beneath his cowboy hat, he’s wearing a mask. It’s just as dreadful as the rest of his uniform, but when he pulls it down, it’s so much worse.

He knocks the wide brim of his hat up, out of the way, grinning down at Wren. Looking up at him, into his face, at his eyes, it’s like looking into the eyes of a violent animal. There’s nothing human in his eyes. Wren recognizes those eyes.

He lurches without meaning to, pressing himself a little harder into the wall.

There’s an intensity in the way he watches Wren that makes Wren’s stomach bubble, acidic. He grins a little wider, and something in the way it pulls at his face is grotesque. Unnatural. He doesn’t have a human smile, either. “Why, good mornin’, sugar,” he says, and he says it with an equally unnatural twang. Is he mocking him? The dress, and the hat, it’s — “I’ve been waitin’ on you.”

So, this —

This can’t really be happening, right? It isn’t. This is — what is this? What’s — who is this? What is he — gingham. This is — gingham. Why is Wren wearing gingham? What the fuck is happening? This can’t be happening.

The train of thought must show on his face and the soldier doesn’t try to hide how much he loves it. His grin stretches. The way he angles his head is predatory. Something in Wren’s chest gets very, very tight. “Why, shucks,” he mocks. “You’re awful pretty when you’re scared, girl.”

Heat spreads beneath Wren’s face and trickles down the back of his neck. When the soldier takes a step closer, he flinches back against the wall again. He doesn’t mean to. His hands are shaking at his back, trapped against concrete so cold his fingers are starting to numb with it.

There’s an even colder, unfiltered terror in the way his grin is fixed to his face, in the way he isn’t looking at Wren, not really, but at the hemline of the dress. Gingham. He stalks towards him like a predator, and he crouches down in front of him, too close.

He’s big. He’s massive, in fact. Wren’s never been a particularly big guy, but this guy would tower over even Robin, all six feet and three some odd inches of him. His shoulders are probably double the width of Wren’s own. When he crouches in front of Wren, he blocks the light with the bulk of him, and tears blur his silhouette.

When he speaks again, he speaks without twang, but with a smug, probably militant sort of confidence that makes Wren shiver, try as he might to help it, try as he might not to let this man see. “My men call me Point,” he says, and there’s something almost condescending in how he says it. “You will not. You will not speak unless you’re spoken to. If you must refer to me, you will refer to me as daddy. If you disobey, you’ll be punished, cowgirl, and I won’t take it easy on you. I don’t care how purty you are,” and he puts the accent back on. “Y’understand?”

Wren can’t breathe. His chest is too tight. The lump in his throat is too big. The soldier — Point? — looks like he’s expecting an answer, and Wren doesn’t have one. He can’t breathe. Against the wall, he shakes his head.

“No?” Point asks, sickly sweet.

For such a big guy, he’s fast. He grabs Wren by the face, so fast Wren can’t do anything to stop it. He cracks his head back against the wall behind him so hard that for a moment, Wren loses consciousness again.

It’s a glorious moment, but it’s only a moment. When he blinks his eyes open again, Point is leaning in, leaning too close, and the back of Wren’s head is wet. Warm.

“You will behave,” Point warns, and the accent is gone, replaced by something lethal, unamused. “You will do exactly as I tell you, cowgirl, or I will hurt you very, very badly.” Wren makes a soft, involuntary sound, and that grin flickers back to life on Point’s face, a thousand watts. “I took a big risk taking you out of there, girl. You were supposed to be put down. You owe your life to me, and I’m not about to let you get away without paying your debt.” He lifts the cowboy hat from his head, placing it on Wren’s. Wren shivers, trying to shake it off, and the soldier moves again, that same sort of movement, too quick for the human eye. He grabs Wren by the throat and pins him back against the wall. “Behave.” He thumbs slowly along the underside of Wren’s jaw as he holds him there, and the way Wren’s skin crawls almost aches. His fingertip catches on the gag. “Now I’m going to take this out,” he explains, “because I want to hear you beg. But if you wanna scream, cowgirl, you can go right ahead. Y’know why?”

Wren doesn’t want to know. He tries to sob, and it gets stuck beneath Point’s hand.

Point, who angles his head and whistles.

The door swings open again barely a full second later, and it’s still more than enough time for the fear to build, and build, and build, and burst into something that Wren shudders with, so hard his ribs rattles against each other. Another soldier fills the doorframe, another macabre silhouette. Another follows it, then another still, shadows that crowd the dim concrete cell, an army that filters into the room, blocking out the light.

Point grins at him. “Because the only men that will hear you,” he explains, for good measure, “are my men, and they want to hear you scream. The only men that will hear you are my men, and they’re just waiting for me to be done so they can have their turn with you. I’m not usually much for sharing,” he adds, finally sliding the cloth from Wren’s mouth, “but we’ve never been allowed a plaything down here. It would be cruel not to let them have my sloppy seconds.”

Cold seeps through Wren’s skin and forms crystal in his bloodstream, a cold that aches from the inside. “Please,” he blurts, and it’s weird the way the words come, not from his brain but from the festering, infected panic in his chest. “Please, don’t, don’t —”

But Point only grins, leaning in so close Wren can feel his breath. “I knew it,” he says, sickly sweet, laying the accent on thick. “You’re prettiest when you beg, cowgirl.”

“What?” Wren breathes, and he’s dizzy. He doesn’t think it has anything to do with hitting his head. “Please, I —”

He’s interrupted by a groan so low Wren can feel the rumble of it in his bones. His mouth tastes like bile and his own heartbeat. “That’s it,” Point coos softly. “There’s a good girl.”

Wren’s breath hitches, caught somewhere high in his chest. He doesn’t mean to, but he whimpers around it and Point makes another, lower sound, so low the hair on the back of Wren’s neck stands up. He leans away, only far enough to peel off one of his gloves with his teeth. Bared, he flexes his fingers, and something serpentine beats around the inside of Wren’s stomach. “Please,” he breathes, and one of the other men audibly snorts. Wren isn’t even sure why, but it makes him sob. His hands are curled into fists so tight the bones in knuckles are grinding together. “Please,” he whispers, and Point slides a hand beneath his skirt, warm against the inside of his thigh.

Wren reacts with his entire body. He jerks away so hard he knocks his own head, still bleeding, back into the wall. Point, for such a big guy, is fast, he’s too fast, and he has his other hand curled around Wren’s thigh before Wren sees him move. He makes this embarrassing, hiccuping sort of sound, trying to shake him off, to push him away, but Point, without sweat or struggle, pulls him away from the wall by his leg, onto his back on the concrete. As he pushes Wren’s thigh up towards his chest, he coos softly. “Good girl.”

Wren doesn’t even get the chance to plead again. Point leans in close, too close, cheek to Wren’s cheek, and forces three of his fingers inside him with a groan like a man dying.

Wren doesn’t scream. Wren doesn’t do anything, actually. He freezes, so tense he can feel the ache in every one of his bones. His mind blanks, a whiteness, a sort of emptiness he’s never experienced before. It’s like everything stops, all at once, narrows to Point’s fingers and the pain he pushes inside Wren and the rumble of his approval against his chest.

“Stop,” he hears himself say, from somewhere outside himself, from somewhere really far away. “Please.”

Point coos at him again. “Oh, cowgirl,” he says. “We’re just getting started.”

When he does ease out his fingers, it’s to push up his dress, the gingham and the tulle, shoving it up and around Wren’s waist. Panic surges and it tastes like bile. He doesn’t think, not really, not coherently, he only panics, and he tries to kick and Point catches him with a vice grip around his ankle. He hauls Wren closer and the concrete is so cold against his bare skin.

“No,” Wren says, and his voice isn’t his own, too breathless, too loud, too high. “No, please, please, don’t —”

Wren would dare say he’s a strong guy — he’s a lot stronger than he thinks he looks like he would be, at least. He’s no match for Point. Not at all.

And it’s strange, almost, or it would be, anyway, if Wren had the capacity to ponder the strangeness of it. He was already scared, a suffocating, delirious sort of scared, a kind of scared he didn’t think would be possible. And still, somehow, Point forces his thighs apart, and Wren can’t stop him, he can’t fight him, he can’t struggle, he can’t do anything Point doesn’t want him to do, helpless, and it’s like Wren hadn’t been scared at all. It’s like Wren, until that moment, didn’t know what it meant to be scared.

Something new rises, crests, and crushes him. He can’t breathe under its weight. He does scream, then, and he doesn’t recognize the sound of his own voice.

Point grins widely. He isn’t looking at Wren’s face. He holds his thighs apart and kneels between them.

This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening. How is this happening?

“Please,” Wren gasps, this hitching, horrible thing, “please.”

Point shifts, pinning Wren to the ground with his weight. Whatever his uniform is made out of, it feels like gravel against his skin. He moves slowly, taunting, as he pulls his belt loose, as he pulls himself free from his pants.

Wren isn’t breathing, not even hyperventilating, just making these hitching, gasping sort of sounds he can’t control. There are so many men in here with him, crowding this concrete cell, and none of them help him. There are so many men in here with him and they all just watch him beg. There are so many men in here with him and Wren has never been so alone, not once in his life.

He wants his big brother. He wants his mom. He wants to go home.

“Please,” he cries, desperate, frantic, almost a wail, most of a scream. “Please, pleasepleasepleaseple—”

Wren, in the end, screams himself hoarse.

It doesn’t fucking matter.

[sincerely-sofie]

Paradox Edition AU comic in which Bud is adopted by a group of incorrigible miscreants, much to Dusknoir’s chagrin:

[emry-stars-art]

I am SO curious about West Facing!!!!! Tell me all about it!!!

THANK YOU AHH I’m gonna reuse this doodle bc its still relevant lol

So since I’ve been thinking non-stop about royalty and stuff (in case you didn’t know) I ended up going back to my old ocs and pulling some out of the freezer and putting crowns on them lol. I don’t have a ton down for a story yet but SO FAR. It is Quinton Bell, prince/highness of a powerful kingdom looking to annex another kingdom that had gotten sovereignty however many (many many) years back; and Bo Church, a prince from said almost-annexed kingdom.

Basically at the moment its a weird kind of “arranged marriage to avoid war” where Bo’s family basically gives him to Quinton’s family as a sort of peace offering, and it’s not specifically to marry him off but there’s a reason he was the one they handed off as the loudest and angriest black sheep of the children. He’ll be whatever the opposing royal family decides him to be. Meanwhile Quinton’s father has some plans or something about adding exactly such a foreign prince to his family line, and Quinton should get married soon anyway. So the peace offering works, technically, and the threat of invasion goes dormant for at least a little while.

Neither Q nor Bo are totally thrilled with this whole marriage thing.

8 nov 2023 ww game

[hoshigray]

To conclude this week's leaks session, if such a fuckass plan was greenlit like this, then I'm not delusional to think that toji can come back for one last final frenzy

[curiosity-killed]

tfw your bestie dies and takes everything that makes home "home" with him

[ALT ID: A black and white digital painting of a woman sitting by a window at night. She clutches an empty helmet and a locket close to her chest and twists back to look at the moon over her shoulder while tears run down her cheeks.]