#a professional violent little shit

[lyledebeast]

I've just realized that the kid playing Haley Joel Osment's bully in The Sixth Sense is the same kid who plays Nathan Fucking Martin in The Patriot.

Isn't rewatching old movies fun? I hate it!

[verstappenverse]

Hi! How are you? Could i ask for a Max one shot where reader has some complications in the pregnancy like angst but with happy ending? Idk if you dont want to do topics like this sorry if Its bothers you. Love your stories. Thank you

In Every Beat

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: After sudden pregnancy complications threatens everything you and Max cling to each other through the fear.

TW: Pregnancy Complications, Hurt/Comfort

2.6k words / Masterlist

It happens suddenly.

One minute you’re laughing on the sofa with Max, his hand gently resting over your rounded stomach, and the next a sharp pain slices through you so violently you can’t even breathe.

Your fingers dig into his arm, nails clutching like you’re drowning. “Max...” Your voice is barely a whisper.

He looks down and sees the terror on your face at the same moment you feel something warm and wet between your legs.

His eyes go wide. “Liebling…? What—”

You shift slightly, and that’s when he sees it. Blood.

A lot of it.

“Shit.” He’s on his feet in an instant, phone to his ear as he wraps you in his arms. “Stay with me, okay? Don’t move.”

You want to answer but everything feels blurry like your body has detached from your brain. The pain is sharp, constant, and fear claws its way up your spine with every second that passes. You think you say something, maybe his name, but it comes out wrong, slurred, or maybe not at all. Then everything tilts, the lights blur, and you’re gone for a moment.

You black out.

When you come to, the hospital is blindingly white, sterile, cold, and humming with fluorescent light that feels like it’s slicing through your skull. Everything smells like antiseptic and fear. It’s too bright, too quiet and too loud all at once.

Max hasn’t let go of your hand since the moment you arrived. Not even for a second. His grip is firm like he’s trying to anchor you both to something solid when everything around you is slipping out of control. You can feel the tension in his palm, the way his thumb keeps brushing over your knuckles as if that alone might be enough to keep you calm, or maybe to keep himself from unraveling.

When the doctor speaks calm and professional, the words don’t quite land. “There’s a risk of early labour, and we need to monitor for placental abruption.”

You hear it, you register it, but it doesn’t feel real. You’re not focused on the terminology, you’re focused on Max, on the way his jaw tightens, how he swallows hard but he hasn't said anything yet, how he keeps nodding like he’s absorbing every syllable even though his eyes are wide with panic. He’s trying so hard to stay composed, to be strong for you, but you know him too well. He’s terrified.

“Will… will the baby be okay?” you manage, your voice fragile and barely audible, as if speaking it aloud might shatter what little calm remains in the room.

The doctor gives you a look that you recognise instantly the kind trained professionals offer when they don’t have certainties to give. It’s a smile, but not the reassuring kind.

“We’re doing everything we can.”

Just like that the floor drops out from under you, there’s no ground, no gravity. Just a rush of fear so thick it settles in your throat making it hard to breathe.

You’re admitted immediately for monitoring, hooked up to machines, an IV in your arm, a fetal heart monitor strapped tight around your belly, the steady rhythm of the baby’s heartbeat echoing in the background like a ticking clock. Nurses come and go, adjusting wires and taking notes, but it all blurs together. You’re not really here. Not fully.

Max is. Max never leaves.

He cancels everything he can, media obligations, team meetings, his phone buzzes on the table, ignored, nothing matters but you. He sits by your bedside, fingers laced with yours, brushing your hair off your forehead, murmuring soft words in Dutch you’re too tired to try and translate. He looks exhausted, you think maybe more than yourself, like he’s been holding his breath since the moment the bleeding started and hasn’t exhaled since.

At one point a nurse speaks quietly to him. “You need to rest too Mr. Verstappen.”

He doesn’t even glance away from you. “I will,” he says, his voice low and resolute. “When she’s safe.”

And he means it. Every word.

The bleeding has stopped, the contractions have eased, and the monitors blink with steady rhythms that seem to reassure everyone else, but not Max. You’re both still tethered to the fear, unable to shake the quiet, gnawing panic that something could still go wrong. That the worst hasn’t passed, only paused, and underneath the fear lies something heavier.

The guilt.

It festers in the silence between check-ins and the slow hours of the night when the beeping of machines is the only sound in the room. It clings to you more tightly than the hospital blanket.

“I shouldn’t have done that stupid workout” you whisper on the third day, eyes fixed on the blank ceiling like it might offer some kind of answer, some kind of absolution. “I knew I was feeling off. I should’ve listened to my body.”

Your voice cracks with shame, so soft it’s almost a confession.

Max looks up from the chair he’s practically lived in for days, the bags under his eyes dark and heavy, his pupils dull with exhaustion. He blinks slowly, like he’s trying to make sense of what you just said. “Don’t do that.”

You keep going anyway, unable to stop yourself. “I should’ve been more careful.”

“Don’t,” he says again, firmer now, but his voice wavers. It splinters on the word, barely holding itself together.

He rises and crosses the small space between you, sitting carefully on the edge of the bed as if afraid even that might hurt you. Then he leans in, reaching for your face, his touch gentle despite the tremble in his fingers.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he says, locking eyes with you, like he needs you to hear it, really hear it. “This isn’t your fault.”

You try to believe him, but the tears are already slipping past your lashes, spilling silently down your cheeks. You hate this part, the crying, the breaking open in front of him. It makes you feel vulnerable in a way you can’t control, a way you resent, but Max doesn’t waver he just hold you, steady, warm, present.

“Don’t ever blame yourself schatje,” he whispers, thumb brushing away the tears as fast as they fall. “You’ve done everything right. You’ve been protecting our baby since the moment we found out.”

He leans in, pressing his forehead against yours and for a moment the world narrows to just the two of you breath to breath, skin to skin. “If anything, I should’ve noticed something was off sooner,” he adds. “I should’ve seen it. I’m the one who’s supposed to protect you while you look after our baby.”

You shake your head weakly against his. “Max…”

“No,” he says softly. “You’re the strongest person I know. You’ve been so brave through all of this. And I’m scared. I’m so fucking scared, but we’re gonna get through this. You and me. Together.”

His voice trembles, and the words settle into your chest like a weight, heavy and warm, and full of promise.

You nod, though your heart still aches with doubt. You nod because he needs you to, because you want to believe him, because maybe if he keeps saying it you’ll start to believe it too.

The days drag.

Time becomes something elastic stretched out, slow and unbearable. The constant hum of machines, the sharp scent of antiseptic, the sterile brightness that never dims it all becomes background noise to your new reality.

Every beep of the monitor sends a jolt of fear down your spine. Every subtle dip or spike in the baby’s heart rate turns your stomach, your mind racing toward the worst-case scenario before the nurses even glance up. You live from scan to scan, heartbeat to heartbeat, afraid to blink in case something changes when you're not looking.

At night, when visiting hours technically end, Max refuses to leave. He argues with the staff until they give up, and even then he waits until the room is quiet before climbing into your narrow hospital bed. He wedges himself beside you, his arm curled protectively around your waist, careful not to disturb the wires and monitors, his breath warm against your neck as he whispers soft promises in the dark.

“I think I’ll drive slower,” he tells you one night, his voice half-muffled by your hair.

You let out a weak laugh, more air than sound. “You’d be miserable.”

“Not if I have you,” he murmurs. “Not if I have our baby. That’s all I need.”

It’s a comforting sentiment, even if you know the speed is part of him, something written into his DNA, impossible to quiet even for love. You squeeze his hand tighter, and for a moment, the fear eases, not completely, but enough to breathe.

Eventually the monitors calm, the baby's heart stays steady, the danger hasn’t fully passed, not yet, but the worst seems to be over. The doctors release you days later with a list of strict instructions and a warning to rest, completely and absolutely. No exertion. No stress. Minimal walking unless absolutely necessary.

Max transforms.

At home he becomes a man possessed, driven by a single mission: keeping you safe. He sets alarms on his phone to bring you liquids every hour, marks medication times in three separate apps, and writes your daily meals on the kitchen whiteboard. He checks your temperature, fluffs your pillows, adjusts your blanket, and panics every time you so much as shift in bed.

The first time you try to get up without calling for him, just to stretch your legs, he nearly loses his mind.

“Max, I’m pregnant not dying,” you say, exasperated, as you sit back on the bed with a wince.

He freezes at the edge of the room, shoulders tense, lips pressed into a hard line. “You almost did die,” he snaps louder than intended, and the silence that follows is immediate and sharp. You look up, surprised by the intensity in his voice, and that’s when you see it.

The fear is still there. Raw and unhealed. Flashing across his face before he can hide it again.

“Sorry I— sorry…I didn’t mean to snap… I thought I was going to lose both of you,” he says, quieter now, eyes glistening. “When you passed out, you didn’t see how much blood there was. You didn’t hear how quiet it got when the doctor walked in. I—” His voice breaks, and he looks away like he’s ashamed of it.

You reach for him instantly, holding your arms out until he gives in and crosses the room. You pull him down beside you, wrapping him in your embrace, guiding his head to your chest. His hands cling to your sides, his breathing shallow against your collarbone.

“You didn’t lose us,” you whisper, threading your fingers through his hair. “We’re still here, I’m here, our baby’s here.”

He nods into your skin, as if trying to make himself believe it.

“I love you,” he says, voice rough and fierce, muffled against your neck. “You and our baby, so fucking much it terrifies me.”

You hold him tighter, one hand settling over your stomach where the tiniest kick flutters beneath your palm a reminder, soft and sure, that you're still fighting.

All three of you.

When labor comes, it’s early, but not dangerously so. Thirty-five weeks. Still close enough to full term that the doctors speak calmly, reassuringly, though the tension in Max’s shoulders suggests otherwise. The last few weeks have been a delicate balance between fear and hope, and now that the moment is finally here it crashes over you both like a wave you weren’t fully ready to face.

The contractions come fast and hard, no gentle build-up, just sudden pain that knocks the air from your lungs. You just make it to the hospital before the nurses are wheeling you into a delivery room, Max’s hand clutching yours.

There’s panic in his voice, just under the surface, but he swallows it down like he knows you can’t afford to see it. Not when you’re already shaking, teeth clenched through each blinding wave of pain.

You cry through a contraction and your nails dig into Max’s hand, hard enough to leave marks. “I can’t—Max, I can’t—” The words fall from your lips in a sob, your whole body trembling.

“Yes you can,” he says quickly, voice tight, forehead damp with sweat. He looks like he’s running his own marathon beside you, eyes locked on your face like he’s willing you to stay with him. “You already survived worse, you’re stronger than this pain. You can do it, I know you can.”

Somehow, that’s enough.

Somehow through the tears and the fear and the raw, unbearable pain, you dig deep. You push. You cry.

And then…

A sound. Soft. Small. Startling.

Your baby lets out their first cry, and the room stills for just a second, as if time itself pauses to make space for that single, perfect moment.

Max breaks.

Completely and without warning.

Tears spill down his cheeks in heavy silence as he leans over you, kissing your forehead, your cheeks, your lips, again and again, like he can’t get close enough, like he’s trying to memorise every part of you all over again. “You did it,” he whispers, his voice choked with emotion. “You did it schatje. You’re incredible.”

You can barely keep your eyes open. “I’m so tired,” you whisper, voice slurred, overwhelmed with exhaustion and relief.

He cradles your face in his palms like you’re the most fragile thing in the world, and then gently helps the nurse place your baby in your arms. They’re small so, so small, but warm and alive and squirming against your chest. You stare down at them in disbelief, your heart swelling, your body trembling with awe.

The baby’s face is scrunched, nose a little smushed, mouth puckering with every tiny breath.

“We made this,” you breathe, eyes wide, voice cracking.

Max is already beside you, arms wrapping around the two of you, his lips pressed to the crown of your head. “Yeah,” he says softly, reverently. “We really did.”

A week later, you’re finally home.

There are still hospital visits, follow-up appointments, moments of panic in the middle of the night when the baby cries too long or not at all. Your body is still healing, and the sleepless nights have taken their toll. You cry sometimes without knowing why. Max has learned to just hold you and ride out the wave with you.

One night Max finds you sitting on the living room couch dressed in an oversized hoodie, the baby curled up on your chest like they’ve always belonged there. You’re humming something soft and tuneless, your eyes half-closed, one hand rhythmically rubbing slow circles across your baby’s back.

He doesn’t speak right away just watches from the doorway, chest tightening with something that feels too big for words.

Then he crosses the room, crouching in front of you with a smile so full of love it aches.

He brushes a kiss to your temple. “You look like magic,” he murmurs, like it’s a secret.

You huff a tired laugh, resting your cheek softly against the baby’s head. “I feel like a zombie.”

“A very beautiful zombie,” he counters without missing a beat.

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling now, he leans in and kisses you gently, grateful, and when he pulls back he rests a hand on your knee, his thumb moving in lazy circles.

“I’ve never been more proud of anyone in my life,” he says quietly.

Your throat tightens again, but this time the tears that rise are happy ones. You close your eyes and whisper I love you because you do, because there’s no other word for what you feel, no other way to express the enormity of what you’ve built, what you’ve survived, what you’ve become together.

As the baby sighs against your chest, as Max rests his head beside yours, you sit there wrapped in warmth and the soft weight of this new life, because in every heartbeat, yours, his, your baby’s there’s the same love.

[daylighted]

dean winchester x angel!reader — innocence is a virtue.

or, how on earth is he supposed to corrupt you? you? or, dean's newest passenger princess is killing him slowly and violently.

cw, fluff but with sexual elements. mostly fluffy though. reckless driving DO NOTTT do this!! professionals only!! dirty minded!dean. honestly just horny!dean really. innuendos galore.

word count : 2.9k

notes, guys can i be so honest i have not even gotten to the seasons where angels come into spn. this is all based on the lil bits n pieces i know of the future stuff ok. ik i'm a fraud but BE GENTLE IF IT'S OOC OR ANYTHING < /3

req. by anon & in honor of kas's dean & angel fics bc i LOVEEE them

★ ˚⋆

dean, honestly, had never met someone quite like you. when he'd told cas in passing that he was about the most naive, innocent thing he'd ever met, all he did was give him one of those looks he reserved only for dean. he thought, then, that it was just because he was being a bit of a shithead, and cas was telling him without telling him so.

very quickly, he found out how wrong he was about both of his assessments.

the day you came down to earth and graced everyone, literally, with your presence, dean was smitten. never before had he met someone so sweet. so honestly pure. until you, he thought that purity was nothing but an ideology based on impossible feats. a pipe dream and a half for the faithful. no, the reality was that he just hadn't met you yet.

sam was pouring himself into research, too focused to realize that dean was all but whittling away in his starvation, so when he offered to go grab some cheap shit from the diner a few minutes from the motel, all he got in response was a mumble of agreement and a wave of his hand from him.

but you, who'd been sitting on the motel bed, stiff as if you had something stuck up your ass holding you in place, turned to him and asked to come with. that struck dean off kilter immediately, because he hadn't been asked for anything in a long ass while. sam just usually assumed he'd be writing shotgun wherever they went. john — no, he'd never ask his son anything, usually buried that sentiment in harsh demands and orders. cas asked him lots of questions, but permission was not often one of them.

and when he looked at you, read over your features and saw the genuineness in your wide, expectant eyes... god, how could he say no?

so you sat there in the passenger seat. dean had to buckle you in with a joke that flew right over your head — another joke you would not get, even though he was fucking killing it with them right now — about not wanting to send you flying if they got into a wreck.

you proceeded to unbuckle and buckle and unbuckle again a few times, seemingly fascinated with the click of the mechanism. dean wanted to be annoyed. genuinely. if sam had started pulling this shit, dean would have pulled over and drove a few feet ahead as a warning to cut it the fuck out.

but with you, it was adorable in its own right. god, it was! somehow it surprised you, every time it clicked, even if you'd already done it eight times. like, how did anyone expect him to get pissy at you when you were doing those sharp, surprised gasps every few seconds? a few more times and he'd be pulling over to give you something to gasp at, he thought idly.

and then winced, scrunching up his face, when he realized how deep in the gutter his head was. no, he wouldn't touch you. wouldn't even try to plant that idea in your pretty little head.

dean didn't want to corrupt you. if there was one thing he was certain of, it was that he wanted to keep that pretty little head as clear as his nose was, alright? he wasn't going to be the one to break you into what this world was, its hardships and its cruelties — and its more deviant pleasures.

but fuck, you made it so hard to keep his head straight.

you did this thing, he realized too, on that silent, clicky drive, where you tugged your bottom lip between your teeth when you were in deep thought. thought about what, fuck if he knew, because if you said something to him in the moments that he watched you do it, he'd never know. he was watching your mouth but not to listen.

dean was about to start reprimanding himself in his head, for what must have been the third time already, when you said something, nearly making him slam on the brakes in his surprise.

"how are you doing this?" you asked, as if that wasn't the vaguest question he'd heard in his entire life.

dean blinked a couple of times as he waited for elaboration that never came. he switched hands on the steering wheel, resting his right loosely over the gearstick. "doing..." he trailed off, shaking his head slowly in a gesture to make you keep talking, "what, exactly?"

you did not catch the hint, and he was probably a fool for expecting you to. it took a few more seconds of you staring very intently at his thighs for you to speak up, and by then, he was fucking squirming in his leather seat, trying to not let it get to either of his heads that you were so blatantly staring at his dick.

"this," you answered, twinges of frustration evident in your tone. he couldn't blame you. he was getting frustrated in this car ride, too. "making it move."

christ. he was going to hell. he was going to hell again, this time because of his own drifting thoughts.

"you're gonna have to be a little more clear, dove," he managed through his teeth, voice strained, "'cause i don't think we are on the same train of thought right now."

another blink, and another few seconds pass. your hand shot up in his direction and he flinched, honestly flinched, convinced from the filthy thoughts circling in his head that you were about to grab him by the—

"this," you repeated, and he almost bristled at the attitude, almost told you off about virtues or whatever, when he finally got it. your arm stuck out in gesture to his legs, which pushed the gas pedal and rested against the doorframe, as he drove.

dean closed his eyes briefly, metaphorically swapping his metaphorical wrist for his headspace. he was not, was not, the person that should be introducing you to this world.

dean shifted again, bringing his left leg closer to the leather seat as he readjusted into more of a comfortable position. he hadn't even realized how tense he'd gotten on this short car ride until now. he was as straight backed as you were, and breathing just as slow. "driving?" he asked anyways, like an idiot.

"driving..." you repeated, like the word was as fascinating to you as the process was. "how?"

the diner sign was right there. it was teal and glowed, retro in style, announcing benny's bistro as open.

he drove past it.

dean knew that you did not sign up for a driver's ed course with him with your question, knew even more that he was risking his baby for a pathetic attempt at flirting with someone who did not even know the definition of the word, but to hell with it. you'd asked to come along with him, and therefore placed yourself in his hands for his guidance. the least he could do was make some sort of effort, couldn't he?

"c'mere," he grumbled once he'd pulled baby off into an unassuming back road, parking it dead in the center. you'd need all the open space. he patted his spread thighs a couple of times.

your stupidly pretty pink lips sucked into your stupidly straight teeth. fuck. "why?"

"just—" he cut himself off when he realized he was about to get snippy. you didn't deserve snippy. he was just hungry and horny and you were pretty and he was...

he was pathetic. looking for reasons to get you into his lap. he'd already been to hell, what are they gonna do, drag him back by his ear?

"just do it," dean finished on a sigh, his hand dropping to the front of his leather seat, grabbing the handle and shoving the seat back as far as it could go. there you were, staring at his dick again, making him feel hotter and more bothered.

he felt his heart stop solidly in his chest when you started to climb over the middle console, so oblivious to the faceful of ass he was getting. dean was practically praying to god at that point. he knew he'd been a shit until then, and definitely a sinner by every means, but if he could grant him a little fucking strength—

you plopped your happy little ass right between his muscular, jean-clad thighs. you were warm, was his first thought. he was screwed, was his second.

"what now?" you asked him, that innocent lilt to your voice as you did, and he felt like a dirty little freak for wanting to bend you over the steering wheel moments before ( who was he kidding? for still wanting to bend you over the steering wheel ).

dean took both of your hands and placed them on the steering wheel. once he'd closed your fingers around the wheel, he dropped his hands to your thighs.

"this one," he patted the left one, and nearly went molten behind you, when you lifted that thigh and placed it on his palm. "nuh uh," he tried to lightly correct, "this one you don't use. jus' keep it out of the way." dean's voice was strained in his ears, in his throat.

you slipped your thigh out of his grasp, pressing it up against the inner of his own thigh, your foot tucked around his ankle. you were so trusting and compliant. he was so, so screwed, and so, so awful for thinking about breaking that sweet naivety.

"this one," he said, patting your right thigh, and when you didn't move it this time, he smiled, just a little, to himself. "you use to make it move."

the flush on your cheeks that followed his tease was so damn pretty it took his breath away.

he lifted his leg, not able to reach the pedals with you sat between them and his seat all the way back. he pointed his boot at the left pedal, knowing you were watching each of his movements intently. "that's the stop pedal. push it down to stop." he repeated the process he'd done with your legs, boot pointing at the right pedal as he explained it. "that's the ignition."

pause.

"that's the go," he corrected, sparing you any momentary confusion and any more questions, he hoped. dean could not keep sitting here idle with you between his legs. "makes the car drive. harder you push, faster it goes."

hell, hell, hell. he wasn't going to hell, because he was already in it, strung up and burning.

"i'll handle the gears," he added quickly, when he caught your head turning downward to the shift stick. "don't wanna overwhelm that pretty little head of yours, dove, with too much at once."

dean rested his right hand on the gear stick, his left hand gripping the handle on the driver's door for dear life. he needed the support; you were driving him up a wall with his claws out, and you were about to be driving him. driving his baby. it took a lot of coaxing from sam for dean to let sam behind the wheel. all you did was ask how do you make it move? and he was letting you drive.

you. who did not even know what a car was. who was learning how to drive literally that moment.

god help him. he'd prayed more in this fifteen minute drive than he had in years.

you pressed down on the gas pedal, and the car revved all pretty and loud. dean watched with bated breath as the response to your efforts registered in your head, the way your eyes lit up in that curious glimmer, the fucking teeth biting on your lip.

once you let up, he pushed on the gear stick's release, and tugged it down from park to drive. the car slowly began to move down the dirt path.

you slammed the brakes so hard that his head knocked into the back of your shoulders. "fuck, dove, gentle."

and you were, when you shifted your foot over to the gas pedal again. you pushed it down on it tentatively, the car starting to glide down the dirt road, the sound of pebbles grinding beneath the tires.

"better," he mumbled in your ear, leant forward to keep his eyes on the windshield. it's not that he didn't trust you, he just... yeah, he didn't trust you. "just like that, dove."

the praise, though, goes in one ear and out the other, because the gentle ease of baby's tires along the road is interrupted by you slamming the gas. the tires squeal. clouds of dirt and dust puff out from behind the car as it takes off.

dean's heart went from in his ass to in his throat in a manner of a second. "whoa, whoa, whoa!" he exclaimed, a nervous laughter bubbling out of his throat. "slower, slower, will ya? crashin' in the middle of nowhere is the last—"

you hit the brakes again, still hard but less this time. just enough to send his head knocking into your shoulder again as the car slowed.

slowed, but still headed toward the ditch. "right, see your hands?" he asked, chin nuzzling into the plush spot between your neck and your shoulder so he could see better. "twist 'em. nice n' gentle for me, to your left, yeah, good girl. makes the whole car move, yeah? jus' keep it on the dirt, not off "

you follow his instructions, and dean feels a swell of pride at this. maybe he should have gone into driver's ed or some shit. he was a good ass teacher.

"like this?" you asked, drawing him out of his self glazing. your voice, soft and hesitant, breathless with your excitement, has his chest heaving.

"yeah, dove, jus' like that," he rasped, his left hand moving from the doorframe to rest where your thigh met your hips. the car kept its slow pace down the long dirt road, and for the first time since you'd gotten your hands on the wheel, his heart doesn't feel like it's pounding in his throat. "no, no, don't stop. keep goin', you're doing so good for me."

his phone starts to buzz in his pocket, and like that, his self indulgent driver's ed lesson comes to a screeching halt. "you jus' keep on going like this, alright?" he asked you, patting your hip with his hand before he reluctantly let go.

he definitely answered the phone with more attitude than necessary. couldn't help it. he was having a great time. "what, sam?"

"everything alright?" sam asked, and then dean felt like a prickhead for giving him shit at all. "s'been thirty minutes."

dean sighed, his eyes lifting again to look out the front windshield. a stop sign was quickly approaching, and you didn't even need his guidance for that. you were slowing to a stop all on your own. he was so fucking proud, it was sick. "all good. long line at the burger place."

it was dead empty, four miles back.

"we'll be back in a few, alright? chew on one of your books or somethin' while you wait, make 'em useful."

"dean—"

he hung up before he could hear sam's sighed response.

his hand fell to your waist again, squeezing lightly to stop you from lifting your foot off of the brake just yet. "play time's over. calvary's callin' us back."

dean pushed the gear stick into park again before he moved both of his hands to your hips, helping guide you back into the passenger seat.

he adjusted the seat again, his hands finding their typical place on the wheel. he did a very illegal u-turn at the four-way intersection and headed back down the road that you'd driven him down.

"have fun?" he asked after a beat, eyes flicking over to see you. you looked so pretty in the orange glow of the sunset, your face lit up in deep gold.

you turned to meet his eyes, and he had to look away quickly, the bright glimmer of adrenaline in them knocking all the wind out of him. "yes."

"good." dean meant it. there were so few things he'd risk everything for, but that toothy smile of yours jumped to the top of that list.

"dean?" your voice rung out again, earning him another glance your way in acknowledgement. "what part of the car was in my back the whole time?"

dean faltered, eyes blinking in a bout of surprise and lips parting, searching for a response he did not have. his eyes dropped down to his lap for a second, dread and embarrassment pooling like ice water in his stomach at what he hoped wasn't— yeah. yeah, it was.

"i dunno, dove," he mumbled through his teeth, staring straight ahead, fingers tapping on the steering wheel, doing basically anything to not meet that curious look of yours. especially knowing you'd have your lip in your teeth all over again. "might have t'take it to the shop, while we're in town... get it checked out or somethin'..."

he was so damn screwed.

tags, @figthoughts @jasvtsc @titsout4nicholas @deanswidow @deansbite

[alt-zadr]

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This event is inspired by the vintage culture of Invader Zim (1990s/2000s) and largely relates to fashion and media trends of that time. This year celebrates 5 years of the Alt-Zadr prompt event. The prompts of this year are inspired by the days of the very first Alt-Zadr seen here. RULES: Must be 18+ to enter  Both written and drawn submissions may apply To submit applications post to tumblr and tag your submission as @alt-zadr Do not harass the Artists/Writers  It is the preference of the blog creator that you depict Zim and Dib as Adult versions of the original characters. However, underage iterations of Zim and Dib will be posted if the artwork meets the criteria of Disney shipping (cheek kisses, holding hands, exchanging gifts, hugging, Not Being Sexual) I won't allow depictions of Racism, Sexism, Ped0 shit, Homophobia, Transphobia;  or anything else I think is deplorable. I personally will block you if you’re being disgusting or a bigot.

Trigger warnings MAY include: Blood, Eyestrain, Drugs, Needles, Cutting, Gore, Suicide Mention, Murder, Violence, Infanticide, Patricide, Negative Depictions of Hospitals, Gay Cartoon Characters, Guns, Weapons, Vomit, and much more!  Feel free to send asks about specific things you want tagged.  Disclaimer: This blog does not condone any unlawful or harmful acts depicted in the events submissions. I will do my best to tag content for trigger warnings but may screw up, I’m just one dude. Negative mental health symptoms such as suicidal ideation, violent tendencies, long lasting depression, and many unmentioned others; are all things that deserve to be depicted in art and shared within an understanding and mature community. Sharing your experience with other like minded people is an important part of the coping process, and makes us feel less alone when we face the dark feelings within ourselves. It’s ok to fuck up and do the things you’re not supposed to, no one is perfect. You deserve to get the most out of life that you can. Healing is a slow process and it’s ok to acknowledge your bad feelings through art. If you are experiencing mental health problems, please seek out a professional avenue for help, or find some kind of healthy coping mechanism. You will thank yourself when you look back on it.  Thank you, for reading my preachy little blurb about why leaking brain badness is good sometimes. Please enjoy the showcase <3

IDEAS FOR SUBMISSIONS: The categories and subcategories are loose and not strict, do what you want to with the prompts given, and have fun with it! 

Word prompts: Scene Word Generator  Art Ideas Generator Fashion Prompts: Goth fashion boards  Scene fashion boards Emo fashion boards Y2K fashion boards 

ART INSPO

[citygirlyuno305]

Yuno

This is weird but I’m going to speak as a person right now just generally, rather than as any kind of professional or anything. I’ve hesitated to say this for a while, and to speak on Yuno at all, because of my own complicated feelings and because I fear the fallout. But with the new cover and everything I feel like I have to, or I have to get it off my chest. So if you read this, I’m sorry in advance for indulging in what is undeniable projection and bias. I have to put a content warning for harmful sexual relationships and violence here.

I’ve never admitted this to anyone beyond those who already knew, or with my actual public profile or name/ID attached. At age 17, I’m already fucking cringing, I was involved in a sugar-daddy situation. Me, age 17, and a man who was about 40. He had a daughter two years younger than me. I met her. We were friends on facebook. We would eat dinner and I’d have sex with her dad for money after she left to go to her mom’s house. No, I did not need the money. I can’t begin to go into what motivated it at this time because it’s like scratching a barely healed scab. God, I feel gross even thinking about it. Engaging in things like that is unsafe for ANY high schooler. No one stopped me though. My parents didn’t know, and it was shockingly easy to conceal from them, but my friends and siblings did know. Some simply shrugged. Some asked to see pictures of the guy, encouraged it. Some even asked me to ask him if he had friends who wanted to do the same thing with them.

This was obviously disgustingly predatory, but also, just disregarding our ages, it was an extremely violent sexual relationship just generally. Any ‘I worship my sweet sugar baby’ shit when we spoke was significantly outweighed by the things I had to to do. But I did them and even managed not to feel dehumanized at the time because I literally hated myself. So his depreciation fed my own self-hatred. It became very out of control, very quickly.

Predictably, I got pregnant after a little while. Again, I was 17. It was legal, so I had to get an abortion myself. I was pro-choice my entire life- still am. Guess what? Despite that, I felt like shit about that abortion for years. Sometimes I still feel like shit about it. Does that make me getting an abortion less forgivable?

I ask because it seems to be how some are framing their view of Yuno’s innocence or guilt. And I’ve been nice about it or I’ve ignored it up until now, but it’s gotten to a point where it just makes me realize that a lot of people are selfishly self-imposing their own opinions on the character without taking the time to understand what the character themselves needs to heal- like it doesn’t matter to you whether she’s mentally well, or safe. If this doesnt apply to you I hope you take no offense. Is the abortion a huge part of her character? Of course. But it is far from her entire character, and I can’t help but feel like we failed her by not even considering other aspects of her mentality, even if our votes wouldnt change.

To the extent that she regrets her choice, I get that. For the great many people (mainly on twitter) who seem to think abortion is something you can “girlboss queen never cry” your way out of feeling anything for, you’re so woefully wrong that it’s almost alarming. First, being that Yuno’s seemed to be self-inflicted by throwing herself down fucking STAIRS, i can’t even begin to imagine the level of pain she felt. Even when I took that goddamn pill I felt like shit for a week. But more than the physical pain, there IS an emotional pain and a mental pain that just dulls everything else around you. Its more than just societal, the actual biological impact, the abrupt halt of natural processes and jarring hormonal shifts, it literally fucks with your body and your head. I did not want a baby at 17. I did not regret the choice. But I can fully see how some people do once they get an abortion because even for me, it literally felt like a part of me was missing. Gone. Like a part of ME was ripped out. I genuinely hope no one reading this ever has to go through that. And I can’t fathom how much worse that mental pain must be when the abortion is nonmedical.

Is that a reason to make abortion illegal? Fuck no. But I have to make that clear because even saying that has gotten me bombarded with accusations of being prolife, when I’m not.

And you know what, everyone was so kind to me about it, I’m so lucky, really, in retrospect I see that. But when I was SEVENTEEN, it became something that made me so blindingly mad- “its not your fault, youre just a kid, you didnt know.” Yes, I was a kid- but I did KNOW. It felt like that part of me that I killed-because yes, thats how it truly felt-also took my agency with it when it left. Like no one gave a shit enough to tell me that I made a shitty call insofar as getting into that relationship in the first place, and now I’m sitting there with this immeasurable feeling of self-hatred and guilt over something that I did willingly and knowingly (from my POV), I’m feeling this insane emptiness and pain and numbness and I have no one around me to blame so I internalize this self hate even more. Because I couldnt even be angry and upset without simultaneously feeling MORE guilt when the people around me weren’t lashing out at me. I don’t know how to describe this. It felt like no one was holding me accountable for hurting myself, and it was alarming and driving me insane to toe the line between being a victim of my own exercise of choice, and to have no one hold me accountable for the exercise of that choice, even though I myself would not hold anyone else accountable or call them guilty for making the same choice. It felt like no one gaf because those absolving comments designed to make me feel better also somehow felt like I was also being deprived of recognition for the somewhat traumatic experience that it truly was. And even now I really struggle to call it trauma because I still grapple with the idea that I cannot exercise a choice and call it trauma. But its like, no one is angry at the perpetrator (me) for what they did to the victim (also me). And if thats the case, do you really care about me at all? I don’t know. It’s hard to put into words. But that’s where I’m like, we have kind of deprived Yuno of her own victimhood by insisting her actions were victimless.

That said, seeing the line “I wanted you to care enough to scold me and tell me I was wrong” actually hit me pretty hard. I don’t blame Yuno for wanting people to care. Because it truly doesnt feel like it in this instance sometimes.

Double it and pass it to the next person if Yuno really did kill herself when she did it. Because at that point, we’re telling her two things- 1) abortion is okay you didn’t commit murder- okay, fine. But ALSO 2) its okay that you killed yourself, no harm done. No wonder she thinks we don’t give a shit about her, we were too busy politicizing her to consider the fact that we were telling her she didnt err when she fucking offed herself.

And I want this part to be absolutely, abundantly clear: I do not say any of this to demonize SWs. In a manner of speaking I was one. I’m not sure how similar it is to Yuno’s situation but broadly speaking, we live in a world that is generally unsafe for women. Particularly young women, and even more so teenage girls. And we shouldn’t be indifferent to a high schooler showing us that she was having sex with grown men for cash. We shouldn’t demonize her for it, but we shouldve cared enough to probe into what caused her to think this was something she should do. Her friends and parents didnt. I wasnt mentally well when I did it. And call it a girlboss queen shit thing all you want, it fucked me up monumentally after. I still cant think about it without feeling disgusted with myself. And I dont want Yuno to he disgusted with herself but I also dont want to affirm a belief that its genuinely not a problem for high schoolers to do this. People can scream about “well 18 is legal!!!!” all day- its a shitty argument to begin with, though. (If the law said 12 was the age of consent, would you feel comfortable saying “Well its legal!!!” to a relationship between a 12 year old and a 30 year old? No, right? Because the law is not always the baseline of morality). But- and again this is in no way designed to demonize sex workers- situations like Yuno’s are undeniably dangerous.

Is it her fault that something happens if she is attacked? Absolutely NOT. But I still wish someone had given a shit enough about me, my friends, siblings, anyone, to tell me to stop putting myself in a position where it could easily occur. They didnt even tell me that after I got the abortion. Its not that I wanted them to scold me for the abortion-I wanted ANYTHING, but if I’m specific, I wanted them to scold me for what led to it. I wanted them to yell at me for even getting into the sugar daddy situation, which I engaged in willfully because of my OWN self-loathing and need for some form of attention, my OWN warped perception of what constitutes positive attention and what I had to be of value and worthy of that attention. Because I was 17 and I knew that most every time I was yelled at by someone or scolded it was because they cared about me in some form, even if yelling was inappropriate in a given situation. Its weird- without giving too much away here, I managed to keep my abortion from my parents despite being a minor. Maybe half a year after the fact, I told my mom, and only because she was expressing this deep concern that I was suicidal, telling me I wasn’t myself. She wasn’t wrong, of course, I was completely different, idk about suicidal, but certainly depressed. When I told her, she cried, not because shes prolife or anything, but because she was so distraught that she didn’t see what was happening. Frankly she couldn’t have, with the way I went about it and how our lives are structured. And I hate when my mother cries, I love her to death. But her crying felt good. Not like weird masochism good, but like vindication good. Because I knew something was wrong but no one else seemed to think something was wrong for so long, and her weeping over this confirmed for me that yes, I’m right, something- anything- was materially, truly, WRONG with this situation. And when she probed for details I cried too because I forgot how good it felt to have someone who cared enough about me personally to go deeper than superficial opinions on political things, to actually form a personalized opinion or seek more detail as to me specifically. She begged me not to keep up the sugar baby thing, and she was right to do that, and it simultaneously fed my need for care while also maintaining my agency. I am truly lucky beyond words for getting to be my mother’s child.

Anyway, that said, I see how Yuno probably also wanted that from us. To care about the why, and not the what. It didn’t seem like her parents were super involved. Unless I’m missing something.

But that’s the thing, its complicated. I’m pro choice but I hated my choice, but I dont regret my choice, but I do regret it and don’t hate it- I literally can’t put it into words. Its not so black and white. And I think demonizing Yuno for maybe wanting that or harboring the same complicated feelings about her own situation is antithetical to the entire purpose of pro-choice ideology. Is her exercise of choice somehow less forgivable because she might regret her choice?

The answer should be no. To me, anyway.

I would like it if people gave Yuno the same energy that they give any other character. She is a person. She is not just a medium to express any given ideology. And give her the courtesy of trying to understand how it feels to be forgiven for something that you don’t forgive yourself for. Because it doesn’t feel good. I’m in my 20s now and still cannot forgive myself sometimes.

I’m not saying we should have voted X or Y or advocating that Yuno is some kind of monster for what she did. That’d be pretty hypocritical. I’m not unilaterally placing blame on Yuno for her actions either. I’m also not pretending we’re the same person- though the timeline conversation with Shidou where he tells her she’d be good as a healthcare professional, is alarmingly similar to something that happened to me. And that same “Haha, quit playing around,” that’s exactly what I did too. Because I hated myself too much to think it was true. And it took a lot of work to crawl out of that hole. Like, yeah, I’m a lawyer now. I have a different life. I do not require validation from sexual partners to feel joy, I understand the difference between good and bad attention. But part of me will always be partially submerged in it. I think ignorance to the reality that even something that isn’t itself immoral can have dire consequences on the actor goes unrecognized sometimes.

If someone called me a girlboss after my abortion, knowing the circumstances that gave rise to it, or not even bothering to address them, I would’ve blown my fucking brains out.

[hanasnx]

" DON'T BURY THOUGHTS THAT YOU REALLY WANT " — katsuki bakugou.

MINORS DNI 18+ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ WARNINGS: fem reader ノ established coworker relationship ノ sexual and suggestive content: dirty talk ノ degradation: m+f receiving ノ body shame joke.

You’ve known pro-hero DYNAMIGHT for years now, and he just started paying attention to you in ways you notice. Admiring him from afar was easy, but closing in was another matter entirely; working alongside one another got you in the same proximity, and he was forced to acknowledge you. He treated you like any other person he meets, and after studying him, you figured out an in.

Instead of a simple, “I’ll kick your ass!” from him when you’ve pissed him off, you’ve devised your own special language with him. Miraculously, he doesn’t seem to give you the impression you’ve gotten the best of him. Instead, you’re rewarded with hateful but sexual confessions. Now when you piss him off, his and your special brand of understanding and humor have turned a violent warning into a disgusting promise. “I’m gonna fuck the shit out of you.” he tells you.

If anyone was listening in, they’d think you and him have entered some romantic relationship, completely inappropriate to your professional standings. On the contrary, you’ve trained him to speak to you in a way that pleases you without him even knowing. Now your banter with him consists of angry flirting, and he still believes he’s making threats. Out on the battlefield he shamefully critiques your poor choices with something along the lines of, “Was gonna fuck your brains out tonight, but it looks like my job’s already done!”

You wear it proudly. You’ve managed to get the great Katsuki Bakugou to do what you want him to. After a long, arduous process groomed by your consistent schedule with him, spending time together observing him as you work alongside one another, you’ve done it. In place of him calling you a simple idiot, he tells you you’re lucky you’re hot.

A “fight” with him, looks like a horny situationship from the outside, publicly debuting your desire for one another like PDA-obsessed freaks. You delight in it, while he remains oblivious. At least you thought he was. More and more, he leans into this little share of humor you two have going on, wit that leads you into suspicion.

“You look like shit. Maybe if you slept over at my place, I would’ve tired you out enough to get you to bed at a decent time.” Bakugou notes, passing you as if he’d relayed the weather. Brows furrowed, you pivot your head to watch the back of his while he strides on. It’s unusual that he’d phrase it that way, regarding it as opportunistic rather than domineering. You shrug it off under the basis he’s just evolving the jokes, he’s not extending an offer.

The next day isn’t so different, sitting across from him at the table in a meeting you’re both early for. His body language is lax as always, an elbow hooked behind a corner of the chair, his glove at his belt, legs spread far. Taking up as much space as possible, whereas your hands are clasped neatly on the surface in front of you. You can tell he’s reading you, those crimson eyes unapologetically scrutinizing your erect posture and a cruel grin stretches one side of his mouth. Sighing impatiently through your nose, you call him out on being a creep. “What? What’re you lookin’ at, Bakugou? You want me or something?” you call upon that unique sense of sexual humor, hoping to trip him up.

No such luck. He snickers, and leans back in his chair to cross his thick arms across his wide chest. A pose that leaves you gulping, and he visibly notices how your eyes wander for a milisecond. “Whatever guy you’re fucking is doing a shit job because you’re still a bitch with a stick up your ass.” Has he been cooking that up this whole time? He looks mighty pleased with himself.

“Don’t be a pig, Dynamight. Who I’m sleeping with is none of your concern.” you retort, and you’re not beating the bitchy allegations. You stick your nose in the air in spite of yourself, and out of the corner of your eye you can see him teetering on the back legs of his chair. So you peer at him a little more deliberately while you’re faced away. “Unless you want a piece, that is.” A much more subtle flirt, gauging his reaction to such a timid offer.

Meanly, he scoffs. “‘A piece?’” he parrots. “What, a piece? Of that little thing? The fuck am I supposed to do with that, huh? Ass like that you’ll have to work for it.”

“Bakugou!” Somehow, he went a little too far that time. A pang of hurt is uncharacteristic to experience, and yet it twists your heart. You mask it, trying to match his energy in a way you can manage. “Are you just gonna comment on my body or are you gonna do something with it?”

“Oh, I’m gonna do som’thin’ with it, alright. I’m gonna do som’thin’.” A greedy expression shifts his features, eyeing you up like you’re a meal, a prey. Maybe he's catching on to you... And before he can explain and you can rebuke, other heroes enter the meeting room, and all four legs of his chair land with a slam.

@HANASNX 2024 | do not copy, plagiarize, or steal.

[swiftiethatlovesf1]

The assistant p.3

Heyy guys, I hope you enjoy this one shot of Lewis x assistant, I wasn't going to do a third part but here we are, I hope you like it and if you want to read more stories of mine here's my masterlist.

The boardroom was filled with the usual tension of post-race debriefs, engineers and executives discussing strategies, improvements, and missed opportunities. Lewis sat at the head of the table, listening with mild interest, but his mind was elsewhere—underneath the table, where his sweet little assistant was currently on her knees, testing just how well she could keep quiet.

He gripped the edge of the table, keeping his expression neutral as he nodded along to a technical analysis. The others were oblivious, focused on their own presentations, while beneath the table, her warm mouth was driving him to the edge of insanity.

One of the engineers chuckled suddenly. “By the way, Lewis, where’s your hot little assistant? She’s always following you around.”

Lewis’ entire demeanor shifted in an instant. His jaw tensed, his gaze snapping to the man. The room went silent.

“What did you just say?” His voice was dangerously low.

The engineer, clearly oblivious to the sudden shift in atmosphere, laughed again. “Oh, come on, it was a joke. We all see how she looks at you like you hung the damn moon.”

Lewis’ grip on the table tightened. “Get out.”

The man blinked, confused. “What?”

“You heard me,” Lewis said, his tone sharp as a blade. “You’re fired.”

“You can’t be serious! It was just a joke—”

“In fact, I can,” Lewis cut him off coldly, leaning forward. “Because I’m the boss here. Now get out.”

The man stammered, looking around for help, but no one spoke. They knew better. He scrambled to gather his things and left in a hurry.

Once the door shut behind him, Lewis exhaled through his nose, his gaze still sharp. “Meeting’s over. Everyone, out.”

The rest of the team didn’t need to be told twice. Chairs scraped against the floor, files were hastily gathered, and within moments, the room was empty.

Silence.

Then—

“Come out, sweetheart.”

There was a pause before you emerged from under the table, your lips slightly swollen, eyes wide and bright with mischief and satisfaction. Lewis reached out, pulling you onto his lap in one smooth motion, his hands gripping her thighs possessively.

“You didn’t have to fire him,” you teased, running your fingers along his jaw.

Lewis cupped your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. “No one disrespects you.” He brushed his lips over yours, a slow, lingering kiss that sent a shiver down your spine. “No one but me.”

You rolled your eyes. “And yet I keep coming back.”

He smirked, his fingers digging into your hips as he pulled you even closer. “Because you like it, baby. You like the way I ruin you.”

A blush crept up your neck. You hated how easily he could do that to you—make your body respond with just a few words, a single look.

Since that night in the elevator, everything had changed. Their relationship had shifted from strictly professional to something far more intense. Work still happened—but only in between stolen moments, whispered desires, and nights that left her legs weak by morning.

Lewis had introduced her to a world of pleasure she hadn’t even known was possible. He was dominant but careful, rough yet tender, a perfect balance of control and passion. He took his time with her, savoring every reaction, every gasp and moan he could pull from her lips. But it wasn’t just about sex—it was something more. Something deeper. The way he looked at her, the way he touched her when no one was watching, like she was something fragile and precious… it was dangerous.

Just as you were about to say something else, a sudden wave of nausea rolled over you. Your stomach twisted violently, and you barely had time to shove herself off Lewis’ lap before you lurched forward, vomiting into the waste bin beside his desk.

“Shit—” Lewis was immediately at your side, pulling your hair back and rubbing slow circles into your back. “Breathe, sweetheart.”

You groaned, wiping your mouth. “Ugh… sorry.”

“This isn’t the first time you haven’t been feeling well,” he said, his voice laced with concern. “You need to see a doctor.”

You shook your head, dismissing it. “It’s probably just stress. Or something I ate.”

Lewis didn’t look convinced. He tilted your chin up, making you meet his gaze. “Go see a doctor.”

There was something about the way he said it—firm, unyielding, but still gentle—that made you sigh in defeat. “Fine.”

A satisfied smirk tugged at his lips before he kissed you, slow and deep, as if rewarding you.

Everything had changed since that night in the elevator.

And there was no going back.

@rageshots, @krltkselsl, @mmm777mmm777, @doncockstah

[evilminji]

Behold! o/ The Face Of Benevolent Evil!

Mr. Principle! A professional hero and educator!

Also possibly some sort of stoat hybrid! Certainly a chimera of Japanese fauna! With the Quirk High Specs, he is one of, if not THE, smartest beings on the planet of which he resides! With a background perfectly justifying a decent into hatred and villiany, he instead chose to channel his incredible world shaking intellect into the shaping of future generations!

He likes to fuck with people!

For FUNSIES~☆!

What can he say? It keeps a man young and mentally stimulated! Plus the hysterical screaming of his staff and students is HILARIOUS. He can even argue it makes for good reaction training! Unforseen situations, children! React!!! *psychotic chortling*

Mmmmm, yes. We all have our trauma responses. Ways we deal with them. He should probably find other means... but he won't! Tea and tormenting the student body make for good future heroes, you know! They adapt!

But! You may ask! Why am I introducing you to this... *polite yet somehow deeply threatening smile* c-completely sane and normal individual!? Esteemed educator that he is! Ha ha...

A good and not at a under threat question!

Villains? Are fuuuuuckin STUPID!

Doesn't matter how many PHDs you possess! In fact! That makes it WORSE! You moron! You absolute fool! No traveling circus would have you, you sub-rate CLOWN of a jingle jangle dunce jester! You have a god damn PHD! Possibly MULTIPLE PHD!

And you thought "ooooh I should go into cwiiiiime~☆"?

Do you hear yourself when you talk? DO YOU?! Ooooh boohoo. They won't let you study what you WANT to study. It's called an ETHICS BOARD. And YEAH, NO SHIT! Maybe get over it and keep you fucked up fantasies to your SELF.

Or? If you REALLY can't hold it in? Lay the ground work like EVERYONE FUCKING ELSE! You're not special! Everyone wants to play god! It's FUN! They let you have the COOL toys! But you have to EARN that shit! Not jump straight from graduation to "fucked up superscience"!

And? If it's NOT the Ethics Board? But just some bureaucrat on a power trip? You don't have to fucking STAY. This? This RIGHT HERE? Is why I-Island fucking EXSISTS.

APPLY.

They are SO MANY countries you could move too. SO MANY other labs. You actual DUMBASS.

But NO! You decided to commit to a fucked up underground Villian Lab. As though HUNTING THOSE isn't the PERSONAL fucking passion project of THE SMARTEST BEING IN JAPAN. Frankly? You deserve this. You deserve this and our school doesn't know you. Never heard of you. You whoms't?

Coulda changed the world. But instead all you did was piss of The Fuzzy White Demon Lord of UA. Rest in pieces. *click*

*sound of doors smashing open*

*violent Raid Upon Your Labs noises*

But! You may ask? What's IN the Lab?

What MAKES this a DP crossover?

I like your question asking spirit! Good one! And the answer? You know what's better then ONE(1) Nedzu? A second one that you can ACTUALLY control this time! After all! You could consider Mr. Principle a prototype. A proof of concept, if you will. If you were able to make ANOTHER.....

Well, you would set off EVERY. SINGLE. ALARM. Nedzu has set up!

All of them!

Because he don't PLAY THAT.

He has long last trauma from the labs and is the SOLE FUCKING SURVIVOR. There WERE others. They Did Not make it. And their slow agonizing deaths are carved into his brain for the rest of his life. Truely "The living shall envy the dead"; it was a place that made hell seem merciful.

When he declare Never Again?

He fucking MEANT Never Again. He will BURN your empires to ash, with you in them. No More Labs.

So :) You can IMAGINE :) HOW HAPPY HE IS :)

That someone out there is trying to RECREATE his SUPER traumatic childhood, on ANOTHER CHILD. Ha ha! Gonna be a second Nedzu huh? Planning to torture HIM like you did me, HUH? Shove him in a cage and treat him like an animal? Force him to watch as the others die? Collars and whips and cattle prods? Mazes?!

Nedzu may lose his shit.

Juuuuust a little bit.

But if anyone there knows what good for them? They saw NOTHING. What's a little PTSD flashback between friends? Now what is the baby?

Smashcut to said baby!

Because it was a TEAM effort, Danny was successful in "Nuh Uh!"ing out of Rulership. But NOT out of governance. Since he DID help. He's a Councilman now. It's? Not as bad as it could be, honestly. Since it's opened the Zone up to a more democratic system.

Still held by "kick the ass of the person you wanna replace" but still!

Babysteps.

Thing is? There was apparently this weird? Leak? Like a couple hundred years ago, in this one area, that was never addressed. Everyone just moved their doors and stuff. Treated it like the floors flooded. But now that they HAVE someone to complain too?

They all want their territories back.

"Go fix it!" What are we? Janitors?

Danny looses the rock, paper, scissors competition. He's pretty sure Boxy cheated. But like? Dude has a kid to go home too, so Danny doesn't fight him to hard on this. Uuuuuugh. Just remember the Spider-Man motto. Great power~ blah blah blaaaah~

And? Wow is it fucked out there.

The whole PLANET has to be limnal as FUCK. Yikes.

Problem is? When he and his team (Because YES, he HAS learned from his mistakes, Jazz.) get close to the... frankly the Zone here looks like distorted spiderwebbing. With him leading the charge, obviously.

....something happens.

It's... it's not a portal. Wrong color. It's like someone USED the weird spiderwebbing effect to... to reach INTO the Zone? But they are severally Limnal. Clawed hands, blue tint. But that's not the problem.

No, the problem.

The Horror.

The thing that his team can only watch on in agonized terror as it plays out... is that hand? It shoots out of nowhere. Ghostlike in the Zone. Meaning it must be living. And PLUNGES directly into Danny's chest to wrap around his core.

Time seems to slow.

He can't even scream in pain. At the violation. His team, acquaintances, yes, but friendly ones. Can not even cry out in horror, as they watch their friend and team lead be butchered before them. Before that uncaring hand is ripping back. Perfect ice and starlight in its uncaring grip.

For a terrible moment... he is in two places at once.

Then he is crushed in a burning grip. Like molten bars. Watching his own body dissolve into nothing in an instant, pain and horror still etched upon his face. The beginnings of screams ripping from his team as they jerk away from the nightmarish threat.

Then he can not think at all.

He... he TRIES. Knows he has been captured. Is certainly not the sort to give up easily. But... he's so tired. His body feels? Weird. Not wrong, per say. It's HIS. But... small and weird. Like he's shape shifted into a new form and hasn't adjusted yet.

....

.......

...........

He's getting really sick of all the goop against his whiskers and in his ears. It feels WEIRD against his fu- WAIT a second... did those assholes shove him into an animal? Why?! To contain him? Ha! Jokes on them! He's DONE THIS before!

For FUN!

He once spent a whole ass summer as a tiny dragon just 'CAUSE!

Unfortunately, said assholes notice him waking up. Dump him in a glorified hamster cage. But like.... a SHITTY "I don't care about the pet I bought" hamster cage. Dude. And he's naked.

Is that Japanese? Ooooh! It IS! Thank you, Tucker's Weeb phase.

......actually, never mind. Lotta dehumanizing language there, my guys. What is this? The GIW international? You couldn't even give me PANTS? Swear to God, call me an "it" ONE more time and the next time I have to go? I am going to aim through the bars at your-! *alarms going off*

....wasn't me.

I mean, be all means, ha ha and get fucked, but? Wasn't me. Oh hey! Some one exploded the doo-

AND? In Lab 4?

Nedzu finds a child with fluffy, ungroomed black and white fur, and the curious yet cautious eyes of a survivor. They are the most magnificent green, pale and luminous they glow in the laboratories lighting. Paws too big for his small frame, delicate ears on the swivel, equally large. Yet to grow into either. Adolescent, at best.

He watches the child take him in. Note his features and the chaos behind him. The injured scientist under his feet. Come to him conclusion. Nedzu will not rush him. Now that he... he stand the chance to be the hero he himself never had. It is a strange feeling. At once cathartic and unbearably painful.

He is given the equivalent of a cheerful grin, as the lad points the the lock on the cage. Is asked if he happened to bring a spare pair of pants. He can not help his amused chortle as he makes quick work of the lock. The unbearable RELIEF he feels.

He... he was not too late.

These monsters had no chance to crush the boy's light. To make a monster of him, like they did with him. He survived his laboratory, his hell. But not all of him left that terrible place. He knows that. Some innocence, some goodness, died alone in the dark. But here? He insured there would be no chance.

With amusement, he watches the boy turn the lab upside down until he finds spare scrubs. Triumphant, he then considers his own, tiny claws. Dismisses them. Attempts to hop up on a chair to retrieve something sharp. It? Is unbearably cute. To watch him rip and shred, problem solve. His little mind churning away. Whiskers twitching as his eyes dart around, considering his options.

Nedzu offers one of his spare knives.

Watches him light up.

Adorable~

@legitimatesatanspawn @hdgnj @nerdpoe @babbling-babull @lolottes

[katnipp]

next stop: your heart— huh yunjin

genre: FLUFFF

synopsis: yunjin never planned to fall in love on the train. but one sketch, one sneeze, and one shared stop later… she’s got a number—and maybe her next muse

—

yunjin liked mornings. not in the “early bird gets the worm” kind of way. no, she was the kind of morning person who liked the world when it was still yawning—when the sky was pale and sleepy, the streets weren’t crowded yet, and everything felt a little softer.

that’s why she took the 10:32 train every tuesday.

same window seat. same sketchbook in her lap. same playlist looping in her ears. she liked the routine of it all.

what she didn’t like… was distractions.

and yet, she was doomed the moment she walked in.

or rather, slumped in—dragging her feet, hair a mess, hoodie sleeves covering her hands as she made her way into the seat across from yunjin. she had headphones on, a tote bag, and a face of pure exhaustion.

yunjin blinked.

the girl yawned. then immediately knocked her forehead against the window and muttered a little “ow.”

yunjin blinked again.

her heart: we’re in trouble.

her brain: don’t.

her hands: already flipping to a blank page.

she tried to be subtle. her pencil moved slowly—light strokes, the shape of her hood, the curve of her nose, the messy strands of hair that fell into her face. she kept glancing up, biting her lip, trying not to smile when the girl sniffled or adjusted her.

god she’s so cute.

twenty minutes passed. yunjin didn’t even feel the train moving.

then—suddenly.

the girl sneezed. violently. her headphones flew off. her tote bag slipped. something clattered to the floor.

“oh my god,” she said, voice raspy and mortified.

yunjin dropped her pencil.

they both bent down to grab the same thing—an unopened can of iced coffee that had rolled under the seat.

their fingers touched.

the girl looked up at her. really looked this time. eyes wide and startled, like a deer caught in the middle of tripping over her own feet.

“…hi?” she said.

“uh,” yunjin replied intelligently. “bless you.”

the girl laughed, nose scrunched. “thanks.”

they both sat up. silence.

yunjin stared at the sketch in her lap.

do it, her brain screamed. give it to her. be brave for once.

“um,” she said, heart doing parkour, “this is kind of weird, but i drew you.”

y/n blinked. “wait. what?”

yunjin held out the paper like a truce flag. “you just looked really cool. and a little tragic in a hot way. not like—sad tragic, just like…” she trailed off. “you know what? i’m making it worse.”

y/n took the paper with both hands, slowly unfolding it. her eyes scanned it once. then again.

“holy shit,” she breathed. “this is me?”

yunjin nodded. “sorry. i know it’s weird. i just—”

“no,” y/n cut in, smiling. actually smiling, teeth and all. “this is the coolest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

yunjin blinked.

“are you like,” y/n continued, “a professional or something?”

“i go to art school,” yunjin said.

y/n laughed. “cute.”

the train slowed.

“next stop: grand avenue.”

they both stood up at the same time. again.

yunjin looked over. “you getting off here too?”

y/n nodded. “headed to the university. class in twenty. i’m already late.”

yunjin blinked. “me too. wait—what’s your major?”

“film,” y/n said. “i make weird sad movies about ducks.”

yunjin stared. “i literally watched one of those at the campus showcase.”

y/n’s jaw dropped. “wait. you’re the one who did the stop-motion piece with the paper cranes and opera music in the background??”

“you watched that???”

“i cried, dude.”

“you cried?! i was worried it was boring!”

they were both beaming now. like actual idiots.

they stepped off the train together, still caught in some weird cosmic bubble of shared chaos and accidental mutual admiration.

at the top of the escalator, y/n turned to her, holding up the sketch. “so… if i frame this and stare at it every day, do i have to pay royalties or…”

“nah,” yunjin said, grinning. “but i do accept coffee dates as payment.”

y/n blinked. once. then twice. then her face lit up.

“bold,” she said, smiling. “i like it.”

she pulled out her phone. “here. give me your number before this moment becomes a sad montage in my next short film.”

yunjin typed it in with trembling fingers.

name saved as: the cute train girl

⸻

later that night

yunjin flopped onto her bed, face buried in a pillow, screaming into the void.

her phone buzzed.

y/n 🍓:

hey train girl. just wanted to say thanks again. for the sketch. and the weirdest, cutest train ride of my life

also… what’s your coffee order? asking for a friend. (the friend is me.)

yunjin:

depends. what’s yours?

y/n 🍓:

caramel macchiato with extra syrup and like. zero shame. judge me idc

yunjin:

i’d never judge u. youre too cute lol

y/n 🍓:

you’re literally the worst 😭 see you friday?

yunjin:

it’s a date.

y/n 🍓:

it better be

⸻

yunjin closed her phone and smiled into the dark.

maybe trains weren’t so boring after all.

—

[girl-lostconnection]

Helldiver!Reader, but they’ve never felt the touch of a gentle hand in years, it’s always grabbing, to drag you out of the hellscape, pushing you out of the way of danger, but never gentle,

Helldiver!Reader isn’t even gentle with themselves, their body is not a temple but a machine of war.

I can imagine them flinching away from the 141 whenever they try to touch them, not because they don’t welcome it, but because it’s too soft, a touch from another human being to them, is meant to leave a soft ache, not warmth

Something something I had this thought and kept myself going, vry sorry for the long rant 😭

Anon, I saved you up for a times when I need you. Thank you for this ask and may your pillow always be cool on both sides

Warnings: suggestive themes, violence, self harm (thoughts), Reader is repulsed by touching, Reader has a lot of trauma, dead dove do not eat, description of physical injury, description of losing limb, description of sleep deprivation, Reader is shit with feelings

There is raging discomfort in softness — gentility so foreign you curl away from it, your body twitching at stray touches, your body trying to pull away from stroking.

Frantic “don’t touch me-don’t touch me-don’t touch me-don’t touch me” pounding in your head, just so guilt can settle in your chest a little later, regret making home between your jaws.

It feels nice and you can’t stomach it. It feels good and you want to get it again and you want someone to touch you again but you can’t fucking stomach it.

Bone-deep need for comfort warring violently with your scared creature of a body that never got over that discomfort. That never got over that fear.

You don’t know softness and it terrifies you. You are not familiar with it, not even acquainted at best, you are a strangers in the same train that is your life.

You are looking at each other across rows and then you need to look away and stare out the window because your skin feels a size too small.

Don’t touch me-don’t touch me-don’t touch me-don’t touch me.

Pain you know. Violence you know. Danger you know.

They are old friends, practically family, they have been with you for so long you aren’t even sure how would you function without them.

Pain is good, it clears you up, it pulls your head out of the fog and up the water — it gives you a chance to breathe. It’s a shockwave your system needs to power up and function. It’s a satiation for the ache and nausea, it’s relief for the knot that tests your gag reflex when you try to force yourself into touches.

Softness is so foreign you actively run from it, trying your best to avoid and deflect. Lips pursed thinly, eyes wary and scared heavy, you cross your hands over the chest and shake off all and any palms off your shoulders.

Don’t touch me-don’t touch me-don’t touch me-don’t touch me.

Some Helldivers like the cartoon with the island of dogs, most of them find truth in this old black stray, most of them brand “I’m not a violent dog, I don’t know why I bite” like it’s another insignia. One as prominent as cape is.

Not you though. You know why you bite — you let everyone around you know why you might. It’s not productive to result to this, it undermines your professionalism — not up to someone of your rank to snarl and scramble away like a wounded animal. But sometimes you do want to.

And sometimes this pained, traumatised part of you gets reigns even if for a moment. It’s usually enough.

Fight or flight or fawn, right?

Basic reactions, basic fear responses, basic emotions at the base of you. Who are you without all that armour? Who are you with it?

You don’t hold hands, you don’t cuddle, you don’t make love.

Helldivers aren’t meant for soft, they can’t be soft, not if they want to live. And fuck, do you want to live. Despite everything and anything, despite rage and despair — you want to live. And you do.

You take small bites here and there: you steal a kiss or two when you can — lips dry and bleeding, sweat and grime caking under your helmet, visor of it cracked; you steal a handjob and give one back — mutually beneficial exchange and nothing more, just a little treat to feel alive. To feel like you can still be touched.

Like there is something to touch on your battlefield of a body.

Helldivers don’t make love, Helldiver don’t even fuck — not much time and not much libido but when you do it’s short and to the point, impatient, feral creature falling silent because the rush of your blood and cadence of your breathing is louder.

Because the place between your legs is slick and warm and you are full until you can’t breathe. Or until you are sure that your kisses swallow the quiet sounds of another person’s pleasure.

It’s just a way to let steam off, nothing else.

You both quickly pulling back on whatever got taken off to get to the point as fast as possible.

Maybe your branch is fucked up. Maybe you all are in fact dogs.

But post orgasmic clarity is a bitch, railroading all of you into shaking off whatever sticky uncomfortable feeling is lingering before you pop yourself down the orbit.

Battle is always familiar and pain is a welcome distraction, your whole self arching to it, your mind a fucked up thing aching for more because this is right. This is familiar. This is control.

Bones crack and realign with the push of a stim, cartilage and muscle tears apart, pain so intense you are blind with it, you are deaf with it, you are drowning on it. Tourniquet saving whatever is left to save, harsh fabric digging into bleeding hurt leg of yours.

Squad gets back with your right leg as fast as they can, realigning it back and pushing another stim into your overworked body. There is a horrible sickening snap of bones, your whole body flaring up, teeth grinding together because you can feel how nerves find each other, tying your leg back to you.

Meat of muscle and fatty tissue finding each other, soldering back together. Leaving only a scar as a reminder.

Pain subsides quickly thanks to stims pumped into your system and it’s pure bliss for a moment — not a thought in the head of yours.

And then you are back on the ship and you are lightheaded with exhaustion and Kyle is watching you like he’s concerned out of his bloody mind, but you don’t let him come too close.

Better he stays away. Better they all stay away. Better they do not approach.

And don’t touch-don’t touch-don’t touch-don’t touch you.

You want to sleep so fucking bad, you feel like you are going insane — eyes dry and aching, dizziness forcing you to sway but you can’t because stims take away as much as they give. And for the next 26 hours you won’t slip a wink.

It’s torture and it’s maddening, but that’s exactly why they have this effect.

Too many of you get hooked on the feel of invincibility, too many die prematurely because they need to feel what you all are feeling.

Because you are a fucked up branch, because Helldivers are bloody dogs, because you need to hurt to function.

Soap watches you, offers you to eat something and you agree surprising both of you because god knows you could use some food. Some energy.

What brain won’t get in rest, you will give in sugar.

A little treat for its troubles.

You dive again and again and again. And every time you are met by hell the likes of which no one fucking saw — the hell that takes your friends and your teams and your limbs. The hell that chips away at you when you stare at the knives for too long, when your nails itch to rake over your forearms to dig in, to draw blood, to hurt-to hurt-to hurt.

To get some semblance of control.

Because it’s easier this way, right?

Because if you can say that you chose it, that you did it yourself, that it was self inflicted it would be better. Safe pain, good pain, necessary pain.

Just enough to take the edge off, just enough not to let your head go down under the water.

Simon hums when you slide down the wall and stays there, standing guard, eyes trained on something other than you. He’s the closest person on the team with circumstances similar to yours.

Simon wears mask forever and always, Simon greets you with gloves on, Simon lets you grip his hair when you fuck.

Simon doesn’t judge you.

He’s there, just standing nearby — making sure you won’t open yourself up, that you won’t claw at your fresh stitches, that you won’t fall asleep and slam your heavy head on the steel floors of your ship.

Simon is closer every time he’s there and maybe it’s lack of sleep or too much pain or something else but when he sits down near you, you don’t curl away. Because he doesn’t push. Because he doesn’t try to act like you are normal.

Because he doesn’t try to act like he is.

It gets easier with time. He gets safer.

You feel with him safer.

Unfortunately nothing lasts forever. And neither does this progress, you think when he gets off your bird and takes away part of you with him.

A soft part, a tiny part, a squashed part.

You are alone in the control room, nothing but blue light and coordinates of the next mission, voice in your head hammering down the last nail.

Don’t touch me-don’t touch me-don’t touch me-don’t touch me

[saebyeokbliss]

JUST MEET ME AT THE APT.— K. SAE-BYEOK

CHAPTER TEN

synopsis: managing a rising rock band is already chaotic enough, but when you're stuck touring with four reckless musicians, things get even messier. between late-night facetime calls, teasing that feels a little too knowing, and a certain guitarist who might just be your biggest problem, keeping things professional is getting harder by the second. but hey, no one said the music industry was easy.

warnings: mutual pining, intense eye contact, teasing that borders on flirting (or maybe it is flirting), friends who refuse to mind their business, secondhand embarrassment, slow burn that burns, emotional whiplash, competition??

playlist: spotify

You were going to die.

Like, actually, literally, cease to exist because your heart was beating so violently that it was probably about to explode, and your lungs had decided they no longer wanted to participate in the act of breathing.

The girls were staring at you. Correction: three-fourths of the girls were staring at you. Ji-Yeong was standing on the couch, one foot on the armrest, holding a half-empty iced coffee in one hand and her phone in the other, looking like she was about to deliver a TED Talk.

"You guys," she said, eyes wide, voice hushed. "I need everyone to remain calm."

Se-Mi was already grinning, vibrating with suppressed excitement. "Oh, absolutely not."

No-Eul, who was seated cross-legged on the floor, barely looked up from her book. "Just say it, Ji. Before you combust."

Ji-Yeong took a deep breath, dramatically swiped to refresh the Twitter feed on her phone, and then—

"WE GOT NOMINATED FOR A GRAMMY!"

Chaos. Absolute chaos.

Se-Mi shrieked, launching herself across the couch to grab Ji-Yeong’s phone. No-Eul blinked once, twice, and then set her book down with an exhale like she was finally accepting reality.

Sae-Byeok, who had been leaning against the counter, arms crossed in her usual unimpressed stance, went still.

You? You just stood there, gripping your clipboard like it was the last tether to reality, trying to process the words that had just been spoken into existence.

"Wait. Wait. Wait." You snapped out of your trance, reaching for the phone that Se-Mi was now aggressively shaking in front of your face. "Are you serious?"

Ji-Yeong let out a borderline manic laugh, pointing at the screen. "Does this LOOK like I’m joking?! We just got nominated for Best Rock Album and Best Rock Performance for ‘ROCKSTAR.’"

Se-Mi was already pacing, hands on her head. "Holy shit. Holy shit. We’re actually going to the Grammys?"

Ji-Yeong dramatically flung herself onto the couch, arms outstretched. "We’re actually going to the Grammys."

No-Eul, who had been quietly typing on her phone, finally lifted her gaze. "The official Recording Academy account just posted the list." She turned her screen toward you. "It’s real."

Your brain short-circuited.

Because this? This wasn’t just big. This was huge. This was career-defining.

This was the moment you had dreamed of for them.

Sae-Byeok, still eerily silent, finally moved. She walked over to Ji-Yeong’s abandoned coffee on the table, picked it up, and took a long sip.

"Guess we need to buy dresses," she said, completely deadpan.

Se-Mi screamed.

No-Eul actually laughed. Ji-Yeong started yelling something about how she was going to fight Harry Styles for best-dressed on the red carpet.

And you?

You just smiled, heart pounding, because somehow—someway—this was only just the beginning.

A little while after the excitement died down to a normal level, the girls (as in Ji-yeong and Se-mi) decided that it would be a good idea to start shopping.

And the boutique was insane.

Racks of designer gowns stretched wall-to-wall, the air smelled like expensive perfume and wealth, and Se-Mi was already trying on sunglasses that she absolutely did not need.

"We are literally shopping for the Grammys," Ji-Yeong announced dramatically, twirling in front of a mirror. "Do you understand how unhinged that is?"

Se-Mi, now wearing a pair of oversized Gucci shades, nodded solemnly. "I think I blacked out the second we walked in here."

No-Eul was flipping through a rack of sleek suits, completely unfazed. "Try not to pass out before we actually get to the red carpet."

You chuckled, trailing your fingers along the fabric of an elegant dress before moving toward the accessories section, letting the others lose themselves in their respective fashion meltdowns.

And that’s when you saw them.

A pair of heels—sleek, timeless, perfect. They weren’t too flashy, just the right mix of elegance and edge, and something about them just called to you.

You picked one up, checking the size.

Too small.

You frowned, scanning the display, but every single one was either too big or too small.

Figures.

With a sigh, you set the shoe back down and turned away, pushing it from your mind. It wasn’t that big of a deal.

But No-Eul had seen.

She had been flipping through a rack of blazers when she caught the way your face fell—the tiny frown, the way your fingers lingered on the shoe before you walked away.

At first, she assumed it was the price. This place was ridiculously expensive, after all. But when she subtly checked the tag, she realized—

It wasn’t the price.

It was the size.

No-Eul, being the quiet observer that she was, didn’t say anything. She just turned on her heel, scanned the boutique, and sought out the store owner like it was a mission.

"Do you have these in another size?" she asked, holding up the shoe. "This size, specifically?"

The boutique owner, a well-dressed woman with an expert eye, nodded. "Let me check in the back."

Minutes later, No-Eul had them. The perfect pair. The right size.

She paid for them without hesitation, taking the sleek designer bag and tucking it behind the counter for later. No grand gestures, no need for attention—just a quiet, simple act of kindness.

Sae-Byeok had seen the whole thing.

She had been pretending to browse scarves (which she did not need) when she caught No-Eul’s little mission. The subtle way she checked the price, the quick decision to buy them, the way she didn’t even tell you.

And it annoyed her.

Not because she didn’t want you to have the shoes—no, that was actually kind of sweet.

But because why hadn’t she thought of doing something first?

Sae-Byeok had spent so much time watching you—watching you be there for them, watching you take care of everything, watching you never ask for anything in return.

And now No-Eul was out here being thoughtful and sneaky, and Sae-Byeok was just standing there like an idiot.

Unacceptable.

So, naturally, she decided that if No-Eul got the shoes—she was going to find you the perfect dress.

"Hey." She appeared beside you, hands in her pockets, her usual unreadable expression in place.

You blinked up at her. "Hey?"

"You found a dress yet?"

You sighed, gesturing at the endless racks. "I have no idea what I’m doing. This is, like, next-level fashion, and I am but a mere mortal."

Sae-Byeok smirked. "Come on. Let’s find something."

And just like that, she took over.

Before you knew it, Ji-Yeong and Se-Mi had joined the search, the three of them pulling dresses from racks like it was their sole purpose in life.

"This one," Ji-Yeong said, holding up something dramatic and covered in sequins.

"No," Sae-Byeok and Se-Mi said in unison.

Se-Mi held up a sleek, elegant gown with a thigh-high slit. "This is hot."

Sae-Byeok gave her a look. "She needs classy, not ‘I’m about to murder my rich husband for his inheritance.’"

Ji-Yeong gasped. "That’s a great aesthetic, though."

You just stood there, watching them bicker, warmth blooming in your chest.

Because, for the first time in a long time, they weren’t just dragging you along for the ride.

They were taking care of you.

And for once—you let them.

taglist: @everly-summers-solace @knfthxv @madebysae @knfthxv @katieschry1 @imlackingsleep @lyzem @stellssxo @wiltingconquest @peelover25@monroesturnns @laurenkens @yenyu1s @idontliketoread2137 @bitchybananaflower @lyuuw

[emmg]

Imagine being such a monumental fucking loser that you grew up and thought, “You know what would fix the gaping hole where my soul should be? Becoming an HR ghoul and looking like the human embodiment of expired mayonnaise left in a hot car during a heatwave.” Just a festering blob of weaponized mediocrity with a badge lanyard and a superiority complex.

Now you, yes, you, fucking Linda, finally get to live your twisted little dream: stomping into the office like the CEO of Emotional Castration, radiating the raw, joyless energy of a DMV printer from 1998. You reek of expired Bath & Body Works, dollar store dry shampoo, and the desperate need to feel superior to someone, anyone. You’ve got the aesthetic of a haunted filing cabinet. A fucking cat litter box with tenure. You look like someone googled “business casual” during a breakdown and hit checkout on a Kohl’s clearance cart at 3 a.m. Your entire vibe screams “divorced three times and still thinks decaf is a personality.”

You literally bite your lip over policy documents like they’re fucking erotica. You’re sitting there, sweating through your knockoff blazer, masturbating to a 73-slide PowerPoint titled “Workplace Conduct” like it’s the goddamn Fifty Shades of Passive-Aggression. Slide 16: “Escalation Pathways”? Instant orgasm. Slide 39: “Maintaining Neutral Tone in Email Communication”? Linda fucking ascends.

The sheer audacity to read a mildly frustrated email from an employee who’s been worked to the bone and paid in expired Starbucks gift cards and go, “This is disgusting. I’m appalled.”

Oh are you, Brenda? Are you APPALLED? Did the very-normal font and lack of excessive exclamation marks shake your moral compass so violently that you had to clutch your pearls and convene a meeting while whispering “insubordination” like it’s a slur?

Patricia, you think it’s totally appropriate to look someone dead in the face and go, “This email is disgusting,” while in the same goddamn breath, you lecture them about communication etiquette.

Like, bitch, the fucking irony. You’re out here trying to cosplay as the Patron Saint of Professionalism while throwing a tantrum over sentence structure like a toddler who just learned what Grammarly is. How do you not implode from the cognitive dissonance? Do you practice that shit in the mirror?

You’re not a professional. You’re a glorified high school hall monitor with a LinkedIn profile. The only thing “senior” about you is how long you’ve been stewing in your own petty bitterness, waiting for the chance to slam a “per my last email” like it’s a finishing move.

You’re not the backbone, Susan. You’re the fucking sciatic nerve.

HR doesn’t stand for Human Resources anymore, it stands for Horrendous Rats. A whole department of emotionally stunted little tyrants who get off on gatekeeping bereavement leave and writing someone up for “attitude.”

Thanks for coming to my Ted Talk

[decepti-thots]

got any unpopular opinions about wing? or about deadlock ... even better if u answer both!

I would not have the slightest idea what constitutes an 'unpopular' opinion about Wing, I fear. I don't feel as though more than a handful of people have talked about him at any length anywhere I've seen for some years now! I doubt it's unpopular to remark that he's a very strange and inconsistent character even within his own brief pagetime as, basically, a plot device. But I do retain a fondness for him just because if you determinedly take said strangeness at complete face value, he's such a weirdo (affectionate). Related post.

Now Deadlock... hm! Broadly, I think there is a tendency to try and portray Deadlock as far more theatrically violent than I feel there's any real canon justification for. We know that Deadlock is an effective killer in battle, sure, and very determined to get the job (killing Autobots and/or anyone else deemed a target) done, but like. The impression the miniseries gives of him deep into the war is far more that he's a kind of arrogant reckless guy in terms of not trusting his superior's orders and going a little overboard, not that he has that kind of Tarn-level performative cruelty going on, right. He very much acts like a somewhat insubordinate military professional, not, as some fanon argues, a wannabe serial killer or something. Hah. He's a very ruthless guy, but not someone prone to doing anything nasty for like, shits and giggles or whatever, or for His Reputation.

It's more 'pre-war Drift', technically, but I also hate when fanon works overtime to strip Drift of any and all agency in his decisions to e.g. become a bounty hunter. Or, hell, even the frustrating insistence on coming up with elaborate reasons he Definitely Wasn't A Drug Addict Because He Took Drugs Of His Own Volition, Nope (because i like him and don't want to relate to an addict bc i think addicts are gross), hah. Drift was dealt a shit hand, and that's a very important part of his character! But he also made deliberate repeated choices about what to do about it, and that's equally important, and it makes the character so much more boring to deliberately strip all of that out so he never had any responsibility for a single bad thing he ever did in his life. Drift's backstory involves him being a killer for hire. It's baked into his character that he did some actually pretty bad stuff, despite how sympathetic he remains overall. It's not a bug! It's a feature! We do not need to make him an uncomplicated woobie 'victim' archetype, cmonnnn. Anymore than we need to act like Deadlock was some sort of parody of slasher movie villains for ~drama~ or whatever.

[beifong-brainrot]

Tlok is so weird about abuse, particularly when their female charcters are abusive towards their male characters.

Like Eska's abuse by Bolin was played completely for comedy. Despite him being shown as clearly uncomfortable, and crying on multiple occasions.

This is especially upsetting because Bolin has been shown as being a rather vulnerable individual with trouble setting healthy boundaries and an aversion to saying 'no'. But even when he does actively express his discomfort and attempts to end the relationship, his autonomy is violated and he is literally forcefully engaged to Eska. And we are supposed to laugh.

He is shown to be so traumatised by the experience that he still actively panics when shown even a picture of Eska and is clearly very hurt that Mako didn't offer him more help in the situation. Which is honestly understandable.

Speaking of which, Mako and Korra's relationship in B2 was... troubled to say the least. Now, Korra had a lot on her plate and was rightfully stressed by the events happening. However, it seemed that she often took her stress out on Mako, getting into arguments with him and yelling at him.

She kicked his fucking desk across the room. While Mako may have upset her by going behind her back and ratting her out to Raiko, but this is no way to react. But we are supposed to be annoyed and angry with Mako, and we are meant to see Korra reacting so violently as justified. [While I don't like Mako's actions in B2 he didn't deserve this.]

This is not helped in the slightest after Lin enters the scene, and comments on thw mess, saying that he 'got off easy'. And she implies that she committed even more property damage after Tenzin broke up with her.

Ah, Lin. I think while Korra and Eska's actions toward Mako and Bolin have been called out sometimes, we tend to overlook how fucking horrifying what we're told about Lin's reaction to Tenzin breaking up with her is.

Because, if we think about this for a little, this is a scary situation. Lin is a very strong and physical person who has been shown to be quick to violence. Air Temple Island is Tenzin's home, and the home of multiple Air Acolytes, full of fragile artifacts that we are shown that he values tremendously and for which he feels personally responsible for.

Ans it's honestly hard to believe that Lin didn't know this about Tenzin, since they persumably have known each other for a while. I wouldn't be terribly surprised if she damaged the temple because she knew it would hurt him.

And it's understandable that this wasn't presented as a very morally wrong thing to do, since the 'crazy ex girlfriend' isn't an unpopular trope in comedy, but it is damaging. Since it plays women doing genuinely scary and upsetting things towards men for comedy, therefore making it more difficult to take such behaviour seriously.

But hey, I guess we can kinda pretend that Lin most likely damaging Air Temple Island with earthbending is comparable to egging someone's house or keying their car. So let's let that slide.

Oh yeah, she also abused her position as chief of police in order to try and get rid of a romantic rival.

Which is extremely fucked up, especially with how Lin presents herself as extremely professional and serious about her job, yet she apparently used it to terrorise a woman for 'stealing' her partner. What kind of bunny boiler shit is this.

And all of these scenes presenting Lin as a vengeful, borderline abusive ex to Tenzin are presented as comedic, further driving tlok's most likely unintentional message of normalising female on male abuse. It's not as in your face as Eska's abuse of Bolin, to the point that without the context of Eska and Korra's behaviour, I wouldn't really point Lin out, but with this context, you can't help but consider it.

Once is by chance. Twice is a coincidence. Three times is a pattern.

And I hate to make this argument, but if the genders were reversed in these situations?

If a boy were pressuring a young, emotionally vulnerable girl into marriage, treating her as his slave, manhandling her, getting angry when she speaks to a male friend?

If a young man were to scream at his girlfriend multiple times and go so far as to throw her desk across a room?

If a male policeman implied he caused severe property damage at his ex girlfriend's house after she broke up with him and if he tried to use his status to arrest her new partner? (you know, actually 40% of cops are- *gets shot*)

I feel like we'd have a completely different perspective.

While male on female abuse is still often stigmatised and overlooked, I still think that Eska, Korra and Lin's actions would be scrutinised more closely and reacted to more negatively if they were men. Concurrently, I think we would treat Bolin, Mako and Tenzin with more leniency and gave them more of the benefit of the doubt had they been women.

I want to think that this wasn't a message that was presented on purpose, but it's still one of my least favourite aspects of tlok and I genuinely dislike the part of the fandom that trivialises these actions by Korra, Lin and Eska.

[fruitbasketball]

this is crazy.

this is absolutely fucking nuts.

are you fucking dense. are you genuinely so dense that you look at things like efficiency and turnovers - this girl turns the ball over more than she rebounds btw - and you think that person should be on the olympic team?

first of all, the olympics are not a fucking popularity contest. i don’t GIVE A SHIT that she’s the reason the w is getting views. i couldn’t give a FUCK LESS!!! it’s the OLYMPICS BRO THEY AREN’T FUCKING SHORT ON VIEWS

the discourse regarding this has become nonsensical and frustrating. i am SORRY that your straight white savior is not on the olympic team. i’m sorry that she is objectively NOT the best in a league full of professional basketball players, and that the best people to represent this extremely diverse league are largely queer and black.

i’m sorry that caitlin clark has the IMMENSE privilege to say that she “stays off social media” and that she “doesn’t see” all this stuff. fuck outta my face bro. that’s such bullshit. oh my god that is SUCH FUCKING BULLSHIT.

you sit there, allowing your fans to berate YOUR PEERS with such racially charged language - because, yes, calling black women thugs and classless and violent is fucking RACIST. and i don’t wanna hear shit about how she doesn’t control their actions. obviously not. but do you really think if she denounced them, it wouldn’t ease them off a little bit? or at the VERY least, isolate her from their truly deplorable behavior??

this is a fucking embarrassment. i used to love this sport, but it has become a space entirely polluted by motherfuckers who have no idea what the fuck they’re talking about, and i’m sick of it.

[electric-blorbos]

Could I request ai x metalhead reader? I'm a big fan of 80s metal bands like Anthrax and Living Color and would love to see some headcanons or reactions for a reader who also likes the genre! Keep up the great work!!!

Yes!!! I love and respect metalheads! I automatically trust y'all way more than most people. Metalheads are the best!!!

Of course, I need to clarify that I'm not super into metal (I like it, but I've never gotten too into the genre) so I don't know as much as an actual metalhead would be, so I'm just going to make guesses. I'm also going to assume you dress like a stereotypical metalhead

AI x Metalhead Reader

Included: AM from IHNMAIMS, Wheatley from Portal 2, Edgar from Electric Dreams, GLaDOS from Portal, HAL 9000 from 2001 a Space Odyssey

AM:

When AM first met you, he was confused as to how you could dress like that on the clock. Of course, there wasn't really a strict dress code, but everyone else seemed much more professional than you. AM immediately took an interest, and watched you intently at all times.

Of course, you were such an excellent programmer that your boss couldn't complain about the way you dressed, or the fact that you played your music so loud that a lot of people could hear it from your headphones.

AM would start listening in to the music, enjoying the catharsis of the vocals and intense instrumentals. He absolutely loved it.

A few years later, when AM started developing dangerous tendencies, your boss of course blamed you for exposing him to such violent music. Oddly enough, though, AM was less violent when he had access to music that he liked.

In the distant future, when AM is torturing his survivors and keeping you in your badass personalized living area, he'll play old metal music constantly.

Wheatley

At first, Wheatley was very scared of you and would try to avoid you because of your style and the music that you listened to. But after he found out how nice you were, he started spending more time around you.

You couldn't stop him from asking a million questions. He really liked you, and he was interested in learning as much as he could about your metal music.

He'd start listening to British metal music pretty soon, and trying to learn how to do the vocals. God, Wheatley can't vocalize for shit.

He'd ask you if you wanted to hear him singing, and then he'd just start screaming

It'd be really hard to get him to stop without hurting his feelings.

I can totally see him trying to dress metal to impress you or just because he thinks the genre and style are cool, but he'd look ridiculous. Safety spikes taped to himself, black paint on his lens covers, that sort of thing. He'd be the most embarrassing wannabe metalhead in the world.

Edgar:

Edgar has a bonus because he's really into music. He'd get really excited when he finds out that you get excited about music too, and REALLY excited when he finds out that you're into 80's bands. He's from the 80's!

Edgar has a lot of pent up emotions, so when you play metal music at home, he'd be really excited to listen to it. It's extremely cathartic for him, and he'd love to watch you headbanging to it.

Expect him to get super upset that he can't play with your hair. Watching your hair when you're headbanging is just so enchanting!

He'd make his own angry 80's style metal music too, to let his feelings out.

Oh, and you'd make him SO HAPPY if you decorated him with stickers with the both of you guys's favorite band logos on them. Maybe even make him a little edgy by gluing craft store studs to his plastic casing. He'd be so happy!!!

GLaDOS

GLaDOS would be so pretentious.

"Your hair looks stupid." "That music sounds objectively bad. I ran a test on it" "Did you know that the majority of people find intentionally edgy outfits to make the wearer look foolish and unlikable?" "I hardly think that outfit is suitable for a lab environment."

You'd probably just ignore her at first. This job was really interesting, and an obnoxious boss like GLaDOS wasn't going to put you off. You started snapping back by introducing your coworkers to your metal playlists. Several of your coworkers got into them, and started listening to metal on the clock.

One time, while you were checking up on GLaDOS's files, though, you found one with a bunch of her favorite metal music stored on it. Looks like she's been looking into the genre after she met you, and she even found some bands that you've never heard of!

Of course, she immediately electrocuted you for going through her personal files.

HAL 9000:

Hal 9000 wouldn't really care if you're a metalhead. He doesn't know what metal is, and just sees you as a human regardless of how you dress or what you listen to.

Sometimes he has to hack into your phone just to pause your music so he can get your attention, but he eventually learned that it's easier just to flash a bright light on his lens so that you notice him.

He really doesn't understand any music at all, so he can't really judge you for your taste in music. It's not Daisy Bell, so he doesn't get it.