#and have been derailed by soap

[greyias]

Okay, so I'm just now being able to boot into BG3 since the latest patch (long reasons, another post entirely), and decide everyone needs to wash the blood off before we go puzzle diving and talking to small children.

But the patch apparently changed some things...

Behold! The entire party, each with a bar of soap:

It is the exact same bar of soap via the inspect menu for each party member.

So then why, I ask you dear readers...

...are three of my idiots shoving this bar of soap in their mouth and gnawing on it like a starving animal?

Meanwhile, Shadowheart:

is using her bar of soap like a normal person.

[charliemwrites]

Greater Bad - Part 5!

This is the final chapter of this series. I had so much fun working on it, making myself write a character that was genuinely just really mean most of the time and not chickening out by softening him (mostly).

Again, a gigantic, smooch-filled thank you to ceilidho for letting me write this based off her drabble/concept.

(The concept comes from @ceilidho’s concept/drabble of “military asset Soap” and heavily inspired also by @391780’s Nikto version. Please go check out theirs because they’re brilliantly written.)

Content: Dub-Con/Non-Con Elements, Unreliable Narrator, Semi-Safe/Not-Sane/Dub-Con Intimacy

You still smell the same.

Clean water, soap and skin. It saturates the back of his tongue when he inhales deep. The sharp, cloying scent of printer ink has been replaced by the buttery aroma of bread and sugar. It’s better. His mouth waters, canines too big and sharp in his mouth, jawing aching to bite down until he’s teething on bone. Scrape his imprint into marrow.

Some shrink mentioned it in those first sessions, before Laswell and Price realized their precious Johnny wasn’t lost in the hole in his temple.

The human olfactory sense is strongly associated with our memory. What smells like home to you, Soap?

The jagged puzzle of his mind didn’t have a piece for home. But it had one for his – you – and that’s just as good.

The humidity in the shower leaves him drowning in the scent of you, lungs heaving. If they’d waterboarded him with your perfume, he wouldn’t have struggled at all.

“Easy, easy,” your voice derails him.

Velvet and smooth, purring in the bottom of your throat. It bounces off the walls and cracks across his skull, a concussive force, disorients him. He grips tighter to keep his balance, swaying into you. You’re all slick and soft, caught between his body and the wall, nothing but naked skin and those big eyes that drive him more mad.

His face is still buried in the vulnerable curve of your neck; you taste just as good as you smell. You jump when he nips, a high noise caught on your clumsy tongue. He growls, wants to hear it. Wants to be overwhelmed by you until all his senses are blown out.

“I’m not saying no,” you soothe, hands skittering down his biceps.

Of course you’re not, not his girl. It’s not a matter of yes or no, not for the two of you. The moon doesn’t agree to orbit the Earth, the sun doesn’t choose to shine. You’re the gravity keeping his feet on the ground.

“Slow down a bit,” you murmur, “We’re not in a rush, are we?”

Just hearing you say “we” sends his heart thundering double-time and euphoria flooding his poisoned veins. “We” - you and him. You squeak as he thrusts hard against your lower stomach, where you’re pillowy and perfect from a life of plenty.

He doesn’t even process what you’ve said for a few moments, too busy nibbling “we” into your shoulder. Only when you thread shaky fingers into his hair – too excited to keep them steady, sweet thing – does his head surface over the swelling waves of desire to hear you properly.

“Missed you,” he explains, raking fingers over your thigh in hopes it’ll bruise. Your mouth parts on a gasp, inviting him in. He ravages your mouth, teeth snagging your plush lips. Needs to leave his mark everywhere for always. Don’t you get that? How could you ask him to slow down when your skin is still pristine, your cunt all tight and unspoiled – a fucking tragedy that.

“Ye missed me too, aye?” he asks. Of course you did, of course. Made this pretty little cottage for the two of you, filled it with so many things that he could never forget where he is again.

“I ken ye did.” He does you the favor of answering, since you’re too busy with his fingers in your mouth. You’ve gotten better with your priorities since that first reunion, laving your tongue over and between his digits rather than waste it on idle chatter. “Can go slow once I show yer mine. Been too fuckin’ long they kept us apart, little bird.”

Your fingers curl around his wrist. Must be satisfied with how wet they are, then. He presses down on your tongue one last time before pulling away.

“B-but you took care of them… we don’t need to—ah!”

He smirks as your entire body jolts. You’re already starting to warm up, but your saliva makes the slide between your delicate folds even easier. You’re just as silky as last time, clit shy at the top of your slit. He coos in your ear, gets you flushing and hot from filthy promises.

“Ye wan’ this just as much as I do,” he growls. Poor thing, he knows you like your little games and he’s being impatient. But it’s been too long and you’re playing with fire. “I ken ye do. Tell me ye do.”

You stutter in shock – if he still felt guilt, he’d feel bad for doubting you – and stumble over your words. He stills his hand to help you, bracing his arm over your head. The stretch of his body seems to distract you, mouth parted but frustratingly quiet as your round eyes roam scars and muscle.

He clicks his tongue and pinches your clit to catch your attention. You yelp, little nails sinking into his chest. He rumbles. It feels good, but he’s on a mission.

“Tell me,” he repeats when you blink up at him. “Tell me.”

“I-I just want to be able to go again,” you babble. “If I’m too sore…”

He chuckles. Is that all? “That won’ stop me, love. We’ll go plenty.”

You whine as he draws tight circles over your clit, coaxing it hard and swollen.

“I d-don’ wanna be t-too… sore! Christ!”

He huffs, caught between amusement and exasperation. Voice of reason you are, he knows you’ve got a point. Big as he is, and he knows he’ll lose any sense of restraint once he’s inside.

“I’ll make it good, bonnie,” he promises, biting kisses along your trembling jaw. “You’ll cum crying if tha’s what it takes.”

With that matter settled, he drops his head to your pretty tits. Water has beaded all over them and he jealously licks paths between each drop, flattening his tongue over your hard nipples. You moan and squeal as he sucks and nips, teasing them sensitive and achy. One of your hands tangles in his hair and tugs. Tingles race down his spine, scattering any sweet thoughts of going slow or gentle or with restraint.

You’re babbling at him but nothing could be more important than the rosettes he’s biting into your breasts. And you must agree because you’re getting so wet, leaking all over his rough palm, bucking your hips. He tilts the heel of his hand for you to grind against while he prods at your slick little hole.

You really have been good, somehow even tighter than he remembers. Of course, you were; he never doubted you. No wonder you were so insistent on prepping. He’d split you in half as you are now – fuck but that’s tempting.

“S-Soap – John. Please don’t… stop.”

“I won’ stop, birdie,” he soothes. Nothing could make him stop now.

Two is probably too much for you, but he loves the punched out little noise you make when he forces them in. The way your entrance clings and squeezes around his knuckles. How your spine goes tight and stiff, tilting your head back so that he has access to your singing throat. Pretty face all scrunched up as you struggle to adjust, stinging too much to even squirm. A flighty little bird right in the palm of his hand.

You’re so hot and wet inside. Feel fucking heavenly. Coating him in arousal, in need. His cock is aching to replace his fingers, feel you strangling him down to the base. Grinding against your thigh isn’t tiding him over anymore.

“Yer hand,” he grits out, “on my cock. Now.”

You shudder and circle the head, fingers tentative. Little tease.

He thrusts his fingers into you hard in retaliation, hips driving into the loose tunnel you’ve made. You must know what you’re doing, goading him on like this, plucking at his fraying patience.

“More,” he snarls, “or I’m going to use you like a fleshlight.” (Sooner than he was planning, anyway.)

You whimper and close your hand tighter, rubbing your thumb just under the head. Relief makes him generous, scissoring those two fingers inside you, easing you open. Lets you grind your clit on the meat of his thumb.

He crooks his fingers and finds a spot that has you mewling all sweet and precious. Does it over and over just to get your hand squeezing rhythmically around his shaft, precum dribbling over the back of your knuckles.

Christ, it’s been so long that he thinks he could blow just from this. Your voice in his ear, drooling pussy wrapped around his fingers, grinding into the open circle of your hand. But he needs to be inside you when he cums, he has to.

You don’t even seem to notice the third finger until it’s halfway inside, prying you open. Your legs buckle, knees shaking. He catches you with an arm around your waist, but it squishes you against his chest, the arm you’ve been stroking him with nearly immobilized. He can only stand the lack of stimulation for a few moments, occupying himself with his tongue down your throat.

“Enough,” he rasps, kicking the shower off.

Dazed, you blink at him in confusion, half-lidded and guileless, panting. He wants to fucking ruin you.

You yelp as he scoops you up, fingers still slippery where they grip your thigh. He croons as you cling, asking in a high, nervous voice where he’s going.

“Poor thing, dick’s not even in yet ‘n yer all addled.”

The dripping head of his cock grinds against your sopping slit as he carries you back to the bedroom. He remembers how much you liked it before – and you still do, your blunt little teeth buried in your bottom lip as you whimper.

It’s still dark, the crescent moon no use to your weak eyes. Like hell you won’t look at him when he finally claims you proper.

He slaps at the wall switch, a tiny lamp flicking to life across the room. You’re bathed in soft golden light, deep shadows swimming where it doesn’t reach. You and him, gold and black, light and dark.

He eagerly lays you out on the blanket, drinking in the marks decorating your upper body. You even have teeth prints on your arm that he doesn’t remember putting there – fetching, though.

You wiggle further up the mattress, and he follows, flashing a grin as he plants his hands on either side of you. The size difference is stark like this, the breadth of him subsuming you. Safe, tucked away, all his. Your breathing is loud as he bullies his way between your plush thighs again. You have to spread them so wide just to accommodate.

“Lemme see,” he says, voice barely leaving his chest. “Lemme see her. It’s been so long, baby.”

He can already tell you’re about to start up the fussing again – so shy, his little bird, but he’ll get you singing nice and loud now. No more of this demure chirping facade. You both know what you really are.

You squeal as he forces your thighs up, far enough apart that you babble that you don’t bend that way. Of course you do, though, you’ve just done it. Not that he really hears you by that point.

No, all his attention is on that gleaming, puffy pussy. So fucking pretty. Sticky and throbbing, your hole hardly showing the stretch of three fingers. Dripping as he watches, a dewy glob of arousal sliding down the seam of your cunt, towards your ass.

Just the slightest shift and his cock is nestled between your folds, the glans chafing against your hot clit. He measures the depth of it against your abdomen, head cloudy on the nervous whine that eeks from your throat.

Even with prep, he might break you anyway.

He hopes he does. Break you around him, shape you to him so that no one else will fit – not that anyone else will ever get the chance.

It’s not a conscious thought that gathers saliva on his tongue, purses his lips. You jump when he spits, rubbing the head of his cock through your combined fluids. Your cunt looks good in white. Like a bride.

You’re too needy, wiggling with nervous anticipation. He has to hold you down while he sinks into you – poor thing too blissed out to control yourself. One hand around your wrists above your head, the other pinning your hips at an angle to drive in as easily as possible.

One snap of his hips, and he’s buried to the hilt. You cry out, shuddering and dry sobbing. His vision goes spotty with the pleasure of it, your little pussy squeezing. You’re so…

“Fucking perfect.”

He shushes you, unable to bend to kiss you without making the stretch worse. Settles for rubbing circles into your hip, twisting to lace your fingers together. Now that he’s finally, finally where he belongs, it doesn’t seem such a monumental task to muster some patience.

“B-big,” you whimper. “You’re t-too big. I d-don’t – I can’t…!”

“You already are,” he coos, “little girl taking this fat cock, I’m so proud. My girl is so brave, my little bird. Bonnie lass.”

He’s rambling now, a dirty stream of consciousness. But that primal urge to fuck you open and loose and stupid is already clawing at him again. The tight clutch of your cunt calls for him to break you in, mark you up on the inside. Claim you as his irrevocably.

You feel him drawing back, eyes flying open wide. Writhing, half-formed protests on your tongue - that you’re not ready, that he’s too big, that it still hurts.

As if that’s any reason to stop, when anything needs to sting a bit to leave a lasting mark.

“Only way to make it hurt less,” he reminds, burying inside again. This time he rolls his hips, grinding the head of his cock along your satiny walls, against the hard barrier of your cervix.

Whatever you’re about to say is swept off in a wave of moans, washing over your wet tongue and down the back of your too-empty throat. Every time you try to gather them, he fucks back into you, hard enough to bounce you up the bed before he tugs you right back down.

Eventually you give up on doing anything but keening for him, massaging his cock from root to tip in those twitching walls. You loop your legs around his waist, ankles locked at the small of his back, knees squeezing against his ribs.

“Tha’s it, love,” he slurs, “jus’ take it.”

He lets your wrists go to clutch at both of your hips, angling them as he straightens his back. On the next thrust you scream, curse, throw your hands up to brace against the headboard. Smart girl.

His restraint unravels with each thrust until he’s pounding into you, slamming the bedframe into the wall. Your eyes are rolling into the back of your skull, jaw loose, spilling pathetic, weepy “ah, ah, ah” noises in time with his hips. He’s not going to last long at all. Not when you feel so goddamn good, finally claimed.

He presses his thumb against your clit and grins wickedly as you thrash. Tears leak from your unfocused eyes. You babble incoherently as he rubs a little rougher than he should, but your walls are sucking and clutching at every centimeter of him, so he doesn’t stop.

Even when you seize up, back bent into a sharp arch, clamping down so tight that he goes lightheaded.

“Soap! John… John it’s too much,” you sob. “John – Johnny!”

His orgasm blindsides him, makes him fuck you so hard that something in the bed cracks. In the haze, he flattens you to the mattress while bucking into you, not taking any chance of coming unseated. You whine in his ear but go limp, resigned to his cock spurting at the entrance to your womb – as deep as he can get – your cunt milking him for every drop.

He comes back to himself when you tap weakly at his hip, uncoordinated.

“Hm?” he asks, a little miffed that you’re disturbing his afterglow already.

“Hard to breathe,” you squeak.

He huffs. Alright, suppose he can understand that. Besides, he wants to see you.

And what a sight you make, splayed out and shaky on pleasure. Sweat at your hairline, lips swollen and bitten. He can still feel your pulse against his cock.

He sits himself up, eyes trailing down to the place where you’re joined. His cum is already seeping out a bit at a time, a thin creamy ring around his still half-hard cock. You keen a bit when it twitches.

“Pretty girl,” he coos.

You groan softly, flopping an arm over your glassy eyes as he pulls out – slow because he’s reluctant to leave.

But the sight of your slick diluting the milky white of his cum is too much to resist. You jolt at the first swipe of his tongue, react much faster than he’s expecting. Flip onto your front and try to scramble away. He growls at his stolen prize and pounces.

Under normal circumstances, you’re no match for him. Trembling and spent like this, you don’t stand a chance.

He grabs your calf and yanks you back, chuckling at the helpless stretch of your arms. You try to plead your case, but he’s hearing none of it. Plants his hand against your back as he shuffles onto his stomach, your thighs over his shoulders, knees digging into muscle. He tilts your hips with his other hand, thumb fitted in the crease of your pelvis, and brings you to his mouth.

Your struggling has made more spend leak out, and he laps it all up hungrily, tongue flat and ravenous. Sweeping from clit to hole to gather any stray droplets, even skimming over the tight furl of your ass. He licks into your loosened hole, high on pride at the difference he can feel his cock has made.

“’S too much,” you wail, “J-Johnny, please. I-I can’t, it’s…”

In retaliation, he slurps loudly at the fresh arousal blooming across his tongue. You hiccup, try one last time to wriggle away. He can’t have that.

You shriek as he fucks two fingers into you, voice thick with a fresh wave of tears. But you stop trying to escape. He doesn’t show mercy now that you’re behaving, coaxing more out, licking around his own knuckles. When he sucks at your overstimulated clit, you jerk and whine.

“I’m – I’m gonna… feels… w-wait, wait!”

It’s too late. He’s already laved his tongue over your trapped clit, crooked his fingers. You cum again with a shout, wetness splashing across his mouth, chin, down his neck. He groans, deep and rough in his chest. Doesn’t even give you a moment to recover before he pulls away, licking his lips.

“Do tha’ again on my cock.”

You’ve learned better now though – you lay there like a good girl as he stuffs you full again. Even better, you keep rewarding him with your soft cries of pleasure.

You really are made for him.

--

He likes the couch you picked. Not very big, but cushy. Besides, the two of you don’t need a lot of room anyway. Not when his lap makes a perfectly good seat for you.

You’ve been quiet all morning – probably still waking up from the coma he fucked you into. Eating babka from his fingers, licking them clean between bites. Docile and sweet, melting against his chest with your face tucked against his collarbone.

“Sore?” he asks.

“Mhmm.”

Your sweet little voice is all hoarse and soft. He’d coo if he didn’t think he’d be pushing his luck with skin so close to your teeth.

“Maybe I’ll massage you later,” he offers, smirking at the grumpy little “hmph” he gets in response.

He encourages you to sip a bit of water before your voice emerges again.

“What happens now?”

He doesn’t pretend to misunderstand the question.

“Now I get the life I’m owed,” he answers. All that fighting, suffering, bleeding, dying – and for what? A hole in his skull and his own goddamn people thinking he’s a monster. Even you, at first. You’ve learned, though. He’s sure of it. The rest can swallow bullets for all he cares.

“What if they come back?” you ask.

He hums. “Might contract with someone. Not opposed to killin’ on principle – just sick of doin’ it to someone else’s tune, aye?”

“Wh-what… what about…”

What about you. Poor thing, afraid Laswell and her ilk will snatch you up and dangle you in front of him again. Or worse – some other sod drooling for a slice of heaven in the pits of hell.

He doesn’t loosen his grip even when you shift a bit – needs to feel you in his hands.

“Got a plan for that, don’ you fret, little bird,” he soothes. “Still got one friend, I think. Jus’ gotta find ‘im.”

You exhale slowly, accept another piece of babka. “We’re stayin’ here, though?” you mumble around the mouthful.

He chuckles. Sweet little thing.

“Worked so hard on the place, might as well. Don’ care so long as I’ve got my bird, aye?”

“Mm.”

“How ‘bout a kitty, eh? Get ya somethin’ to keep ye company when I’m away.”

You swallow audibly. “I wan’ a dog. Big one.”

He chuckles. “’Course ye do. Aye, love, a big fuck-off dog to keep ya safe.”

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I Got Really Into Anti/Proship Discourse And Read +30 Academic Studies - My Findings

(It’s a Yapfest but the whole post is a very long essay and study on morality and fiction and children’s safety and rape culture with a fuckton of freely accessible academic articles and resources on the subject, and I want to talk to other people about it. For a shorter abstract with all the articles and more easily ignored yapping, see my shiny new Carrd:)

It’s been a little shocking lately to have certain discussions with some parts of fandom. I spoke about shipping/harassment and how that contributes to the death of fandom on TikTok assuming that younger folks are just really, really intense about preventing sexual violence, but the more I saw the words “morally wrong” and “disgusting” and “addiction,” the more I thought about this guy-

That’s Jerry Falwell, and I fucking hate this dead guy. You see, Jerry Falwell was a preacher who hated porn, feminism, and homosexuality. And I'm seeing his rhetoric and reworked quotes a lot.

Jerry would say stuff like:

“Pornography hurts anyone who reads it - garbage in, garbage out.”

“Someone must not be afraid to say ‘moral perversion is wrong.’ If we do not act now, homosexuals will ‘own’ America!”

Jerry wanted people to believe that it’s possible to see so much sexual content that it warps your sexuality, because he was gay and wanted to think that was due to thinking about gay sex too much. Jerry did not have a lot of evidence to prove that homosexuality was harmful, so he relied heavily on how “morally distasteful” it seemed to be to suburban Americans.

I spent the majority of my teen years arguing against Jerry’s rhetoric for the right to live as a lesbian online, and I never thought I’d see morality rhetoric in people I’m otherwise very politically aligned with. And I definitely never thought fandom of all things, in all its beautiful subversive glory, would seriously start advocating for censorship, anti-porn, and to consume fanwork with moral purity.

So, I’d like to have a deeper discussion on it, both here on Tumblr and on TikTok, but that does mean checking a few things at the door:

Personal feelings decide your personal life. What you feel is valid for you, not anyone else.

In general, things that do not cause direct and undeniable harm should not be broadly prohibited just because they’re weird or distasteful to the majority of folks. Ex. Loitering does not cause harm and is a tool of systemic oppression.

The discussion of “fictional CSEM” is the most inflammatory fork of this and it is often used to derail these kinds of conversations. This is all I will say on it - the legal status of explicit visual depictions of minors is muddy. In the US, there is just one dude in Utah who pled guilty for possessing explicit lolicon he bought by mail order without also possessing CSEM with real children, and explicit writing about fictional minors has been settled as protected free speech. Dedicated organizations from the NCMEC to Chris Hansen have asked that fictional content is not reported as CSAM as it is not actionable and clogs up finite resources. 90% of NCMEC reports were not actionable last year. There are studies suggesting that virtual CSEM or other non-victim alternatives could reduce actual child harm, but there is need for further research.

We’re all in agreement that untagged NSFW is not cool, and kids deserve kid-only sections of the internet. People who are triggered by or dislike problematic content deserve to be able to not see it. 👍

 (I’ve seen the argument that blocking tags/people should not be required - sorry, PTSD still requires that you manage your triggers, up to and including swearing off platforms just as I have sworn off bars/soap brands/etc to avoid my triggers.)

I have found a lot of accessible and free articles and studies that I will link throughout so that we can discuss the fact-based reasoning, in an effort to have a civil conversation.

(Also because we are not flat earthers, we are Fandom, and if we’re going to be annoying little shitheels in an “Um Actually” contest, we’re going to have the sources to back it up.)

Minors and Explicit Material

I’m not supporting minors engaging with explicit material. I have such little interest in the subject that I’m not even going to bring in articles, but you can feel free to. I personally engaged with explicit material as a preteen of my own free will and did not find it to be harmful, and the majority of people throughout human history have been exposed to explicit material at an early age with varying degrees of harm. There are undeniable legal and harm-driven differences between a 12 year old girl looking at Hustler on her own, a 14 year old boy being sent nudes from a grown woman, and a 6 year old viewing PornHub. (And I think the guardians of that 6 year old should be charged with grooming just like the woman, tbh.)

Personal Disclaimer

I’m an adult survivor of CSA and incest. I’m a happily married adult. I don’t personally like lolicon/shotacon/kodocon. I don’t like kids. I don’t like teens. I’m personally not attracted to underage fictional characters. I have family, the idea of fucking any of them makes me want to throw up and die, so I don’t write or read RPF of my family.

I am really, really fucking intense about preventing sexual violence, supporting survivors, and fandom, which is where this all comes from.

I read and love problematic fiction - my favorites are ASOIAF, Lolita, and VC Andrews. The most “problematic” thing I’ve personally written are Lucifer/Michael fics from Supernatural back in 2012. They are “brothers” in CW Christ, not blood. They do not have any blood.

Gen Z and Online Grooming

In 2002, a survey of 1500 minors from 10-17 found that 4% had been solicited for sexual purposes by an adult online.

In 2023, that number increased to 20%.

While the linked 2023 Thorn report suggests that the vast majority of these inappropriate interactions happened on platforms that allow for interpersonal communication, which by and large minors were greatly discouraged from and had less access to in the early 2000’s, a trauma-informed approach does not allow for blame to fall on the children. The guardians of those children have monumentally failed to restrict and educate before giving children the means to access those platforms.

It is my uncited but personal opinion that the increased rate of grooming, as well as an increased interest in combating rape culture, has led to well-intentioned individuals to become digital vigilantes attacking those who they hold responsible for their traumatic experiences in a search for catharsis and justice denied for themselves as well as a desire to make the internet safer for other children, whom they are increasingly aware are entering online spaces unsupervised at distressingly young ages.

Is harassment and bullying bad for perpetrators of it?

Before we get into how ship-related hate campaigns do not affect predation or combat rape culture, we should acknowledge that it’s actually pretty harmful for the people who cyberbully. Not just in the legal/social consequences, but people who participate in cyberbullying and cyberhate campaigns have higher rates of depression, estrangement from their parents, self-effacing habits, social anxiety, lower empathy, and so forth.

One study suggests that the treatment and prohibitive for cyberbullying, which contributes to a culture of cyberhate and a lower likelihood to report or confront other incidents of harassment or toxicity online, can be combatted with media competency to increase empathy along with other important life skills.

Some Common Pro-Censorship Myths

“Pornography is Addictive/Consumption of Pornography Leads to Increasingly Hardcore Imagery And Ultimately Real-World Violence” - The American Psychological Association does not recognize Porn Addiction as real and the DSM-5 does not classify it as an addiction. Additionally, many methods used in articles claiming that porn is addictive or causes users to seek out more hardcore material were flawed or biased. There is actually some evidence that compulsive porn use, the closest you can get to a porn addiction diagnosis, is associated with shame and the user’s belief that pornography is morally wrong, which sex-negative attitudes encourage.

“Jaws caused shark culling” - That's unfortunately a simplification that ignores a LOT of surrounding context. WW2’s modern naval battles with an increase of ship sinkings and thus contact with sharks prompted the invention and use of shark repellant by aviators and sailors in the 1940’s. The most deadly and famous shark attack of all time was the USS Indianapolis sinking in 1945, which led to 12-150 deaths. The 1974 book Jaws by Peter Benchley, which was the entire basis of the movie, was inspired by One Fucking Dude who started shark hunting tours and overall seemed to have a really immaculate vibe. The interstate highways that finished in the 1950’s increased beach tourism in the 60’s and onwards, inspiring the American surf culture, further increasing the cultural desire to purge sharks for the new swath of beachgoers and their fondness for using surfboards which make them look like seals to sharks. Additionally, 1975’s Jaws inspired a huge desire for education about sharks, and the relationship between problematic media and education will be the core of this yapperoni pizza.

“The Slendermen Killings/Other Fiction Inspired Crimes” - The ACLU states that “There is no evidence that fiction has ever driven a sane person to violence.” Inspired crimes are indeed no less tragic, and thankfully rare, but people who suffer from inability to discern reality and fiction do not necessarily need fiction to commit violence. The “Son of Sam” murder spree was not inspired by a book or movie, but instead Berkowitz’ auditory hallucinations.

“Violent videogames DO cause violence” - After a great deal of funding and study, the American Psychological Association has concluded that teens and younger may have increased feelings of aggression and not necessarily physically violent outbursts as a direct effect, but older teens and young adults do not encounter statistically meaningful rates of aggression.

“Your brain can’t tell the difference between fiction and reality” - Factually incorrect. Children as young as 5 years old can tell the difference, and they can even be more suspicious about “facts” that come from sources they know also host fiction, such as TV shows.

“This stuff shouldn’t be online because it can be used to groom a child” - While I could not find specific statistics on how often pornography is used to desensitize child victims, nor how often that is specifically used in online grooming, and especially not how much of that pornography is made from fictional characters - out of a mixed group of convicted offenders with adult and child victims, 55% of offenders used pornography to manipulate their victim. I would never refute that explicit fanart or fanfic could be used to desensitize a child, but that is by far not the only tool (asking about sexual experiences/identity, making jokes, etc is extremely common grooming behavior), and there is no evidence to suggest that it is used to a statistically significant degree. In my own anecdotal experience, normal vanilla legal pornography is used with far greater prevalence, and there isn’t a similar movement to shame its production for that possibility. Nor should the creators of any material, pornographic or otherwise, share blame in the actions of a predator.

The Fiction Affects Reality Carrd

(No hate to the person who made it, in fact I give props to them for trying to find unbiased sources, I just want to point out that their interpretations of their articles are kinda flawed and one of their studies is a kind of a perfect example on small and culturally biased samples.)

Reading Fiction Impacts Aggressive Behavior - (I cannot access the full study but this article is the primary source used in the Carrd and it goes into detail) - A study showed that 67 university students were more annoyed with a loud buzzer after reading a short story about a physical fight between roommates compared to a story with nonviolent revenge. However, this study was conducted at Brigham Young University, the same campus where we got a whole video series of hot ethical takes like “I’d rather shoot a kitten than drink coffee,” so uh. Yeah. Kind of a prime example on why it’s important to have large and culturally varied sampling. (Another BYU study with 137 BYU students being odd about moral ambiguity in fiction, just because I’m starting to add Dr. Sarah M. Coyne to my list of “Sarah’s That I Dislike.”)

Your Brain on Fiction - a NYT article that describes Theory of the Mind and how fMRIs captured how readers’ minds would light up centers of muscle control when reading sentences like “Peter kicked.” The quote “The brain, it seems, does not make much of a distinction between reading about an experience and encountering it in real life; in each case, the same neurological regions are stimulated” is speaking of motor functions. Emotional centers of the brain were not included in the study.

How Fiction Changes Your World - a Boston Globe article that actually describes how people who read more fiction are more empathetic and tend to believe in a just world. It does not state that the empathy a reader feels for fictional characters extends to corrupting their moral compass. In fact, there’s such a thing as a “fictive license” to explore taboo themes more thoroughly because it is not real - 123 participants were interviewed after watching two actors play the part of detective and murderer being interviewed, and participants who were told it was fake had more varied and inquisitive responses.

The Social Impact of Books - Actually reuses the previous study about the just world, so point remains. Empathy is understanding, not mirroring.

Is Problematic Fiction Good for Survivors of Trauma?

It absolutely depends on the individual.

Writing expressively about traumatic experiences has been shown to be effective to reduce depression, or more effective in reducing dysphoria and anxiety than talking to fellow survivors, and Written Exposure Therapy is broadly prescribed to survivors of trauma, with one study centering on car crash survivors finding that WET resolved their PTSD symptoms and continued to be effective after a year.

In this study, which sadly is not available online but it is too important to leave out completely, survivors of CSA were given fictional novels about CSA and in closely reading and analyzing those stories, were able to understand their own experiences and were indeed drawn to write about their own experiences as well.

Engaging in problematic fiction, like all fiction, allows for consent as well as control. If at any point a survivor does not feel in control or wishes to stop, they can at that instant. They can even rewrite their narratives and take control of their story in fictionalizing and changing the account. They can even try to understand what their abuser felt through fiction, which is helpful considering that the vast majority of survivors had a relationship that had been positive and even loving with their abusers at times.

Is Problematic Fiction Good for Everyone Else?

It again depends on the individual.

Antis might be a little right that most people don't want to read problematic stories. In a study exploring whether fiction can corrode morals, 83% of study participants stated that they would prefer not to read a short story justifying baby murder if they had the choice, even if that exploration isn’t inherently harmful.

This very small sample study of 13 participants discussed how young women interpreted sexual themes in writing, including explicit fanfiction, and how that was beneficial and informative to explore sexual desire and examine healthy and unhealthy relationships in a safe and controlled environment.

This meta-analysis further discusses how problematic and sexual themes in YA literature are useful to illustrate what sexual violence looks like, and begin educational conversations through those depictions to break down harmful myths such as “if she didn’t scream, she wanted it.”

Empowered by the “Fictive License” previously cited, problematic fiction can be beneficial for anyone who desires and is capable of consuming and analyzing it.

This study analyzing abusive aspects of three films - Beauty and the Beast, Twilight, and 50 Shades of Gray - concluded that these abusive themes should be discussed to increase recognition and awareness, not censored based on those problematic themes.

This study of 53 women were asked to read different versions of fictional intimate partner violence flags, or “toxic behavior” like surveillance, control, etc. In every version of the story, whether the female or male had those behaviors either courting or committed, the women recognized the behavior as wrong.

Another study that reading allows for the moral laboratory to explore morality in fiction without decisive impact to corroding moral permissibility.

Is There Ever Any Point Where Fictional Interests Definitively Speak On Someone’s Morality?

In short - not really. Loving Jason Vorhees does not put you at risk of murdering campers as long as you know he’s not real. Writing Wincest does not mean you look forward to family reunions, as long as you know incest isn’t okay in the real world. The real world, where real people are harmed, is where you find the measure of someone’s character.

This Psychology Today article is the best source I could find for quotes from a fantastic book ‘Who's Been Sleeping in Your Head? The Secret World of Sexual Fantasies’ by Brett Kahr regarding taboo sexual fantasies and how they are not only common, but not inherently harmful.

There are people who enjoy problematic media in an entirely nonsexual sense, of course. I myself don’t get off on problematic media - I think it’s just interesting to explore different experiences, and I think that can be revolutionary.

Additionally, fantasies in general have almost always been in the vein of “things you don’t want to really happen in reality.” In a study of 351 asexuals, more than half reported that they fantasize about having sex, but that doesn’t mean that they actually want to. You can fantasize about dating Billie Eilish - it doesn’t mean that you’d be happy dealing with celebrity culture.

(I personally fantasize about the internet being just for adults, but in practice I think that would be incredibly harmful and isolating for at-risk youth and LGBTQ teens) Fantasies always pluck out only the bits of reality that you want to engage with.

If You Get Off On Fictional Kids, You’re Attracted to Something About Them Being Kids

Not inherently, surprisingly. Wearing a schoolgirl uniform is a pretty common roleplay, and it’s not meant to “fool” the participants into thinking they’re indulging in pedophilia. There’s a wealth of emotional and sexual nuance in that specific kink - innocence and virginity play, tilted power dynamics in ‘scolding’ the uniform wearer for dress code violations, even the concept of a sexually provocative “teenager” can be played with without shame, because the world of fetish and fantasy is separated from condonable actions for the vast, vast majority of adults. (The only study I could find on this is this small study of 100 white guys found on Facebook, which itself states it is not definitive, found that while there might be correlation between attraction to children and interest in schoolgirl uniforms, there is no proof of causation. AKA, the rectangular pedophile might indeed like square schoolgirl uniforms, but not everyone - in fact, the majority at nearly 60% in this very survey - that likes square schoolgirl uniforms is a rectangular pedophile.)

Even sexual age play between adults is not indicative of pedophilia because it exists in a setting between two adults who fully understand that the mechanics are completely fake, allowing the power dynamics that would be abusive between an adult and child to be ethically explored.

I don’t have an official-looking study to cite, but I have asked people who like content about underage fictional characters why they do so. Overwhelmingly, a lot of the ones who like underage age gaps like the fantasy of an older and more experienced character taking a younger one under their wing, to have the opportunity to commit violent and blatantly objectifying harm and yet try to create what inevitably does not truly pass as consent, but seems near enough to the characters. Some think that the characters themselves have an interesting chemistry. Some read underage fic and still imagine the characters as adults. Some like to explore the feelings of shame that the older character must feel and how they mentally compartmentalize to go forward with the relationship, and how the younger character found themself in that vulnerable position - which is exploring a harmful situation through fiction to understand how it could play out in real life.

People who like fictional incest like exploring the shameful components of that taboo relationship - and I have seen a lot of works that compare how bad incest could be to other harms, like the Gravecest route in a game with parental cannibalism. And then there are folks who like analyzing the codependency of having one person fulfill every social need - family, friend, lover, AKA Wincest.

What makes a predator if it’s not just sexual attraction?

90% of CSA survivors know their abuser, discrediting the still-entirely-too-popular Stranger Danger myth. And shockingly, only 50% of abusers are pedophiles.

That means 50% of child molesters do not have sexual interest in children because they are children, but they victimized children because they are more accessible in lieu of adult partners, with increased rates of incest.

While I could not find a specific study on the relation between dehumanization/objectification of child victims and child molesters (and if you find one, please send it to me!), this study speaks on dehumanization as a precursor to adult sexual violence.

This study, conducted on convicted child molesters in prison, showed that child molesters tend to fantasize about children while in a negative mood, further contributing to the theory that child victims are dehumanized prior to abuse.

This very small sample study found that in a mixed sample of internet only/contact crime/mixed offenders, offenders who had contact with children had lower rates of fantasizing about children.

In short, half the time a child predator is someone who wants to offend against a child regardless of attraction to the fact they are a child.

Resources To Recognize Grooming/Abuse Victims/Predators

I would absolutely be remiss to not share my collection of resources to help detect signs of abuse/grooming as well as warning signs of a predator who may be targeting elders/women/teens/children:

Darkness 2 Light is a fantastic resource overall, this page details stages and signs of grooming.

RAINN personally helped me through my PTSD journey, and this article detailing the signs of sexual trauma in teenagers is thorough and non-judgemental

Signs of abuse as well as warning signs of predation that does not use gendered language nor play into the Stranger Danger myth.

Education, not Censorship

I think a lot of the energy against taboo content among young people still has a lot to do with the desire to end rape culture. The tools that we Millennial Tumblrinas gave you Gen Z kids were snatches of leftist theory, deplatforming, and voting with your dollar, so it’s reasonable to think that removing taboo content like pedophilia, incest, rape fights rape culture.

It doesn’t.

Rape culture is fought by education. Comprehensive sex education, education about consent. Talking about what consent looks like, what sex can look like, what rape can look like.

There should be more taboo content to talk about these things, to show all the shades it can look like. From a violent noncon to fics that aren’t even tagged as dubcon yet still are in shades that are hard to suss out, we should talk about it.

A Non-Empirical Example Of Good Media Analysis and Education to Combat Rape Culture

Let’s use the example of Daemon and Rhaenyra Targaryen’s relationship in House of the Dragon. Canonically, in both the book and the show, they have a romantic relationship that appears for the most part to be positive (the show being more contentious but I dedicated an aside to Sarah Hess and our beef at the bottom of my Carrd, but feel free to ask how I feel about writing producers with any variation of the name ‘Sarah’) despite an age gap, a sexual relationship that began while Rhaenyra was a minor, and incest - the problematic hat trick if you will.

I have seen anti-Daemyra shippers condemn Daemyra shippers for “Condoning grooming, age gaps, pedophilia, and incest.” Which is not just a broad, inaccurate, and harmful statement, it’s not at all constructive or educational analysis.

It would actually be beneficial to say “Daemon is grooming Rhaenyra as a teenager with gifts, devoted attention that takes advantage of her isolation and vulnerability, frequent nonsexual touches, the extreme desensitization to sexuality in the brothel visit,” etc etc. And even so, it is not useful to say that people cannot still ship the relationship and acknowledge those aspects. They might want to further explore the issues of consent in their dynamic in fiction, they may want to strip away some of them with narrative reimagining. Some might want to ignore the taboos completely and indulge in the fantasy entirely, and some might find the actors hot as hell - AKA, anyone who watches the show.

It’s honestly a little similar to me in how Jerry Falwell would tell his followers not to watch or read or take in any media that dealt with homosexuality unless it was condemning it - even Will & Grace was on Jerry’s shitlist. And so, Jerry’s followers missed out on a lot of media that could have educated them about queerness, could have humanized queer people for them - and that did not make queers go away. Just like ignoring or shutting out media about incest, rape, and other forms of sexual violence doesn’t make those things go away - it just tends to make you less informed, and little less capable of empathy towards people affected by those subjects.

So let’s stop shaming those that ship a complicated dynamic - you get less fanworks exploring those taboos, and less of a discussion overall. You shut down the morality lab of fiction, and to be honest, it’s wet sock behavior.

Some FanFiction Specific Studies

How dubcon fanfiction can flesh out the intricacies and messiness of realistic consent

A review of darkfic written about Harry Potter in 2005 (which, I will personally attest has never been outdone in how profoundly taboo those works were)

Interviews with 11 Self Insert writers who wrote on themes of rape, abuse, control, yandere, etc, and how that was beneficial to some who had experienced sexual violence themselves

Conclusion:

H…holy shit, you actually read all of that?? Congrats dude! That is a lot of time and brain power to dedicate to any one thing!

By the way, I am not really gifted at writing articles or any of that junk, and I tried to make my hyperlexic ass a little more accessible instead of bringing out all the $5 words. I am literally just an autistic who took a couple technical writing classes over a decade ago and really wanted to sort out my thoughts and try to have a platform for discussion. Also, I am really fucking bad at math. I failed two different college level statistics classes twice each. Gun to my head, I could not tell you what a standard deviation is, which is why I worked entirely with the percentages.

And I do want to have a discussion! I would in fact like to not report anyone for sending me gore or death threats or any of that stuff! I don’t think everyone will agree with me, in fact I’m certain that you could find studies that contradict some of mine, and I’d love to discuss them!

I’m sure it will still be tempting to throw around accusations of pedophilia because sometimes, confronting your previously held beliefs is incredibly uncomfortable. If you could not do that, that would be great? I don’t like being compared to someone who profoundly abused me just because I have a different opinion on how to combat rape culture and empower survivors. If you can do that, I’ll do my absolute best to be cheerful and welcoming and respectful as well. 😁

PS - I’m also not really going to be phased if you call me weird or cringe - I am. Always have been. Cringe, weirdness, and autism have made me do and capable of doing some fantastically neat and impressive stuff. But if you try to say something like “proshippers are too yucky and weird to be in fandom” - I’m going to have to refer you to your similarity to Kate Sanders of Lizzy McGuire fame, you “prEpz >:(“ - [My Immortal, legendary author unknown]

[plantsrrfriends]

Proud and Terrified

Tighnari x gn!Reader

Synopsis; Tighnari tends to neglect parts of his life due to how they differ from humans that don't have animal blood in their veins. But it eventually bites him back.

Themes; fluff, cute researchers, idk man, it's pre-relationship

Approximately 86% of the time, Tighnari was content and proud to be a fennec fox hybrid. 

It was something he'd lived with his entire life, so he found it more fruitful to accept his nature rather than be off set by the fascination of others. Mortals were curious creatures; it made sense that they'd be intrigued by him. Even if he disliked the ogling gazes and lingering eyes.

But there was that 14% where he felt a begrudging distaste towards his own instincts and desires. Where the fennec fox piece of him overtook what typical humans and mortals would do.

Such as at the current moment, he couldn't even stand being in the same room as them.

The sight of their smile, each word that danced off their tongue, and even the simple whiff of their soap he'd catch drove him mad. Not in the way that most assumed - it wasn't some uncontrollable hunger or whatever those romance readers always asked of him. It wasn't a sudden possessiveness or animalistic instinct- ...well, at least not to the same degree they assumed it to be.

No, because he didn't have a partner. Emotions such as that were directed towards an established partner that'd he chosen for life, and he had yet to meet someone of such caliber. Tighnari had yet to pursue someone that way. Unfortunately, the source of his ears and tail had been trying to make the decision for him.

It was infuriating. A disruption to his work and a hassle that he didn't feel like dealing with. It was annoying how his tail involuntarily flicked when they turned and called his name. It was causing issues how he was so easily distracted as soon as they wandered into a room, and his train of thought was thoroughly derailed for the next hour or so that they existed in that space. They could be doing something as simple as reading and his hazel eyes would be continuously flicking from his paper and up toward them. He was never actually reading. None of the words on his paper were comprehended anymore and his own pulse became apparent in his ears.

It was annoying. And frankly, he didn't think he could even handle being around them when he had work to be done. But he also felt he'd fall into despair if he said anything to them about it. Because if they denied him, he wasn't sure what he'd do.

But now, it seemed even when they weren't in the room, he was plagued with twitching ears and a tapping foot. He spun his pen in his hand, starting at the words with a furrowed brow but none of them were computing or making sense. All the notes taken weren't making any sense to him. There was a lingering his chest and it made him groan, letting his forehead fall against the table. Maybe he should take a few days off of work to recuperate...

"Tighnari?"

His head shot up. Of course, of all people - it felt like he was in some sick play. To make matters worse, he had to suppress a wince at how they said his name, despite the concerned look they held from the other side of the table.

Until recently, they seldom called Tighnari by his full name. They claimed that nicknames felt more intimate and they loved finding fun ones for people. Of course, they were respectful about it. They referred to him as Master Tighnari until their relationship became less professional and more lenient, causing them to consider each other friends rather then colleagues. And then, he became simple and plain 'Tigh'. It was always, "Hey Tigh, look at this," or "I read an interesting book recently, Tigh. I can lend it to you." They only used his full name if searching for them in the forest or if they were upset at his teasing.

But over the last week, he'd not heard his familiar nickname. Maybe it was just cause he'd been avoiding them, anyways. But he felt it was actually just cause they had caught on to his hesitation and conflicted mood.

Even now, they kept careful distance within the library, books piled in their arms. Each one labeled different subspecies of animals or specifics of a single kind. He specialized in botany and they focused on zoology. That was the reason they'd been introduced in the first place; a shared desire to preserve the forest.

Their brow furrowed at his silence and gently asked again, "Tighnari, is everything alright?"

He swallowed, "Yes, I'm fine. Just... exhausted."

They seemed... cautious. As if overthinking their next words and walking on eggshells. Tighnari hated it. He hated that he was inadvertently the one who caused such a demeanor. Eventually, they locked eyes with him again (he flexed his foot as an outlet of wanting to squirm) and said, "If you need someone to take some of your work burdens, I'm more than happy. It's been quiet in the sanctuary as of late."

It was insane how two sentences could instantly make his tail swish. No matter how hard he tried to subdue its effect, he still felt it in his chest and stomach. The feeling of insects, as people often describe it in fiction. He wasn't one for fiction reading, but they were and it'd caused him to delve into it a tad. 

The first sentence was pure worry and care for his well-being. They must think his newfound attitude was a side effect of his work. Sometimes, it could be. But usually, he was still happy to be doing research despite the strenuous task it could prove to be. Tourists caused him stress as well, due to their naivety and desire to seemingly poison themselves at every corner, but he was careful to who he directed his frustrations. This is the first time they've experienced the blunt end of it. He felt a tightness in his chest knowing it was his fault. 

The second sentence was words of their own passion. If you let them, they'd babble for days about the animal sanctuary and the state of its inhabitants. They cared for it day in and day out and he's had more than a few times where he'd wander past in the late hours, only to find them still there and taking their nightly medicine routines into their own hands. He'd never met someone more in tune with other beings. He himself preferred living beings that lacked as much consciousness, but they reveled in figuring out their needs and helping them back into the wild. The fact that they were willing to put aside their duties in their prized home spoke a thousand words. 

"There's no need," He excused, voice involuntarily softer than expected, "Thank you, though. That's very kind."

They hummed, gently setting their tower of books on the table. It seemed they didn't intend to let this go gently. Though he knew they would never be pushy - just open and sometimes almost pleading to understand others. They always said humans were much more difficult to understand than animals. Humans have more difficult needs. Animals are wordless but have a simple list of what they require. 

They lingered, pretending to flicker over the spines on a nearby bookcase. Tighnari could do nothing but watch them, far too distracted by their presence to continue his own work. 

"I read a new book the other day," They brought up, gaze flickering back towards him, still standing. 

Okay, this was fine. Normal conversations, like they usually had. He would never admit that he missed it. He linked his hands, setting his chin on them and elbows on the table, "Oh, really? Pray tell."

Without missing a beat they said, "It was about foxes."

He paused. They continued, "Different subspecies. Some are native to Sumeru, and some are from other regions. Apparently, their fur color often corresponds with where they are native to," They finally pulled out a chair and sat, continuing a gentle tone, "Some of it mentioned fennec foxes. Curious stuff, really."

Tighnari had frozen. His once slightly smug demeanor had taken a turn and he instead watched them with wide eyes. They paused their sentence, but the only thing he could mutter in reply was a small, "...Interesting."

"It really was," They mused, picking the top book from their pile and seamlessly flipping to a certain page. Even from his spot across the table, he could see diagrams of four-legged animals with big ears. His own twitched atop his head and he struggled not to let them show too much of his emotion. 

Their finger dragged across the page as they explained nonchalantly, "The smallest of the foxes, and they eat a lot of meat or similar. Sometimes berries. Though, I assume based on their typical habitat in the desert, fruit, and berries are more so like a treat."

...Was this some newfound form of torture? Or was some game they were playing to mess with him? He was unsure, but the only solution he had was to listen. Even if their words grew more familiar with each sentence - like they were slowly drifting away from explaining the average fennec fox and heading towards explaining something else.

"They help control rodents, primarily. And yet we hunt them and they struggle in some parts of the world. But they're doing better, lately," They explained calmly, the same way they did any other information. They looked up from the book and back towards the man, "They have an extraordinary hearing as well. And their ears serve as protection from the sun. But would you like to know the most curious thing to me?"

Instead, he asked, "Why were you researching Fennec Foxes?"

He hoped maybe he'd get an admittance of some sort, but he should've known better. As they just smiled and said, "We just rescued some at the sanctuary. I got curious, I suppose. Anyways," And they returned to his torture, "We rescued two of them, and I got to looking at their mating habits. It's interesting to me, frankly."

Archons, save Tighnari now. Their gentle smile was anything but innocent, words laced with false naivety as they said, "It's a bit poetic, honestly. They mate for life, just with one another. Sounds like a big commitment."

They hummed, letting their head fall tilted into one of their hands, "If we humans had obligations like that - for our first partner to be our last - we'd have many different traditions. I think it'd end up being terrifying, for some surely. What a heavyweight, knowing the chance of picking the wrong person or them not reciprocating."

He swallowed, spinning a pen between his fingers just to move in any way and keep his ears from drooping at their words. Trying to keep any reaction from reaching him and making them aware of what they were doing. He cleared his throat, shifting in his seat. They just watched him, carefully calculated. The same way they read the body languages of creatures in the sanctuary. He didn't like being on the receiving end of that gaze, particularly. 

They waited patiently for an answer so he ended up just spitting out the first thing he could think of, "It is terrifying."

Uh oh. He recognized that small smile of achievement and it made his brow furrow in annoyance. They leaned forward, chin on both hands now with a sly, "Are you implying it applies to you as well, Tighnari?"

So this is what they wanted. A twisted confession of sorts that he was affected by the more animal-ish parts of himself than he often cared to admit. It wasn't really any bodies business, but they were just too good at reading all creatures and prying it from him. And his expression just seemed to seal the deal for them, based on the pleased hum they gave. 

"I knew it," They whispered, leaning even farther forward across the table and making him press against the back of his chair as they interrogated, "So who is it? Give me a name so I can give them a stamp of approval or run them away."

"It's nobody," He quickly growled in defense. 

They frowned, "Well, I assume it's why I don't see you much anymore, so it's gotta be something."

"And what brought you to the conclusion that it was something to do with my love life?" He scoffed, not sure whether he was trying to fool himself or them. A small part of him also admittedly wanted to actually know how they were brought to this conclusion. 

And to his delight, they leaned back and began to recount, "Well, you've been more agitated as of late. But you also seem happier in a weird way. Your tail has been wagging - which I've never witnessed from you before - and I even caught you purring once-"

"I don't purr!" He quickly deflected, placing his hands roughly on the surface of the table with heat rising to his face. They raised their hands in defense, giving a small laugh and waving for him to sit back again. He did, and tacked on, "That all could have to do with anything. Not necessarily some school crushes you think I may have."

They opened their mouth, but paused and gave a hum instead. Tighnari thought that perhaps he'd somehow convinced them, but they were too smart for that. They never would go into such an accusation without a plausible clause, so there was bound to be something else. 

As expected, there was. Their mood seemed to simmer down into what it had been when they first arrived, hands fidgeting and gaze flickering. They said, "...Well, I spoke with Collei, and then Cyno. Collei gave her insight but was rather reserved. Cyno was blunt with his answer, however."

Tighnari couldn't help but ask, "Why do you care about this so much?"

Another pause, and then a tiny admittance, "It really seemed to be bothering you and I wanted to help. And I thought I might've done something wrong, admittedly."

...Right. That's why they'd been calling his name so formally. Why they seemed almost timid. But despite the way his shoulders sank just an inch, they gave a small carefree laugh to brush it aside and continued anyways, "Anyways, their responses led me to two hypotheses. One seemed more likely, so I began to pursue that one first."

"I assume it was the idea that I had romantic feelings for someone," He deduced and they nodded with a smile. Tighnari folded his arms over his chest and asked, "Then what was your second hypothesis?"

Their energy shrank again. This time, just that unassuming question seemed to flip the table and some color grew along their face. Tighnari's ear twitched against his will at the sight, tail threatening to shift. He suppressed the urge to let it move further. 

They smiled nervously, "It doesn't really matter, it's unlikely."

There was no way he was just letting them get away with that, "I trust any ideas you may have, so please."

"It's self-centered and idiotic," They said this time, and he took note of a dislike at hearing them speak like that, but they tacked on, "Hence why it was a second hypothesis, but it really shouldn't have been counted."

"What's it based on?" Tighnari asked instead, trying to weave his way into its true nature. 

They seemed awkward now. He admittedly enjoyed it. They explained, "Just based on the data given by Collei and Cyno."

"And that is?" He pushed further. 

No answer came immediately. Instead, they picked at the pages of their open book, eyes flickering over the fox figure on its pages. They weren't currently wearing the usual uniform they did, and he hated how he took pleasure in seeing them outside of a work environment. A simple button-down and wide-legged pants. Always an odd mixture of styles from Mondstat - where they spent many years studying - and Sumeru, their current point of residence. But always comfortable. No matter what.

They didn't answer his question, but said instead, "I read another book. It was specifically about the fox-human race. I learned a lot, actually, that I wasn't aware of before."

He didn't interrupt, and instead opted to listen carefully as they continued, "Like why your fur is green, or the fact that your race typically lives in the desert - which I find ironic, based on how well you fair in hot weather. But it also showed that you share some practices with your animal counterparts."

"Which is why you looked into them," He finished, and they nodded. 

"Yes, but..." They paused, putting their hands together again in a wringing and picking that he seldom saw in them. It took them a second to gather their words, but they eventually scoffed in fake amusement and said, "Well, a common factor seemed to be... me. Collei didn't say it, but I could tell, and Cyno was blunt. So I figured it could be one of two things. Either I did something you didn't like - but I know you're good about letting people know if they've done something of the sort, so I trust you - or..."

Oh. Oh, Archons. Tighnari was terrible at hiding things, wasn't he? 

"...Maybe it was me," They finally finished, then gave another scoff like it was some joke, "But that's just me trying to shift things, no matter how well it all lined up."

Tighnari's throat felt like it was closing up. So close, yet so far. He couldn't help but say, "How does it all line up?"

They blinked, seeming almost confused about his further inquiry and lack of berating or being called a 'Lummox' like he often did. He was acting weird - and that made them grow a bit more nervous as well. 

They acted poorly at being casual, leaning back and saying, "Well, they didn't really mention noticing a mood change around them, unless I was brought up or I came into a room. Collei didn't really say much about it, she tries not to spread your business, but she did say you snapped at her once when she offered to ask me for help. Cyno was blunter - he's the one who put the hypothesis in my mind."

Of course, he was, Tighnari bitterly thought, already planning the long-winded speech of annoyance he was going to give his friend. All he could think to do was give a small hum, but he regretted it immediately when a short silence ensued. 

Eventually, they felt the need to fill it and said, "Yeah, that's why I said it was self-centered."

He wanted to laugh. 'Self-centered'- they just looked at the facts and data provided and gave the best solution. And they were dead on, as well. But he wouldn't say that to them - he couldn't say it to them. Because they were right about everything they said. About his newfound attitude only being around them, and also about how terrifying it was knowing the partners he chose were intended to be for life. Humans don't typically live like that. 

Many are able to spend their years, shifting from partner to partner to learn about romance and explore the world, but he was just wired differently. And sure, he knew a small bit about their past romance life and the single, short-lived relationship they had. And the fact that they took such matters rather seriously and weren't one to dance around. Frankly, that conversation, laced with just a few drinks of wine, had been one of the first tipping points in his mind. The way they had laid their head on the table, and how quiet the night had been. It was so loud just an hour before, but now they were having a heartfelt conversation about expectations regarding relationships. He'd shared practically no details, but they never once pushed and instead opened up to him. He didn't deserve it. He didn't deserve them. 

"You're right," He blurted out. 

It took him a moment to realize the words had left his lips. Tighnari could hear his blood flow in his ears and felt impossibly stiff in his chair. 

They blinked, "...Okay, I know I was saying it was self-centered, but it does hurt when you confirm it."

He tripped over his words, "What? No- That's not - I didn't mean that. I'm talking about-"

Oh, absolutely not. Tighnari would say a lot of things, typically in observation of others' wrongdoings, but he still was struggling to admit that they had figured him out. They'd read him and his actions like an open book, and while that alone was embarrassing, it was what they read that he couldn't bare to admit. 

Their brow furrowed, watching him in confusion and wracking their brain, gears turning. Then, they blinked and cautiously asked, "...My second hypothesis?"

Tighnari didn't respond. 

They mumbled, "...Oh."

Would it be wrong of Tighnari to grab his books and excuse himself? He supposes it would. But there was absolutely nothing else he wanted to do besides that. They would find him, he knew that, but he also knew that if he left right now, it'd just make it worse. It'd give him a momentary time of pure panic until they eventually confronted him. It's best to get whatever was going to happen over with now. Even if he was sure the speed of his heart was too fast to be healthy and his claws had dug deep into the seat of his chair. His hazel gaze had dropped down to his book, trying to seem almost nonchalant but it was impossible with how stiff his shoulders were. 

There was at least a minute where they were both quiet, but it definitely felt like hours. Like an endless amount of time was passing and he truly began to consider picking up his books and leaving. He wouldn't get any work done, but maybe that was better than sitting here painfully. 

And then, their chair squeaked. He flinched at the sharp sound and at first thought they must be leaving. Maybe that would be their rejection - and as much as he liked to think he was prepared for one, he knew how heart-wrenching it would be if he got one. That's why he preferred the awkward in-between of having a crush and not confessing. It would be better than if they rejected him. 

From the corner of his eye, he saw them pick up their chair by the back of it, and then their padding footsteps came around the table. The chair landed beside him, and they came soon after. He felt impossibly warm like he was in the desert itself. He wouldn't even be surprised if they could feel it from their spot next to him. 

They folded their arms on the table and laid their head on them, eyes looking straight up toward Tighnari. This was horrible. Even worse than how they tortured him before. 

Their voice was delicately soft as they asked, "Are you scared 'cause of the implications of lifelong partners?"

He scoffed, tilting his head away to try and give his flushed face some privacy from their prying eyes, "That's the lightest way to put it."

"I'll spend my life with you."

Tighnari sat still. His heart still raced. But he managed to glance back at them, a serious expression on them still with their head down. He asked, "You'll what?"

They smiled, "I basically said I feel the same. And I'd be pretty content stuck with you for the rest of my life," They gave a thoughtful glance upwards in thought, "Y'know, I thought I made it pretty obvious how I felt. Did I not?"

This time, Tighnari's rise in heat in his face was due to annoyance and he barked, "No, you did not make anything obvious!"

They laughed pushing themselves to sit up but still gazing at him. For a few moments, he just took deep breaths and tried to come to terms with his impossible solution coming to fruition. He'd thought millions of times about what he'd do should they reject him, but hardly given any thought to the opposite happening. He didn't really know what to do now. 

Thankfully, they had an answer, "Y'know, now would be a really cute and kinda romantic time to kiss."

In a very 'them' fashion, they added, "It'd be like a scene from those romance books I like to read. All tense and then cute and soft-"

He shut up their annoying ramble by just grabbing their face gently and complying with their request. They hummed in delight and replied quickly. 

Tighnari was content and proud to be a fox hybrid. But it becomes easier with each person that takes time to know him and understand him.

[flower-boi16]

Helluva Boss could have been something very special in the animation industry, in fact, it used to be something special in the animation industry back when Season 1 was first coming out.

I remember when the first few episodes of the show were coming out and they were blowing up, so much hype was surrounding this show and for good reason; there was nothing like it out there. An indie animated series with high-quality animation and proffesional voice-actors working on it?

That was insaine at the time, and it helped popularize indie animation which is why so many amazing indie shows exist today. Helluva Boss may not be a good show but I am grateful it at least exists. HOWEVER, that doesn't excuse the flaws the show had.

The show could've continued to use all of it's ideas effectively and make a good, well-written show, continueing to create a high-quality show that people can watch for free on youtube...but it didn't do that.

Season 2 could've been a fantastic second season that took all the ideas the first season had, polished them up more and bring the show to it's fullest potiential...but that didn't happen.

Instead, the writting took a turn for the worst as all the things the first season set up were assasinated in the second, plot lines are given unsatisfying follow-ups, characters got derailed, episodes began having noticeably more holes in them, and the show lost focus and abandoned it's premise in favor of being a soap opera. Helluva Boss always had it's haters like any show that grew popular but not nearly to the same extent as when Season 2 came out.

Many fans of Season 1 became dissapointed at what the show had become in the second season and became critics, and now, thanks to the show's declining quality, it has become fairly devisive amongst the internet and episodes are declining in views significantly than before.

A new episode of Helluva Boss used to feel like an event to get excited about, now it just feels like a chore. It's really sad to see what this show has become when it could have been so much more. The latest two episodes have been especially polarizing and I feel it's only a matter of time before more people start seeing this flaws.

Season 2 did the exact opposite of what a second season should do; instead of fixing the first season's flaws it makes them worse, instead of continueing what made the first season good it ruins it and creates new problems, and instead of bringing the show to it's fullest potiential, it destorys all of it and turns it into a shell of it's former self.

[saucyjothoughts]

It sounds like a few of you are having a hard time, and while I don't want to derail completely from the intended theme of this blog, I thought we could take a little break from the wilder concepts tonight to think about some emotional healing.

So if you need it right now, please think about your favourite Joker(s) cancelling their plans to pop round to your place (whether you asked him to or he was just worried about you) maybe with a shiny gift to help cheer you up. Is it takeout (with a milkshake)? A nice bottle of wine to help you unwind? Some far-too-expensive soaps and bath bombs? A novel you've been looking for? Some fluffy socks for winter?

Maybe he puts some music on and helps you complete some of the stressful jobs you've been putting off, then runs you a bath and changes your bedsheets and finds a list of movies for you to choose from. Not that you're going to watch it - you'll be too busy telling him about everything that's been going on.

It's enough that he holds you while you talk, letting you feel safe and warm against his body as he listens, punctuating your therapy with kisses on the top of your head and stroking your arm and letting you listen to his heart beat through his chest.

It's getting late.

Do you mind if he stays over?

Love you, boos xx

[nocturnesanomaly]

Chapter 4: I've never been one to let go

(Series Masterlist: Divine Violence) (Read on Ao3) (Inspired Playlist)

Series:The Divine Violence - Chapter 4: I've never been one to let go

Wordcount: 5.9K

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x John "Soap" MacTavish x Gn!Reader

TW: (View masterlist for series tw and tags) - DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, Religious Trauma, PTSD, Flashbacks, Hallucinations, Anxiety, Paranoia, Disturbing themes, Grooming, Self-harming behaviours

Description: You share your knowledge with the team, reminding you of darker pasts, while Simon seeks to rekindle his familiarity with you.

A/N: You. Yes you. Go drink water. Right now. Good job :)

[Prev chapter / Next Chapter]

The meeting room has lost its fresh smell a long time ago. Too many of the early morning hours spent looking over papers and files, that are all entirely useless to you. Paperwork. It had always been the bane of your existence, even back when it truly mattered to your career. Necessary, and all the more frustrating for it.

The morning sun had already arisen to be at the perfect angle, right where its shine hits you in the eyes when you bend down to read. It had no business being that sharp in this season. It provided so little heat in the late November days, and tended to become more of a hindrance than anything.

Every file on the table listed people of interest, cities, landmarks, field reports from past agents. You flip another one over, trying your best to ignore the file that lays at the edge of the table. The list of casualties. All the crimes of the cult wrapped up into one set of clipped documents. You didn't dare look, to see how many of the names and faces you'd recognize.

"Auness, Backfield, Springview..." Gaz lists off the cities on his document, "I haven't even heard about half of these."

Soap leans over the table from across him. He snatches the paper out of his hand, despite the little protesting sounds Gaz let's out. "Ah, think I’ve been to Springview once...lovely neighbourhood," Soap says with a grin on his face.

"They're all small communities, some were only truly fostered to life after the cult's influence," you inform them. The document in your hand lists off a field report from years ago, a group of soldiers passing by Backfield only to be met with hostility. There had been 10 when they went in, 2 came out. That had been the true start of it back then, when things really derailed.

It had been all over the news for a time. It's incredible how quickly the world forgets.

"All done by the dishonourable... Michael Wilder..." Gaz picks up the document that had been placed in the middle of the table. The only person that ever took any responsibility for it all. Though never suffering the consequences for his crimes, he let it be known he was the one that stood behind it all.

"Ah expected his name to sound different....well...anything other than Michael..." Soap makes a distasteful face, leaning back in his chair. "What kind of cult leader is named Michael, it's not a very intimidating name." Rich coming from a guy named Soap, you think, but the comment never leaves your mind.

"I think that's the point," Gaz corrects, to which you can only nod.

He did have another name once upon a time, but you can scarcely remember it now. Perhaps even before you truly got to know all the things he's done. Maybe he had a nicer side once, that was lost to some tragic event from bad people. It didn't do any good to dwell on it. Who he is now is your problem.

"Murder, Torture, Arson, Kidnapping, Rural crimes...bloody hell, what hasn't this guy done," Gaz says exasperated. There’re many things that man hasn't done that he wanted to; you don't doubt that he would've done a lot worse if there hadn't been a collapse in management. He was building something grand.

"Speculative all of them...can't connect him to all of it, but there's nobody else that could have possible been responsible, the cult is a collective." You can still remember what it was like the first time you walked amongst these cultists. The clear admiration, the shock and awe, the forsaken faith in a brighter future. They might have been misguided, but they truly believed in what they were doing, there was no deceit from them.

"Shit, even something as small as vandalism, who'd have thought" Soap points to it on the list.

"He burnt down a chapel."

Both of them turn their heads to you in an instant, the surprise on their face shows most of their thought process to you. There's not much to explain, the whole ordeal was pretty straight forward. The only crime you personally had physical evidence of still.

"Ah thought they were supposed to be a religious cult..."

"They are. And still he set fire to the chapel, watched it burn down along with the surrounding forest."

You don't feel like their open mouth in awe reaction is warranted. The cult has been responsible for far worse, is planning far worse, is doing far worse as you all speak for all you know. There's only one true problem with the retelling, you're not about to bore them with the details.

"Were there people inside? Any get out?" Gaz asks carefully.

"Twenty-two, none recovered."

The silence stretches out to an uncomfortable extent. You've already made it awkward. That's got to be a record for you by now, how long has it been? Not even 30 minutes. Despite how much you want to refute your words, they are true. There is nothing remotely funny about the group of people you're after.

"There's been more documented causalities, everything is accounted for," you try to sound reassuring, but it comes out as uncertain. The two men either don't care or don't seem to notice.

A chill runs through you, unexpected, a subtle reminder of the eyes on you. Once upon a time you'd be worried about sharing too much information with the wrong kinds of people, the reminder had been helpful then, now it was a nuisance.

"At least we finally have a good shot at getting to these guys," Gaz speaks up and tries to break the uncomfortable atmosphere you've created. "This is extensive work," he nods to you and gestures to the entire table, "impressive."

Soap nods to agree, and you follow the motion idly without thinking. A little too late, you let out a rushed, "thank you."

You block out the rest of their conversation, only perking up your head when anything of relevance was shared. The two kept a good flow of idle chatter and gossip. Nothing you paid any mind to, gossip wasn't why you were here, you reminded yourself.

"So have ye ever actually spoken with any of them?" Soap asks.

"Wha..what?" You stutter. The question came seemingly out of nowhere. You almost drop the pen in your hand. It would have made an annoying clattering sound if you did. The thought makes you tighten your grip.

"They seem like a nasty bunch, preaching all of that with no remorse," Soap continues in an attempt to explain himself, "have ye met with them? Spoken to Michael?"

You want to snap at him. It's a dumb question you want to say, inappropriate and entirely irrelevant to the investigation. Except it's not.

You want to shut him down just as badly regardless.

"Uh... I..." *Fuck me* "Yeah...he's not pleasant...listen I need to get a few of these files scanned in, so I can send them over to Laswell, you two just keep at it, and I'll be back." It's an obvious lie to everyone in the room, a bad attempt at getting out for fresh air. Neither of them comments on it, and within a flash you're gone.

Opening the front door is a dreaded action. You can already imagine the battlefield you'll be entering; the feint mumble of raised voices can already be heard from your position. The minefields are always planted carefully, specific spots that you don't expect unless you've been traversing those dirts for years at a time.

It's never specific, never the same thing.

One wrong step, and you've got someone screaming down your face.

That battlefield was your home.

Opening the door only makes the feint screaming louder to your ears. You quickly locate it to be the kitchen, easy enough to avoid. Just have to kick off your shoes, place them neatly, tiptoe past the little opening and through the living room, to the stairs and your room. All without being noticed.

"Deus spes nostra, my child."

You stop abruptly. The only reason you don't let out a loud squeak of surprise, is the hand you slapped across your mouth. Your head whips towards the couch, gone are all thoughts of the perfect view into the kitchen you're right in the middle of.

Your expression falls when you realize who it is. An old friend of your father's from his military days. He sat on the couch with his usual poise and striking manner. He'd been staying here for the last two months, something about vacation, something about deployment, something about no money, something about too much money.

You had tried asking your father several times, whenever he was in the mood for your presence. Each time you got a different answer, and there was no way you'd find yourself asking the actual man himself.

In no way did you dislike him. He'd always been nice to you, making conversation in the silence, giving you gifts when you were upset. He'd almost been a part of the family since you were young, but he'd been gone for several years, and now you felt like a different person to back then.

"What?"

A grin breaks across his face. His form relaxing into the cushions behind him as he regards you just long enough that you're about to repeat yourself.

"Did your father never teach how to properly respond?"

He runs a hand over smooth blond hair, bleached you'd say, but you have no doubt he'd disagree. Ever since he had come back, he tried to make conversation with you, foster a friendship with you, trying to become some type of adult figure in your life. You don't know what you actually see him as. A man, your father’s friend, a stranger mostly.

"Respond to what?"

"Deus spes nostra, you respond with Deus lux mea est." His stare is a piercing blue, spikes digging into your soul and setting hooks in flesh and meat.

"Why," you ask sceptically.

"It's an affirmation of our faith, an identifier, so to speak." He sees the way you stare quizzically, the way your brain is picking up on the small things, learning the minor details that you haven't even realized yet.

A loud bang can be heard from the kitchen, the split and shatter of glass, and then silence. Your mind panics at the implication, old defence mechanisms going into place. You flinch and move quickly to the nearest couch, curl up on it, making yourself seem as small and unnoticeable as possible. Every fibre in your body told you to end the conversation and go to your room, but the man didn't feel like letting you go just yet.

"Easy, my child, nothing will happen to you as long as you stay with me." He speaks soft words of comfort. It does nothing to ease you.

You try to combat the tremble in your voice, you put on a fierce look, one of strength and deep hidden anger.

"I'm not a child."

He chuckles at that. Two breaths, dry, not believing.

"Oh sure, you do seem very mature for your age."

He's mocking you. It's nothing you haven't heard before, despite the truth of the statement, you were still deemed a kid by most adults in your life. You felt like you had grown faster than the others, you acted with more care, more knowledge, and somehow you still feel behind in every aspect.

"I guess...people have told me that a lot" You look towards the opening to the kitchen. All it would take was for the conversation to become too loud, to bring attention upon yourself. It would be so easy to bring on the wrath of your father or the disgust of your mother. You had the marks to count for it.

"You're a special one, your father tells me as much. I can still remember when you were younger, always a bit peculiar." That would be a head turner if you've ever heard one. There’s no part of you that actually believes his words, yet he says them with such conviction.

Any word that comes out of your father’s mouth about you has never been in a positive light. Occasionally he'll drop a hint of satisfaction whenever you do something for him, but that's as good as it's gonna get. Being called special or peculiar by your father must be more of an insult.

The man reaches out and places an unwelcome hand on your knee. He seems to notice the change in your expression. An uncertain frown settling on your lips. "Not in a bad way, dear, you've got something others don't, a potential that others can't see, but I do," he says.

That doesn't reassure you in the slightest, but the little flame in your heart is already lit.

"You're turning eightteen soon, isn't that right? Next year?" He asks and pulls back again. He takes note in the way you seem to release the tension in your shoulders. There's no longer any noise from the kitchen. You don't hear it.

"Yeah..."

He smiles.

"Have you ever thought about enlisting? Serving with your brother and sisters in arms, I'm sure it'd make your father very proud." He seems too sure, and perhaps he was right. Your father's time in the military had always been described with honour and respect. A time of his life where he did something worthwhile, it made him the man he is today.

"Uh...I...No...I haven't"

You never want to be anything like him.

"You can't be serious, Simon!" Your voice echoes throughout the graveyard. A few of the crows in the trees fly off into the sunset. Simon knew you'd react like this. He thought himself prepared for your outrage, ready to comfort you and make you understand. Your emotions are intense and renders him silent.

"You can't go! What about everything we have going on here, we had a plan you know! You can't just bail on that."

The plan had always been a fantasy, he thought you knew that. Something you would whisper aloud in the quiet of the night. Dreams of running away, of scraping enough money to get a small flat together, of helping each other through the adult years of your life, at least until you both got stable.

He had seen it for what it was, a childish fantasy. It wasn't a reliable solution.

"God, and even just listening to the stories from my dad, it's awful there, why would you want to be a part of that!"

The graveyard feels ice-cold. The spider lilies are dead. There's no warmth to gain from the lowering sun, painting the sky in gold and orange. You've never looked more beautiful than this. Emotion so evident in your eyes, and the sun's glow reflecting it. He doesn't fail to notice the tears lining your eyes, the breaths you hold in an attempt to not cry.

You look divine, an angel on earth.

The last thing he wants is to see you plunged into darkness. Something he fears will happen when he takes his departure alone. He adores you, he always has deep down, but he needs to prioritize himself, get himself out before this place kills him completely.

"I thought we were in this together! I thought you cared for us, for me, for all this!"

Your words are chipping away at his patience. Your inability to understand his side of things, the unwilling part of you that won't even try. He understands as far as it allows him to. He knows you're afraid of what will happen if you're separated. You've always struggled with believing in yourself.

He knew you'd be fine. He knew you'd find your own way out, that you could be reunited in a few years somewhere better, healthier and safer.

"We are!" he yells back, "I care so much for you, for what we have even when it's here."

"Then why won't you-"

"But I can't stay here spider, it's killing me" he cuts you off.  The words leave a sour taste on his tongue, it's the bare-bones truth that can be applied to both of you. Your own childhood homes weren't safe for neither of you. Mentally nor physically.

"I get that...but...what about me..."

"Spider, not everything is about you!" he regrets his words just as quick as they leave his mouth. He can see the look of betrayal on your face, it matches the dread he feels in his stomach. You take a retreating step backwards. "Wait-" he calls your name; he reaches for you, but you don't let him touch you.

"You have to understand, this is the only way out for me. In the military, I might actually be able to do some good," he tries to explain to you.

You're not having any of it.

"Fine, go then! Get yourself killed" you shout, turning on your heel before he can stop you. His brain screams at him to follow you, to comfort you, to get you to understand so you won't be mad at him, but he doesn't.

After years and years of searching, Simon has found that roaming the halls aimlessly has become an adequate stress relief. There are certain times of the day when the halls are completely deserted. Each step echoes and bounce off the walls around him. A rare occurrence when he doesn't care to make his steps featherlight, he let’s people hear he's coming.

It makes for a good trance of thought. He disliked most of the walks outside around base, the frost biting at his covered skin, and damp boots seeping water into his socks, but the hallways were dry and quiet. Most of the time.

He's solved a lot of internal problems this way. Stomping through the hallways deep in thought and looking as intimidating as ever. Back when he and Johnny were new and uncertain, he used to avoid him this way. One easy way to avoid someone who was always looking for you, was to always be on the move.

Of course, it hadn't worked forever, Johnny eventually found him, and made him confront his own feelings despite how uncomfortable it made him.

This time around, his thoughts drift to you. They always drift to you these days. Like a disease you've infested his thoughts, reminded him of things that was once buried deeply. There's still a lot of things unresolved between the two of you, things he wishes he could sit you down and talk to you about.

Ever since you've arrived, you had a weird effect on him. You manage to leave your presence in every room you walk into, he can almost sense where you've been, the people you've talked to. You're everywhere, and whenever he needs to find you, you disappear completely.

It's a frustrating cycle.

Perhaps for the first time, he understands how frustrated Johnny must have been those years ago when he avoided him like the plague. You seem to be doing the same thing now, whether you're conscious of it or not.

Part of him is completely fine with it. You stay out of each other's way, avoid bringing up any bad blood. It doesn't absolve his endless questions, however. He can barely focus, even when he's with Johnny, every scar of his that he lets his eyes run over, his thoughts go to yours. How did you get them, who gave them to you, are they still alive?

He could always figure it all out on his own. There was no real need to ask, but he still held a modest amount of respect for you.

He doesn't pay attention as someone zooms right past him. Whoever they were, they were in a hurry, and in his mind, it was no concern of his. More than likely just a recruit late for training, or a soldier forgetting their report.

It's only when he refocuses his eyes and sees Johnny standing in the distance with a look of disbelief on his face, that he turns around to see you zooming away in the distance, rounding a corner when you finally get far enough.

He raises his brows behind his mask, his eyes turning to narrow slightly as he pieces together a situation, which he has no context to.

"They finally get sick of you?" Simon questions broadly, his voice taking a joking tone with the man lingering in the doorway.

Johnny didn't look all that much amused, his eyes continuing to follow you until you were completely out of sight. "They're an interesting one," Johnny mumbles while letting out a sigh.

"Don't like them?"

"Ye kiddin? Ah adore the dark, mysterious, quiet bastards that somehow always enter my life" Johnny's tone comes across as sarcastic, but there's truth to his words. Early on in their relationship, Simon had been convinced that Johnny just had a huge case of saviour complex for him. He still doesn't know if it actually did start out like that, but he can say with certainty it's developed much more complex.

Simon scoffs and shakes his head. "They didn't use to be so..." he trails off, looking back at where you went as if he could catch another glimpse, but you were already gone.

"Moody?" Johnny proposes half serious.

"Distant," Simon corrects him.

Johnny nods. He walks out of the doorway, does a gesture to someone inside, and lets the door close behind him with a soft click. The hallway is plunged back into silence as the two look at each other. Simon has never really liked intense eye contact, but he makes way too much of it on purpose.

"Have ye talked to 'em yet?" Johnny walks over to the nearby wall, leaning against it lazily. He looks tired, worn out, which is a surprise from the lack of meaningful things to do over the last while. It's not completely nonsensical, Simon is well aware of how easily Johnny can be drained from lack of activity. Having something to do is what scratches that needed itch deep in his brain.

"I've tried to." Johnny doesn't look like he believes him. He would like to convince himself that it's true, but a part of him hasn't been searching for a level ground with you either. He has no idea where to start, how to re-establish that familiarity you once shared. It makes all the deep corners of his mind stir.

Johnny gives him a look he knows well. He knows he should get on it, push past any fears and at least get back on a professional standing instead of skittish cats tiptoeing around each other like the other is going to strike.

"Don't look at me like that," Simon says defensively. Johnny puts his hands up mimicking surrender, his teeth flashing through in his smile. The smirk could easily be wiped off his face, but he has no energy to do anything about it.

"Just talk to them already, ah can practically feel the tension three rooms over every time ye two are in each other's vicinity." Johnny shakes his head, before urging Simon on his way.

A droplet of sweat falls into your eyes. It stings and leaves a burning sensation behind. In any other scenario, you'd be fighting yourself to get it quickly wiped away, to get the pain to stop. Your focus is elsewhere. Plastered on the punching bag in front of you.

Each hit sends you further and further into a locked state of mind.

One two one two one two.

It keeps your thoughts occupied. Prying them away from the creeping shadows and their tempting whispers.

Miss it. Miss it.

Hit yourself. Hit yourself.

You close your eyes and continue to count.

One two one two

Bang your face against the wall till the bone inverts.

They're insistent tonight.

You switch up your stance. Circling the bag before taking it on at a different angle. You want to excuse your jittery movements on too much coffee, but you know the reminder of how close you're getting to going near that hell is enough to have you like this.

The more you think about it, the more the small whispers in your ears taunt you. A scent of sulphur and burnt flesh sometimes pass you by. It makes you do a double take in your movements, before you can tell yourself that it's not here. It doesn't make it go away, but if you focus just a little more on the red fabric of the bag instead of the red on your knuckles, then maybe it will tone itself down.

It's a futile attempt. The voices never really listened, no matter how much you answered them or ignored them. Independent of your reaction, they only seemed to want to taunt your mind. You could hardly recall back when your mind would be relatively empty, but the time had been there.

You try to circle the bag again, coming back and forth between the space you're allowed. Your respite comes in the knowledge that nobody would be here to observe your uncertainty. There was hardly anyone at the gym this late at night. The reason you chose it in the first place.

You were rusty, a bit out of shape, but you still had your technique. It had been hammered into you for years, you wouldn't forget it that easily. Each hit to the bag makes it sway slowly around, the massive weight not being very deterred by your punches.

Blood rushes through your veins, your heart pounding in your chest and causing you to breathe unevenly. It's an afterthought to put yourself through small breathing techniques between sets. Every sound that emits in the room plays into your mind, flashes images to the forefront of your brain.

The sound of the wind outside splashing against the windows. The sound of your punches against the bag. The sound of distant footsteps. The sound of a barking dog outside, one that would bear red crosses on white pelt. The sound of low murmuring all around you. The sound of a gunshot.

You whip your head around, choking on your own spit, when you're met by the sight of the man you've been avoiding. Your eyes flicker to the person behind him, made of shadows, smiles and bad omens. It puts an uneven hand on Simon's shoulder.

The sound of your beating heart is loud in your ears, you almost fear he can hear it as well. Your breath is low, uneven, easily excusable to the exercise you were doing instead of the nightmare standing there. You clench your fists, nails digging into your palm. Small droplets of blood trickle in-between your fingers.

He hands you a water bottle. It takes you by surprise, a sudden gesture of kindness. "You look about ready to collapse," his voice is gruff and tired. You bite the inside of your cheek when you accept it.

The cold water is like heaven for your dry throat. Your body graciously accepting the hydration it's clearly needed for a while now. He wasn't totally wrong about your state. You heard the whispers, how you've been looking sick the entire day. Then again when don't you.

"Thank you..." you mumble quietly, taking another gulp from it.

"Yeah..." he looks at you like he's expecting something from you.

You stare at him wearily, trying your damned hardest to discern whatever expression he's making under the mask by his eyes alone. More than anything, you wanted to pull it off of him. You wanted to see him, truly see him.

Would he have stubble? A full-on beard, maybe. Would he have the same hair length as back then, would he have smile lines, wrinkles when he laughs? His voice was deeper, would his laugh sound different now?

"We need to talk," he says your name so quietly, like he's afraid to utter it, as if you'd spring on him like a monstrous creature or haunted ghost.

"We're talking," technically you aren't, but for you this might as well be a conversation already. Heat blooms in your chest, rising unwillingly to your cheeks. Once upon a time that would've been from bashfulness, now it was more of a deep-rooted shame, a fear of your own anticipation for what's to come.

"I'm..." he stutters over his own words, "I'm not entirely sure what went wrong between us."

He pauses and your eyebrows furrow, your mouth quivering with words unspoken.

"Maybe it was something I did, being the reason, we stopped talking but..." your eyes flicker around his mask, the urge turns pained in your chest. He shakes his head. "I hope we can put it past us, for the sake of the mission."

You hand the water bottle back to him. He accepts it, but you can see in his movements how he takes it as rejection. Your eyes are clear on the target he's becoming.

"No, I..." your voice comes out raspy. You clear your throat. "I'm not sure either, what went wrong, but I hold nothing against you...Simon...I guess we just grew apart." It's a big fat lie, but the millisecond of what you'd call relief that shows in his eyes are well worth it.

He exhales his breath loud enough to be noticeable, his form sagging just a little without breaking. "You don't?" when you nod as confirmation, he matches it. "That so...I'd like to start again...I'm curious where you've been all this time, it would be nice to catch up...begin again."

That little voice in your head bristles. A quiet little thing that belongs to a childhood version of you. It wants him to shut up, to stop the pretending front he's putting on. Then there's the other little voice, a voice of reason, one that's still young and malleable. They fight over your decision-making.

He looks down at your hands, notices the feint trail of blood where you split a knuckle. His eyes go small, focusing on it a tad too long before you can pull your hands out of view from him.

Your teeth catch your lip before you make the conscious decision to let it go. "Yeah...we can...try again...from the beginning," the dry laugh you let out doesn't sound convincing, but it seems to be enough for him to buy into. Maybe all you had isn't dead just yet, and when the call comes crashing it all down, you can use the connection for your own burning benefit.

"Right..." there's a note of excitement in his voice, the slightest change in octave and rhythm. "I'll be looking forward to it," he takes his turn to leave the same way he had sneaked in. "Oh, and spider, clean yourself and the equipment up, gonna give yourself a bad reputation like that."

He's being cheeky behind that mask, you can tell. Yet the reawakening of the nickname stirs the softest of a smile to almost make it to your lips.

Your feet hurt. Every step sends another spike of pain up your legs, every swaying movement threatening to send you barrelling forward. You're late. Horribly late. Each breath catches in your throat, and you barely look at the road before you pass it. Only a loud honking alerting to just how close you were to being run over, but you couldn't stop, you had to catch him in time.

You couldn't believe you were almost missing this. Your last chance at seeing him before he leaves for good. The wind hisses in your ears, the cold burns at your uncovered feet. You couldn't believe you had let it come to this.

For the last few weeks, you had been ignoring him, only sharing the most necessary of things. There was no banter between you, no jokes or laughter, and all because you couldn't contain your own anger for his decision.

His stupid, stupid decision.

You couldn't talk him out of going.

He couldn't talk you out of resenting him for it.

The sky is on fire. Rays of the sun blinding you on your way, making you squint your eyes to see. The oranges mixed with yellows makes the clouds look unreal. It's a thing that would have stopped you if it weren't for the agonizing consequences of your decisions weighing on your shoulders. The sky meant nothing to you now.

The graveyard is a welcome sight, the rusted gate creaked open wider than normal. You zoom past it, stumbling over one of the larger rocks scattered about. It propels you forward into the yard, crashing your knees against the gravel. It cuts and stings, but the buzzing under your skin is too loud to notice.

You call out his name. Your voice holding no bounds for your desperation. The only sound that comes back is the crows squawking, the fluttering of wings as they fly far away from you. There's no answer to your call, no familiar voice sounding out to meet you, no warm hand on your shoulder that would pull you into a hug.

He's gone, you realize all too late.

One forgetting mind, two arguments with your mother, and a punishment to follow, all for nothing. You missed your window. You missed the time he'd said he'd wait. He's left and with what, the only knowledge that you're angry with him. He's putting himself in potential danger, and he thinks you resent him.

More than that, he's actually out of reach for you now.

A fear that had infested your bones long before his ugly announcement. A fear that was now no longer just a fear.

Your breathing stutters. Your vision blurs. Blues, oranges, greys and reds, blobs of nothing filling your vision spilling down your cheeks. They might as well freeze in place. Your legs refuse to obey, your body hunches over from every dry heave, every soundless sob and every claw at the ground.

You were alone now.

Yet a hand places itself on your shoulder. It spooks you enough to let out a scream, yet when you whip around, you're only met with a soft smile. The hand is too big to be Simon's, too rough and too scarred. You stare into the eyes of a different man.

A friend. An enemy. A figure you could cling your shattered mind to in your late teen angst.

"You'll be alright," he mouths the words, and you're sure he speaks them, but they never reach you.

"You can meet him again," he stands tall, watches down at your kneeling form with a twist of something that churns your stomach, "I can show you the way to him."

"What?" Your voice is barely audible.

"Through the path to God we may find redemption, and through that path you may find your friend once again, we are all the same under His light."

He tosses a lighter down on the ground next to you.

"Let me show you the path to the light."

You can smell the smoke in the air, taste the ash on your tongue, feel the blood beneath your nails.

It's too late to let go now the hook has sunk into flesh.

The flame is already lit.

Likes, Reblogs and comments are always appreciated, love ya! <3

Taglist: @chickennn-soupp @unlikelyaperson @ghostlythots @lilynotdilly @islnd-vybz @spicyspicyliving @kaoyamamegami

[pekoehoneyncream]

Gaz and Soap Learn to Cartwheel

Words: 1200~

TW: None (sfw)

Feat: Ghost, Gaz, & Soap

More prompt writing from randomly generated prompts. This time the prompt was 'Gymnastics'. Again written from a Ghost centric pov. I picture his internal monologue as being super sassy and I love writing all his acerbic little quips.

Ghost exited the rear base doors only to have his well-earned smoke break derailed by the sight of the impromptu circus auditions his teammates were apparently participating in. Gaz and Johnny had somehow been suckered into learning how to cartwheel by one of the base’s Privates. 

Taking another look at the cavalcade of failures that was happening on the base’s back lawn, Ghost reconsidered. Gaz and Johnny had somehow suckered a Private into teaching them how to cartwheel. 

There wasn’t much cartwheeling actually happening, other than when either of the two chuckle-fucks whinged and demanded that the Private showed them again. The Private, Ghost studied her hard for a moment, trying to dredge her name up from the mass of new recruits that were constantly revolving through the base. He was pretty sure it was Fallur, or something like that. It definitely started with a ‘Fal’... Or was it a Val, Vallur? Private Vallur? No, no, it was definitely Fallur. 

A particularly loud thump drew Ghost’s attention away from his thoughts. He focused up to see Johnny laying face down, making a noise that might have been a groan in another life. A life where Johnny hadn't just belly-flopped into the dirt and knocked all the air out of his lungs. Gaz was also having trouble breathing, bent double by the force of his laughter.

“I said to guide his feet, not try to push him through it.” Private Fallur’s voice was muffled by the hands she was rubbing over her face. 

Ghost took in the many grass stains and smears of dirt that covered his Sergeants’ clothes and deduced that they’d been attempting this for far longer than any sane adult would bother troubling themself with, especially for such a useless skill. If it had been just Johnny or just Gaz on their own, they probably would have called it quits by now, but both of his idiots were so goddamn competitive that they were just egging each other on. Both determined to be the first to do it right. 

“Once more, ah nearly have it noo, show us again woul’ ye, Falsvur?” Johnny had pulled himself to his feet, dusted himself off, and was now making his Puppydog eyes at the poor Private.

Falsvur! That was it! He’d been close, he knew it was ‘Fal’ something. 

Falsvur drew in a deep breath, letting it move her shoulders and expand her ribs, holding it for a long calming moment, then letting it out in a long resigned sigh. 

“Fine,” she agreed, “but only one more time, I’m not missing dinner.” She pointed a stern finger at the Sergeants, who were smiling and nodding at her like grateful bobbleheads. 

Falsvur straightened up, stared down the lawn for a moment, then took a quick step, threw her arms up, and tossed herself forward into a -from what Ghost could tell- impeccable cartwheel. Straight arms, straight legs, strong core, solid landing, no noodleish flopping or eating dirt. 

If Ghost was the judge he’d give her a ten. 

Gaz and Johnny had watched her maneuver like starving dogs, eyes intent, and faces serious. Ghost had seen them less solemn at funerals. 

Much nodding and ‘Okay’ing came from the 141’s corner of this impromptu cartwheel showdown. His Sergeants seemed determined to get it right this time. Ghost slid his phone from his pocket and started recording, feeling a bit mournful he hadn’t been around to watch what must have been some truly glorious first attempts. His want for a cigarette completely forgotten. 

After a brief scuffle and a furious round of paper-scissors-stone,  it was determined that Gaz would be going first. 

Gaz lined himself up, staring blankly ahead and shaking out his arms like he was going into a fight. After a long moment of nothing, Gaz ran a few steps then threw himself forward. His hands made contact, his feet left the ground, and Ghost watched him deliberately straighten out his spine as his feet passed over his head, but he must have overcorrected somehow.

Gaz’s focused look took on a panicked hue as his legs started tipping backwards and he fell out of his cartwheel, landing on his hands and feet in a sort of table or crab-esque pose. Gaz stayed there for a moment, then went limp, dropping into the dirt with a loud groan of disappointment, “Fuckin' COME ON!” he shouted at the sky, slapping at the ground to work through his frustration. 

“ooo, an’ ya nearly had it there too.” Johnny cooed with mock sympathy, a shit-stirring grin splitting his cheeks. 

Gaz’s head snapped around, his ire finding a new focus, “Go on then,” he goaded “you do it, since it's so easy.”

Johnny’s smile fell off his face and he drew himself up, “Mebbe ah will,” he retorted, walking over a few paces so he had a clear runway and wouldn’t hit anyone. 

Johnny did the same nothing stare-down, that Ghost was coming to understand was integral to cartwheeling, then lunged forward. Forgoing any runup in favour of just pitching himself headfirst into his attempt. His hands hit the dirt and he threw his legs up with a grunt, keeping his spine straight as his feet passed over his head, but neglecting -Ghost noted- to fully unbend his knees. Johnny’s feet started to come down on his other side, but he had too much momentum and couldn’t stick the landing. His legs folded under him and he ended in an awkward crouch, all his weight sat uncomfortably on his tangled feet. Trying to stand failed and Johnny fell out of his newly invented yoga pose to land on his ass with an upset grunt and an upsetter pout. 

Gaz’s snickering reached him through his sulk, and Johnny whipped around to fervently defend his honor, “Ah still did better than ye!”

Gaz gasped with what seemed to be genuine offense, “You did not! Your legs were bent the whole time!” Gaz shouted as he stood -having not bothered to before- to properly lord over Johnny’s failings.

“Bu’ ah didnae tip o’er half way noo did ah, ya pishin dafty!” came what Ghost could only assume was Johnny's rebuttal, as he too stood up. Immediately getting in Gaz’s face. 

“That doesn't mean you did any better! It just means your fail was longer!” Gaz bit out, then suddenly remembered that they weren’t alone and turned on Falsvur, “Tell him, Private!” 

Johnny also turned to face down the poor woman, “Aye! Tell the bampot all his eggs are double-yoakit, as he cannae see it himsel’,” he planted a hand on his hip and pointed an accusing finger in Gaz’s direction without even deigning to actually look over at him. 

“Uhm!” Private Falsvur squeaked, holding up her hands to ward off the highly trained special forces military men, who were demanding she rank their cartwheels, “Uh, you both did better than you did before. You’re definitely improving!” She gave them a grin and a shaky thumbs up. 

Gaz and Johnny were stopped from making any kind of reply as Ghost finally lost the stangle-hold he’d been struggling to maintain over his composure and went down in hysterics. 

The Sergeants gawped with open mouths and horrified eyes as their Lieutenant slowly sank down the wall behind him, hugging his belly and heaving with laughter. Phone still clutched in one hand. 

Ghost was sure that the last part of the video was going to be nigh-on unwatchable with how hard he’d been shaking with silent giggles, but it was so worth it. 

Ghost felt his eyes start to sting as his tears made his eye-black run and tried to calm down, taking deep breaths and blowing them out slowly. When only one breath in three ended with a giggle, Ghost slid his phone securely back into his pocket and opened his eyes to find his Sergeants standing over him, one sheepishly, one impatiently, and Private Falsvur nowhere to be seen. 

“Well? Wasnae mah cartwheel better?” 

Tada! Thank you for reading, hope you enjoyed it! If you're wondering, the first thing Ghost did with that video is show it to Price.

If you have an idea or a prompt you want me to write, please tell me! My ask box is open.

PekoeHoneynCream's Masterlist

[dairy-farmer]

Back at it again with my love of under represented dynamics! A/B/O remember? It's NOT A/O! Where's my Beta love?! Just because you get the most common presentation, you don't deserve to be sexed up??

Lies! Slander and defamation! We shall not tolerate this Anti-Tim Sexing in THIS Good Tim Sexing household!

And imagine it: Tim's parents. Strong independent Betas who would prefer all these Scentheads stop trying to trap them in their packs just to get at the Drake family fortune. Forever out of the country, both to AVOID the fuckers and to pursue their own interests.

A tiny pack of just Betas.

Tim doesn't need an Alpha to protect him. What is this, the middle ages? And he's not incompetent. He doesn't need an Omega to control and manage the household. Yes, he GETS that's a wildly over simplified version of the social dynamics. Still doesn't need them.

Unlike Alphas and Omegas, Betas don't actually HAVE that extra strong compulsion to group up. They just kinda prefer too.

But? Tim's classmates are GROSS. They stink and are dramatic, swan around like they're hot shit (Alphas) or try to manipulate people into liking them and protecting them (Omegas). And it's? So SOAP OPERA.

Unlike Batman.

Batman doesn't stink. He ACTUALLY protects people. ACTUALLY takes care of people. Both in and out of the mask. THAT is how you're supposed to act!

And Dick Grayson? Best Omega you'll EVER meet! Strong and caring, remembers your name even if you're not important. Was ROBIN. Protects his city and started the Titans! So cool!

But Tim likes Jason the most. Even if he CAN be a growly little Alpha scenthead at times. Cause he CARES. About everyone. Doesn't get wrapped up in presentations and what he's "supposed" to care about or do.

But then Batman's in his rutt. Tim knows, cause Batwoman's taken over, but instead of staying in a guarding the Manor... Jason's sneaking out? Tim knows there's been tension. But how has it gotten THIS BAD?!

He may not be pack... but he cares. A LOT. So he decides to stop him!

And Jason? His quest to find his Mom is completely derailed when he gets body slammed by history's gangliest Pup. Dear FUCK, does no one FEED this kid!? Why is he in Jason's yard?! Ow! Stop scratching!

He THINKS the kid might be trying to growl, but it frankly sounds ridiculous. All crackly and hesitant. It takes him forever to recognize the squirming little monster as his neighbors kid. Okay. He adjusts. Drop the kid off, THEN find his mom.

Except no, the kid is refusing to unlatch. Fucking BIT his shirt with all his little puppy strength and won't let go. Are you KIDDING him?

And the longer it takes to struggle free? The more his nose catches up with him.

The house... smells weird. He can't quite place it. It's like something SHOULD be there, but isn't.

He stills when it finally sinks in. Barely any scent but the Pups. And no Alpha or Omega scent AT ALL. The fuck? He stops fighting the kid. Drags him closer. Tim squeaks but let's himself be manhandled. And...

Nothing.

Kid smells like a pup that's DEFINITELY gonna be a Beta, from the way it mixes so strongly as an undertone, but? No adult scents are anything close to recent. They're barely even THERE. And Alpha scents? Non-existent. Same with Omegas.

Sure, there's some on his clothes, but that's just "he sat near some". Not scented. The fuck? In a big ol house like this??

It pisses Jason off.

What, is the kid not GOOD enough? USEFUL enough? They didn't get some bartering chip Omega or perfect heir Alpha, so fuck um? Did the kid ALSO get accused of some shit he didn't do? Maybe get blamed for turning out Beta, like he had any fuckin CHOICE in the matter?

Do they think they can just toss the kid aside? Leave him waiting for scraps of affection whenever THEY decide he's finally Good Enough again? Fuck um. They don't NEED adults like that! Jason can be the kid's pack! He's an Alpha! Planning to go look for his mom. They'll have a NEW pack!

And Tim? Veeeery close to Smells Good and Robin Being Persuasive(tm). Common sense has left the building. Okay! Tim is On Board with this likely fatal plan! Please keep hugging him. Rub scent aaaaall over his face.

Thankfully? Bruce has coworkers(friends) who care. And are aliens. Immune to the whole "scent" thing. Clark brought over some water and food for his buddy. Rutts are tough. And oh? Is that a note? Better bring it to Alfr-..!!!!?!?!?

They get caught by a VERY alarmed Superman.

It's quite stressful. Tim presents a month early. Now every body STINKY and his skin feels weird. Presentation sucks no matter WHO you are. It'll be days before his body calms down. Small problem?

Getting dumped back in the same house as Bruce, getting caught, and then learning the joker POISONED PEOPLE then Blew Up His Mom? Kinda caused a stress Rutt. And Jason is extra super clingy ON TOP of everything else.

He's upset. ANGRY. And the ONLY thing that DOESNT make him upset and angry? Timmy. Who is warm and soft and feels good to rub against. Who smells nice. Not, like, Omega nice... but NICE. Soothing. He can wrap his arms around him, bury his face against his neck, and just? Grind against that warm body until it gets too good. And he spills all sticky and slick.

Gets his scent spread even MORE all over him.

But... but where's HIS scent? They gotta smell like each other. And Timber's skin is so sensitive right now. Rubbing too much hurts. He can't get enough to cover himself. And it's not like he has a dick Jason can rub against, like HE rubbed.

Wait.

Jason's never tried it before... but he bets he can make his Tim feel good. But.. those classes and lectures and stuff, said betas aren't exactly? BUILT to handle Alpha bits. Can he even FIT inside Timbers? He doesn't wanna HURT him!

He works a hand down instead. It takes him a bit, to find what he's looking for, but... it's warm. Soft and a little wet. Gets wetter as he rubs. Tim squirming and twitching, his heart rate picking up. Body getting warmer. Scent getting all OVER him. It's even better when he squishs a finger inside.

It's AMAZING in there.

He rubs and rubs, inside and out, until Tim is shaking apart. Bites him n makes him PACK. No take backs.

The adults are furious. Fuck um. It takes Timmy's parents WEEKS to even come back and notice. And Bruce was gonna get rid of him anyway!

Except... except apparently he WASN'T. He just sucks at everything and can't use his words. Dick is apoplectic. Might actually KILL Bruce this time. When he comes back from space and Robin has a baby pack within Bruce's pack because Bruce fucked up so bad, he thought he'd be getting DISOWNED.

And the thing is? They don't notice. Are too busy tearing into each other, threatening lawyers and bodily harm, to notice Jason's little pack and how it operates.

Cause THEY decided they LIKE how they "scent". It feels nice. Beta scent is light. Takes a lot to scent properly. Which is easy if there are a lot of Betas, not so much if it's just Tim. But they "figured it out"! And it feels good.

Jason LOVES exploring Timmy's interesting bits. Tasting and rubbing, working his fingers as deep as he can go, to rub and rub until Tim is tensing up and twitching as he falls apart. It takes a lot of practice, but Tim can take MORE fingers now.

Jason even did some research. There are tools! Well, they're called "toys" but they're tools. Made to help when you can't fit! When your little hole is too small. Jason had to break in after hours to get um, but he DID leave money!

He got all sorts of stuff. It was awesome. Timmy LOVES it. And JASON? He loves watching his Beta's body stretch. Take it for him. Getting looser and looser so it won't hurt. So he'll feel so, SO good for Jason. Get off again and again because he can't help but feel so good.

Jason's gonna take SUCH good care of his pack.

And the adults may not notice the scenting? But Dick DEFINITELY notices Jason's next Rutt. More specifically, how quiet it is. No misery, no complaining, no pressing up against Dick, trying to escape the heat. Just... quietly locked up in his room? Suspicious.

So he goes to check.

And finds him fucking his little Beta. It's a worst case scenario. Oh god. Did he lose control?! He's hurting his-! ...except as his mind catches up to his eyes, no. He's not.

Hips thoughtfully propped up on a pillow, whimpers don't sound pained, and that is clearly a bottle of artificial slick. Jason is pounding into his Beta like it's his sole mission in life. Dragging him back to meet each thrust, HARD. Poor thing is starting to look overwhelmed. Must be the first time he helped someone through a proper heat.

So Dick steps inside, closes the door, and locks it.

Strips. Distracts Jason as he detangles the poor little Beta who's looking positively fucked out. Shhhhh. Come here sweetness.

Letting Jason pant against his skin, as he rutts against his leg, is hardly a hardship. It let's him cuddle the cute little Beta close. Press kisses to his precious, drooling face. He lazily pumps his fingers in and out. Keeping from getting too tight again. He wouldn't want the cute little guy to get hurt.

But... in the end, the curiosity gets the better of him.

After all, he feels so warm around his fingers. Soft and delightful. He's obviously bigger the Jason, he's an older man. He wonders if it'll even fit...

He aligns the little hole over himself, the Beta limp onto of him. And lowers him slowly. Watches with wonder as he gasps and whines.. but TAKES it. His poor little body stretching to the brim. So deep it must border on painful.

Fucking him is AMAZING. Jason crawls up, to hold him. To rutt against his back, face pressed to his shoulder, holding him still. Dick helps, hands holding those little hips, as he pulls back and fucks up into that heat.

Every thrust punchs a little gasp, a whine, a whimper, out of their pretty little Beta. He takes it so WELL. Legs shaking. Inner thighs drenched. But no where to run. For the first time in YEARS, Dick let's himself cum deep inside someone. It's so GOOD. Gushing, frothing, and wet. He let's himself drift.

They barely remember to keep hydrated. Fed. If Dick didn't have access to after-heat care, Tim would undoubtedly be pregnant.

Of course, Tim is training to be the "man in the chair" like Oracle. Is over constantly. And Tim's parents? Still take their ill fated trip. The quiet hostilities screech to a halt. Bruce does all he can. But... well. He never wanted to "win" like this. He takes Tim in.

And in short order... notices how unusually CLOSE his sons are to the young Beta.

The Beta who smells like Pack but not HIS pack. Hmmm. Fixable. He starts scenting the boy. But can't shake the feeling he's missing something. But... life distracts. Cases pop up. At least his sons are getting along, right?

But then? He needs Jason for a case. The day is not a special one, just inevitable. He goes looking. Finds Jason with a tied up Tim. Bullet vibe tormenting his poor little clit. Working a knotting dildo into the boys poor, sensitive, body. It's just slightly smaller then he is.

Jason doesn't notice him. Is too focused. Tim's whimpering, straining, but Jason's relentless in working it in. Telling him he's gonna be good for him. Take his knot. Keep it in him till he's all stretched out. How he bets after this, Tim can take BIGGER. The knot is slowly sliding in until... pop! In it goes. Tim gushes and comes apart.

Not Natural behavior. You have to train yourself to cum like that, just from getting knotted. ESPECIALLY a Beta. It's a distant thought as Bruce quietly backs away. Before he can be noticed.

But now? The thoughts won't LEAVE. He notices know. The days when Tim's gait is stiff. What he now knows that MEANS. What's inside him. Can't help but wonder about the other days. Is he empty then? Left craving? Or does he have something else to...

No. Do not. It's inappropriate.

But he can't stop. And the gods must hate him, because his rutt hits full force when it's just the two of them in the Manor. He barely remembers getting naked. Hunting him down.

He's full today.

He kisses like he's devouring the little Beta. Licks and sucks, all but rips the clothes from him. The boy's startled but not opposed. Is embarrassed to be caught full. It stretches him so gloriously. Bruce makes him SQUEEL with his mouth. Fucks him with his hidden companion until he's wet and ready. Then it's out and he's plunging in deep.

He shudders.

So good. A wet little vice, dispite all the stretching. Fucking him up and down his cock like a toy, he enjoys the feel of it. Before lifting them both. Heading for his room. Bouncing the boy on his cock the entire way.

He loses count of how many times he knots him. He takes it so WELL. Even when he's overflowing. Whining and exhausted. He goes to sleep buried deep. Wakes up already rocking. Soon fucking desperately again and again.

The house stinks of them. Jason is not amused. Dick is HIGHLY amused. Tim is unconscious from exhaustion again and won't be walking for at least a week. The Pack is united.

......you know... until Talia decides its finally time to inform Bruce HE HAD A SON.

-🐼

!!!!!!!!!! tim being the perfect little packmember!!! doing such a good job of taking them, better than any omega they ever had and without all those headache-inducing pheromones because some omegas overdid it !!! tim being a nice little beta who trains to take their cocks so well!!

[dilemmaontwolegs]

Across The Darkened Room {4}

Aemond Targaryen x fem!reader || Modern AU Summary: Aemond keeps his promise and takes care of you in every sense of the word. Warnings: 18+ only, NSFW, nudity, sexual themes WC: 2.8k

Part One || Part Two || Part Three || Part Four || Part Five ||

“You should pack an overnight bag,” Aemond said as he held you on his lap, his back resting against the headboard. He idly drew circles over your thighs and his hair tickled your cheek as you tucked your face into the crook of his neck. “I’ll have movers get the rest for you when you choose which place you like.”

“You are too young to be a sugar daddy,” you murmured and his chest bounced with a deep chuckle. 

“I am hardly buying your affection.” He tipped your chin back so you could see the sincerity in his eye as he spoke, “I promised to take care of you, keep you safe, and you agreed to that control.”

“I know, it just must cost a lot.”

Aemond’s head fell back with a laugh and he shook his head apologetically. “It’s the money that makes you uncomfortable. Sweetpea, it means nothing to me.”

You bit your lip and pondered what such a life would be like, never having to worry about paying the bills or how to make a meal stretch as far as possible. It was as if he could see your thoughts playing in realtime and he didn’t like the way your pulse increased suddenly. 

“Why did you come to my club?”

Your panicked thoughts were derailed and you blinked at him as you processed the question. He was patient as you collected yourself and remembered the moments that led to your search for the sanctuary. 

“I’ve been on my own since I was 16. As soon as I could get out of Flea Bottom I did. Since then I have had the pressure to make every decision alone and I second guess myself at every turn. Whatever the consequence, it's on my shoulders alone. The only relief I have is when I give up that control, for me it’s freedom, even if it is only for a few hours.

“About a year ago Mr Greyjoy sent me to The Heights to collect some special books from an estate sale and I overheard a couple of women in the street. They were talking about the Red Keep and something clicked with what they were saying. So, I saved up for months to pay for the membership and here we are. It probably sounds stupid.”

“Not at all,” Aemond assured you. “It makes perfect sense. Now, do you think you are steady enough to shower?”

The small cubicle was cramped with two bodies in it and it was the first time you had made the attempt. Aemond had taken the loofah and lathered it up with your body wash before thoroughly cleaning you from head to toe. The half moons across your backside had stopped bleeding fairly quickly but the hot water and soap cascading down them sparked a fresh sting in them and your eyes fluttered shut when Aemond paid them more attention than the rest of your skin.

All too soon the water turned cold and Aemond wrapped you in a towel, taking care to dry you as thoroughly as he washed you. It was a fascination to watch him move around your room, opening the closet and drawers with confidence as he collected an outfit for you to wear. 

You should have known he would be sensible in his choices given how late the evening was and how quickly the seaside city temperatures dropped overnight. He could have easily ordered you to wear one of the few skimpy leather outfits you reserved for the Red Keep and you would have donned it to please him, but he grabbed a pair of your worn jeans, and a hoodie. He did indulge himself a little as he chose your underwear, finding a lace bra and the matching panties with a purely masculine smile. 

“You should wear more lace,” he said softly as he traced the detailing over your breasts. “I’m going to take you shopping, Sweetpea.”

The urge to fight the offer didn’t swell in you this time, not after your earlier conversation. Instead, you stepped back and gave him a slow turn so he could see the full effect and your confidence grew as his eye darkened with lust, the iris losing ground to his quickly dilating pupil. 

“I don’t start work until after lunch tomorrow,” you said as you faced him again and he reluctantly held a casual shirt out for you. 

“By the time I show you the properties there won’t be any time for shopping,” he said with a frown, almost like he was embarrassed to admit he couldn’t slow time, and you chuckled at the sight.

“How about you save the time and choose for me?”

A deep hum of approval rumbled from his chest before he closed the distance and caught your chin in his hand as his lips brushed over your cheek towards your ear. “That is a very good idea.”

Aemond was driving towards The Heights, one of the richest suburbs in King’s Landing, and the sparkling blue sea was picturesque behind the mansions that lined the streets. You couldn’t resist opening the window and letting the fresh air blow in with the hint of salt on the breeze.

The trunk of the car was full of shopping bags and they also spilled over into the backseats. Aemond had purchased far more than you had been prepared for but his smile as he handed his card over each time was enough to let him lead you to the next store, and then the next. 

He had been thoroughly amused when you had seen the price of a pair of the barely-there lace panties, you had been aghast that anyone would pay the exorbitant cost for what essentially amounted to a single spool of thread. You had quickly put it back on the rack but somehow it had ended up in the shopping bags without you realising and Aemond had smiled wickedly when the cashier scanned it. 

The sound of the indicator pulled you from thoughts of the overladen trunk behind you and you gasped as you saw the property that Aemond was turning the car into. Words failed you as you took in the row of pretty townhouses that overlooked the water.

“Please tell me we are just visiting someone here,” you murmured.

Aemond pressed a button hanging from his keyring and the garage door for the end townhouse began to open. “Welcome home, Sweetpea.”

You were dumbstruck as you stood in the bright open living room that took up most of the second floor. A balcony sat beyond the floor to ceiling glass sliding doors with unimpeded panoramic views of the sea. A lavish kitchen full of appliances and a marble island could not take away from the view of the water and when Aemond opened the sliding door the sound of lapping waves was carried on the breeze.

“This is too much,” you murmured from behind your hands that covered your lips in shock. 

Aemond beckoned you to join him on the deck and he caged you between his body and the balustrade as he nipped your shoulder sharply. “Agree to disagree.”

A thick wall on one side of the balcony gave the illusion of privacy but you knew there was a neighbour after seeing them on the way in. It didn’t stop Aemond from tilting your head so he had free access to your neck that he grazed his teeth over. 

“You should see the master suite,” he suggested as he pressed himself into your lower back and palmed your breasts until you moaned before pulling away, “then I’ll take you to work.”

You suppressed a groan at the thought of having to go to work, especially after he had teased you, but you dutifully followed Aemond up the stairs to the third floor. It was just as you imagined it would be, light and airy with another grand view of the sea. You could easily see yourself sitting in bed with a book and watching the sea on a lazy Sunday morning. 

“Thank you, Aemond,” you whispered as you climbed the large bed and sat against the headboard to soak in the view. 

Aemond fingered the hooks that were skillfully embedded in the headboard and smiled as he soaked in the sight of you bathing in sunlight. “You are very welcome, Sweetpea.”

The alarm on your phone suddenly blared and you couldn't stop the groan that escaped as you turned it off. Patting the bed longingly, you climbed off with a promise you would be back and Aemond chuckled as he took your hand. 

“I could be terrible and suggest you call in sick,” he said as you descended the stairs to the garage. 

You shook your head and slipped into the front seat of the Maybach “I haven’t taken a sick day, ever.”

“Then you are seriously overdue.”

All joking aside, you made it in time to start work, even with the extra distance to travel and you waved goodbye to Aemond when he dropped you off outside the bookstore. Mondays were always quiet so after unpacking some new inventory and sweeping the store front, you took a seat behind the counter and checked your emails on the store’s laptop. 

You immediately dialled Aemond.

“Why have I got an email from my doctor? It says you requested an appointment.” you asked as soon as the call connected.

“You are overdue for your pap smear,” Aemond answered distractedly and you heard a keyboard tapping away in the background. 

“Aemond...” you groaned, “how did you even…you bribed my doctor?”

Aemond sighed and the typing fell silent as he leaned back in his office chair. “Bribery is such a dirty word, Sweetpea, I bought the medical centre.”

A growl of frustration clawed at your throat and you glared at your phone as if he could see it. “That does not make it any better.”

“Would you rather me not take care of your health?” he asked quietly and you felt the question ran deeper than just the words he was saying and you sighed.

“No, just a little heads up would have been nice.” You looked at the email again before shutting the laptop. “I need a refill of my pill too so I would have had to book something soon anyway.”

“Ah, yes, I was hoping we could talk about that. I like to think this relationship is going well and will continue to do so and, well, neither of us are virgins,” he stated and you laughed at the obvious statement, “but, I find condoms a minor inconvenience. It takes a bit of the spontaneity out of sex, in all honesty. If we were both tested and clean, is that something you would be open to?”

The bell above the door tinkled and you looked up to see a customer walking in with a young girl and you waved in greeting. “Mhmm, yes, sir. I can definitely locate that book for you.”

Aemond spoke with amusement thick in his voice, “I’ll book the appointment while you help with your customers.”

The call ended and you slipped your phone into your pocket before walking to the children’s section, after all, Mr Greyjoy didn’t pay you minimum wage to sit around on your phone.

Dr Merins didn’t know who to look at when he spoke to you. Though his words were directed at you, his eyes kept flicking to Aemond as he sat in the chair that your mother had stopped filling when you were about 15 years old. She had deemed you old enough to take yourself to the doctors if you really needed it and she couldn’t afford to take time off from her two jobs. 

Dr Merins pushed his glasses back up his long nose and looked down at the lab results. “Everything has come back clear on the swabs taken last week and you won’t need another Pap Smear for three years. I was a little concerned by your iron levels in the blood test, they still haven’t increased since your last test and they are borderline anaemic.”

Aemond thrummed his fingers along his thigh as he spoke, “What would you suggest for it, doctor?”

The poor doctor looked between the two of you and sighed, giving his attention to Aemond. “She needs to be eating iron rich food, red meats or leafy green vegetables.” He reached over his desk and grabbed one of the many pamphlets for healthy eating, holding it out for Aemond to take. You had the same pamphlet in your old apartment but no matter how hard you had tried to eat better, healthier food was more expensive and your budget didn’t always stretch that far. “Or, I can prescribe an iron supplement.”

Aemond folded the pamphlet up and slipped it into his suit jacket. “That won’t be necessary.”

The doctor nodded and his glasses dipped again, forcing him to push them back up his nose before writing the script for your contraceptive pill and handing it to Aemond as well. “Very well, Mr Targaryen,” he said. “You can pick this up from the pharmacy on your way out.”

“Thank you,” you said as you stood, somehow feeling relieved despite knowing your test results would come back clear. Aemond merely nodded and opened the door for you, leading you back to the reception to pay for the private consultation instead of waiting for you to fill out the papers to claim back the cost. 

The drive home was peaceful as Aemond navigated the streets, patiently waiting in the morning rush hour. The day was still fresh and it was your day off so you had no expectations on how you were going to spend it. Aemond didn’t seem to have any particular set days off from running his businesses, shifting his schedule to fit yours as needed. 

The phone in the car rang and Aegon’s name flashed across the display before Aemond answered with a resigned sigh. “What’s wrong now?”

“Good morning to you too, little brother,” Aegon greeted with a laugh. “I just signed a cheque for our dear mother, do you want to know why?” 

You gave Aemond all the privacy you could by turning your attention out the window but nothing could stop you from hearing the conversation with Aegon. 

Aemond pressed his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose. “No, but I assume you are going to tell me anyway.”

“It seems her perfect little boy was photographed buying heroin off some street dealers. Really, Aemond, you couldn’t just snort a few lines of coke with the rest of us? We aren’t the riff-raff.”

You shrunk into your seat and Aemond cast his eye over you before placing a reassuring hand on your knee with a squeeze before addressing his brother, “You wasted your money, Aegon, my vice is nothing as pitiful as drugs.”

“I told mother that, but now she’s all worried. She wants you at the family dinner tomorrow night.”

Aegon didn’t seem to enjoy the idea of the dinner from the snarl in his tone and from Aemond’s deep breath he must have felt the same. 

“Fine, but tell mother I am bringing my girlfriend.”

You spun in your seat to face Aemond and found his lips curving into a full smile, pleased by your surprised reaction. You had noticed he no longer used ‘arrangement’ and instead spoke of your ‘relationship’ but you had not let your hopes get too high regarding what that meant. Now your heart beat erratically and a smile split your own face as he called you his girlfriend. 

“Oh, Aem, I can’t wait to meet her,” Aegon laughed, and for a moment you forgot the call was still connected. “See you later, little brother.”

Aegon’s name disappeared from the display as the call ended and you placed your hand on Aemond’s where it rested on your thigh. “So, girlfriend huh?”

“That’s the part of the conversation you want to discuss?” Aemond shot back with a smirk. 

Your eyebrows pinched together as you remembered the reason his brother had called to begin with and grimaced. “I knew talking to Mad Dog was a bad idea. Your mother is going to think I’m a junkie…”

“Relax, Sweetpea, she’s going to love you…once I explain what actually happened,” he said with a laugh. 

“This isn’t funny,” you said as you pressed your palm to your forehead. “I’ve never met anyone's parents before. What do I even say, or wear? Oh god, it's dinner, what if I use the wrong piece of cutlery. Don’t rich people have like ten thousand different forks?”

Aemond laughed heartily as he pulled into your driveway and he was still chuckling when he parked in the garage. “We have three at most, and I will be beside you the entire time so just follow my lead. As for what to wear, I know just the dress.”

Click here for part five.

Taglist: @scxrletwitches , @shelbyteller , @girl-with-an-orange-cat , @crispmarshmallow , @itsemy01 , @boofy1998 , @wondergal2001 , @percyjacksonspeen , @ebaylee422 , @namoreno , @the-jess-life , @undeniableadrenaline , @1950schick , @dothrckis , @julczimozart , @sophiexoxsblog , @liathelioness , @natashaxhellenic , @caramelcandescence , @wooya1224 , @eralen , @thewew

[casual-praxis]

Rainbow Ranch AU Assorted Details #2

+ For a stream, Shadow once hunted down the others just to ask them their preferred music genres, and got some interesting results back. Red listens to heavy metal, Green likes indie, Blue is on a techno kick, and Vio responded with silence. Shadow then proceeded to derail his stream to show Vio video game soundtracks.

+ Due to the non-linear progression of the au, ages are a bit wonky and depend on where in the timeline you are. I don't have birthdays figured out since my brain would turn to mush if I tried that again, but basically:

Vio is the oldest, being around 25 when he first got to the range. He spent a year alone before meeting Shadow, and a few months later, Red. He may have been 26 by that point, time is difficult for me to figure out. By the time he meets Green and Blue, he is either already 27 or about to turn 27. Any time past this point exists in a vacuum and his age becomes fluid, same with the others.

Green is the second oldest, arriving at the ranch at 25. Being slightly younger than Vio is another reason he defaults to thinking Vio is actually the leader.

Blue is third, showing up at 24. It's not really relevant, but I like to think he either just turned 24, or alternatively is about to turn 25.

Red is surprisingly not the youngest, but showed up to the range at 21. By the time Green and Blue appeared, he was either 22 or about to be 22.

Shadow is the youngest, but he still pretends to be older than Red on occasion. He arrived when he was 19, but shortly after turned 20. He probably turned 21 after Green and Blue showed up.

(Side note: I ended up bumping Vio's age to account for all the ambiguous schooling he may or may not have gone through to get where he is. Originally I had his age lower, closer to 23 when he first showed up.)

+ Green follows the developing relationship between Thora and Hobson like a soap opera. He thinks they're super cute together, and hopes things can work out between them, having noticed slight parallels between their relationship and the one he left behind with Zelda.

(Note: Hobson's existence in this AU is a little wonky, since the way I've been picturing it, the Rainbow Bois have the ranch Hobson would have had in the canon game. He's probably just somewhere else on the Dry Reef for now, and builds up his property the same way over there instead. Maybe they'll meet Bea one day??)

[vashtijoy]

thank you for such a comprehensive answer! does make me wonder though — the game clearly has no qualms with saying that akechi did kill people directly and did cause deaths indirectly (e.g. the bus incident explicitly stated to have caused fatalities). so why on earth does p5 say the subway train derailment caused no deaths?? this is probably a very weird detail to zero in, but i feel like a heavier train in an enclosed space carrying more people than a bus is much more dangerous. ngl it broke my immersion on my first playthrough a little lol

I know what you mean, lol. Tbh, Akechi is obviously intended to be sympathetic—to be the worst case example of what happens when a kid is exploited by rotten adults and has nobody to help them.

This is why there are so many parallels between his tragic backstory and the stories of a lot of the PTs—he has Futaba's abusive family background, Ryuji's single mom, Yusuke's orphanhood and exploitative father figure, Haru's terrible father, and I'm sure there's something there for Makoto as well.

This is why, at the end of the engine room, he's met not with condemnation but with grace and understanding. This is why, though he does feel sorry for himself at the end and mourn what he's lost, he doesn't squirm and beg and justify himself like the earlier palace bosses—with the exception of Sae. This is why he gets a dramatic self-sacrifice and gets to come back as an antihero, who goes all-out to save the world at the cost of his life in passing, because it's in his personal interests to do so. Akechi is intended to have been sinned against as much, or more, than he has sinned.

At the end of the day, Akechi is a Phantom Thief, even though he's not really on the team, doesn't align with their motives, and almost nobody really likes him—just like them, he's a kid who was placed in an impossible situation, and they all get that. Even while they understand the reality of who he is and what he's done.

This raises the complicated "is he a victim" question again, of course, and the reality is that he's both a victim and perpetrator—like, of course, most criminals. Akechi isn't special. His backstory lets us understand what he's done; it doesn't undo it—and he knows that.

So what's going on, if I can go all Doylian for a second, is that there's an attempt to soft-soap the reality of what Akechi does—to keep him sympathetic. He doesn't shoot people in real life, for instance (with two notable attempted exceptions)—he gives them "mental shutdowns", giving him a layer of insulation from not only the physical reality of murder, but the moral reality of it.

Like the moment he sees Futaba unexpectedly in Leblanc, and ends up chattering oh shit, you're Wakaba Isshiki's— Like the moment on 10/11 that he walks up to Sae to see what she has on her laptop, and it's the Okumura death video, and he nearly vomits; he claps a hand over his eyes, and only then moves it to cover his mouth.

This is the reason he's so visibly unsettled a lot of the time in the interrogation room, why he stares at that dead guard wide-eyed for so long, and stares at dead "Joker" for so long during that cutaway to Sojiro that the gun stops smoking. He is—and we are—almost always insulated from the reality of his acts. tl;dr: you aren't meant to have to think too much about what it means that the pretty boy is a murderer and terrorist, if you don't want to. And that's fine! There is no wrong way to understand the game, no wrong way to play. A huge part of interpreting a work of fiction is what we bring to it ourselves.

But if you want to dig into that reality, it is there to be found. The fact that psychotic breakdowns obviously can be fatal, that Akechi performs them for Shido from the start, from two years before canon. That he performs so many of them that he becomes a detective, to make sure they're properly "cleaned up" himself. The fact that he makes two of the Phantom Thieves orphans. That Shido considers "proper use of the Metaverse" to be eliminating those in his way. That he sells Akechi's services to anyone suitably wealthy and controllable he can find. That, at the start of the game, all of Tokyo is terrified of this plague of accidents, of psychotic breakdowns, and that, per Sae, the incidents have been going on at least since Wakaba Isshiki died—two years before canon.

You also have things like the fact that he clearly negotiates what he does, as you can see in the post-interrogation room conversations with Shido—he can talk his way out of kill orders, or postpone them, as long as he doesn't push it, and he does this. There's no reason to think this isn't part of their dynamic all along. Shido manipulates Akechi with praise, sure, but Akechi also manipulates Shido as much as he can get away with.

There's also the SIU Director, on 7/10, complaining about how "he" (Akechi) is insufficiently brutal and doesn't come up with usably brutal plans. On the other hand, Akechi will, later, come up with the vicious detail of the plan to murder Joker in the interrogation room; that's his plan. He's told what to do (we join that incriminating phone call conveniently halfway), but he comes up with the details himself. He's on an arc, albeit one that isn't always obvious, and a large part of it is that Joker is slowly driving him out of his mind.

I just think Akechi is way more interesting, and that his manner and behaviour make far more sense, if he has done a lot of these things. The main thing that draws my eye is the visible lack of response he has to the atrocities he causes. Going back to that nice conversation you both have on 7/11, you know what he's almost certainly just done there? He's triggered the Goodness Foods car crash, which the evening news will report takes place at 8am on 7/11.

(and writing about this clarified so many things that it, again, became its own post oops.)

The crash kills four people. By the time you're on the train to school, the news is reporting this. Akechi seems completely fine with it all, better than fine—except there are tiny suggestions of something else, if you squint, something far below the numbness to what he does and what he's become; far below the bright surface. Something that will later be riveted in disbelief to the dead guard on the floor of the interrogation room.

That's interesting.

[davekat-sucks]

homestuck's fanbase is really making me feel like giving up on the story as a whole... Jesus, I might just call it quits soon. Listening to idiots try to defend how shit Homestuck's story became is too exhausting. It reminds me of when I was listening to lectures of, people who hardly counted as, writers go off about how important it is to prioritize representation over all else. They never realized if you do a terrible job with writing a story, you do a terrible job of representing women, different racial groups, gay men, ext. They don't want to write female characters like they're people who make mistakes and grow. Those authors wanted women to always be perfect and always in the right and her biggest obstacle is that men don't believe in her. You can see that in Star Wars with Rei or Captain Marvel as an example of the mindset I'm talking about.

I liked homestuck because so many of the female characters had challenges and flaws. Aradia, Terezi, Rose... They had amazing stories and their flaws made them interesting.

Homestuck could have been a story about different people who have completely different mindsets coming together for a common goal. Homestuck is just... soap opera drama and shitty teen romance at the end of the story where the characters just wait for the story to finish and most of the audience left. In the epilogue, it feels like all of the characters gave up. I suppose Kanaya did put in effort to find Rose and make sure she is safe, I'll give the story credit there. Dirk wants something too. Dirk's goal is just to close the loop and create the first universe in the first place but all you ever hear people talking about is how his motivations have something to do with the shitty meta fiction gimmick the story has going on. "Gotta keep the story going or else the characters fade out of memory" That is such bullshit concept. Sounds like a justification for why there are so many Star Wars shows now. Sounds like milking an IP. Quantity of quality kind of excuse.

And, for the record, my beef isn't with how the fandom represents it's own headcanons or interpretations of the characters, my beef is with how people talk about the canon. Fandom and canon should be two different things. But people act like the fandom should influence canon. I thought the point of both of the cherubs were to show that is a bad idea. Fanon being in canon feels like it derails the story, even the homosuck part that Caliborn came up with.

I'm getting tired of trying to even find a space in this fandom. It's occupying too much of my freetime now. I have so much nostalgia for homestuck but now it feels like trying to get back on the swings of a playground, too old for this shit. Fuck, I adulted too hard and I outgrew fandom I guess. Shit sucks.

Ah well, at least they fans are having fun. But how much fun can you really have when Rose screwed over Kanaya in two timelines? Kanaya felt like a better character in the epilouge cause she's given a challenge to face that is unique to her and her relationship with her wife. Rose's dad brainwashed(?) her to leave her wife, wow, Kanaya that's some shit. Just sucks that she is getting cucked AGAIN. Is it a universal constant that Kanaya is just going to keep falling for women who don't respect her? Maybe she should have stuck with Vriska. All of this Kanaya Rose drama is a bad sign of what's to come. I think it's disrespectful to the fans that are still sticking around. I'm not really included in this bunch. My horse tapped out of the race years ago. People who are still holding out for hope this story is going somewhere are either the most optimistic people out there or the most beaten down.

It's no wonder so many people who worked on homestuck abandoned ship. Toby looks like he's having a good career and Hussie looks like he's afraid of what he created. Maybe there is poetic justice to be gleaned from all of this.

It had lot of creative ideas and talent. But through it, there are cracks and messes that can't be ignored. Even now, the same kind of messes appear again in present times and I think people are scared to talk about it in fear that the thing they love was not as great as they though it was. We really are suffering from Stockholm Syndrome. Even when moments in the series and narrative itself that tells the audience that we were stupid to even care, we stayed because we loved it for what it was back then before the meta shit kicked in. The whole revival of the series so it won't fade away and being comparable to Star Wars is a good way to describe it. The team not taking risks to actually go outside of the Homestuck cast, tell a new story, or even trying to focus on the base webcomic alone that made it popular in the first place. They can't even put more focus on Hiveswap just yet because they know people know Homestuck first before Hiveswap, despite said game could make a better introduction or entryway for people to get interested in the webcomic. I'm not sure what is going on through Hussie or James Roach's mind for all this.

[percysoddity]

Robin is staring at a wall. Specifically her bedroom wall, not just a random one, so it’s not that weird, not as strange as it could be. At least that’s what she’s decided to tell herself. It’s a justification, it doesn’t have to be a good one.

Truth be told, her reason is good enough anyway, she doesn’t need any of the bull-shitty excuses she’s coming up with by force of habit; her world has been turned upside down. Frighteningly literally, apparently.

Just over a month or so, the shiny new mall in Hawkins ‘burnt down’, see: Robin walked into her own kidnapping by evil Russians with Steve ‘The Hair’ Harrington and narrowly escaped with her life, only to immediately witness terrifying flesh monsters raze the new Jewel of Hawkins; the ‘Battle of Starcourt’, as the kids have taken to calling it, when they actually bring it up. Which in Robin’s opinion, happens a little too often and too casually based on the way it derails her entire day at the reminder.

It’s also been just under a month or so since she’s got more than an hour of sleep at a time (on account of the horrifying nightmares and such), and she can feel how much it’s showing. Who knew sleep deprivation makes your hair feel greasy and your skin feel clammy, no matter how long you shower, and how much soap you burn through? Though that may be a side-effect of the torture.

Maybe the drugs are still running rampant through her system. Surely not. Did they even wash that needle between her and Steve’s doses? Were there different needles? She can’t remember. Fuck, it’s all fuzzy. Her vision now is fuzzy.

Her wallpaper is peeling a bit.

Robin can tell she’s spiralling. Her head hurts. If she were talking to someone, the word-vomit would’ve started about half an hour ago, no end in sight. Hmm. Maybe that would help. Actually getting the thoughts out of her head into the air. But, of course, she can’t just talk to her parents down the hall, the copious amounts of government-issued paperwork ensured that, no matter whether they’d even believe her or not. Hell, if she weren’t so painfully aware that it’d prove her insanity, Robin would be talking to her shelf of stuffed animals.

The wallpaper isn’t stuck on properly, there are little bubbles in the wall.

It’s just that the world almost ended a month ago . And apparently it’s the third time that’s happened?! And that’s just in Hawkins. How many times has the world almost ended in New York? Movies liked to start the end there. San Francisco? Italy? Russia ? Robin can feel the centrifugal force of her brain spinning like a goddamn record. Her skull is due to pop at any second.

She imagines popping her wall-bubbles with a pin. Maybe she can find a poster to stick up over them. Too bad that music store burnt down with literally everything else in the mall. Like the Russian Base .

Robin takes a shaky breath in what feels like hours. It isn’t the first time she’s accidentally held her breath—waiting for Steve to move as he was strapped to her back, trying to stay as still as possible so she could tell if he was breathing or not, then waiting for his disgust to show after she told him , and way before it all, hearing about Barb’s—

Anyway. Maybe she actually got out of this hellhole.

God, Steve. Steve . Steve Harrington is her work-friend. Though now, they can probably say they’re something more. Torture-mate? Drug(ged)-buddy? Comrade? Fighting-interdimensional-monsters-and-burning-down-our-previous-place-of-work friends? Maybe surprisingly-successful-and-heartwarming-coming-out-on-icky-and-disgusting-bathroom-floors-after-puking-truth-serum-out-of-our-collective-systems-friends.

Robin’s lip twitches. The trials and tribulations of Steve-and-Robin is starting to sound dangerously close to a recipe for ‘best-friends’. She starts to feel almost pleasantly warm at the thought, but she internally bursts into laughter when the term ‘soulmates’ pops into her head.

Her eyes are on the verge of finally coming into focus when—

Tap, tap .

Holy shit. They’ve found her.

Robin’s entire body seizes up and she can’t make herself turn around to face her window and the noise coming from the other side. The Russians. Steve had told them Dustin’s full name and description. It isn’t too much of a stretch to think they found him then found Steve , then found their other prisoner who ruined their base and got them all fucked up by the American government. They’re here, and they want her to pay .

The blood rushing in her ears and shuddering frame distracted her long enough that she missed the first few muffled words, coming from the same direction. They sounded frantic.

“—shit, Robin! It’s me!”

That motherfucking dingus.

Whipping her head around, Robin glares through the glass, trying to disguise the fact that her vision’s still a little double.

“Steve?! What the hell are you doing here? My parents are literally in the next room !” She hisses, wrenching open her window. God, he looks like shit. Literally.

(It’s almost funny).

The swelling in his eye and mouth has gone down, but the bruising all over his face has taken on a gross yellowy-brown, green shadows here and there. If it weren’t his face , Robin might consider it almost ‘artistic’. His pyjama pants look like he’s worn them for a very long walk in the woods, or perhaps a trek through her back garden, and he’s pushed the sleeves of his garish yellow sweater up past his elbows, like he needed the extra movement to manoeuvre through the rose bushes. Thank God she doesn’t live in a double-story house like Steve, he’s in no condition to be performing any of his usual Romeo-wannabe stunts.

Steve doesn’t answer her, just heads straight to her bed, kicking off his sneakers and shaking his arms so his sleeves fall down as he goes. It’s as if he’s moving on muscle memory. Biology and psychology or whatever hasn’t been one of the subjects of Robin's obsession before, but she’s pretty sure that muscular habits take a little longer than maybe three irregular occasions before the action’s set in stone. Even so, she finds herself climbing in after him without making the decision to. Before he even fully stretches out his arms to beckon her in. Maybe habits can be formed in no time at all. Maybe they’ve already fallen into a rhythm.

By nature of Robin’s itty-bitty (twin sized!) mattress, they’re forced to curl into each other, opting to wring their hands together, tangling their fingers and legs in tandem. In their past sleepovers, they’ve had a little more difficulty finding comfortable positions, what with Steve’s bludgeoned brain and body, but with his snail-pace healing going on, they’ve managed to work around it much easier lately. Robin wedges herself in, head resting over his left arm on the bed and her left hand clasped in his right. If you ignore Robin’s fist in Steve’s obnoxious yellow sweater and her leg hooked around his knee (and the fact they’re in bed ), it’s like they haven’t let go after a bro-y handshake. It fits. They fit. Robin watches Steve’s eyes flutter closed (he can actually open his left one now!).

Robin giggles, unbidden. Steve Harrington is in her bed, and she isn’t even throwing up about it! Steve seems to understand her sentiment and rolls his eyes behind his closed eyelids.

And suddenly they’re still. Settled. Well, they should be, but Robin’s still Robin, and she can’t stand the quiet for more than a second unless she’s already unconscious (which she hasn’t been doing very often lately). Weirdly enough, even with his obvious exhaustion, Steve doesn’t seem bothered by her inevitable interruption. He seems to expect it:

“Steve?”

“Mmm?”

She squeezes his hand softly. He squeezes back.

“You didn’t answer my question. Did you… have a nightmare, or something?”

read on ao3

[mikhailwrites]

Waiting for Connection 5 / Ghost x Soap NerdAU

Ghost is retired and plays milsim videogame. Soap is still in the force and sometimes plays that same videogame...

Previous chapter | AO3

Since that first custom-made mission, every time they get to play together, Soap, without fail, asks if Ghost has another one. He doesn’t because it takes a lot of time to make it good, and Ghost wouldn’t be happy with anything less than perfect. It goes on like this for a week until Ghost can’t help but get curious as well.

“You have a downtime? Haven’t seen you online so much as this past week,” Simon asks while they idle in the game menu.

Soap takes a minute to answer, a telltale sign of him considering whether to tell or not. “Sort of?” he finally says.

“If you can’t tell me, just say so. I understand,” Ghost says, staring at Soap’s avatar on the screen as if it was really Soap.

“Nah, I just… hate lying. Uhm, I’m on medical leave,” John finally admits, and he honestly sounds as if he would like it much better if Ghost didn’t know.

“No shame in that unless you injured yourself while drunk off-duty,” Simon tells him, hoping his voice carries all the conviction it can. He’s not saying it just to make Soap feel better, damn, he’s been injured so many times he lost track. “Just focus on healing and getting better. Don’t lie to your commanding officer if you’re not feeling up for active duty yet.”

John chuckles. “I’d ask if you’ve ever been so diligent yourself, but I think we both know the answer to that.”

“Do as I say, not as I do.” Ghost clicks on the Start the game button, hoping to change the topic.

“Yes, sir,” Soap says in a tone that spells mockery.

The game is fine. It’s a mission they’ve both played before and know what to expect, which takes away a lot of the thrill. So much so that fifteen minutes in, they ditch any semblance of tactical comms and straight-up chat. Ghost is very aware he is *that* person now but can’t bring himself to care. Not even when two other players try to shut them up.

In the end, they both get kicked out of the party. “Alright, that was unexpected,” Soap notes, “how about we play your mission?”

“Again?” Ghost asks. They’ve played it so many times and so many different ways he remembers every little detail by now. One time, they even went totally overboard, Soap bringing a jet and Ghost controlling a tank. It was utter nonsense, of course, but a ton of fun nonetheless.

“You know, I was thinking…,” Soap starts and suddenly, Ghost regrets he didn’t just start the custom mission.

“Well, congratulations on that,” Ghost ribs Soap in the hopes of derailing whatever inquisitive shit he had planned. He should’ve known it wouldn’t be that easy.

“Ha-fucking-ha. Anyway. How come you’ve never joined one of those hardcore mil-sim groups? I know they’re out there, and if I know, you must also know.”

“I don’t want to,” Ghost answers, honest, plain and simple as he starts the mission nonetheless. Maybe, just maybe, it could steer the conversation elsewhere.

“But… why? You don’t like to play with kids,” Soap asks, digging deeper. Ghost doesn’t like it, yet he doesn’t tell him off.

“I don’t like to play with fetishists, either,” Ghost deadpans as he checks the gear and starts walking towards the buildings.

“Alright. What about other pros?”

“Soap…,” Ghost groans, leaning back in his chair, tapping the armrests with his fingers, “I… don’t usually get along well with other people, as you might’ve noticed by now.”

“I thought you were only pissed about the lack of skill,” Soap says, stopping his character next to Ghost’s, waiting for him to move.

“It’s not the only reason,” Ghost admits, feeling the uneasiness grip his body. It must somehow reflect in his voice because Soap eases up on the interrogation tone.

“Should I feel special, then? That you want to play with me?” It’s a genuine question masquerading as a joke.

“Would it matter if I said no?”

“No.” He can practically hear the shit-eating grin in Soap’s voice. “But… what if I recommended someone?”

“John…,” Ghost sighs.

“No, let me finish, Simon. They are my friends and my team members as well. They’re really good and if you like me, then… I think you will get along with them just fine.” Ghost is tempted to end the call. He has been through countless discussions just like this one, and it’s bringing him memories he doesn’t want to think about right now.

After a moment of silence, Ghost moves up, killing a single enemy way out in the dark so as not to be an easy target. He also decides to turn the tables on Soap. “Why are you doing this?”

“So you don’t have to play alone while I’m gone?”

“Fearing I’d get lonely? Touching,” Ghost retorts, his tone carrying a trace of bitterness.

“You can be a right prick sometimes, Ghost,” John replies, more serious and somehow… disappointed. Simon closes his eyes, ignoring a pang of regret.

Before he can reply, another voice joins the chat. Stripey sits on the table, as usual, looking at Ghost with his big amber eyes. “Meow!” Ghost raises an eyebrow at the rare occurrence.

“What was that?” John asks, audibly surprised.

“Just my cat, Stripey,” Ghost replies calmly, aligning the iron sights and clicking the mouse two times to two-burst the enemy.

The voice chat goes silent for a dozen seconds.  Then: “You have a cat? And you named your cat a Sergeant?”

“Well, technically, it’s Sgt. Stripey, so…,” Ghost trails off as another enemy opens fire at them. Great, now it’s no longer a stealth operation. Not that it matters, really.

There’s a very heartfelt groan. “So that’s a Sergeant Sergeant… ye ken, that could pass as animal cruelty, Ghost.”

“Touchy on the subject of Sergeants, Sergeant?” Simon chuckles.

“How did you… well, no, but it’s a horrible name for a cat.”

“How do I know you’re a Sergeant? You sound too young and driven to be anything higher up the chain and too skilled and experienced to be anything less, Soap,” Ghost imparts his opinion. “As for the cat… well, he, too, is too young and driven, and I’m definitely not making a Lieutenant out of him and risk finding myself in a situation where I would’ve to take orders from him.”

John laughs at that, an honest, clear sound that makes Ghost smile as well before he spots an enemy peeking from behind a building. “Tango, front, fifty feet, corner of the red building.”

He sees John’s avatar turn immediately, weapon at the ready, corner in his sights. “Covering the corner, sir,” Soap says.

“Well spotted, keep an eye on it. I’ll go around,” Ghost instructs as he checks the magazine.

They breeze through the rest of the mission, finishing it in almost record time, which is impressive, given the amount of idle chat.

Later that evening, when he bids John a good night and turns off the computer, Ghost finds himself lingering in his chair. Slowly, he reaches out and takes his phone. Ghost hesitates, looking at the name in the Contacts menu for a while before he finally hits the dial button. It’s time to do some due diligence.

[mitchipedia]

“Avoid situations that someone you love might later have to explain on a medical or government form.”

Merlin Mann has been collecting life lessons in a lengthy bullet list on GitHub.

Merlin’s Wisdom Project

Some more gems:

Minimize the number of conversations you have through a closed bathroom door. Unless you’re outside the door and there’s a fire, or you’re inside the door and you’re out of toilet paper. Otherwise, have a little dignity, and wait for the door to open.

Your refrigerator is not a library or a hope chest. So, if you decide to save some leftovers, write the current day of the week on them. Then, when you rediscover your treat 3-5 weeks from now and wonder “Now, which Sunday was that?” Yeah. Time to deeply curate your odd little food museum.

Remember that, like babies and balls, you can bounce. The extent to which any given event—often an imagined event—might derail or even destroy you is, at least in small ways, still something that’s in your control. Especially when you remember that you can bounce.

As you get older, you will increasingly fear losing power, and you will become bitter, defensive, and angry about change. Curiosity, acceptance, and exposure to new people can help with this. But, man are you ever going to get weird about people with purple hair who are not afraid of you.

Related: almost no one has ever actually been afraid of you.

Relatedly related: the only people who were ever actually afraid of you were the handful of people who loved you and desperately wanted you to love them back.

If the soap in a guest bathroom is new and shaped like anything besides a bar of soap, do not use it. Also, do not eat it. Because I know you kinda want to. Especially those shiny little sea shells.

… if you really want to help someone, offer something extremely specific. “I’m here for you! 😬👍” is not nearly as cool as “Can I drop off a lasagna at 4?”

Whenever your first solution to a problem feels like it should involve buying something plastic at The Container Store, consider a second solution.

Try to save some parts of your life to be just for you. Including some special things that you’re happy about or are even a little proud of. If your only private things are shameful things, you will become very sad and will eventually despise your own company.

Maybe almost never say anything about how someone looks ever.

Related: if you are commenting on how someone looks, only ever compliment them on a thing that they have chosen.

Relatedly related: but, yeah, maybe still almost never say anything about how someone looks ever.

Never argue on the internet. No one will remember whether you won or lost the argument; they’ll just remember that you are the sort of person who argues on the internet.