#and it is a LOT more compelling than whatever was going on with him and cas in the whole show let alone this episode... anyways

[humanradiojmp]

Even before the making Jesus gay part, the description of what the series is about also raised some red flags. How it’s based on the “unofficial gospels” (like, what is that? Why not use just the original, officially recognized gospels that have been preserved and carefully translated multiple times? Why use anything else?). It makes me think of those conspiracies of how there’s other texts that should be part of the biblical canon and have been purposefully taken out, as if the Nicaea Council means nothing. But then one could make the argument that the Bible is inherently fallible and could be wrong on some points and it’s a lot more open to interpretation than you’d think and you could say Jesus was gay or not actually God or whatever you want to say.

Which, respectfully, no.

Then it goes on to say Jesus as a political figure. Y’all, he was not a political figure. He wasn’t conservative or liberal or whatever modern term that would be anachronistic to use to describe first century times. Of a different country. Some of his followers tried to start an uprising and make him king and he refused because that’s not what he was on earth for. Making him another radical political figure negates who he is and what his death was about and what it was for.

Not to mention with it being about Judas (and now knowing the gay part) it almost makes it out to be Iike all those remakes and rewrites of different characters and franchises where the villain wasn’t really that bad and they were just misunderstood and it’s ok if they wanted to skin puppies alive for their fur or cursed a baby for petty reasons because it’s hashtag relatable. Granted, Judas did come to regret betraying Jesus and took his life. And I wouldn’t say he’s a villain. But he still did make the conscious decision to betray Jesus. He was one of the twelve and likely (PLATONICALLY) loved Jesus, but he loved money more and sold Jesus over to the religious leaders. If it focused on Judas perspective on him being tempted by Satan giving into it and then realizing with horror what he did, it could make for a compelling tragedy. But it doesn’t seem to be the case here.

(And this is a completely personal nitpick, but something about them being animals doesn’t sit well with me. I’m not opposed to using antimorphic characters for storytelling in most cases; we have VeggieTales so why not animals as well. I think it’s just the choice of animals maybe? IDK, it doesn’t seem right to me is all)

it's honestly a bit disappointing because the animation looks good (I'm a sucker for bright contrasting colors used in visual media) and it could be another example of well-made Christian media, but it isn't. I had a feeling from the little bit of the trailer I saw that it wasn't actually going to be accurate, and this post just confirms it. Honestly to a degree, I'm not that surprised. we're seeing a rise in well-made God-honoring film media, but in turn, we're also seeing the opposite come about, where media is coming out that's slandering God and Jesus and who they are and what Christ did (the remake of Chronicles of Narnia being a prime example). I just hope it doesn't discourage anyone from making good Christian films, and maybe being inspired to do better and more accurately (turn to the side to see myself in the mirror)

like theology? like animation? i do, and i am currently LOSING MY MIND over the judas iscariot film on kickstarter!!

Judas Iscariot is an animated retelling of The New Testament of the Holy Bible, featuring details from the Apocrypha (The "Unofficial" Gospels) with a fresh stylized reinterpretation of the story's core figures. The goal of this project is to illuminate this text for both a religious and non-religious audience, placing it back into the historical context of Jesus’s role as a political figure during the Roman occupation of Judea.

the film is over 50% funded, with a month left on kickstarter! i just donated $10 myself, and am looking to spread the word--because seriously, look, this is incredible!!

[m1ckeyb3rry]

GUESS WHO FINALLY CAUGHT UP W THE BLLK MANGA 🤩

[itzphynix]

I changed my mind. Hater behavior is undeserved, when it comes to works, & idgaf about holding creators accountable when their games are mid, anymore.

[the-clock-of-the-time-dragon]

[Wicked Act II spoilers]

[edited for tone and clarity of purpose, apologies for initial crudeness and frustration]

Okay, obviously I'm biased, but I'm gonna need the Fiyeraba shippers to please set a lot of your people straight about some things. I've seen way too many people trying to say that Glinda is just a selfish bimbo and that Fiyero is a virtuous and selfless figure more worthy of Elphaba's love. I'll set aside for now the idea of "worthiness" in this context. But let's start off with Fiyero joining the Wizard. Hoo boy...

Yes, he was initially somewhat less tolerant of the propaganda against Elphaba than Glinda was; yes, he was secretly trying to find her so he could run away with her or whatever. But honey: those facts DO NOT fully absolve his actions as the Wizard's top officer, or selfish recklessness throughout Act II. I see so many popular threads and posts romanticizing and whitewashing with "oh but he didn't REALLY join the Wizard, he just pretended so he could try to get to Elphie! It's all for love, and he sacrificed everything for her!" As if the literal captain of the literally fascist forces responsible for the oppression of Animals wasn't equally responsible for said oppression?? Hello? Fiyero really didn't think of seeking out Elphaba in ANY other way that DIDN'T involve becoming *checks notes*... the trusted leader of the troops committing all the abuses she's fighting against in the first place???? Like it's cool and all that he helped with Brrr, and it's all well and good that he planned on betraying the Wizard as soon as he found Elphaba (which took literal years, so I guess we're left to assume he was prepared to just keep doing fascism indefinitely if she didn't show up????), but uh... it's kind of concerning to how eager some of you are to make excuses for this dude volunteering as the head of the Ozian Gestapo??? smdh

He didn't accomplish anything from it either, by the way — like yeah, we get it, he did everything he did whilst silently fantasizing about running away with the Witch he was being paid to hunt. Fine. But I can't be the only one who doesn't buy that as an actual excuse???? Like, guys: nobody forced him to join the fascist army — even with crazy ulterior motives. He wasn't coerced into it; it wasn't his only choice or anything. Searching for Elphaba did not somehow compel him to go and volunteer to follow (or to give!) orders in the name of the dictator who was trying to have her assassinated the entire time. He could have just not done all that. (Genuinely so curious how the second film plans on covering that material tbh)

Glinda made several questionable decisions that can be (and have been) debated, but she is still very unambiguously a victim. Her position in the Wizard's regime was foisted upon her. There are things we can discuss, but I find that many folks need reminding that Glinda would undoubtedly have been disposed of (or worse) if she failed to make herself useful. I mean hell: she wasn't even supposed to meet the Wizard in the first place — she was only there because of Elphie. If she'd tried to resist, it would have immediately gotten her labeled the Witch's accomplice. As soon as she'd chosen not to get on the broom, her fate was out of her hands, and all available options were varying degrees of horrible.

That's not the case with Fiyero. He went to the Wizard all on his own; no one ever cornered or forced him into it. Thinking Animals are people, and having a crush on Elphaba, simply did not stop him from carrying out the regime's orders — for years. It's not clear exactly how long he's been captain at the start of Act II, but the clear implication is that he's been a soldier for most of the time skip. I've seen Fiyeraba accounts with headcanons about him acting as a double agent, secretly doing stuff to help Animals — and that's a great idea, it would indeed serve to make a lot of his actions way more palatable — but until we actually get to SEE some of that (maybe they'll add it for the movie version of Act II; we'll have to see), there is nothing in the story to suggest that. He certainly didn't do a damn thing for all those Animals who were enslaved and caged in the Wizard's palace — and we don't see a single other Animal outside of there in Act II, so as far as we know Fiyero has participated over those years in the near-total removal of Animals from Ozian society. In the name of "finding Elphaba". Not fighting for her cause. Just finding HER. For HIMSELF.

It's fine to have a ship you like, obviously — and there is genuinely a lot to like about Fiyeraba, I don't dislike the idea of them as a couple or as friends — but come on guys: please stop those out there idealizing Fiyero as somehow a clear "morally-superior" alternative to Glinda, lol. The dude had power, access, and opportunities, for years, that he could have wielded in any number of really selfless, revolutionary ways. He didn't. And I propose (apparently controversially): he simply didn't want to. And that — at the end of the day — is (much as some would like to deny it) true to his character. He always WANTED to be self-absorbed and shallow, and all his actions are consistent with that. Elphaba saw depth and discontentment in him, yes: but (and I cannot stress this enough) when given the chance, he channeled that in the wrong direction. He didn't confront that and become a better person — for the most part he just displaced and projected it onto Elphaba as an object of obsession, and put on an even thicker pretense than before.

All his actions — regardless of the complexity he has deep down — are those of a man who never gives one fuck about anything or anyone, except (kinda sorta) Elphaba. But even then: at no time does the care he has for her seem to extend to caring about any of her wants or needs outside of sexual validation from him, or how she might feel about his actions, or indeed the impacts of those actions upon her, her cause, or anyone or anything else. I don't think it should be all that controversial to say: he doesn't think through the wider repercussions of anything he does — thoughtlessness is just one of his core character traits. He doesn't think ahead or see meaning in anything outside of what can temporarily excite him, in the moment. I think people place a little too much weight on Elphaba clocking him with regard to his internal pain, and seem to expect (understandably of course) that she is not only right, but moreover that he will grow from that in a positive direction, based on her influence.

But he doesn't. If anything, we get a surprising inverse: he pretty much proves her wrong. Not to say he didn't have hidden depth and all that, like she said: but his hypothetical heart of gold proves not to really amount to much in practice. He doesn't grow out of his shallowness and his self-centeredness: he grows into it in a way that he hadn't quite yet in school. Where once he was only masking an internal listlessness, after he's been cracked open by Elphaba he decides to be genuinely self-absorbed and deeply shallow, not just coasting by. He performs in new ways — as a soldier, eventually as a "fiancé", etc. — but by Act II we meet a Fiyero who has staked the last remaining shred of humanity in him on the vain pursuit of the only object of his desire that has ever been unavailable to him, and firmly chosen to say to hell with everyone and everything else.

When put to the test, Fiyero sacrifices Glinda, the Animals, and all else that Elphaba actually cared about, to pursue his own unresolved crush from college. Mostly to get in her pants, really — as harsh as I'm sure that sounds. But let me be frank: that is literally all he ever accomplishes in the show. He gives her dick one time, and one of his castles, and that's it. That's the culmination of his years trying to find her — years in which he actively worked as one of the stormtroopers (or even the one commanding them) committing untold crimes against Animalkind (who, again, it seems have been all but erased from Oz by Act II): y'know, the very crimes Elphaba sacrificed her life to try and stop????? He spent the most important time of his life — of his own free will — being a fascist soldier, but he "did it for her" somehow, so according to some, it's perfectly fine. Heroic, even. Yikes??

But let's make something very clear (since my original version of this post caught a lot of flak, including slurs and other rudeness):

I like Fiyero. I find his role extremely interesting (I could do a whole dissertation on him, but I'm especially a fan of the way his proving Elphaba's assessment of him wrong presents a fascinating parallel and contrast with Glinda, which I think is lost on a lot of people). But PLEASE stop with all the misguided Glinda slander and idealization of Fiyero. By all means, thirst! But don't give me all this bullshit about him deserving Elphaba more, or being super deep, or being really principled or noble or whatever else. He does have layers, and quite intriguing ones, but his insides are straw — he isn't meant to have some deep, overwrought emotional core or motivations; he has passions that he acts upon when given the chance. That's it. And that's fine. Actually kind of refreshing in a story rooted in simple children's fantasy but rife with intensely complicated personalities. Fiyero makes it his mission to represent denial of depth and embrace of raw, spontaneous desire — and I for one love that, and wish others appreciated it.

And in all seriousness, shipping wars aside: by the end of the story, it's Glinda who is ultimately vindicated, and has — for all her faults — made the necessary choices to fulfill Elphaba's wishes, bring down the regime, etc. And all that despite herself. She's miserable: not just because of the mistakes she made, but because of her correct moves as well. Fiyero is simply not — and could never be — that person. And that's okay! Like I said: I am not anti-Fiyero. Fiyero's willingness to throw it all away for the sake of sheer, overriding passion is a huge part of what people like about him, of course — and it's an obvious factor in the attraction between him and Elphaba, because she has her own flavor of that impulse as well — but I'd actually argue that it's not romantic, it's his fatal flaw. And thematically that's fantastic! But I just don't believe that it somehow means he "deserves Elphaba more" because he "gave up his life for her" or whatever. In part because NOBODY truly "deserves" Elphie tbh, not 100% (and I question anybody who claims otherwise), but ultimately because I don't accept the idea that his fleeting acts of passion make up for all the shit leading up to them (or even proceeding after them tbh). At least Glinda managed to do what Elphaba always wanted in the end — but I would die on this hill even if Gelphie didn't exist.

You don't have to agree with my analysis of Fiyero and his choices, relationships, etc. — that's fine. What isn't fine is trying to portray Glinda as some kind of spineless traitor whore for the Wizard and Fiyero as a conscientious hero who earned Elphie through self-sacrifice. That's just not the story that was written. It's WAY messier and more interesting than that.

[sleepingdiaryzzz]

hold on,hold on,Yandere!Conner Kent x reader🙏🏻

(sorry for bothering😭)

U ain't a bother and if anybody tells you that u do, then, they gonna face my pinky, my thumb and my fist they gonna run. 😼🐺🧏🏽‍♀️ nobody messes with my first ever anon 😠👊

Anyways

The night has fallen quietly over Metropolis, the cityscape softened under a blanket of stars. The world feels smaller somehow, contained within the walls of your apartment where Connor sits, angled slightly toward you, his gaze unwavering yet serene. He has that brooding, intense look—a mix of steel and tenderness—that you’ve come to recognize as uniquely his. It’s as though he’s carrying a burden, one he won’t let you see, and yet you feel its weight as if he’s drawn you into his orbit without permission.

“Connor,” you say softly, trying to break the quiet, “you’ve been… around a lot more lately.”

His eyes flicker, something shadowy dancing behind them, a vulnerability he usually keeps hidden. He doesn’t answer right away, just lets his gaze travel over your features as if memorizing every detail. The room feels charged, the air between you like the fine thread of a spider’s web—delicate and unbreakable all at once.

Finally, he speaks, his voice hushed but firm. “I just want to make sure you’re safe. Is that so wrong?”

There’s a faint, haunting cadence in his words, something raw and possessive yet laced with an almost tragic reverence. You feel the intensity radiating off him, a barely restrained storm beneath his calm exterior.

“Nothing could happen to you,” he continues, almost to himself. “Not on my watch. I’d make sure of that.”

You’ve always known Connor’s protectiveness runs deep, but tonight, it feels like there’s something else lurking beneath the surface. An edge, a quiet desperation that clings to the room, thick as fog.

“Connor…” you say his name with a gentle tone, hoping it might pull him out of whatever dark place he’s retreating into. He’s so close now, leaning forward, his hand reaching out as if compelled by some invisible force. When his fingers graze your cheek, his touch is featherlight, as though he fears you’ll vanish.

“If I could keep you here,” he whispers, his tone taking on a dreamy, almost poetic quality, “locked away from the world… I would. Not because I want to take anything from you, but because I… I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you.”

It’s a confession wrapped in longing, and you see the truth of it in his eyes, where constellations seem to burn just for you. There’s something about his gaze that feels eternal, as if the universe itself has handed him the task of guarding you.

“You mean a lot to me,” he says finally, each word slow and deliberate, as though he’s trying to etch them into your soul. “More than you know.”

In that moment, his love feels like an uncharted ocean—beautiful and terrifying, with depths you’re not sure you’re ready to explore. But his sincerity anchors you, and, despite the intensity of his words, you can’t help feeling safe, cocooned in the quiet power of his devotion.

(A/n: is it just me or do you guys also feel suspicious of how I could post every day despite saying I'm too lazy to do so... Maybe my laziness hasn't kicked in yet which is weird and scary considering I'm writing dis rn in front of my 10 homework activities, and yes I am doing it last minute but so what...? I'm too lazy to do all of em and rn I'm don't know what I am talking about... I love yapping but I'm a introvert does it make me a extrovert when i talk too much but not as loud? Guys I'm turning crazy, I need someone to talk to and all my best friends are busy idk why they've been busy since last week....my gf is not replying for like 20 minutes now...im going crazy. Also sorry for spamming the Batfamily tag even though it's not the content I posted, I just feel like it's more famous than the others and also idk how to tag... Though mainly because I'm scared of being a flop hehe...)

[alchemistc]

Part One

Oh, I've got plenty to be thankful for

I've got eyes to see with

Ears to hear with

Arms to hug with

Lips to kiss with

Someone to adore

-bing crosby

He keeps waiting for someone to say something. To accuse him of lingering where he doesn't belong, or remind him he'd never actually made it all the way in. To tell him to go home, maybe get a halfhearted promise to let him know how Buck is at some point.

Maddie lays an exhausted head on his shoulder and Bobby sneaks him a slice of pumpkin pie he's apparently been hiding in the tote at his feet. Hen tosses him a power bank with a lightning cord and Karen makes a joke about his holiday attire.

When the coffee comes, Howie takes the trip to the lobby with him, pulls out his wallet and does his damnedest to strong arm Tommy into letting him tip the haggard looking girl another twenty bucks on top of the fifty Tommy'd figured was appropriate for having to balance a literal stack of hot beverages from the parking lot on Thanksgiving. She eyes them both with a smile and Tommy is more compelled the grab the drink carriers from her tired arms than stop Howie.

They're halfway back when Howie purposely slows his pace, and Tommy fights the urge to pick his up and avoid whatever's coming down on him. "So. Was this the wake up call you needed, or can I expect Buck to order a freezer on a Black Friday deal for my garage to store more baked goods?"

He doesn't know what that means.

He can extrapolate, though. "He's been baking?"

"Tommy, I cannot stress enough exactly how much he's been baking."

He'd tried his hand at a few things here and there, but Tommy's used to experimental chef Evan Buckley, not baking Evan Buckley. To be fair, if he'd seen Evan working a KitchenAid, apron tied loose and flour on a cheekbone, Tommy doubts he'd have actually had the time to finish whatever he had planned. That was then, of course.

"What was he doing on that trail, Howie?" That, too, he could maybe extrapolate. He doesn't want to, but he could.

Howie eyes him. Uses his free arm to elbow Tommy in the ribs. "You were the first person he ever invited to a 118 Thanksgiving, you know. My guess? He wasn't in the mood to be reminded of it while there was no room in the oven to bake away his feelings."

Yeah.

Jax had been over the moon when Tommy offered to take his shift, no trades necessary. What would the point have been, when Christmas and New Year's would be unbooked too?

Evan had bribed like six different people to ensure they'd be able to swing dinner on the day. Hobbes had sounded so thrilled to hear Tommy asking for the time off that he'd approved it without even looking at the shift.

"I'm just warning you in advance. The grovelling process is gonna involve eating your weight in loaves, most likely."

And that's that, apparently. No heavy handed warnings, no suspicion about why Tommy hasn't fucked off yet. Like it's some foregone conclusion that Tommy's not gonna panic and bolt a second time. Nothing has changed, yet Tommy gets the feeling they're all expecting some tearful reunion and a return to TommyandBuck.

Tommy slips the tea into Maddie's hands and watches her sniff it in distaste, which is an interesting nugget he'll have to revisit later if -

If.

There's no guarantees, here. That Tommy will be able to articulate how fucking terrified he is, that Evan will understand it. That the two of them will find a way through it together. All he has to go on is a solo hike on a day Evan should have been with family, an apparent bakery full of feelings spread between the 118, and the quiet calm that had washed over him when Eddie prompted him to make a decision.

Feet to the fire, he'd stayed.

---

Maddie's pregnant. It hits him between the eyes right around hour three of sit-and-wait. He's not an idiot, or a fool, and he hasn't spoken to any of these people in weeks so he's not going to announce it to the world, but somewhere in between the sporadic naps on Tommy's shoulder and the way she is attempting (failing) to power through her now cold tea makes him think. She and Bobby had driven here, and it's clear everyone else had been indulging. Maddie's no lush, but he's seen her knock back half a bottle of wine before when she's got nowhere to be.

She excuses herself to the bathroom for a third time, looking a little green, and Tommy ends up locked in a staring contest with Howie that only ends when Tommy mimes zipping his lips.

He still hasn't gotten the story about Eddie and why he's not here.

Bobby and Athena are apparently closing in on a new house.

Howie is less than a year away from having a second kid.

Athena's kids are apparently at Howie and Maddie's, attempting to keep Mara and Jee from destroying the house in the absence of adults.

And Tommy wants.

Wanting has never really been the problem, though. Wanting is the easy part. Wanting doesn't get him over the hurdle of knowing he's not enough. For Evan, for this family he's built that just keeps growing bigger and bigger. It'd been a relief, those first few days after, not to have to wonder which member of the 118 would land in the hospital next, not to have to rearrange something else on his schedule because Evan was convinced he was cursed, or Eddie'd had another shitty call with Christopher.

The relief hadn't lasted. A week in, he'd stayed up all night demolishing the half-bath off his dining room, because he'd been putting it off for months and he'd nearly texted Evan something that was startlingly revealing and left him exposed on all sides. Two weeks in he'd finished grouting the backsplash in his kitchen. And in between, he wondered how Eddie was doing, if he'd made any progress with his son. He'd wondered if Maddie enjoyed the bottle of wine they'd brought back from a spur of the moment trip to Napa. He'd wondered how Nash was doing, if he was readjusting to having his crew and his station back. He wondered how Hen and Karen were, how many things Denny had already gotten stuck in his cast trying to ease an itch.

He'd wondered, and he'd sat in it, and then he'd rewired the shoddy work an electrician had done in his spare room that he kept telling himself he'd get around to.

The wanting never goes away. He just finds new places to put it when he starts to care too much.

"Kinard and Buckley?"

Maddie's still in the restroom. Tommy - has no fucking clue why the nurse is staring at them like they'll just materialize the right people. She sucks in her lips and gives him a dead eyed stare before her eyes dart to his chest. More specifically, the nameplate on his chest.

Tommy blinks.

---

The having is where he's always floundered. Things are temporary. People are temporary. He's always been borrowing. Borrowing time, attention, affection.

For a few months there, he'd really started to think he could handle the having. That he'd get to keep it.

---

"I'm Buckley, he's Kinard," Maddie says from somewhere over his left shoulder, and he turns in time to see her adjusting her jacket, wiping at her lip. She stabilizes, looking unfazed, and stands tall. As tall as she can, at least. "You have news about my brother?"

The nurse glances around the room. No one is bothering to pretend not to be listening. Maddie hovers a wave behind her.

"Ignore the audience, we're all waiting with bated breath to see how obnoxious my brothers going to be. It depends entirely on whether or not he gets pie tonight."

She gives them all a disapproving look. This must not be one of their normal nurses.

Christ. They have normal nurses.

"Well, no pie tonight, but he should be able to eat a sandwich in the morning."

He's fine. He's fine.

Tommy knew going in that most of his injuries were superficial. The ribs had been a concern but with the pain meds and the collar he hadn't really had a chance to exacerbate those injuries. There's no reason he should feel quite so relieved to know that Evan will have a few annoying splints to work around and he'll probably need to rehab his ankle for a couple weeks once it's healed. The concussion isn't ideal, and he'll need help for a few days, but he's fine.

Tommy can feel the tears building.

"He'll likely be out for a few more hours, but I'll let you know when he's set up in a room. Two visitors at a time," she warns. "The concussion will effect his response time. Don't be surprised if he doesn't remember much, loses his train of thought."

Hen shifts somewhere behind him. It feels a bit like she's being held back from correcting the nurse about the normal side effects.

Things move on around him. The nurse leaves, Hen passes a Stanley cup around that definitely isn't filled with water, the normal sigh of relief is released while Maddie drops into the seat next to him with a groan, the team has a strange competition around him to battle for visitor position.

Tommy breathes.

I should go, Tommy thinks to himself, as half the people in the room raise their phones.

His own phone vibrates against his thigh.

A message from Howie, time stamped two minutes - Tommy squints to make sure - two minutes ago, an update on Evan. Another from Eddie reminding them all to give Buck a patent Eddie look from him while they were giving him shit. A selfie of Eddie, with Christopher somewhat reluctantly bending into the picture over his shoulder.

In another thread, he's got three messages from Eddie.

If I have to remove you from this group I'm sending my kid after you with his crutches.

You guys hiked Griffith Park for your Not-A-One-Month-Anniversary-We-Swear date, right?

Send Buck my love. Not like that, though.

Tommy sends back: When the fuck did he add me to his emergency contacts? and then decides he doesn't want to know anyway so he turns off his phone.

---

Maddie goes alone, and Tommy spends the time alternating between tapping his foot against the tile to distraction, and clamping his hand over his knee in an attempt to stop the tapping.

Bobby and Athena go next, then Hen and Karen. Then they're pulling on jackets and promising to save a plate for Buck.

Howie slips away for a few minutes and then returns, looking amused. "You think everyone else got the same greeting?" he asks his wife, who grins tiredly at him, pats his wrist. Her gaze turns to Tommy.

"Should we stay?"

That's a trap of a question. That's an assumption Tommy doesn't have a clue how to handle. He clears his throat. Shakes a few curls loose.

"What makes you think he'd want me to?"

Maddie's perfected the unimpressed eyebrow. It must be a parent thing.

Tommy barely holds in the sigh. "Go enjoy your meal."

---

Evan's been watching the door. It's clear the moment Tommy makes it to the threshold - he presses up, winces, tips sideways just enough to peek around the corner.

"Tommy," he says, and his expression melts.

Tommy's heard some iteration of that name a million times. Tom, from his dad. Tommy, fond and quiet from his mother, who'd never really learned how to speak up before she was gone. Thomas, in school, from teachers annoyed that he wouldn't just apply himself.

He was Kinard, to teammates, then fellow soldiers, to the firefighters he'd worked alongside for a decade before he ever let any of them know him.

No one says his name with quite so much reverence as Evan Buckley. He's convinced himself, over the last few weeks, that he'd been hearing adulation in that tone. But now it just sounds...relieved. Happy.

Evan slumps back and tries to cross his arms in a pout. There are too many cords and wires attached to him for it to work. "I'm pretty sure I'm mad at you," he says, and Tommy steps over the threshold.

---

Hobbes sounds fucking thrilled to find out he's going to be down a pilot for five days.

Evan throws a fit when he finds out Tommy's plan is to sleep on his own couch for the short duration of Evan's stay. Evan wins the proceeding argument and doesn't even complain that Tommy hadn't argued too hard

Bobby brings over enough leftovers to keep them in turkey sandwiches for a week, and Tommy doesn't think to ask how he got Tommy's address.

Tommy breathes. Tommy thinks. Once Evan can hold a train of thought for more than five minutes, Tommy talks.

Evan listens.

---

"So no Christmas," Evan pouts, and Tommy wants to bite it. "And no New Year's."

Tommy shifts a hand over his shoulder, tucks his chin over top of it so he can't see the pout anymore. "We were both already working those anyway."

"Do people do anything to celebrate Presidents Day?"

"Evan."

"Tommy," Evan mocks, and pulls far enough away to catch his gaze. "In the interest of transparency that was mostly a cover so I didn't ask about Valentine's Day."

"Is this you not asking about Valentine's Day?"

His smile is deceptively sweet. "I need help with my sandwich."

Tommy's seen him balancing a glass of water, his phone, two books and a takeout bag in his one good hand. He's absolutely full of shit.

Tommy leans forward to grab the sandwich off Evan's plate for him.

---

"You should stay," Tommy says, an hour after midnight two days into the new year. He's tipsy on his second glass of cheap champagne and he can't think of a reason to keep this in, anymore. Evan crinkles a brow at him.

"I... wasn't planning to go?"

There's a gold crown perched in his curls, and Tommy still hasn't taken the cheap plastic 2025 glasses off. The house is quiet, and there'd been shockingly few fires started by fireworks this year, so he's less tired than he'd expected to be.

"I meant -." Tommy starts, and then pauses. "I meant permanently. You should live here."

Evan laughs. Takes a bite out of his cake, and rolls his eyes, and then...stops. His entire body stills. "What."

It's ridiculous. The very thing that had pushed Tommy up out of his seat just a few months ago, sent him out the loft door with wet eyes and a heaviness in his heart.

"Tommy," Evan prompts, and Tommy catches the hand frozen on the countertop. He'd planned to hold this back, wait until something significant or poignant. But Evan had baked them a red velvet cake and argued with him the entire drive back from dinner about the proper way to fold a towel, and Tommy's tired of denying this isn't everything he's refused to let himself want for decades.

"You don't have to say yes just to confirm you're not breaking up with me," he tries to joke, and it falls flat.

"Tommy," Evan murmurs, quieter but more insistent.

"I'm serious. I want you here. I want -."

"Yes," Evan says, and squeezes his hand before he ducks his head bashfully. "Sorry. Continue."

"I want a life with you." The tears tickle at the back of his throat. He's gonna fucking cry, again. He'd always fucking known opening himself up to this was just an invitation for more tears in his life.

He can't quite convince himself the rest doesn't make them worth it.

"Yes. Again. Tommy, of course." He tips his chin. Purses his lips. "If you're sure."

Tommy swallows down the lump in his throat. He's never been more sure or more terrified of anything in his life. So he tells him so.

The words are like knives, but he works his way through the soreness, fights up past the fear that he's not sure will ever completely go away, and claws past the reminder that it's been a blink of an eye since Tommy walked out on this.

"Well. You can't walk out of your own house," Evan points out when he's finished, and of all things, it's that that snaps the tension of for once in his life prioritizing something other than fucking survival. He tips a grin, curls his elbow to bring their entwined hands to his lips. "It's gonna take years to coordinate another Thanksgiving with everyone," he bemoans, looking suspiciously watery-eyed himself as he holds Tommy's own wet gaze.

Tommy can extrapolate from that.

[steviesbicrisis]

Thinking about YouTuber Steve who’s gaining a lot of popularity with his weekly vlogs. The routine is very similar: he goes to work, hangs out with friends, acts silly for the camera, cooks for his roommate, watches movies with his roommate, goes out with his roommate.

His roommate is there a lot.

His new growing fanbase doesn’t take long to divide into factions regarding Steve’s dating life and sexuality; There are ships, OTPs, people who want him single so they can date him, and a surprisingly small portion which questions his heterosexuality, which gets always shut up by the following compelling arguments:

“stop assuming he’s gay.”

“Steve doesn’t look gay. He’s just a guy, a former jock, who loves to cook and hangs out with friends. A friend more than the others, but it’s his roommate so it makes sense, right?”

“And yes, they do cuddle while watching movies, but who doesn’t love a cuddle? You don’t have to be gay for that.”

“Sure, they hold hands when they go out but the city is crowded and they might lose each other.”

“Since when two male friends can’t be close without assuming that they’re gay?”

“Have you ever seen them kiss in ten minutes of weekly vlog? No, so drop your gay agenda already.”

And Steve Harrington, who started the whole vlog thing in the first place because he wanted to update his friends who live miles away and still doesn’t know how he got this much heteronormative bullcrap in his comments, has had enough.

One day, Steve Just-A-Guy Harrington, wakes up and chooses violence.

He replies to a tiktok comment that says “stop assuming he’s gay” with another video.

It begins with Steve glaring at the camera “oh yes please, stop assuming I’m gay.”

Then there’s a quick motion and Steve is pulling a curly haired guy into frame: Eddie, his roommate/platonic friend/totally not his boyfriend of 5+ years.

Eddie yawns, looking sleepily at the camera “are you vlogging?”

“I’m proving a point” Steve replies, then kisses him. They almost get lost into it, but Steve is a man on a mission, so he pulls back and turns to the camera.

“This is Eddie, my boyfriend. Not a friend who’s a boy, you delusional homophobes, we are together, a couple, in a relationship. We haven’t been just friends for over 5 years. We live together, he isn’t just a roommate.

And even if he was just my roommate, do you think I would live with this” he squeezes Eddie’s cheeks between his fingers and zooms in to show his face up close. Eddie blinks a couple of times, but let’s Steve do whatever he wants.

“Do you seriously think that I would live with this 24/7 and stay straight? Like, are you insane?” He gives Eddie a quick smack on the lips, leaving him blushing and more confused than ever.

Usually, it’s Eddie the one getting almost feral over Steve, not the other way around.

He doesn’t complain.

“So yeah, stop assuming I’m gay. Because I’m bi, you homophobic little shits.”

The video ends with Eddie pulling Steve for more than a quick peck on the lips, and Steve throwing the phone on their couch, face down.

Somehow, under Steve’s video, there’s still someone that comments “I mean, this doesn’t mean anything. It’s just bros helping bros, right?”

Steve is too busy making out with his “bro” to read it.

[aviiarie]

Hiiiii, if you don't mind, can I please ask for something romantic with Blade in a soulmates au? Being his soulmate seems like such a doomed concept, lol

“𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐍𝐄𝐗𝐓 𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐄.” — feat. blade.

synopsis. you are blade's soulmate. and you pay the price for it, over and over again.

✦ contents. tw: slightly graphic blood & violence, and a lot of death. soulmates au. gn!reader. angst, no comfort. slightly open-ended. 1.8k words.

✦ notes. requested by anon for my event! i saw the words 'soulmates' and 'doomed' and didn't think twice. um this kind of ends on a cliff-hanger? or unsatisfyingly at least. that was intentional btw. idk how happy i am with how it turned out though.

The day Blade met you for the very first time, was the day you bled out in his arms. 

You were a stranger; a forgettable face, amidst a sea of even more forgettable faces. There was no reason for him to care when he heard your scream, cutting across the battlefield like a siren. The sound melted into the clamour of scraping metal and wounded cries, as easily as a single note of a flute disappears within a symphony.

And yet, it made him pause. 

His own sword was slick with blood, having already carved a gruesome path across the battlefield. There were bodies at his feet–some still wheezing out their final breaths, others already gone–but it was you who caught his attention. The cry was harrowing, rendering every other noise forgotten.

The haze in his vision began to clear, the mara loosened its hold, and for the first time in a while he felt something odd: clarity.

A strange, prickly sensation settled a layer beneath his skin, urging him to go, find them, help them, help them, help them. It was as if his limbs were tied with puppet strings, forcing him into a run towards the source of the scream. All around him, the fighting continued, but no one paid him any mind as he tore through the battle.

He found you on the other side of the field, lying on the grass with a closed fist pressed to your side. An arc of red dripped from your fingers to the ground, forming a sickly puddle under your shredded armour. As he fell to his knees by your side, compelled by something he couldn’t properly describe if he tried, you looked up and met his eye, mouth falling open.

“Oh…” You murmured, gazing at him like he was an angel. “Oh… oh, I didn’t know… it’s you.”

Blade’s throat tightened, as he glanced between your watery eyes and the wound you were holding. He didn’t understand it; he was a witness to death more times than he could count, the source of it in many instances. There was no reason for your death to be any different, so why did he feel like he was going to throw up?

“It’s you, isn’t it?” You choked up, tears welling in your eyes. The sight made him sick. “Soulmate?”

Soulmate. A foreign concept, but one he was acquainted with. It was intertwined with Destiny itself, written into the scripts that ‘he’ pored over so obsessively.

“Soulmate?” He croaked out. You smiled weakly, reaching out your free hand to touch his cheek.

“Soulmate,” You agreed, moving to rest your palm on his chest, right over the spot where his heart was pounding. “You feel it too, don’t you? The… the feeling pulling us together?”

He did. All of the puppet strings–destiny, fate, or whatever they were to be called–were pulling him towards you. Blade nodded stiffly, and you breathed out a wheezing laugh.

“S-So that’s it, then…” You sighed, releasing your hold on your wound and letting your arms fall loose like a ragdoll. Without your fist blocking his view, Blade could see just how bad the injury was. “I’ve always wanted to meet you. I was scared I was going to die before I did. But… I guess this is fine…”

“No…” Blade murmured, every sense in his body screaming at him to save them, help them, soulmate, soulmate, soulmate. “No… you can’t die. Not when I’ve just met you.”

It’s a laugh that you responded with, but the sound was bittersweet. “I don’t think I have a choice.” 

“No!” Blade’s voice was desperate. “No, no. There has to be another way.”

“Meet me again, okay? In the next life…” You coughed weakly, blood dribbling down the corner of lips and down your chin. Blade gently wipes away the streak of red, brushing his thumb over your cheek. “B-Buy me flowers… take me out for dinner... and we’ll try again.”

“No…” Blade mumbled. He tugged you into his arms, so you were practically splayed out across his lap. Another cough worked its way past your lips, and he pulled you even closer. “Please…”

“Next time…” You breathed out. Your chest rose and fell with every breath stuttered out, slowly and weakening, until it stopped altogether. 

—

When Blade meets you again, you are not a soldier. Your face has changed, as well your hairstyle and attire, but the insistent tug in his chest is the exact same feeling he felt all those years ago. Even in a crowded town square, on a planet he couldn’t remember the name of, the outline of your soul glows in his mind, shining like a beacon.

He stops in his tracks, scanning the shops and stalls on either side to find some trace of the soul he sensed. You were so close, he could practically reach out and grasp your hand, and yet he couldn’t quite pinpoint where.

There.

He broke into a run, his mission left far behind as he followed his instincts. They pulled him through the crowd, by shopkeepers and civilians that grumbled as he pushed past, leading to a cozy flower stand at the end of the street.

You look up at his approach, almost dropping the flowers in your hands. Your mouth is agape, and your eyes are teary, but there is familiarity staring back at him.

“Oh, it’s you. I was wondering when I would meet you,” You laugh, and Blade’s heart soars.

It’s a blur, the conversation that follows. He learns your name, and he learns you are nothing more than a merchant selling flowers. Quietly, he is grateful for the humble life you seemed to be leading. It was nothing like your previous self, in all your bloodstained, armour-clothed glory, and he couldn’t be more thankful.

“Tell me about yourself, though.” You finally pause your rambling, smiling with flushed cheeks. “I’ve talked about myself enough. What about you?”

“I…” Blade trails off, considering what he could say. His life was one that was long and wrought with destruction, and you were a perfectly unblemished flower, whose petals would crumple under his touch. Seeking you out was selfish enough, letting you carve his place in your life would only taint it.  

“I am unimportant. You’d best not be concerned about who I am.” Blade says simply, moving slightly away, so you were out of his reach. “I need to leave.”

You frown, stepping closer. “That’s not fair. Don’t I get to know your name, at least? Soulmate?”

“You may call me Blade,” He says, without any more explanation. “I must be going.”

“W-Wait!” You call out, breaking out of your stupor to catch his sleeve. As he turns, you press a delicate white lily into his hands. “Take this. When it wilts… find me again, and I’ll give you a new one.”

Blade stares at the flower, running a thumb down the stem and over the soft petals. It is dainty, fragile. In his hands, it would only be ruined.

And yet, he tucks it into his sleeve anyway.

You smile at him as he leaves, something sad in your eyes that he doesn’t have the heart to unravel. As he turns his back, he can still feel your gaze on his retreating form, watching as he disappears into the street.

It ends, predictably.

He is a half-second too late, feeling the drop in his stomach a moment before he sees your body fall to the ground. He lunges forward, falling by your side. The assailant–masked, armed, and a damn coward–is already running. 

“No,” He mutters. There are hot, angry tears in his eyes, threatening to spill over. It was only a week after he saw you for the first time, but he’d been keeping his distance, hoping if he stayed far enough away he could spare you from misfortune. But fate is cruel, and it tips back its head and laughs as he crumples over your body.

A part of him is screaming to run after your attacker, to spill his organs all over the pretty paved streets, just as he has spilled your blood over them, but the idea of leaving your side hurts. 

“Stay with me,” He begs, holding onto your wound, as if there was any way to staunch the bleeding. It was no use, the blade had pierced your chest too precisely. If you weren’t already gone, you would be soon.

You shakily clasp your hand around his wrist, mumbling out a few words. “See you–See you next time, Blade.”

—

It carries on in a similar manner, for the next few centuries. Every lifetime Blade finds you (he stops counting, after a while), and it ends the same way. After a while, all of the lifetimes blur together, until he can barely tell which is which.

In some, you are a warrior as violent as himself. In others, you are an artist. In some, he finds you, and in others, you find him. The only common thread, the one thing that connects every one, is your inevitable demise.

He stops trying to seek you out. When he feels the tug on his chest, he ignores his instincts and walks the other way, hoping to let the memory of you fade, so you may live your lives parallel to each other; close, but never meeting. Somehow, you manage to find him every time anyway, and before he knows it, his vow to keep his distance is tossed aside.

This time though, he doesn’t even get a chance to meet you. 

He feels you again–the phantom pull, the burning in his soul–and all thoughts of his mission are forgotten. The feeling of his sword is heavy in his hands, but it is nothing compared to the sinking in his chest.

Something was wrong.

This time, he doesn’t wait. He does not pause, he doesn’t think about the way he will be reprimanded for straying from his target. He only thinks of you.

The thought leads him through a massacre, decorating the cobbled streets with crimson. The path itself is pathed with bloodshed, littered with corpses in various states of dismemberment. The longer he walks, the more it becomes clear that he isn’t looking for a person this time; he is looking for a body. There is no life he can sense around him, but your connection–feeble, and waning as it may be–urges him forward. 

Finally, it stops him right before one.

The sight of your corpse, as mangled and gruesome as it may be, no longer fazes him. He stands, pausing long enough to pay his respects, before retreating with a heaviness in his steps.

He will meet you again, in the next life.

🏷️ taglist: @tragedy-of-commons, @mollzaj, @mikashisus, @starcharmed.

© aviiarie 2024. do not copy, repost, translate or use my work to train ai

[lathez]

So Bethesda's reasoning behind forcing a Miraak kill was that they had failed at creating a compelling dilemma. Originally you were going to trade some sort of tome to Mora, and they realized that no one was going to turn down saving a cool ass renegade cyborg sounding Dragon Priest for their little skill tree bit.

The thing is that this would have been ridiculously easy to fix with an addition of literally ANY interesting mechanic. So being a Miraak stannie, here are a few things the questline itself could lock behind Miraak's death to make me consider killing him:

Trade Dragon Souls for a Reduction in Shout Cool Down Time - A 1-2% increase for every shout spent. Actually gives the player motivation to seek out dragons and play a Thu'um build.

Trade Dragon Souls for an Increase in Shout Power - Fire Breath is one of the coolest in game shouts, and you get the fire Wyrm if you kill an enemy -- yet at higher levels it becomes almost useless. This goes for quite a few shouts.

Stacked Vahlok the Jailor Spectral Follower - A summon isn't enough to make me want to kill Miraak, but a spectral follower? That's cool as fuck. It makes sense, since you absorbed Miraak's soul, that Vahlok would want to follow you. Literally no one in their god damn mind would want to fuck with you and your floating dragon priest ghost going suplex city

Vahlok's Mask - Locking the final dragon priest mask behind a decision would actually make collectors twitch.

Marry Frea - Stupid as fuck that you can't marry Frea. Conversely, if you spare Miraak, you should be locked out of any remaining Skaal quests and merchants.

Ability to Craft Dragon Priest Armor - Yeah this would just be unbelievably fucking goated and I think you should get this regardless of decision if you collect all the masks, but whatever.

Bend Will That Actually Works - The ability to create up to two living thralls instead of two dead ones, effectively allowing you to increase your follower count, ie, you could have Teldryn, Serana, and Ralis at once.

Maybe someone who mods better than I do can tell me if these would be difficult to add, but honestly, I don't think a lot of them are as I've seen plenty of mods along these lines.

The pure laziness that went into the Dragonborn DLC -- which is fun, but criminally short and contained -- in comparison to the Dawnguard DLC is irritating, and it's even more irritating to know they had the voice lines ready to go and everything and decided to cut an actually good plot point last minute.

[stump-not-found]

hellooo haiii :]

i saw a while ago that you said that you were fiddleford hater among lovers… do you mind speaking more on that? (sorry i really liek hearing ur views on stuff)

uhh yeah you know what i'll talk a lil about it . why not . i can share some analysis as a treat . will tuck my thoughts gently behind a readmore, so sweet and softlys

i think fiddleford is a fine character its just irritating when narratively he's treated as this very tragic figure when he's an adult man capable of making his own choices . this is a flaw with the books, to be clear - i do not think the actions of fiddleford align with the explicit narrative he has as a nice guy who had a terrible thing happen to him, which stanford must feel soul-crushing guilt over .

this is what bothers me about him: that he is intended to be read as just an all around good dude with tragic circumstances, rather than a messy guy who made shit-ass terrible decisions every step of the way

not even talking about fandom mischaracterization. that's a given in any collaborative fan space and i don't really hold it against people for doing that . fandom is fun, play with your dolls, do whatever - all that mostly means is im not gonna vibe w/ a lot of fanart, it's not going to impact my opinion of the character . i do think it's funny how the collective fanonization of him is simultaneously the wettest meow-meow, but also a total badass when . he's so fundamentally conflict adverse he destroys his own life and body over it .

my man fucks raccoons . i guess that's badass in it's own way . i guess

the thing that is compelling about fidds to me is he is a bit of a worm, and that worminess winds up destroying him from the inside out . he really embodies the entire concept of 'inaction is action', in a way that's deeply frustrating in both fun and not so fun ways

some of the fun things we know about fiddleford:

leveled the downtown area of palo alto

built a robot to try and kill his wife when she tried to divorce him

built robots to kill kids because his son wasnt paying attention to them

brain blasts people to get free labor out of them

started a cult to brain blast people

so horny for Cthulhu Columbo that he did not get his son a christmas present . not a single Tonking Truck . i know your brain is half melted at this point but cmon man

i don't really think the whole leaving his wife in the 70's is all that cute either . it's a one off joke, and there's something interesting about the fact that it's a one off joke . like what kind of financial freedom do people think a single mother is gonna have in this time period? why is that something that goes unchallenged?

and the fact he leaves them for a year is just like . that's also fucked man . i can personally attest to how fucked it is to have your dad just piss off for a year to do contractor work . what a wild subplot to be treated with such little narrative importance to his character . like . the fact that it holds so little importance to fidds is a narrative all on its own

it's just weird how the story treats him, man . he's not that endearing of a dude, which is what i like about him . i like that he makes bad decisions . i like that he doesn't respect when people say "no" . characters should make bad decisions and be bad people . i just really hate this presentation of his own actions being the fault of anyone other than fiddleford

oh also the research paper stint was insane . wild to me that that was presented in the story as like a cool or kind thing to do to someone . like that's a very reasonable boundary for stanford to be upset about being crossed, and its wild how that's presented as him being a jackass . there are MANY things that make ford a piece of shit . being upset about a guy doing something like that behind your back is not one of them

tho that's a whole other conversation about how ford as a character is defined by never having his boundaries respected, and this never being challenged, and in fact he should just be okay with it when it happens by the "right" sorts of people . once an object, always an object . love him

[ckret2]

CULT LEADER AT 14 ?? WHY WASN'T EUCLIDEAN CPS CALLED IM CRYING /Rhetorical, but I am genuinely curious. Kids/teens are smarter than people assume and his actions are his own, but he's barely a teenager at this point. Unless there's some law added to the story (which I doubt) the logical conclusion I've come to is that his parents just scared any case workers off lmao. The real CPS has a habit of being useless, especially in cases similar to Bill's, with little (or hidden) physical abuse/neglect. Also you can get them to leave by telling them to. Not ideal.

For the same reason the CPS wasn't called on Gideon for having a burgeoning cultlike fandom over his child psychic routine.

The CPS isn't called in over child performers—child movie stars, child TV actors, child singers. The CPS isn't called in over kid influencers on family vlogger channels with millions of viewers. The CPS isn't called in over child preachers, child healers, child psychics. Even when they really, really should be.

(There's been some high profile criminal cases over child abuse on family vlogs lately—but every story about a family like that being held responsible for abuse is a story about how long they got away with it without anybody doing a thing.)

Bill's parents did spiritually-themed speaking engagements. They started bringing their kid on stage with them—how adorable, a family act!—and he did a cute little child psychic routine, he could go up to strangers and tell them their names, he could tell them what was in their wallets, he knew details about their medical histories—sometimes details THEY didn't know yet. ("congratulations, do you have a name for the baby yet?" "a name for the what?" "whoops! ... do you want me to spoil what shape it'll be?")

What harm is there in a family that does public speaking letting their child join in on the performance? He's talented, popular, seems to be having fun.

They're more successful, they do more shows, he's performing a larger proportion of the shows. Well, sure, of course he is, the audience loves his parts. He's very charismatic. Charming, engaging, enthusiastic. Who would tell him to stop? He's so enthusiastic about participating. He's even started preaching some—very spiritual stuff, the details are a little muddy but hey, he's young, but he's compelling and it's clear he believes this stuff and he's doing such good work spreading hope and positivity to their audience.

He's missing some school to travel for speaking engagements, but hey, he's still doing well enough to make it to the next grade, and when he's clearly found his passion so young wouldn't it be a shame to coop him up and make him hide his light under a barrel?

When his parents are interviewed they talk about what a gift their golden child is and how they're awed by his talents and grateful to have him in their lives. When he's interviewed he talks about how much he loves speaking to audiences, making that little connection with so many of them, how he's so happy to see how happy they are when he comes on stage. He talks about how he'd love to have a radio show or do international tours someday. He wants to reach as many people as possible.

He's now doing the majority of the speaking—because he has such a talent for it, because the audiences come to hear him, because they like what he's saying and want to hear more of it, and he's eager to oblige.

After middle school they announce that he's "switching to home schooling" to make more time for speaking—and what's wrong with that? Lots of child performers with demanding schedules find creative ways to fit their schooling around their concerts or filming or shows or speaking engagements or whatever it is they do.

Anyone who's close enough to him to know he's dropped his education altogether is close enough to him that they're in on the con, so they're not gonna do anything about it. Who could imagine that a kid that well-spoken could be uneducated. Nobody in his audience is standing up to challenge the child psychic to prove he knows how to do algebra.

His mother dies, very tragic. The family withdraws for a little bit; then they're back on the road, saying that's what his mother would want for him. They do a brief little tribute to her at shows. He says that she's speaking to him from beyond. If you believe in the things he professes to believe, it's very very sweet.

If you don't believe, this is a red flag. But goddamn, "I don't believe in that family's religious beliefs" is NO grounds to investigate a family.

He starts getting combative with people who try to criticize him. That's not too weird, he's a teenager, it's not a sign of abuse, just immaturity. He can't always be the perfect angel he is on stage—and by god, if some snotty scientist is trying to undermine his spiritual claims, he SHOULD get mad! The kind of people paying close attention to him are the kind of people who believe in him. When he gets mad, he's expressing their collective righteous anger. They're on his side.

Rumors start spreading about him sneaking out to parties and getting trashed way too young. It sounds like a bunch of slander, it's just rumors, somebody's trying to undermine the reputation of this fine young triangle. Anyway, even if it's true, "nearly-adult teen is sneaking out to party and coming home drunk" isn't a sign of abuse, that's a thing kids do. That's a problem for his father to address, not the government.

Nobody outside of his immediate family learns about his uncle's death at one of his shows.

By the time this young triangle's dangerously incandescent temper has built up to the point that it starts to dominate his reputation and the public knows how vitriolic he is, he's legally an adult. There's no grounds for an investigation. He can't be taken away from his father, his father lives in his house. He's bringing in the money, he's calling the shots, and he has been for years.

So, take all that: "Why wasn't the Euclidean CPS called?"

Why would they be?

Even if they were, all a case worker would have found is a tightly-knit family that doesn't have a single bad word to say about each other to outsiders, and a home filled wall to wall with their son's accolades—news articles, trophies, pictures.

[awkward-walking-potato]

heard you were looking for some ideas for Logan! What about Logan with a significant other that’s basically an oujia board? Like they can talk to dead people, maybe possess people or haunt their dreams? How did they meet Logan, and how did they end up with him, and most importantly what does wade think of their relationship?

I am sorry this one is Longgg

Between Two Worlds

The Encounter

The bar was dimly lit, the low hum of conversations mixing with the clinking of glasses and the occasional burst of laughter. Logan sat at the far end, nursing a whiskey, his gaze distant. He had just finished a mission, and all he wanted was some peace—a rare commodity in his life. The last thing he expected was to meet someone who would change everything.

But then you walked in.

You weren’t like anyone else in the bar. You moved with a calmness that seemed out of place in a place like this, your presence both ethereal and unsettling. Logan noticed the way people gave you a wide berth, as if instinctively sensing something otherworldly about you. You weren’t particularly intimidating, but there was an air of mystery surrounding you—a vibe that made people uncomfortable. But not Logan. He was more intrigued than anything.

You sat down at the bar, a few stools away from him, and ordered a drink. The bartender handed you a glass of something dark, but your eyes weren’t on the drink; they were on Logan.

“You’ve got a lot of ghosts around you,” you said, your voice soft, almost like a whisper.

Logan stiffened slightly. “Do I know you?”

“Not yet,” you replied, a small smile playing on your lips. “But I know you.”

He eyed you warily, sizing you up. “And how’s that?”

You took a sip of your drink, your gaze never leaving his. “I can see them—hear them. The dead. And you, Logan, have a lot of them following you.”

Logan’s grip on his glass tightened, but he didn’t move. He’d seen and heard a lot of strange things in his life, and he wasn’t easily shaken. “You got a name?”

“Y/N,” you said, extending your hand.

He hesitated, then took it. The moment your hands touched, a strange sensation washed over him. It wasn’t pain, but it wasn’t entirely pleasant either—like a cold breeze brushing against his soul. He let go quickly, his eyes narrowing. “What are you?”

You smiled again, but this time it was a little sad. “I’m just someone who can talk to the dead. Sometimes they talk through me, sometimes they use me to do things, but mostly, they just want to be heard.”

Logan took another drink, considering your words. “Sounds like a rough gig.”

“It can be,” you admitted. “But it’s my life. I help them find peace—or vengeance, depending on what they need.”

He respected that. There was something undeniably compelling about you, something that pulled him in despite the warning bells going off in his head. Maybe it was the loneliness he sensed in you, a loneliness that mirrored his own. Whatever it was, Logan couldn’t help but feel a connection to you.

You spent the rest of the evening talking. There was an easy understanding between you, a mutual respect for the darkness in each other’s lives. When the night was over, Logan offered to walk you home, and you accepted. He didn’t know it at the time, but that was the beginning of something neither of you could have predicted.

Weeks turned into months, and what started as a strange, tentative friendship quickly grew into something more. Logan found himself drawn to you in ways he couldn’t explain. You were an enigma, someone who lived between worlds, yet grounded enough to keep him from losing himself in his own darkness.

You moved into Logan’s cabin, a secluded place where you both could escape the chaos of the world. It wasn’t exactly peaceful—Logan’s past and your connection to the dead made sure of that—but it was home.

One night, as you lay in bed together, you stirred awake. Logan could feel it—the change in the air, the subtle shift in your body temperature. He opened his eyes to see you sitting up, staring at something in the corner of the room.

“Who is it this time?” Logan asked, his voice rough with sleep.

“There’s a woman here,” you said, your voice distant. “She’s…angry. Betrayed. She was killed by someone she trusted.”

Logan sighed, sitting up beside you. He was used to this by now. “What does she want?”

You turned to him, your eyes reflecting the sadness and fury of the spirit inside you. “Vengeance. She wants him to suffer like she did.”

Logan could see the strain this was putting on you. “You don’t have to do this tonight. You can tell her to wait.”

You shook your head. “She won’t wait. This is her only chance.”

Without another word, you got out of bed and began to dress, your movements slow and deliberate. Logan knew better than to try and stop you. He’d seen what happened when you resisted the spirits—it wasn’t pretty.

“I’ll come with you,” he said, pulling on his jeans and boots.

You nodded, grateful for his support. Logan’s presence had a way of grounding you, of keeping you tethered to the living world when the dead threatened to pull you under.

As you both headed out into the night, Logan couldn’t shake the feeling that something was different this time. The spirit inside you was more powerful than the others, more determined. He could feel it in the air, a malevolence that made his skin crawl.

The spirit led you to an old, run-down house on the outskirts of town. Logan followed closely behind, his senses on high alert. You walked up to the front door and knocked, your hand trembling slightly.

The door opened, revealing a man in his late forties, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Who the hell are you?”

“She knows what you did,” you said, your voice filled with the rage of the spirit within you. “And she’s here to make you pay.”

Logan watched as the man’s face paled, his eyes widening in fear. “No… It can’t be…”

Before Logan could react, you lunged forward, your hand wrapping around the man’s throat. The spirit’s fury flowed through you, making you stronger than you should have been, your grip like iron.

Logan moved quickly, pulling you back before you could do any real damage. “That’s enough, Y/N!”

The man collapsed to the floor, gasping for air, while you struggled against Logan’s hold, the spirit’s anger overwhelming you.

“He deserves to die!” you screamed, your voice no longer your own.

Logan held you tightly, his voice firm but gentle. “This isn’t you, Y/N. You’re stronger than this. Don’t let her control you.”

For a moment, it seemed like the spirit would win, that it would consume you completely. But then, with a shuddering breath, you managed to regain control, the spirit’s presence slowly fading as you collapsed against Logan, exhausted.

The man on the floor was sobbing, babbling apologies that fell on deaf ears. Logan looked down at him with disgust. “Get out of town. If I see you again, you won’t be so lucky.”

The man scrambled to his feet and ran, disappearing into the night.

Logan turned his attention back to you, his hand gently cupping your face. “You okay?”

You nodded weakly, leaning into his touch. “Yeah… I’m okay.”

He sighed in relief, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Let’s get you home.”

Life with you was never boring, and Logan wouldn’t have had it any other way. But when Wade found out about your abilities, things got a little more…interesting.

“Hold up,” Wade said, leaning back in his chair, Mary Puppins perched on his lap. “You’re telling me your significant other is basically a walking, talking Ouija board?”

Logan sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Something like that.”

Wade’s eyes lit up with mischief. “That is so badass! Do you do parties? Can you, like, summon Elvis or something? Wait, don’t answer that—I have a list of people I want to talk to, starting with—”

“Wade,” Logan growled, cutting him off. “It’s not a party trick.”

Wade pouted. “You’re no fun. But seriously, that’s gotta be weird, right? I mean, what happens if they get mad? Do you end up like one of those possessed dolls from horror movies?”

You chuckled, leaning against Logan. “It’s not quite that dramatic, but it can get intense. I try to keep them under control.”

“Still, sounds like a hell of a time,” Wade said, clearly fascinated. “You ever, uh, use your abilities on Logan here? Like, freak him out in the middle of the night?”

You smiled mischievously, glancing at Logan. “Maybe once or twice.”

Logan shot you a look but didn’t say anything. Wade burst out laughing. “Oh man, I wish I could’ve seen that! Logan, scared out of his mind—priceless!”

Logan rolled his eyes, pulling you closer. “I wasn’t scared.”

“Sure, sure,” Wade said, waving his hand dismissively. “But for real, you two are like the weirdest couple I’ve ever seen. And coming from me, that’s saying something. But you know what? I think it works. You balance each other out. Plus, if anyone ever pisses you off, you can just send them a nice little nightmare. That’s a win in my book.”

You and Logan exchanged a glance, both of you smiling. Wade might be a pain, but he wasn’t wrong.

[eternal-love-song]

Familiar

Siffrin and Odile share a moment.

The habit had formed without Siffrin having noticed. Every evening, before the sun had set so far as to leave the sky dark, he would find where Odile was sitting with her book and park himself right beside her. He had gotten closer and closer over time, until he was sitting with his back pressed against her side, carving tools in hand while they both focused on their own task. 

At first it had been a sort of breather. It was a lot at times, trying to have "feelings talks" with Mirabelle, trying to balance not looking too worried while still being honest for Isabeau, and indulging Bonnie however he could so that none of them were too worried. They had reason to worry, Siffrin still wasn't anywhere close to normal again, but he still didn't want them to. As much as he couldn't just go back to normal even if he had wanted to, and he did, he also knew that he wouldn't be able to just... change his behaviors on a dime. And trying to for them was... exhausting. 

Odile, observant as she always was, had noticed this.

"You don't need to tell us everything all at once," she had told him. "Just say one thing, any one thing, it doesn't even have to be new, so that you can get into the habit. And if you need to say nothing at all, you can always just sit with me."

So he did. 

It happened when he got overwhelmed by memories or when he pushed himself too much to try and share more than he was really ready for. He would excuse himself from whatever he was doing, trudge over to Madame Odile, and just sit. First more than an arm's length away with his head buried in his knees, and then slowly closer, closer, bridging the gap between them more and more. 

Siffrin and Odile had always understood each other fairly well. They had a similar distance between themselves and others. The reason for that had changed during the loops, but the way they could understand each other hadn't. 

"That's starting to look rather familiar," Odile commented lightly. 

Siffrin flushed a bit at the comment, holding the carving closer to his chest as he looked over at  her. Her eyes seemed to still be on the book at first, but she smirked after a moment of him looking, moving just her eyes to meet his.

"Oh come now, don't tell me you're going to hide it now."

Siffrin ducked his head, once again wishing he still had his hat to hide beneath, but he held the wood out for her to see. It was barely more than half finished, the shape was clear enough. He didn't know when he had made up his mind to make this carving of her, but before he knew it...

"It's not done yet," he said in a small voice."

"No, but I can't say that I'm displeased to be your first subject after so long."

He could feel his face darkened even more. Odile laughed lightly at his reaction.

"Well, maybe you're the most compelling thing here to carve," he said. There was a hint of challenge in his voice as he said it, letting his eyes move back to hers. There was the slightest hint of a question in his eyes, asking if she would deny whatever bond was building between them lately. 

Odile's expression broke into surprise, before melting into something a bit softer. "Perhaps I've been thinking something similar," she admitted. She lowered her notebook, revealing a simple sketch she had done of Siffrin himself. 

Warmth began to spread through his entire body and he found himself leaning more heavily against her side. "Looks familiar," he parroted her words back at her with a small smile.

She huffed out a small laugh as she pulled her notebook back onto her lap. "Don't tell the others. I have Isabeau convinced that I'm writing observations about him."

"We can't let him find out what you're researching too easily, right?" He smiled like they were sharing a secret and she returned it. 

They returned to their own task again for a while. Neither of them spoke again until the sun was beginning to set. 

Soon, Bonnie would be calling them all for dinner and the little bubble of privacy around them would be broken. Siffrin closed his eyes, leaning his head against Odile as he just enjoyed the moment. He smiled when he felt her leaning into him as well.

[ophelia-writes-fics]

you're screwed up and brilliant, look like a million dollar man [kilgrave x reader - 18+]

A second run-in with Kilgrave leaves you reeling.

Tags (please read!): smut, fem!reader, AFAB!reader, mind control kink, mentions of marking during sex, fear, implied fear kink, degradation, some praise (but mostly mixed with degradation), humiliation, humiliation/degradation kink, hair pulling, edging, begging, frottage, handjobs, overstimulation, like a LOT of overstimulation, i cannot emphasize the overstimulation enough, possessiveness, light face slapping, mirror sex, riding, clit slapping, painplay, spanking, sadism (kilgrave), masochism (reader), multiple orgasms, a frankly unrealistic amount of orgasms

Word Count: ~6.3k

TWs/CWs:

super dubious consent. like last time, reader is into everything without being compelled (with one smallish exception if you squint?), but again, it's not negotiated

unprotected sex

mind control/mind altering

Kilgrave is still a walking red flag (and we love him anyways <3)

(as always, talk to your partners, get consent, etc :))

part one here

It had been a long, exhausting week since you last saw the man known only to you as Kilgrave. You hadn’t stopped thinking about him since your last encounter, not just because you’d had to take the next few days off of work afterwards — your boss was worried that getting up onstage covered in bruises, scratches, and bite marks might send the wrong message to the patrons of the club. She’d been worried about you too, but you’d assured her that everything was fine. Which it was. The other reason you couldn’t stop thinking about him was because you desperately wanted to see him again. 

However, you still needed money, so having time off at your night job meant picking up evening shifts at your day job, which was bartending at a casino on the other side of town. It was Thursday, which meant the place was absolutely deserted, and the patrons who did show up were barely drinking anything. The past two hours of your shift had involved nothing but standing behind a bar, staring into space, and wiping down the pristine counter every few minutes in an attempt to look busy.

However, you were snapped out of your mindless rhythm when your coworker tapped you on the shoulder.

“Hey,” she said, anxiously shifting from one foot to the other. “So, my break is coming up and I’m super tired and I really wanna take it, but there’s some weird shit going on in there.” She jerked her head towards the main room. “There’s this guy at the poker table? He keeps winning with the worst fucking hands I’ve ever seen, and it’s, like, insane amounts of money. Way more than I’ve ever seen anyone come in here with. Could you take over for me for, like, 20 minutes? And could you keep an eye on them and tell me what happens when I get back?” 

Damn it. 

There was one man you knew who could definitely win at high-stakes poker with the worst hands imaginable. You didn’t know for sure, but you had a sneaking suspicion that was only growing that you’d be seeing him sooner than you’d previously expected. 

You took the champagne bottle from your coworker’s hands without a second thought and walked into the main room, bracing yourself for whatever waited inside. 

The moment you stepped through the door, all your suspicions were confirmed. Even with his back turned to you, you could practically feel his presence in the air. 

Right there, holding court in the center of the room, sitting at the head of a table covered in poker chips and stacks of cash, was Kilgrave. 

You sighed. Goddamn it, you thought to yourself. As captivating as he was, you were still technically on the job, and you’d get fired if the house lost that much money on your watch. You’d get in extra trouble if anyone found out someone had cheated their way into getting it. Your mind raced as you tried to formulate a strategy. 

Okay. You can’t try to kick him out. If you call security, he’ll just tell them to fuck off and they will. You can’t tell the dealer, because there’s no way he’ll believe that the other players have been mind controlled. Besides, you can’t call attention to yourself. He’ll recognize you. Unless…

An idea clicked in your head. 

There’s no way he’d give up that kind of money, unless he had something better to tempt him.

You weren’t sure it would work, but if it did, well… it was a win-win situation, wasn’t it? 

You slowly crept up to the table. No one spared you more than a passing glance, including Kilgrave, whose eyes were firmly on the cards in front of him. You snuck a look over his shoulder as you approached. He really did have the worst hand imaginable. It was almost funny. 

You took a breath to steady yourself, then softly cleared your throat as you placed a hand on his shoulder. 

You’d been expecting a few different reactions, but you didn’t expect him to shake you off without even looking up. 

Oh, of course he’s a dick to waitresses. It deeply annoyed you that, somehow, this didn’t make you want to fuck him less. Irritated, without giving it a second thought, you gave him a light, backhanded smack on the arm. 

The table went silent. That got his attention. 

He turned around to face you. His expression, which had started as a mix of bewilderment and anger, quickly shifted to one of alarmed recognition. He blinked once, his brow furrowing. 

“It’s you,” he said, his tone unreadable. 

You gave him a tight-lipped smile. “It’s me,” you replied. 

Kilgrave stared you down for a moment. You desperately wanted to break eye contact, for him to forget you were ever there, to just go back to work, until suddenly, his expression changed slightly, and he turned to face the men at the table, setting his cards down. 

“Right. I’m leaving. Do not get up from this table, and don’t cheat. We’ll continue this game when I get back.”

He stood up and took your arm, pulling you away. 

“Are you really just going to leave them there?” You craned your neck to try and see if his command had worked, and sure enough, everyone remained seated and still. A knot formed in your stomach. 

He didn’t answer as he pulled you out of the room and down the hallway to the coat check, snapping his fingers at the employee behind the counter. 

“You. Take over for her. Serve champagne, clean tables, whatever it is she does.” Kilgrave plucked the bottle of champagne from your hand and thrust it at the checker. You hadn’t even realized you were still holding it. “Close the coat check. We’ll be going back there. Don’t bother us.” And with that, he breezed past, pulling you into the coatroom with him and slamming the door behind you both. 

The moment the door was shut, Kilgrave cornered you against a wall — not touching you, but close enough that he could grab you if you tried to leave. 

“What are you doing here?” he hissed. 

“I work here!” you replied indignantly. 

“Tell the truth.”

“I. Work. Here. It’s my day job.” 

His posture relaxed slightly, but he still didn’t step back. 

“Did you follow me here?” 

“No,” you answered, keeping your tone as calm as possible. You just hang around shady establishments a lot, apparently, you added silently. 

He leaned back a bit. 

“Why did you approach me?” 

“Because you were illegally winning a ton of money off the house and I don’t want to get fired,” you huffed, before somewhat reluctantly muttering, “And I wanted you to fuck me again.”

“Repeat that last bit?” 

“I wanted you to fuck me again,” you snapped, a bit louder than you’d meant to. “But frankly, right now I’m not in the mood anymore.”

He pursed his lips. “Why not?” 

“Because you’re keeping those people prisoner in there!”

“Which people?” 

You stared at him in disbelief, trying to gauge whether or not he was messing with you. Shockingly, his confusion seemed completely sincere. “Those men at the poker table. Are you just going to make them sit there for however long you’re gone?” 

He glanced in the direction of the casino and sighed with irritation, as if he’d just remembered they were there, before shaking it off with a slight roll of his eyes. 

“Forget about them. Come upstairs with me.”

Your brain filled with that all-too-familiar cold fog. It felt like you had tripped going up the stairs - your whole body was thrown off balance, your heart raced, and your thoughts raced to catch up after the interruption. What had you been thinking about? Something about the main room? 

You must have been worried about someone covering for your coworker. Yes, that seemed right. He’d told someone to do it, hadn’t he? Yes, he had. Then it was fine. There was nothing to worry about. 

With that, your brain fog cleared, and your worries went with it. You realized you were trailing behind him as he walked towards the elevators. 

As you passed the entrance to the casino itself, you turned your head slightly and peeked into the room. You cocked your head. Huh. I wonder what all those guys are doing just sitting at that table. I don’t think they were there before.

-

When the elevator arrived at the top floor, Kilgrave walked ahead of you along the hallway to the penthouse suite at the very end, pointing you towards the bed once you were inside. 

You grinned, reclining on your back and supporting yourself on your elbows as you kicked off your shoes, watching him shrug off his jacket and undo his belt before sitting down at the armchair in the corner of the room. 

He then turned his gaze toward you and clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “Stand up,” he ordered, as if it should have been obvious. You obeyed, and it felt like second nature by now. You felt the cold hardwood floor under your feet, even through your stockings, and you couldn’t help but turn your gaze slightly downward as he observed you, scanning you up and down for any imperfections. 

He sighed. “No, no, this won’t do.” 

Your heart dropped. He couldn’t be bored of you already, could he? You felt slightly panicky, as the reality of what he could do caught up to you again. Would he make you forget everything you’d done that day? Forget he existed? Would he kill you? Your mind raced as you tried to figure out if you could run before he ordered you to do anything. You felt your muscles tensing, preparing to bolt at a moment’s notice. 

“Take off your clothes,” he commanded, keeping his dark eyes on you. 

Your whole body flooded with relief and arousal. You briefly scolded yourself as you quickly stripped out of your uniform, the rational side of your brain reminding you that worrying that he was going to kill you if he was even slightly dissatisfied with you is probably a red flag before the horny side of your brain dismissed the thought with a well, he didn’t, and you don’t know he would, so it’s probably fine. 

You stood bare before him, hands clasped in front of you, obediently awaiting his instructions. He beckoned you over with a small motion of his finger, and you sank to your knees in front of him. You fidgeted nervously as he watched you, biting your lip as you worked up the nerve to ask him for what you wanted most. 

“Could you, um…could you do that…thing again?” 

His brows raised slightly. “What ‘thing’?” 

“The thing where you…um…command me, or whatever it is you call it. The mind control thing.” You hesitated before adding a quiet “please.” 

You weren’t sure what you were expecting, if you were expecting any response at all, but one of the last items on your list of things you were expecting to come out of Kilgrave’s mouth was a short, shocked, high-pitched laugh. A grin spread across his face as he stared down at you, and you felt a fluttering in your chest. 

“You really would let me do whatever I want to you.” It was a statement, not a question, but you nodded vigorously anyway. “God, that’s disgusting. You’re so desperate to get off that you’d cum your brains out if I mind controlled you?!” 

You squirmed, face burning as you clenched your thighs, and he laughed again. You felt pathetic, and it made your cunt ache for him. 

He considered you for a moment—you could practically feel him wondering what exactly he should do with you— before stretching one leg in out front of him, positioning himself so that the toe of his brand-new, expensive-looking leather dress shoe was just barely starting to press into your clit. You kept completely still, waiting for his orders, your body alight with anticipation.

“You want to get off that badly, then do it,” Kilgrave said, his bored tone only thinly veiling his enthusiasm to watch. 

You wasted no time, desperately rubbing yourself against him the minute you were permitted to, grinding your sensitive clit against the black leather. You bit your lip, moaning in humiliated arousal at the feeling, watching as your pussy dripped with need all over the supple material as you fucked yourself stupid. 

You felt Kilgrave’s hand in your hair, pulling you closer and shoving your cheek against his knee, holding you in place and keeping your eyes on him as you rutted against him. 

“You’re filthy,” he rasped, pressing his foot into your clit harder as you watched his arousal grow. “You’re disgusting, getting off like this, riding my fucking shoe, it’s fucking vile. God, I just want to watch you do that for hours…and you would, wouldn’t you? If I ordered you, you’d do it. I don’t think I’d even have to control you, I think you just want it that badly. Such a depraved little thing, aren’t you?” 

You nodded, and he smiled at you. 

“Of course you are. Keep going. Don’t you dare stop. I don’t care how sore you get, you’re going to keep going until you wear yourself out. Do you hear me?” He pulled your hair tighter, turning your face to him for emphasis. “Nod if you understand me.” 

You obeyed, feeling the friction against your cheek as you nodded again. You kept going, desperately chasing your orgasm, your senses blurring into a pleasured haze as your eyes rolled back, when without warning, your whole body seized, harshly stopping your motions. It took your brain a moment to process that Kilgrave had told you to stop. You looked up at him, and you must have looked as betrayed as you felt, because a self-satisfied smile appeared across his face. 

“Oh, sorry,” he mocked, mimicking your affronted pout before his grin returned. “It just looked like you were getting close. I wanted to remind you that I didn’t say you could cum.” 

You whined in protest, but the sound was cut off when Kilgrave pressed his hand over your mouth. He leaned back once you were quiet, his detached demeanor only slightly interrupted by the visible outline of his hard cock in his pants. 

“Keep going, but don’t cum. You don’t deserve it yet.” 

You obeyed. Of course you did. Your body betrayed you, automatically stopping you before you could cum, each time getting just that little bit closer before it was ripped away, over and over again until you lost count. It was torture, and although you would have done anything for it to end, you couldn’t get enough, drinking in every sensation at once. All the while, Kilgrave watched you intently, only speaking when you began to beg after what you thought was your seventh time being edged, although you’d long since lost count. 

“Kilgrave, p-please, I can’t anymore, it’s too much, I’m going to break, I can’t take any more!” 

He gave you a mocking little frown in response. “What a shame. I thought you were tougher than that.” 

“I am, I can be! I just — ahh! Please, please, I just want it so bad…” 

“Oh, is that it? You just want it so badly? In that case…” He patted your head, which would have made you melt if it hadn’t been so condescending. “You can make yourself useful, can’t you? Use that empty head of yours and think of something you can do to earn it.” 

You didn’t dare stop rubbing against him, afraid you’d be punished if you stopped edging yourself for even a moment, so you kept going, the torturous friction of the fabric of his trousers against your clit making your heart pound as you leaned forward to undo his belt and take his cock in your hand. 

He offered nothing more than a small moan from between clenched teeth in response, but that was all you needed. You stroked his cock, slowly and gently at first, watching him as closely as you could. You followed every cue his body gave you - every small motion, every sharp breath, every thrust of his hips - chasing them, desperate for more. You wanted to earn it. You needed to earn it. Your body longed for it like oxygen, longed for approval, for your orgasm, for his cock finally inside you again. 

You stroked him harder; slow, steady motions that lavished him with attention and calmed your shaking hands. Judging by the way he gripped the arm of the chair, he seemed to be nearly as close as you were. You sped up both your hips and your hand, trying to finish him off before he could rip your pleasure away again, moving entirely on instinct and desperation. However, as you neared your peak, you felt his hand on your wrist, pulling you away. You looked up, your vision slightly cloudy, prepared to beg him not to stop you, but the command never came. All he did was look back at you, eagerly watching as you fucked yourself against him. 

You refused to let your opportunity slip away. Unless he forced you not to, then you were going to cum. You sped up, ignoring the ache in your muscles. Your hips stuttered and ground against him harder, rubbing your clit with short, rough little thrusts. Your vision was completely out of focus now, your eyes half-lidded — your brain was too fucked out to function properly, let alone see clearly. Every bit of your body burned, but all you could do was keep going and going and going, getting closer and closer, your breath coming in quick gasps as you rapidly approached your peak, and he still didn’t stop you.  

Your entire body tensed as your orgasm hit you like a tidal wave, muscles trembling from being clenched so tightly for so unbearably long. You gave a strangled moan that became a wail as the sensation fully washed over you, and you collapsed against Kilgrave, your hips still erratically jerking against him. You felt overwhelming relief as he let go of your hair; the sudden loss of tension made you realize how tightly he’d been holding on. He shoved your chin upward with his knee, forcing you to make eye contact. 

“Get on the bed,” he ordered, and your stomach dropped. You were thoroughly worn out and so overstimulated it hurt, but the look in Kilgrave’s eyes told you that you weren’t getting a break. 

You clambered unsteadily to your feet, nearly falling twice, legs still shaking. You barely managed to get upright enough to collapse facedown onto the duvet. 

You moaned weakly, feeling Kilgrave’s hands around your hips before he flipped you over so that you were facing him. He leaned in close, lips nearly touching yours, his hands holding your wrists in place by your head, his cock pressing against your clit in a way that had you fighting your own instincts to squirm away from the overstimulation.  

“Now, did you follow my orders from last time?” 

Your mind raced to clear away the exhaustion as you tried to remember the request he’d given you the last time you met, and you nodded. “I haven’t slept with anyone else,” you panted as you tried to catch your breath. 

“Hmm,” Kilgrave purred, letting go of one wrist to tangle his fingers in your hair. “And why is that?” 

You blinked in confusion. “Because…you told me to?” 

Kilgrave clicked his tongue once in disapproval. “No, no, that can’t be it,” he said, his expression one of feigned contemplation. “Any order I give wears off after twelve hours. You wouldn’t know that, of course,” he gave you a quick glance before continuing, “So you must have not wanted to.” 

For some reason, you’d assumed that his commands lasted longer. Looking back, it was odd that you couldn’t tell when whatever power he had wore off. But he was right, you supposed. Whether the thought was originally yours or not, you hadn’t wanted to fuck anyone else for at least six days after the command would have worn off, so you hadn’t. 

You nodded in agreement, a bit dazed. It was so hard to focus with him touching you. 

“And why didn’t you want to?” 

That you didn’t have an answer prepared for. 

“Um…I…just didn’t?” Your response came out like a question. 

“Hmm, not quite.” Kilgrave tilted his head slightly to one side, waiting for another answer, but when you stayed quiet, he leaned in further, lips brushing against the shell of your ear. 

“The correct answer,” he whispered, his tone growing dangerous, “is that you don’t want to fuck anyone else because you’re mine. Isn’t that right?” 

The familiar brain fog took over as you felt a warmth in the pit of your stomach. “Yes, it is,” you replied instinctually. 

“Then say it.” 

“I’m yours, Kilgrave.” 

“Again.” 

“I’m yours! Now please, please fuck me, or I swear to god I’ll—“

“You’ll what?” His tone darkened. 

You bit your lip. You didn’t know what to say. You didn’t know what you could do against him. You couldn’t overpower him. You wouldn’t ever want to. 

He reached up and slapped your face — lightly, but hard enough to know that he wasn’t afraid to take things further if you didn’t cooperate. 

“Answer me, slut. What exactly are you going to do to me if I don’t fuck you right now?” 

Your mouth opened of its own accord at his command. “Nothing,” you choked out. “I won’t do anything. I’ll be good.” 

Kilgrave rewarded you with a satisfied “hmm” and a smug smile before pulling away. 

“Show me your neck,” he ordered. 

Confused and a bit terrified, but in no position to argue, you craned your chin upward, closing your eyes as you exposed your most vulnerable flesh to the man above you. You could feel your pulse jump, just below your sensitive skin. You couldn’t hold back a shiver when Kilgrave ran his fingertips, gently and slowly, down the column of your throat, over the nearly-faded bruises he’d left the last time you saw each other. 

He went still for a moment, lingering on the prints of his fingers on your skin before pressing down ever-so-slightly. 

You gasped, but managed to keep yourself from squirming as Kilgrave wrapped his slender hand around your neck, not hard enough to choke you, but enough to make you need to take a deeper breath than normal. You squeezed your eyes shut, pressing your thighs together and willing yourself to be patient, before you felt Kilgrave’s other hand shove your legs apart before slamming two fingers into you. Your body jerked involuntarily as he roughly scissored them, thrusting them in and out a few times before pulling away entirely and sitting down on the edge of the bed. You glanced up at him, slightly confused. 

“Come here,” he ordered, patting his leg in a clear invitation for you. “Face the mirror.”

You obeyed, struggling to move on your still-shaky legs, situating yourself so that your back was to him as you lowered yourself onto his lap. You gasped as you felt Kilgrave press his cock into you as you did so, impatiently forcing you backwards so that he was buried deep in your cunt with barely a moment for you to adjust to the feeling of him inside you. His hands grasped your inner thighs, pulling them apart roughly so that you had no choice but to watch yourself being fucked. He leaned in close, biting your neck before ordering: 

“Ride me. I don’t care if your legs hurt. Don’t stop fucking yourself until I tell you to.”

You were in no position to disobey. You moved as best you could, still trying to stay as close as possible to him, grinding your hips against his lap, closing your eyes as you felt him hit your most sensitive spot. He moved his legs so that they were keeping yours wide open, pinning you right where he wanted you. He grabbed your chin roughly and forced your half-lidded gaze towards the mirror on the wall in front of you. 

“Look at yourself. Look at you, getting fucked by a complete stranger. It’s pathetic. I absolutely ruined you the last time we met and you loved it so much, you just couldn’t help but bother me while I was working, eh? Oh, you must have been desperate for me,” he murmured through clenched teeth as he fucked into you, jerking his hips upward. “No one else can fuck you like this, can they? I’m the only one who can control you the way you love so much, so I’m the only one who gets to fuck you. Isn’t that right?”

There was that possessiveness again, making your heart beat faster than it already was. You reached upward, clutching the hand that held your face, and leaned back into him. 

“Fuck, yes, yes, yes, I’m yours, I’m yours, Kilgrave…” 

His name fell from your lips like a prayer as he fucked you. You worked your hips, bouncing up and down on his cock. Your eyes stayed glued to yourself in the mirror, staring at your fucked-out reflection, thoroughly mesmerized by the sight of his dick inside you. One of his hands wandered to your hip, gripping it hard; you could feel his nails digging little crescent marks in your skin. His other hand found its place at your clit, delicately massaging it with light, little circles, teasing you, tormenting you.

You arched your back in a silent plea for more, your moan becoming a sharp yelp when his hand came down hard and slapped your clit at full force. 

Your legs automatically tried to close, but Kilgrave had you firmly kept in place. He leaned upward, pulling you close, your back pressed firmly against his chest. 

“Oh, what’s the matter, sweetheart? Is it too much?” 

You paused, considering it, then nodded weakly, your eyes screwed shut. Your heart had skipped a beat at the pet name, but you had more pressing matters at hand. 

“Really? You came like a whore when I hit you with a fucking belt, but if I slap your cunt just a bit too hard, then you start whining?” 

You nodded again, feeling thoroughly humiliated. 

Kilgrave hummed in satisfaction. “Mmm. That’s too bad, I suppose. You’ll have to learn to like it.” 

You whimpered and writhed as another hit came, then  another. You moaned, starting to feel the stinging pain give way to a wave of pleasure, but still you trembled, completely overwhelmed. 

“See? Look at you. You’re desperate for it. I know how much you love it when I hit you. Stop squirming and let me give you what you want.” 

Your body relaxed involuntarily, eyes automatically locking onto yourself in the mirror. Again his hand came down, and your hips jumped forward, anticipating it.

You bit your lip as the stinging pain slowly settled into a pleasurable tingling feeling, watching as your clit grew bright red and slightly swollen as Kilgrave kept going, slap after slap after slap until you were gasping for air, jerking your hips against nothing in a desperate bid to cum, your head spinning. 

He stroked your clit with the tip of his index finger, just the barest of touches, but it was enough to make you flinch at the sensitivity. You groaned, but you still thrust your hips forward, wanting more. 

“Oh, look at that. Feels good, doesn’t it? Greedy fucking whore.” He punctuated the sentence with one final, harsh slap before pulling out and moving you off his lap.

You tumbled limply, until you landed in the middle of the bed, facedown and panting, feeling your abused clit throb pleasurably with every heartbeat. You didn’t even have time to try and take a full breath before you felt Kilgrave position himself above you, his cock brushing at your entrance. 

 “Are you gonna be good for me?” he murmured close to your ear. 

You nodded, and you felt him lean closer, his teeth grazing your neck before he spoke again. 

“Then tell me what you’re going to let me do.” 

You exhaled a moan before taking a shaky breath in. “Whatever you want to do. I can take it.”

“Is that so?” 

“Mm-hmm,” you sighed. You wriggled your hips, trying to maneuver yourself back onto his cock. “Just fuck me, I’ve been thinking about you all week — oh my fucking god!” 

Kilgrave had grabbed a fistful of your hair and yanked your head back, forcing himself inside of you with a deep moan that was almost a growl as he did so. You frantically moved to match his pace, throwing your hips back against his to meet every brutal thrust. Your eyes rolled back as you felt him fuck against your most sensitive spot, over and over and over again, never letting up, never faltering. 

He slapped your ass once, twice, three times before ordering you to cum. No teasing, no making you beg, just one simple order: “Cum.” And you obeyed, grinding out your orgasm, keening with pleasure as you did so. 

It was nearly a full minute before your brain started working again and you realized he hadn’t stopped fucking you. Your thoughts were hazy, but you had the vague feeling that that was odd. You remembered last time, and how he’d refused to let you cum until he was right on the edge. So, you mused vaguely, you’d figured he was close, but he was still going.

However, you didn’t have any time to think about it any further, because he was ordering you to cum again - the same way, just one blunt command. 

“Cum.” 

And your body obeyed without warning. 

You normally needed more time between orgasms; your body was still reeling from the last one. And yet, you still found yourself cumming, trembling from the force of it, your cunt clenching onto him desperately. 

Your shaky hands faltered where they gripped the sheets and you briefly scrambled to try and hold yourself upright, but your efforts were in vain. The minute you thought your body was stable, the command came again. 

“Cum.”

This time, you completely let go. There was no way you could have even tried to hold yourself together. The pleasure was blinding you, making your heart skip a beat as it raced in your chest. You fell forward, burying your face in the sheets. The only thing holding your hips upright was Kilgrave, his grip on you holding firm even as you convulsed, unable to regain control of your exhausted muscles.

You were nearly hyperventilating now, your breath coming fast and hard as you turned your face to the side and desperately tried to get words out. 

“Wh…what…what the f….fuck are y…you…doing to me?”

You couldn’t see Kilgrave, but you heard the grin in his voice, even as he panted with the exertion of fucking you. 

“You said I could do whatever I wanted. What I want is to see how many times you can cum before you tire yourself out. I’m not going to stop until you can’t move, and you don’t get my cum inside you until then. Besides, being mind controlled makes you a complete slut anyway, doesn’t it? You’d do it, whether I commanded you to or not. Now be a good girl and cum.”

And your body obeyed without question. 

You bit down on the sheets to keep from biting your tongue, half-pained moans of overwhelming bliss escaping from your throat in guttural, needy cries. You couldn’t feel your legs anymore; you had no idea how your lower half was still upright, and you could feel every nerve in your overstimulated cunt begging for a moment of rest that never came. 

For what felt like hours and hours, every time you started to come down from your last orgasm, Kilgrave would order another from you, and you had no choice but to comply. Eventually, your shaking legs gave in, but he just maneuvered you onto your back without hesitation and kept going. 

Around the time of what you thought must have been the eighth one (although there was no way you could have kept track at that point), you mustered every single bit of your strength to try and resist his orders. You held out for as long as you possibly could, letting the cold fog fill your head for as much as you could bear it, your entire body shaking with the effort, until you cracked and the torturous pleasure flooded you, leaving you even more of a wreck than you had been before. Even worse (even better?), the feeling of being mind-controlled by him acted like a direct line to your brain’s pleasure center, and trying to disobey only made the feeling intensify the longer you tried to resist. Whenever you finally let go, your orgasms only got stronger. And the stronger they got, the more vicious Kilgrave became, taunting you as he fucked your dripping cunt: 

“Oh, yes, take it, just like that, we both know how much you love getting fucked like this…oh, are you trying to resist again? That’s precious. Fine, struggle all you like, you know you’re going to cum anyway, don’t you? There you are, just cum for me. Let it all out. It feels so good, doesn’t it? I know, it feels so good for you to be treated like a slut. God, look at your cute little cunt, leaking all over me, making such a fucking mess. Keep taking it. This is where you belong, isn’t it? Getting impaled on my cock. You’re all mine, all fucking mine. Cum for me, cum for me…such a good girl…fuck, you’re so tight, how are you still so tight after being fucked for this long? It’s like you were made for me, made to get fucked by me. God, I love hearing you scream for me…I don’t even think I’d have to tell you to cum at this point, I think you’d just keep going all on your own, wouldn’t you? Mmm, of course you would. But I know what you’d like more than that. You want me to order you to, don’t you? Come on, beg for it…ask nicely…there you go, I’ve trained you so well, haven’t I? Go on then, cum for me…”

Finally, finally, long after every single one of your senses had been dulled into near-nonexistence, long after your dripping pussy had gone numb with overstimulation, and long after you stopped being able to process anything Kilgrave said, your jerking muscles gave into exhaustion and collapsed, leaving you unable to do anything but moan quietly, your voice having gone hoarse ages ago.

As your cunt twitched weakly with what you prayed would be your final orgasm of the night, you felt Kilgrave’s grasp on you tighten. Through your blurred vision, you saw him throw his head back in ecstasy as he came deep, deep inside you. 

Your eyes rolled back and your lids fluttered shut as he pulled out of you, the relief so intense you would have cried if you hadn’t been so worn out. 

You heard soft footsteps as he made his way to the side of the bed, then felt his hand brush something wet from the corner of your mouth. You felt slightly embarrassed at the realization that you were so fucked out that you’d started drooling. 

You mustered your last bit of energy to crack one eye slightly open. 

“Thank you,” you sighed, your lips curving into a smile as your eyes shut again. You thought you felt a hand brush your hair, but you couldn’t tell - you were already half asleep and dreaming. 

-

When you woke up, it was well past midnight. Your shift had ended hours ago. You groaned as you stretched your sore muscles and rolled over in bed. You were briefly surprised at the realization that you were under the covers, before deciding that you must have pulled them up around you in your sleep. You didn’t let yourself consider the alternative, or that you’d woken up in the exact same position you’d fallen asleep in. 

You blinked a couple of times, trying to adjust your vision to the dark. You weren’t expecting to see Kilgrave there, but his absence still caused a slight pang of hurt. Still, you figured, no one had come up to clean out the room or kick you out since he had, so he had at least booked it for the night. You decided to take advantage of it as your exhaustion caught up with you again and you sank back into a deep, deep sleep.  

-

You woke up a full twelve hours later at noon the next day. Thank god it’s my day off, you thought to yourself as you gingerly got out of bed. You slowly put on your uniform, picking it up from where you’d left it on the floor, wincing as you moved. Still, despite the slight ache that you felt all over, you’d slept better than you had in ages. 

As you smoothed your skirt down, you felt an odd texture inside one of the pockets, a slight crinkling that gave you pause. You felt your heartbeat quicken as you pulled out a small, folded piece of paper. You slowly, anxiously unfolded it to find three sentences written in pencil. The first was an address — based on the street name, you knew it was downtown, in an incredibly expensive neighborhood. You felt a grin spread across your face as you read the rest of the note:

“Save me the trouble of coming to your job again. 8:00 pm tomorrow.

-K.”

You knew exactly where you were going to be tomorrow.

A/N: i literally cannot thank you guys enough for sticking with this, i know the wait has been absolutely insane, but i really do love writing for you guys, and i want to thank each and every one of you for reading <3 as always, my requests are open, and feel free to like/comment/rb if you enjoyed this fic :)) thank you all again for your patience and for all the love - i had NO idea my first kilgrave fic would blow up so much, but i'm delighted that it did!

🍓 the title of this fic is from million dollar man by lana del rey 🍓

[ultimate-marysue]

How I feel my Batfam ships may or may not have children (please don't take me seriously I just need wholesomeness):

Dickkory: multiple bio kids, I'm pretty sure this is canon in some future/alternative universes. I think DC should set Kori free on a PTA meeting with no one explain to her the absurd social rules Karens set. The shitty mothers would hate her because she's over here, playing dumb on purpose until they're forced to admit they're just being annoying/egocentric and not actually asking to better their kid's education. Also, career day would be crazy considering Dick changes jobs every few months to get involved into whatever business he's investigating. Like, one year he's a cop, next he's a super model, next he's a college professor somehow. Kori thinks it's really funny so she insists on Dick being the one to go.

Dickbabs: they either don't have kids (just adopt a bunch of rescues) or maybe have one adoptive kid. Other than Cass who is Babs daughter I don't care what anyone thinks. Just Dick, Barbara and Barbara's daughter who is also Dick's sister. Also, Babs got lucky with Cass being homeschooled, the second she has to deal with the school system she's on the phone with the president blackmailing him to fix it. Easy to say, Dick deals with school exclusively from them on.

BabsDinah: they're the lesbian aunts (that end up doing a lot of the parenting because they can't help themselves). Like, neither of them would really want to have kids of their own, but the second a young vigilante with a shit ton of issues gets dropped in their doorstep it's on. Like, officially they'd be mentors, but they all see each other as family.

Stephcass: Cass is a ticking bomb, she's going to find an ex-murderer kid in need of guidance and just bring them home. Steph is not thrilled at first because they're so young still until she realizes "oh wait no, we're like, adult adults now" and then she has a crisis (unrelated to the child). Also Steph would love love to prove she's better than her father (but would be terrified of messing up). At first they're really chill but soon enough they turn it into a competition with the other Bats. Not a competition between their kids, mind you ("no Cass, that's bad parenting") but a competition of who's the best parent. Jason is terrified of them, but the rest are absolutely down.

Jayroy: asides from our beautiful wonderful and just overall fantastic Lian Harper, I think they might end up adopting some kids. What can I say? I think Jason should have Bruce's adoption gene, but specially for kids in dangerous/hard situations. I'm talking the older kids that never get adopted or younger kids with some sort of disability that need extra accomodations. I think Jason would try very hard to avoid them being vigilantes at least until they're 18. Roy is more chill with vigilantism because well, Lian turned out fine, but he respects Jason's opinion. Most important, no child of his is going to be a Robin to Bruce fucking Wayne. Also, everyone in the PTA would love them, they'd be super involved and Jason would make sure to bribe the appropriate people with muffins.

TimKon: test tube baby, not on purpose though. Like, I don't see Tim as someone actively wanting kids (especially not biological ones) and Kon wouldn't want his kid having to face the problems he did. But like, if Cadmus pulls some weird shit and there's a super baby for the taking, they would both want to make sure they give him the most loving upbringing possible. Another option is Tim accidentally creating their baby while trying to clone Kon while he was dead. That one's plausible and has a lot of angst hurt/comfort potential. Also, Teen Dad Tim after being extremely parentified during his early teens taking care of Bruce (while grieving everyone!) is evil , but a compelling kind of evil. Like a trainwreck you can't look away from.

TimBer: dual income no kids kinda queers. They're over here taking their various nephews to Olive Garden and Disneyland only to drop them off and go live their lovely stress free lives. They may adopt a kid, but that would be only when they really settled down. Let Tim enjoy his 20s (if he ever gets there) my boy has been through enough.

Dukeizzy: again, maybe it's because Duke's still pretty young so he hasn't showed much interest or inclination toward parenting, but I don't have a lot of info to go with. Personally either Dual income "take the kids to do airsoft" kinda uncle/aunt, I can see both of them being really good at giving advice to younger vigilantes (the whole situation of We Are Robin gives you a lot of insight in the power of child vigilantes separated from any mentors, so they're in a particular good spot to mediate between the kids and adults). In the case of them having kids, I think they should inherit Dukes autism (I love that headcanon) and both he and Izzy would be those parents making damn sure their kids get the accommodations they need specially at school. If their kids choose to become vigilantes you bet they're gonna be unionized.

Also, I don't have any particular ship for Damian but you bet that if that boy ever becomes a parent they'd be the softest, sweetest father in the world.

[txttletale]

what are some things you like about fnv?

so much! i like the character writing, i think every companion is well-written and compelling--i like the extremely tight and overarching but (mostly) unforced focus on theme. 'let go, begin again' gets said verbatim maybe a bit too much in dead money but it's also the theme of all the other DLC and every individual companion quest and the most popular of the four main story paths and i think that kind of broad coherence really shines. i love the quest and world design, i love how many different skills will pop up in conversation because it lets you genuinely roleplay, getting the option to e.g. tell dog the cage must be locked from the inside or bypass difficult combat encounters because you have a high lockpicking skill makes you feel like your character is an expert lockpicker in a way that just being able to get optional loot sometimes just doesn't--i love how you will be directed to important or interesting locations from multiple quests, how all these places interconnect.

and i also deeply love how fnv's world is a world of history and people, not of facts and lore. you can kill caesar and kimball and their factions don't just explode without them--and you will hear multiple, contradictory takes from people in the world about how those deaths will impact those factions. if you kill caesar, house says it won't matter at all, boone says he has successors, ulysses and some NCR guys say it'll collapse the legion, and you never really get to know for sure. and so much about the world is like this, stuff you can get endless perspectives on and no single authoritative 'neutral' information. and in that line i love how the world is more than those people! how the world is much more than you., as impactful as the courier can be, the world reacting and moving and changing is prioritized over absolute player freedom to Experience Content--i love that, for instance, if you're vilified by the NCR before House gives you the quest to protect kimball, he just says "they're not going to let you get close to them, we'll just have to let him die" and then you can't do that quest and kimball dies! little shit like that makes new vegas' world feel real instead of warping around wikis and lore bibles and the protagonist.

so yeah i like a lot about fnv! i am a bit more vocal about my criticisms just bc quite frankly i think all of the things i like are things most people like and i see people saying basically all of this every time the game is brought up while i don't see people talk about the stuff i think is weird/bad as much. and i'm naturally inclinced to like, say whatever i think my more original trhoughts are so i'm not just adding to a chorus. but i do love fnv a lot