#at least its an isolated case

[grandly-disfunctional]

When you go the entirety of con season believing the cosplayers are the most amazing, kind people ever and then on the last day of your streak you get bullied by someone in a velvet cosplay (trolls band together varitey)

[acanthemp3]

sorry for disappearing from tumblr for 3 months without saying anything but im back now :> hiiiiiii :> ill ramble a bit abt why i was gone in the tags. anyway yay hi guys :> good evening :> hows everyone doing :>

[eatyourmaker]

I don't know how to word so I just. Send hug gif

I hope you don't mind me sending these kfdngskdfn

🫂 thanks

Sorry if I bummed anyone out

It just kinda sucks

I was so excited to have a place that felt!!! So accepting!!! And it felt like everyone was just toying with the characters in their own creative way, whether that be ships, blogs, rps, etc.

A place where a weirdo like me could thrive.

But

Idk lately this place is starting to feel as draining as any other aspect of my life. Idk what changed... in reality it's probably only me that's changed.

Like I'm constantly scared of something,,,

Maybe I'll just disappear until the next ep drops again fjdksndkdnns

[meatriarch]

im still on my fuckshit but when i think of cc maria ( by extension also nosy maria but specifically noting the isolation aspect of cc );

can you imagine one day skimming the paper. its been a few weeks since all the commotion knowing your friends' had attempted to come find you but then were chased off. never actually heard or saw any of them, but you know they were around.

but you've been moved from the cells to a mattress upstairs. you're given more freedom, more wiggle room, you're allowed to do things - little hobby-type activities - you're given better foods, you're looked after by the older woman at the other house. the man who took you, who terrifies you still to some degree, slowly doesn't feel like such a stranger anymore, you're right to still be cautious around him but as the days, the weeks, pass by, there's simply a different air about him, and in the shack. lighter, in a sense.

you find yourself growing used to the new daily - the new routine. of waking to the sound of him getting ready for the day, of being left alone in there for hours sometimes, others trailing after him like a duckling, around the older womans' property, helping with an array of tasks. and you worry about upsetting her at first, unsure if doing so will earn a knife to the throat. you listen, you do as you're told, you find some kind of way to co-exist - all the while still, in the back of your mind, there's still a ray of hope,

that maybe, maybe, since the rest of them got away - that they're merely licking their wounds, that they'll get word out and even with all the silence since they had been on the property, there's that shred of hope that maybe? someone will waltz in, guns blazing so to speak, and you'll get out of this hell finally.

that is, until that day - that you're skimming through the paper, and you recognize yourself in a little column - and you realize you're staring at your own fucking obituary.

and in that moment everything seems solidified.

you're never getting away.

there's no point in it.

there's no one out there who are still trying to find you, get you back, bring you home, back to your mothers' arms, back to being an older sister, back to the circle of friends you loved so dearly.

you're dead.

not just to the world, but to those you loved - those who claimed to have loved you, too.

what else do you have at that point? where else do you go, even if you still tried to leave? who wouldn't look at you sideways for the blood that's already stained your hands? for the flesh caught between teeth?

who else is there, except the one murmuring encouragement and praise in your ear?

the only constant you've had in all these weeks? whose words rang true - clearly - that no one cared? that they abandoned you? left you there, didn't even care to make sure you were alive or not? only thought of themselves and got the fuck outta there without confirming if you were even still alive.

[pyrriax]

hey guys im back at it again with the horrible levels of s4 zam brainrot. um.

did i manage to somehow make this song about him in my head? yes! yes i did. and i cannot be normal about it.

[meatriarchived]

i did not sleep yay for me im still on my fuckshit but when i think of cc maria ( by extension also nosy maria but specifically noting the isolation aspect of cc );

can you imagine one day skimming the paper. its been a few weeks since all the commotion knowing your friends' had attempted to come find you but then were chased off. never actually heard or saw any of them, but you know they were around.

but you've been moved from the cells to a mattress upstairs. you're given more freedom, more wiggle room, you're allowed to do things - little hobby-type activities - you're given better foods, you're looked after by the older woman at the other house. the man who took you, who terrifies you still to some degree, slowly doesn't feel like such a stranger anymore, you're right to still be cautious around him but as the days, the weeks, pass by, there's simply a different air about him, and in the shack. lighter, in a sense.

you find yourself growing used to the new daily - the new routine. of waking to the sound of him getting ready for the day, of being left alone in there for hours sometimes, others trailing after him like a duckling, around the older womans' property, helping with an array of tasks. and you worry about upsetting her at first, unsure if doing so will earn a knife to the throat. you listen, you do as you're told, you find some kind of way to co-exist - all the while still, in the back of your mind, there's still a ray of hope,

that maybe, maybe, since the rest of them got away - that they're merely licking their wounds, that they'll get word out and even with all the silence since they had been on the property, there's that shred of hope that maybe? someone will waltz in, guns blazing so to speak, and you'll get out of this hell finally.

that is, until that day - that you're skimming through the paper, and you recognize yourself in a little column - and you realize you're staring at your own fucking obituary.

and in that moment everything seems solidified.

you're never getting away.

there's no point in it.

there's no one out there who are still trying to find you, get you back, bring you home, back to your mothers' arms, back to being an older sister, back to the circle of friends you loved so dearly.

you're dead.

not just to the world, but to those you loved - those who claimed to have loved you, too.

what else do you have at that point? where else do you go, even if you still tried to leave? who wouldn't look at you sideways for the blood that's already stained your hands? for the flesh caught between teeth?

who else is there, except the one murmuring encouragement and praise in your ear?

the only constant you've had in all these weeks? whose words rang true - clearly - that no one cared? that they abandoned you? left you there, didn't even care to make sure you were alive or not? only thought of themselves and got the fuck outta there without confirming if you were even still alive.

[xinsanitysxedgex]

xbloodiedxkneesx asked: “ i can’t keep pictures of us on my phone, are you crazy? ” (Sid @ Gale)

Gutpunch from the second the words dropped. She really should've seen this coming... The story of Sid and Gale would forever be the UNTOLD WHISPER amidst the main attraction of GHOSTFACE. That's how this world had to be; Two girls swept up in the KILLING TIDE... Gale had been the one to rebel so tenaciously for so long against their relationship. Had it been denial? Tearing? Or a TALE OF TWO LOVES? Whatever it was, Gale had done everything she could to hide her feelings from Sidney, so petrified she was of being an even worse human than she'd EVER imagined. But of course over the years the roles had reversed. Gale's relationship with Dewey crashed and burned even WITHOUT him ever finding out the truth of Sid & Gale... No matter how much she gave it, he gave up on it mere MONTHS after her dream finally came true. And now she was ALONE and it was SID's turn for HER dreams to come true. Out Of Darkness had been a major success, especially after Jill's crimes. All the while, Gale struggled with inspiration ever since she turned her gaze away from the true stories of Ghostface. Her FICTION had FLOPPED as she struggled through WRITER'S BLOCK and now all she had was an anchorship in New York without an anchor to keep her steady.

Had she chosen wrong?

Her brow scrunched and she took a breath, RECOILING from Sid. "What's it matter anymore? Dewey's gone. GONE. He left me, remember?" And now what? Gale wanted Sidney to leave Mark Kincaid? Without a CARE in the world for how it would effect her three kids? Things had changed. They'd let ships sail past in the night for TWENTY-FIVE YEARS. Gale hadn't just missed the train. Their trains departed their stations TWENTY-ONE YEARS AGO. With a proposal from Dewey and a declaration of love from Mark. "You had no problems keeping pictures of me before you met HIM..." Or rather, before she had THREE KIDS... "Don't act like we lost what we had. You wouldn't even BE HERE with me right now if you believed that for a SECOND." Indeed, here they were, Gale's shirt long discarded, leaving her in a skirt and bra. She never should have asked Sid to record her... This was STUPID... Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Why had she thought Sid would suddenly be happy about this? Maybe because Sid had long wanted to record her and Gale... And Gale thought... "Shit..." She shook her head and sank down into Sidney's bed taking a breath and turning her eyes up to the ceiling. "FORGET IT..."

[lobotomysyndromez]

Ford Pines they'll never make me hate you

[copperbadge]

I'm getting depressingly good at identifying the formula for Pop Academic Books About ADHD.

Regardless of their philosophy it pretty much goes like this:

1. Emotionally sensitive essay about the struggle of ADHD and the author's personal experience with it as both a person with ADHD and a healthcare professional.

2. Either during or directly following this, a lightly explicated catalogue of symptoms, illustrated by anecdotes from patient case studies. Optional: frequent, heavy use of metaphor to explain ADHD-driven behavior.

3. Several chapters follow, each dedicated to a symptom; these have a mini-formula of their own. They open with a patient case study, discuss the highly relatable aspects of the specific symptom or behavior, then offer some lightweight examples of a treatment for the symptom, usually accompanied by follow up results from the earlier case studies.

4. Somewhere around halfway-to-two-thirds through the book, the author introduces the more in-depth explication of the treatment system (often their own homebrew) they are advocating. These are generally both personally-driven (as opposed to suggested cultural changes, which makes sense given these books' target audience, more on this later) and composed of an elaborate system of either behavior alteration or mental reframing. Whether this system is actually implementable by the average reader varies wildly.

5. A brief optional section on how to make use of ADHD as a tool (usually referring to ADHD or some of its symptoms as a superpower at least once). Sometimes this section restates the importance of using the systems from part 4 to harness that superpower. Frequently, if present, it feels like an afterthought.

6. Summation and list of further resources, often including other books which follow this formula.

I know I'm being a little sarcastic, but realistically there's nothing inherently wrong about the formula, like in itself it's not a red flag. It's just hilariously recognizable once you've noticed it.

It makes sense that these books advocate for the Reader With ADHD undertaking personal responsibility for their treatment, since these are in the tradition of self-help publishing. They're aimed at people who are already interested in doing their own research on their disability and possible ways to handle it. It's not really fair to ask them to be policy manuals, but I do find it interesting that even books which advocate stuff like volunteering (for whatever reason, usually to do with socialization issues and isolation, often DBT-adjacent) never suggest disability activism either generally or with an ADHD-specific bent.

None of these books suggest that perhaps life with ADHD could be made easier with increased accommodations or ease of medication access, and that it might be in a person's best interest to engage in political advocacy surrounding these and other disability-related issues. Or that activism related to ADHD might help to give someone with ADHD a stronger sense of ownership of their unique neurology. Or that if you have ADHD the idea of activism or even medical self-advocacy is crushingly stressful, and ways that stress might be dealt with.

It does make me want to write one of my own. "The Deviant Chaos Guide To Being A Miscreant With ADHD". Includes chapters on how to get an actual accurate assessment, tips for managing a prescription for a controlled substance, medical and psychiatric self-advocacy for people who are conditioned against confrontation, When To Lie About Being Neurodivergent, policy suggestions for ADHD-related legislation, tips for activism while executively dysfunked, and to close the book a biting satire of the pop media idea of self-care. ("Feeling sad? Make yourself a nice pot of chicken soup from scratch and you'll feel better in no time. Stay tuned after this rambling personal essay for the most mediocre chicken soup recipe you've ever seen!" "Have you considered planning and executing an overly elaborate criminal heist as a way to meet people and stay busy?")

Every case study or personal anecdote in the book will have a different name and demographics attached but will also make it obvious that they are all really just me, in the prose equivalent of a cheap wig, writing about my life. "Kelly, age seven, says she struggles to stay organized using the systems neurotypical children might find easy. I had to design my own accounting spreadsheet in order to make sure I always have enough in checking to cover the mortgage, she told me, fidgeting with the pop socket on her smartphone."

I feel a little bad making fun, because these books are often the best resource people can get (in itself concerning). It's like how despite my dislike of AA, I don't dunk on it in public because I don't want to offer people an excuse not to seek help. It feels like punching down to criticize these books, even though it's a swing at an industry that is mainly, it seems, here to profit from me. But one does get tired of skimming the hype for the real content only to find the real content isn't that useful either.

Les (not his real name) was diagnosed at the age of 236. Charming, well-read, and wealthy, he still spent much of his afterlife feeling deeply inadequate about his perceived shortcomings. "Vampire culture doesn't really acknowledge ADHD as a condition," he says. "My sire wouldn't understand, even though he probably has it as well. You should see the number of coffins containing the soil of his homeland that he's left lying forgotten all over Europe." A late diagnosis validated his feelings of difference, but on its own can't help when he hyperfocuses on seducing mortals who cross his path and forgets to get home before sunrise. "I have stock in sunburn gel companies," he jokes.

[zillychu]

I’ve gotten a WAVE of asks about this AU, so I decided to flesh it out some more and answer some of those questions!

I’ll probably polish this extended summary up at some point and submit it to AO3. But for now, here’s a rundown of my thoughts–please feel free to send more questions! I’ll update this post if I get any more. But if you’re someone who wanted to write fic for it, don’t worry, you don’t need to take my headcanons as gospel. It’s a pretty basic AU honestly lol

Summary:

The portal accident results in a violent explosion that wipes out the whole block, and condemns all of Amity Park. Danny haunts the city for 100 years, before Sam and Tucker find him. 

Setup:

In the 1920’s, 19-year-old Danny went into the incomplete portal on his own, hoping to help out his parents. Ripping the portal open through unnatural means created a huge burst of energy that resulted in a massive explosion. A good portion of the Amity Park population died, many were injured, and the ones on the fringes relocated–Amity was quickly deemed too dangerous due to the excess ectoplasm in the area that attracted ghosts. 

While the disaster was in Amity, the fallout was seen around the globe. Before, natural portals were rare, short-lived, and rarely allowed ghosts to fully slip into our realm (the most severe cases being on par with poltergeists that most people didn’t believe in). Now, natural portals pop open frequently around the world, large enough to allow the entirety of a ghost into the physical plane. They’re more common the closer you get to Amity, but they happen enough elsewhere that this change was something of a small apocalypse before people settled back down and found out how to combat at least some of their new, permanent neighbors. 

Danny is unaware that he’s only half-dead, believing he’s a full ghost. He ends up sticking around Amity, unintentionally making it his haunt. His grief and guilt over causing the death of his loved ones (and many others) makes him isolate and avoid human contact. Though he has, at times, scared nosy people away from the city in a mix of territorial instinct–and to get them to leave before a less friendly ghost finds them. 

Ghosts are much more of an uncontested danger in this AU. Lesser ghosts are practically mindless, and while stronger ghosts are capable of reason, their interests are limited. They’re highly territorial, possessive, and often destructive. Most worrisome is that they also like to snack on the life force of anything alive. No one is sure what dictates a ghost’s propensity to attack or hunt the living for their life force since ghosts don’t exactly experience hunger. At least, not the way we do. If a human is rescued before their life force is fully drained, they can make a full recovery–though humanity has still not yet found what this “life force" is. 

And since the Fentons’ research died along with them, there aren’t many tools available to the public to protect them from ghosts. Most homes have standard ghost shields and some weapons are available on the market, but certified ghost hunters are required to take care of anything more powerful than your average spook. 

Sam and Tucker met in high school, and are now rooming together for college very close to the Amity border. Rent is surprisingly cheap when you’re a stone’s throw away from a condemned area crawling with ghosts. Sam is the one who drags Tucker along with her fascination over finding out more about the city, and its largely mysterious demise. Sam is aware of the danger, but feels ghosts have a place in this world just like everything else, and does exercise caution–like one would while foraging in the woods with a known tiger population. 

What she and Tucker weren’t expecting was to run into a ghost that felt almost human. One that hasn't hurt them, not for lack of trying–while being powerful enough to walk past ghost shields without so much as a flinch. The long white hair is familiar in the whispers of the ectobiologist community, but there’s no way it could be the rumored ghost king Phantom, right?

About Danny:

He has very long hair, claws, and black sclera. His hazmat suit is more torn and ragged, with exposed hands and feet that fade into a burnt black.

His hair tends to float a lot on its own. It can start morphing into fire under duress. 

He does still technically have gloves and boots, they've just charred and melted into his skin towards the ends. He can't take them off in his ghost form. His hands and feet have a leathery texture that's tougher than the rest of his skin.

The white of his hazmat suit is both supposed to look like flames, and also a battered look representing his more violent, explosive death.

Overall, he appears rather listless and sad, with an unnerving air of danger around him–even for a ghost. 

Danny’s “ghost sense” comes out as white smoke.

He does breathe black smoke at times, usually when agitated. 

He's already fought and defeated Pariah Dark by the time Sam and Tucker find him, technically making him the Ghost King. This is heavily speculated by ghost experts, despite there being no real proof beyond a massive battle that scarred Illinois. He has not donned the Ring or the Crown, and captured sentient ghosts are hesitant to answer questions surrounding him. Danny basically has the throne but doesn’t do anything with it, and finds it meaningless enough to routinely forget he has the title. He only fought Pariah because he knew otherwise, humanity would have perished. A lot of ghosts are scared of him because he's so hard to figure out, and he's strong. 

Danny is usually very quiet and speaks softly, because his lungs were damaged in the blaze that half-killed him. He's technically healed since becoming a ghost, so it's more of a compulsion due to the traumatic memory. That, and he’s just… very forlorn and distant, shy around humans who don’t seem to understand how dangerous it is to keep hanging around him.

His memories pre-accident are extremely fuzzy. He knows the very basics of who he was, but specifics have been muffled due to trauma and isolation. He routinely forgets human habits, etiquette, etc. and tends to act more like a full ghost with some odd quirks. 

He does try to scare Sam and Tucker off numerous times. Unfortunately for him, they realized they shouldn't have been able to escape a ghost that strong–but they did, because he let them. 

Sam and Tucker think he's mute at first! He doesn't speak a word to them until several encounters later, when he fumbles his whole scary act and saves them from another ghost. 

He’s still half-ghost, though he doesn’t figure this out until Sam and Tucker come along trying to unravel the mysteries behind the Amity catastrophe. Physically and emotionally, he’s been stuck for 100 years–so his human form is still 19. It’s unclear at this point if he can age normally like a human as long as he stays in human form, or if he’s immortal. 

Danny's family did not turn into ghosts, though he sometimes worries he'll find them in the afterlife as shells of their former selves. He doesn't know if it's better or worse that he's not sure he'd recognize them. 

(Danny also still has some living family. Take a guess.)

Yes, he knows how to Wail. Understandably, he very rarely uses it. You do not want to witness this.

Danny :) is not immune :) from the allure of eating a human's life force :)))

[sashiavi]

•··········🍑···········• ֪٘ ︶ ͝ ٘⏝𖹭⏝ ͝ ٘︶٘ ֪•···········🍑··········•

this has been rotting in my documents since October </3 abandoned kinktober prompt I just couldn't get out of my head :((

•·············🍑·············•🍑•·············🍑·············•

♡𝙲𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝙳𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗♡ Wriothesley x Reader - wrio finds you stuck in a wall

𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜: | ¹⁸⁺ | ˢᵐᵘᵗ | ᵃᶠᵃᵇ ʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ | ᴾʳᶦˢᵒⁿᵉʳᵎ ᴿᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ | ᵖᵘⁿᶦˢʰᵐᵉⁿᵗ | ˢᵗᵘᶜᵏ ᶦⁿ ᵃ ʷᵃˡˡ | ᵖᵒʷᵉʳ ᵈʸⁿᵃᵐᶦᶜˢ | ᵈᵒᵐ/ˢᵘᵇ | ⁿᵃˢᵗʸ ⁿᵃˢᵗʸ ʷʳᶦᵒ ˢᵐᵘᵗ | ʷᵒʳᵈ ᶜᵒᵘⁿᵗ ³.⁵ᵏ

→ᴰᵃʳᵏ ᶜᵒⁿᵗᵉⁿᵗ ᵂᵃʳⁿᶦⁿᵍ←

ᵀʰᶦˢ ᴾᶦᵉᶜᵉ ᶜᵒⁿᵗᵃᶦⁿˢ ᵀʰᵉᵐᵉˢ ᴼᶠ ⁻ ᴰᵘᵇᶜᵒⁿ|ᴰᵘᵐᵇᶦᶠᶦᶜᵃᵗᶦᵒⁿ|ˢᵗᵘᶜᵏᵃᵍᵉ| ᴿᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ ᴰᶦˢᶜʳᵉᵗᶦᵒⁿ ᴵˢ ᴬᵈᵛᶦˢᵉᵈ

•· ֪٘ ︶ ͝ ٘⏝𖹭⏝ ͝ ٘︶٘ ֪·····.•🍑•.····· ֪٘ ︶ ͝ ٘⏝𖹭⏝ ͝ ٘︶٘ ֪·•

Well, well. What an amusing predicament. Wriothesley certainly didn't expect his morning to turn out so… Interestingly. 

The Duke makes his rounds through the Fortress of Metropide twice a day. Once in the morning and again during the young hours of the night, right when the sun sets. Not that its rays could be seen so far down under the surface of the sea, but the sentiment was there. Wriothesely would often be seen passing through the establishment's pleasantries, always making a stop by the inmate sleeping quarters, he ought to have an idea of exactly whom he had in his Fortress.. Right?

He ventures further than the guards are assigned, boots clicking coolly against the metallic flooring, echoing through the high domed ceilings of the holding pods. The Duke makes an effort into personally peeking a look into each isolated cell, sometimes striking up a small conversation with an inmate or two. The man knew all-too-well just how lonesome time in prison was, he could at least acknowledge their existences. 

Speaking of, his mind wanders as he approaches a specific cell, isolated and cold - Away from the rest, segregated by the Fortress’ rule of separating cases, depending on their verdict - Wriothesley flitters back to a conversation he held the night before -

- “Now, what's a girl like you doing here in my Fortress?” Wriothesley leans himself upon the bars of your cell. The area was quiet, isolated with little inhabitants, even more so during the day time, while inmates congregated within the public area of the fortress. You jump slightly, whipping around to face him. 

“Oh, you know.. Stuff..” You reply, looking a little shameless towards him. He had an inkling that you were up to no good. But he’d bite.

“How’s the Fortress treating you? Despite the whole prison aspect,” He chuckles to himself, earning your own laugh, dancing in his ears.

“It’s.. a little boring in here,” He watches your eyes wander around the cell.

“Well- At least you have that poster there, plenty of fun to stare at, I’m sure.” Wriothesley lets his eyes crinkle. The poster was large, stuck to the wall haphazardly, crooked and torn on one corner. “That thing could cover up anything,” He side comments. He watches your interest pique, head tilting in what he could only describe as thought - A stupid one he thinks. 

“I wouldn't try it, you just might escape. I can't have that happen, now can I?” He winks, finally continuing his evening round throughout the section of the fortress.

All of that circles back to the now, as Wriothesley approaches your cell on his morning patrol. Something stirs in his chest, a tickling inkling. He nearly half expects you to have followed his gracious ‘advice’ - If you could even call it that. 

Lo and behold, the Duke spots a special individual poking out from the cracked cell wall. Your lower half nearly dangles from the partition, practically on tippy toes, ankles surely close to giving out from the awkward position. The poster from the night before lays perfectly on the floor next to your frame, comically outlining just how bad you had messed up. He nearly chuckles at the sudden jolt of your body as he unlocks the cell door, craning it open with an obnoxious creak.

“Well.. Aren’t you something?” His heavy boots resonate through the near barren cell, echoing as he makes his way towards your predicament.

You helplessly squirm, whining out of your throat as you fruitlessly struggle in your impromptu confines. Wriothesley stares down at you in utter bemusement, his face cracking with an audacious downturned smile; not that you could see his face through the thick prison wall. Poor You. All lodged and stuck.

"Y-Your Grace! It's not what it looks like-" Your voice manages through the wall, a little muffled to the ear. However, Wriothesley was sure you hadn’t even broken into the adjacent room.

"It's exactly what it looks like. Who knew you'd actually try it." He almost laughs. It wasn’t like you were going to go anywhere - Last he checked, the Fontainian Ocean was right outside their door.

“Seemed like a decent idea..” Wriothesley has to strain to hear your mumble.

“We’re far under the water dear.. Or did you forget in your haste?” This time, he makes no effort to stifle his laugh, chuckling out loud when your form visibly slumps - Whether out of embarrassment or defeat - He was thoroughly amused.

“Hmm.. Now, what do we do with you?” Wriothesley teases. He cranes his body, bending his back with purpose, inspecting the damage you had added to the already faulty wall. How you had managed to wiggle your way in this far, he hadn't a clue. Your body noticeably tenses, you make an attempt to find a proper footing, easily failing from the height of the hole.

“P-Please Your Grace- I’ll do anything, really! Anything you want just- please don’t add time for this..”

“You’ll do.. Anything…?” Call him confused, what were you on about?

“Yes, anything- ch-chores? Solitary? I’ll be good I swear, really- Or you could..” You trail off, leaving the Duke to sit with his whirring brain for a moment. “You.. Can take me… Use me how you want- Please~ Y-You’re stressed right? U-Use me.. Do whatever you wanna-” You sounded nearly delirious. Your pretty ass shakes, brushing up against the front of his pants, a feeble attempt to press back into him.

Were you trying to bargain with him? Wriothesley was more than ready to pull you out, maybe give a little slap on the wrist and send you on your merry way. But now? The Duke couldn't help but indulge in the feeling of his pants tightening around his groin. The idea of taking your pretty self, stuck helplessly in the wall. He couldn't refuse your offer, right? Not when you sounded so eager. Not when you begged for him, for his body, for his thick aching cock, threatening to burst the seam of his trousers. 

Before he can properly stop himself - Not that he was really going to - Wriothesley finds his hands on the soft swell of your ass, squeezing the flesh in his palms. You jolt under his touch, footing slipping slightly against the floor that barely brushed against your toes. Wriothesley breathes hard from his nose, hooking his fingers into the cut of your waistband, pulling the fabric over your form. He hears a whimper from beyond the wall.

“Y-Your Grace…The wall..” Your voice wobbles, body tensing against the brush of his hands.

“What? Having second thoughts?” He can’t help but tease you, squishing his fingers into the soft meat of your ass, digging his hands into your half-on pants. You did say anything. You gasp out, voice cracking with muffled little pleas. ‘Never’ you say ‘Want it bad - so bad’.

Your pants come off quickly, thrown to the floor in a crumple. Wriothesley’s hands are on you again, spreading the fat of your ass apart, marvelling at the pretty swell of your pussy hugged against your panties. He watches your plush thighs squish together, rubbing and squirming in his hold, he couldn't tell if you were wiggling away or keening into him. Not that you could go anywhere. The thought irks a chuckle out of Wriothesley. His fingers wander again, caressing over the soft skin of your ass, digging them in and jiggling cheekily. His thumbs slide over and hook into the elastic of your panties, hugging around the thick of your legs. He meanly tugs at the snappy material, pulling it up and taught, forcing the fabric to cling achingly against your cunt. His tongue instinctively pokes from behind his lips, itching to lap at the pretty wet spot that had formed over the fabric. 

Wriothesley swallows thickly, eyes locked on your pretty cunt, head swimming with the short, hiccuped whines that cut through the wall. You babble and cry, repeating his title over and over - Your Grace, Your Grace - begging him to just touch. To do anything - Anything. 

Your pretty voice gets to him and he finds himself nearly ripping your drenched panties off of you. He pulls them down, leaving them dangling off of your legs, showing off your wet cunt just for him. Gods, he wasn't disappointed. Your pretty pussy peeks from behind the swell of your thighs, already dripping wet, all over yourself. He swears he twitches, breath hissing through his teeth, cold on your core. The sweet jump you make - as best as you could - sends him reeling. 

Wriothesley’s thick fingers tentatively poke at your dripping pussy, catching your sweet, dribbly slick on his fingertips. He awes at how it webs between his fingers, how you’d managed to work yourself up with your own babbling. Perhaps the wall aided a little - Showing off your bottom half, on full display just for him to enjoy, your own vision obscured. You wouldn't see anything coming. The thought runs straight to his cock, making itself well known again against the fly of his trousers. 

Wriothesley licks against his lips, enamoured at the pretty string of your slick on his fingers, sticking between his digits like a lattice. He needs more. He wastes no time, easily slipping in two of his fingers, knuckle deep right into the doughy swell of your hole. Gods, you felt so soft. Silky to his touch, pussy pretty and plushy and warm. The squeal that muffles through the wall forces him to sink his teeth into his own bottom lip. Toying with you came to him naturally. Ever so easy with you all snug and stuck, silly enough to try and swindle him and escape your commitment to the Fortress. 

“W-Wriothesley… your g-grace..” He ignores you, fingers digging into the sweet, supple curve of your cunt. He curls them downward, earning the prettiest, muffled cries through the wall. He releases a breath he didn't even know he was holding. Wriothesley thrusts his fingers hard. Pressing meanly into the achy swollen bump in your core, getting a kick out of the lewd suckling squelch of your pussy on his fingers. Your poor legs practically give out, ankles going limp, your body holding itself up thanks to the wall hugging your body. Your voice crackles through the cement, whiney and keening, babbling dumb nonsensical begs and pleads to him. Your slick pools against his knuckles, threatening to overturn the snug fit of his rings on his fingers. He can't help but stare, locked in, mind reeling with the way your cunt wrapped around his digits. He couldn't help but wonder just what that pretty little thing would look like, all red and puffy, hugging on his thick cock.

He shamelessly lets out his own groan. Finally managing to remove his fingers, watching in awe as your slick drips off of them, connecting him to you with a thin, dribbly line. 

Just a taste…

The thought zaps through his brain, tongue shamelessly poking its way past his teeth, running over his lips with a quick tilt of his head.

Wriothesley wastes no time. Wrapping his lips against your slick cunt, eyes rolling hard into the back of his skull. Fuck. Your taste on his tongue, sweet and tangy, oh so decadently coating his throat. Archons, he laps and suckles, nearly sinking his teeth into the heat of your core, into the puffy swell of your pussy lips. You keen back into him, whining never-ending, absolutely ceaseless, voice managing to pierce through the heavy material of the wall you’d stuck yourself in. That thought charges through his mind again. Poor little you, all stuck and lodged in the wall all for him to play with. The man was sure he would cream in his own pants if he kept up. He barely registers his knees beginning to ache under the heavy pressure of his own body meeting the floor. Since when had he managed to sink down? Finding his hands back on your plushy ass cheeks? Chin dribbling slobber and slick, sticking wetly to the scratchy stubble shadowing over his face? He couldn't take it anymore. 

Wriothesley stands with a start, ignoring the stiff crack of his knees in favour of unbuckling his godforsaken pants. His hands are clumsy, large palms pawing at the metal of his trousers, his belt suddenly too intricate for his rough, fervent body to figure out - Not with how his mind reels, with the sight of you stuck in the wall, pretty pussy drooling, on display all for him. He barely shoves his pants to his thighs, the material wrapping around his legs in a mess. His cock weeps as it's free, slapping up into his stomach, heavy balls hanging over the waist of his trousers. He leaks beads of sticky pre, messing up the surface of his dress shirt. Wriothesley groans out loud, hand coming up to wrap around the base of his cock, squeezing it up and down to ease the hot tension pulsing through his thick cock vein. 

He was sure you heard the cold clink of his belt, the only inkling of what was to come for you. He can't help but jerk his length off to the sight of you, shamelessly stalling just to mess with your head. No matter how much you squirm and beg, crying out as best as you could, stupidly asking for a reply to gather any kind of indication of what he was about to do to you. He stays silent.

Wriothesley meanly slaps his cock over the sticky, wet folds of your achy cunt, he chuckles when you jump again, going absolutely crazy for your every little reaction. Your pussy sounded so pretty on his tip, all wet and sticky as he slapped and rubbed against it. His fat tip slides over your warm, slick folds, craning his hips forward, catching against your sopping hole, earning him the softest gasps from within the wall. Your little jumps all but spur him all the more on.

“M’ not even in yet.. Pussy’s already tryin’ to suck me in,” Wriothesley pokes his tip against your hole, catching it against the warm, supple squeeze of your cunt. He growls through his teeth, head quickly draining of any cohesive decision making. Your babbling continues through the wall, your hips crane up into his own, wiggling and catching back on the thick head of his dick. Gods, that does it. You were insatiable, all stuck waiting for him to come along and ravage your pretty cunt with his cock. 

It all urges him to dive in, give your poor cunt no warning for his thick, dribbling cock.

And so he does.

“Fuuuckk” Wriothesley can’t help but groan, finally feeling the sweet swell of your cunt enveloped the fat length of his cock. He has to bite into his thumb, just to slow himself down, let himself relish in the sweet squeeze of your cunt on his cock. Gods the way you wrapped around him, silky soft walls hugging on his length. He can't help but awe at the way your achy pussy squeezed on him, all puffy and sore from neglect. His hands find your hips, one of the only parts free from the wall.

“Your Grace~.. So big- so biiig… Filling me up- please please… please” Your silly voice cracks through the wall. Wriothesley digs his fingers into the flesh of your hips, purposely lifting your poor legs off of the floor, leveraging your body just for him to use. You squirm in his hold, easily forcing him to grip you tighter.

“Fuck, stay still. Gonna make me go crazy..” Wriothesley finds himself mindlessly rocking his thick cock into your silky cunny, humping his hips against your ass like some kind of dog in rut. Archons, he could get used to this. His own personal little wall slut, always there for him to use and abuse. His eyes roll at the idea, his snapping hard, earning a loud hiccuped cry from within the thick wall. The hot squelch that follows has him nearly drooling, mouth dropped open in a soft frown, eyes locked on to his heavy cock sliding in and out of your dumb cunt. He fucks his hips hard again, cock head smacking into the deepest parts of your pussy.

Wriothesley doesn't remember speeding up. But he sure as hell won't be slowing down - not anytime soon. Your gushy pussy squelches on his cock, dribbling down your thighs, messing all over your poor aching legs. Wriothesley’s fingers keep a hold of your hips, rocking them slightly to meet his brutal pace. He doesn't have to crane his ears to hear your pretty moans, effortlessly reaping through the solid wall, barely muffled by the sheer loudness of your voice. 

Fuck, he didn’t care about the noise. Let everyone hear them. What were they going to do about it? What were you going to do about it? About getting all stuck in this wall, going against the Fortress’ protocol? Seducing the Duke of the Meropide, forcing him to fuck your dumb brains out to teach you a lesson? A growl resonates from his throat, hips snapping hard, clapping into the sweet swell of your ass cheeks as he fucks up your cunt. 

Wriothesley’s eyes wander, locking down on the sweet jiggle of your ass and the puffy red throb of your cunt on his cock. A heavy breath makes its way through his nose, eyes hyper focused on the pretty, creamy ring around his length as he fucks his hips against you, slowly leaking its way on to his pants. An ache builds in his pelvis, thick vein pulsing on the underside of his cock. Your moans don't stop, legs continuously squirming in his grasp, body stuck in the juncture of your silly wall. He thinks you beg, maybe you scream, crying out for him to keep going, to fill you up to cum hard and deep and mess up your insides. 

Wriothesley drops your legs, forcing you to dangle, his hands press into the wall above, grinding his hips upwards, stabbing your pussy impossibly deeper with his length. Sweat beads off of his nose, his calves cramp and ache with every thrust he makes, but Gods, he wasn't going to stop. He finds himself moaning out loud, complementing the pretty noises that creak through the wall. Your pussy hugs on his length, squeezing nice and tight, wrapping around his fat tip every time he slams it back into you. 

His teeth grit hard. Eyes still locked on to the messy slide of his length, in and out, in and out. He was coming close. So fucking close.

Wriothesley’s brow scrunches, relishing in the aching squeeze of your messy pussy on his cock. He couldn't take it anymore. The creamy ring he’d fucked out of you, the pretty ripple of your ass on his hips, how juicy and gushy your cunt was on his length. Gods, it was all so much. His hips snap, pace faltering, clapping his hips in heated staccatos, dragging his length out and slamming right back in with a hard smack. You cry with every thrust, silky cunt squeezing on his tip, babbling his name over and over and over. 

He finally spills with a deep, hard fuck. His thick tip spurts hot rivulets of cum into your silky pussy. He messes your insides with white, fucking himself through his orgasm, humping up on your cunt, mounting your pussy with his cock. His throat growls with every fuck, sweat beads off of the tip of his nose, he watches his hot spurts leak steadily out of your hole, leaking around the base of his length. He can’t help but nestle right into your cunt, relishing in the sweet squeeze of your milky walls on him, he cranes his hips every so often, teasing his aching tip with your soft insides.

You kick and whine as eventually, he pulls out, dribbling his hot white cum down your thighs. 

“No~ need more! More more!” Your muffled voice cries, pitifully wiggling within the hug of the wall, attempting to squirm your way out.

Wriothesley chuckles hotly, eying off the sweet gush of cum that drools out of your puffy pussy. His mouth waters, salivating like a dog. Surely he could take you out of the wall a little later? You’d understand. You’d been a great little wall slut for him so far, so why not indulge for as long as he wanted? Maybe he'd let you cum, spray and mess all over yourself - He could even let you out as a reward.

His finger comes up to caress over your spent hole, scooping up the leaking slick that coated your poor pussy. The cry he earns makes his half-hard cock stiffen, bobbing to life with a flex.

Archons, weren’t you something?

hnnnnnng gg g wrio wooof wOof - my longest fics are always wrio </3

Idk what possessed me to create this- I hope you enjoyed ;3

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Thank You For Reading! Comments Are Always, Always Appreciated! Ilysm <333

♡ᵀᵃᵍˡᶦˢᵗ♡

@madsw9 @pvbbyb0y @heath-sama @shiningpaint-marbleheart @the-massive-simp @tericula @a-random-weeb @mechalily @mydarlingdahlia @finnie9479

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Do Not Translate Or Repost - Property Of SashiAvi ♡

[yaymiyas]

THE NIGHTMARE.

warning: yandere!jock, yandere tendencies, gn reader, manipulation, unwanted sexual advances

a/n: its shorts 🤫

you’ve finally were able to get some quiet time. your whole week as been packed with midterms and college apps, so you’ve decided to treat yourself to a sweet vist to one of your school libraries study rooms. the rooms weren’t anything to write home but they were functional enough to get a few hours of studying in. even though you could only get your hands on the study room that was way in the back, you were still happy you got one. walking down the hall, passing each clear glass room made you feel increasingly lonely. it has already been three months since your social life has been killed by to a few runors; that were completely untrue and deeply fabricated but nobody wanted to believe you.

it was agonizing at first; watching your friends avoid their gaze while they walked past you and even having your teachers give you some what of a cold shoulder become of it. from having to each lunch in your car to having to do group projects by yourself because the refusal to be in a group with you was always much stronger than the grip your history teacher had on the class. the longer the isolation prolonged, the easier it got for you to accept your own company. it felt nice honestly. it felt great being about to be at utter peace with yourself

giving yourself the opportunity to lean into the peace oozing from the room surrounding you, a few taps to the glass window caught your attention. you didn’t turn your head nor did you bother move a muscle. you knew who it was. who else would disrupt your peace other than noah muller. you have never voiced this out loud but you are fully convinced that he was the one who spread the rumors about you; who else other than that deranged freak would want to ruin your chances of normalcy. from the moment the two of you locked eyes, you knew he was nothing but a problem ready to happen. he never did anything objectively wrong. noah had good enough grades, was a pretty good/okay soccer player, seemingly good social reputation, and he wasn’t too bad on the eyes.

cutting your train of thoughts short, the thin door creaked at the hinges allowing you to know he was coming in. it would sound insane to want the only person who actually wants to talk to you to go away, but noah is a different case. a strange disturbed case you wanted nothing to do with but with the current circumstances, you would need to suck it up and he knew that. closing the door until a clicking sound was heard, noah slide his way into the seat right next to you. he wasn’t too far but he was too close for comfort, as the heat of his thigh was radiating and warming up yours. he must have noticed you were ignoring him, or at least attempting to ignore him because before you know it his warm hands met its way onto your upper thigh.

not wanting to make a scene, you stayed as still as you could. the room still being filled with laughing, keyboards, and chatter from the students around. the glass windows of the room leaving nothing to the imagination, so reacting to the sudden hand on your thigh would’ve sunk you into more isolation. more ridicule. more noah.

“y/n,”

his voice as quiet as a pencil hitting paper with a hint of teasing. he knew what he was doing, he knew what kind of control and affect he had over you because who else were you going to talk to and turn to? who else was there for you? nobody but noah. at this point, he was your whole school life. he could make or break you even worse. ignoring him was the best thing you could do because lashing out would have caused him to spread even worse things about you. slipping his index finger underneath the cloth of your shorts, you bucked your hips up to attempt to get him off. unfortunately, the only thing you did was make him move his seat closer. making sure the chair didnt make too much noise, noah lifted it up off the ground slightly putting the feet of the chairs right next to each other. with a smile on his face he sat down, putting his hand right where he left it.

“now, y/n”

he started, licking his lips and getting closer to your neck.

“you don’t want me to tell everybody here you were the one who pushed mrs. applebottom down the stairs now do you?”

[alphynix]

For a long time there were no hadrosaurid fossils known from Africa.

This seemed to mainly be due to the limits of the geography of their time. Hadrosaurs evolved and flourished during the late Cretaceous, when Africa was isolated from all the other continents, and they didn't seem to have ever found their way across the oceanic barriers.

…Until in 2021 a small hadrosaur was discovered in Morocco, a close relative of several European species, showing that some of these dinosaurs did reach northwest Africa just before the end of the Cretaceous - and with no land bridges or nearby island chains to hop along, they must have arrived from Europe via swimming, floating, or rafting directly across several hundred kilometers of deep water.

And now another hadrosaur has just been described from the same time and place.

Minqaria bata lived in Morocco at the very end of the Cretaceous, about 67 million years ago. Only known from a partial skull, its full appearance and body size is unknown, but it probably measured around 3.5m long (~11'6") – slightly larger than its previously discovered relative, but still very small for a hadrosaur. It might represent a case of insular dwarfism, since at the time Morocco may have been an island isolated from the rest of northwest Africa.

Along with its close relative Ajnabia, and at least one other currently-unnamed larger hadrosaur species, Minqaria seems to be part of a rapid diversification of hadrosaurs following their arrival in Morocco, adapting into new ecological niches in their new habitat where the only other herbivorous dinosaur competition was titanosaurian sauropods, and the only large predators were abelisaurs.

If the K-Pg mass extinction hadn't happened just a million years later, who knows what sort of weird African hadrosaurs we could have ended up with?

———

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[theoutcastrogue]

Cartoon depictions of the homeless increasingly reflect the hostility of today’s political leaders toward people on the streets. We’ve gone from images of charming hobos with bindles to zombies taking over cities. If you consume any news at all, you’ve probably noticed that the United States is pathologically cruel to its homeless citizens. This May, the brutal killing of Jordan Neely—who was strangled to death, at the age of 30, simply because he was unhoused and shouting on the Manhattan subway—captured the national spotlight, but it was just one of many such cases of unprovoked violence. In January, two cops reportedly kidnapped a homeless man in Hialeah, Florida, drove him to an “isolated and dark location,” and beat him unconscious. That same month, art dealer Shannon Collier Gwin faced battery charges after he sprayed a homeless woman with a hose outside his San Francisco gallery, barking “Move! Move!” at her. (Predictably, Gwin got a lenient plea deal of just 35 hours of community service.) Elsewhere in the city, homeless San Franciscans have been attacked with chemical bear spray on at least eight occasions. Other assaults have been more impersonal but no less vicious. On July 14, the city of Houston abruptly closed its only public cooling center in the downtown area, potentially condemning anyone without shelter to suffer heatstroke in 90-degree weather. Among the property-owning class, the phenomenon of hostile architecture—sidewalks with spikes that stab anyone who tries to sleep, benches with iron bars, and the like—has become de rigueur. The widespread callousness and lack of compassion are both infuriating and hard to comprehend. How on Earth, we might ask, did things get this bad? [...]

Looking back at older cartoons, one of the things that stands out immediately is the absence of negative attitudes toward the homeless. In fact, during the Golden Age of animation, creators seemed to have had a real affinity for the poor and unhoused, often placing their most iconic characters in that role. There’s a wonderful 1948 Warner Bros. short called “Riff Raffy Daffy,” in which Daffy Duck is looking for a place to sleep—first on a park bench, then a trash can, and finally a furniture display in a shop window—and has to dodge the harassment of the police, as represented by Porky Pig in a little blue uniform. (Literally, the cop is a pig!) Or, in the 1950 cartoon “Homeless Hare,” Bugs Bunny’s rabbit hole is destroyed by a new construction project, leading him to unleash his usual slapstick mayhem against the developers until they put it back. In these cartoons, homelessness is something inflicted on people by outside forces—gentrification and the real estate business, in Bugs’ case—and something which can be successfully resisted. Even Disney cast a homeless dog as a romantic lead in 1955’s Lady and the Tramp, contrasting Lady’s sheltered naivety with Tramp’s superior knowledge of the world. The title invokes the memory of Charlie Chaplin’s “Tramp” films, which similarly brought dignity and humanity to the role of a homeless man. (Bugs Bunny, too, takes inspiration from Chaplin, and multiple Warner animators have drawn him as the Tramp.) In 1961, Hanna-Barbera’s profoundly underrated Top Cat followed the adventures of a gang of wisecracking Manhattan alley cats, who, like Daffy, are always outwitting a meddling policeman. At worst, classic cartoons may trivialize the suffering and danger associated with homelessness—there’s a certain recurring image of the carefree hobo carrying a bindle, which paints the whole subject in a romanticized light—but the homeless themselves are rarely disparaged or made the butt of the joke. Quite the opposite. 

It took a few years, but cartoons caught up to the Reaganite turn. In episodes from the ’90s and early 2000s, there’s a palpable shift in the way homeless characters appear compared to earlier decades. The perspective is different: we’re now seeing them through the eyes of comfortably housed characters, rather than their own. Often they don’t even get proper names. [...] This trajectory leads us, perhaps inevitably, to SpongeBob SquarePants. [..] Squidward gets accused of stealing a dime by his comically greedy boss, Mr. Krabs, and quits his job in a fit of outrage. We then flash forward to see Squidward, now bedraggled and unshaven, living in a cardboard box on the street and begging for change. [...] Mercifully, the ever-cheerful SpongeBob gives Squidward a place to stay—but the moment he’s safely off the street, Squidward turns from a sympathetic victim of circumstance into a lazy, entitled freeloader, straight out of a Reagan speech. He makes no effort to find work and loafs around SpongeBob’s house for ages. [...] Eventually, an exasperated SpongeBob writes “GET A JOB” in his alphabet soup, before shoving him (bed and all) back to work at the Krusty Krab. [...] Worst of all, though, the episode suggests that homelessness can be solved on an individual basis if the people in question simply stop being lazy and “GET A JOB.” This is the biggest myth of all. In 2021, a statistical analysis by the University of Chicago found that 53 percent of people in homeless shelters, and 40.4 percent of unsheltered people, do have jobs. The problem is that their wages are too low, and rents are too high. According to statistics from the same year, it’s impossible for someone working a full-time, minimum-wage job to afford a single-bedroom apartment in 93 percent of U.S. counties, and there are no states in which someone can rent a two-bedroom space on the current federal minimum wage of $7.25 per hour. In other words, homelessness has little or nothing to do with personal responsibility, or lack thereof. It’s a consequence of large-scale economic decisions made by landlords and bosses. [...]

— Alex Skopic

[arkashas]

ok so the first time i watched this i was like what the hell will why would you tell hannibal this you're putting her life in danger??

but then i realized will's motivations in this scene. this whole exchange comes at the heels of will asking hannibal in a fit of jealousy how many patients there's been like him? like randall tier?

will receives an unsatisfactory answer which doesn't assuage his feelings, so he goes on the attack. he makes hannibal feel as disposable as he feels. that's when he mentions bedelia coming to visit him and her telling him she believed him (about hannibal). and it works! it absolutely works! just look at hannibal's face after will tells him.

he's hurt. he feels betrayed. he even is short with will for the first time, telling will curtly in answer to this news, "fascinating."

and will asking hannibal if he killed bedelia is 1) him acknowledging that bedelia could be killed by hannibal, meaning ignorance/naivety cannot be claimed as a reason he put bedelia in danger 2) in my view another indication of jealousy/possessiveness. if hannibal killed bedelia, at least will would be assured that she as is disposable to hannibal as he is (or how he feels he is). like i don't think will was hoping he killed her, but subconsciously he would have felt gratified if that was the case (remember season 3? "how did you walk away unscarred? i'm covered in scars.") of course he also asked out of concern, but i don't think this was his primary motivation here considering he just endangered her and would have been aware of it.

i think this moment is unappreciated in its revelation of how dark will really is. at this point all that will knew about bedelia was that she was hannibal's psychiatrist and that she helped him out when he was at his lowest. he doesn't know about her killing her patient or anything else. but here he's willing to throw her under the bus in order to hurt hannibal because he had a moment of insecurity.

OH and another thing in favour of this reading is that this was just after will had just gone on the fishing trip with jack where he stated that he was going to isolate hannibal from everyone close to him, so that all he had in his life was will.

so...yeah. will is as jealous and possessive as hannibal, it's just much more subtle. and the ways this jealousy and possessiveness manifests itself is arguably as toxic as hannibal's own brand of green-eyed monster.