#can you just be lobotomizing me now

[sinomin]

A yes ive embarassed myself again its time to be euthanized

[vulpinesaint]

in reference to the whole "long or short anon about how i feel about you" thing: You're a mutual of mine who is living such a wildly different life than mine but you're genuinely just such a welcome addition to the dash that it's like "ah hey whats bracken being concerning about"

SO amused by and slightly enamoured with this. i am so sure that my actual life is not all that different from any of my mutuals on tumblr like i wake up and go to work and school and like. at most am very transsexual about it. i just happen to come online at the end of the day and be a little insane. anyway love that any given appearance of me on the dash might include reason for concern in relation to any given topic. this ask could be in reference to my poetry or me posting about blood or me like. immediately eating the wrong foods after wisdom teeth surgery. and i think that's beautiful

[tacticalprincess]

a/n i need him in ways that wouldve gotten me lobotomized in the 50s…

himbo!könig wanted your first time together to be special. after all the months of work he put in getting you to take him seriously, all of his dumb attempts at courting you, he wasn’t going to fumble his chances with you now.

he’s usually pretty confident in himself, almost to the point of delusion, but something about you makes him so nervous, and he can’t wrap his head around someone like you genuinely being interested in a goofy guy like him :( that’s why he misses all of the opportunities you give him to fuck you, always taking your hints and attempts at seducing him the wrong way…

“it’s so hot in here, köni.” “are you getting sick, liebchen? should i turn the air on?” “no, i think i’m wearing too many clothes…” “…you don’t look overdressed to me.”

at some point you start to question if he actually does want you in that way. but the way even the slightest touch from you has him popping boners is enough to shake you out of those doubts. everything about you seems to turn him on. he’s convinced you were plucked straight from his wettest dreams, and he can’t stand to be in close proximity to you for too long without being affected. but he thinks he hides it well enough— always covering the proof of his arousal with a subtle pillow over his lap whenever you’re around.

of course he wants to make the move, but he wants to do it properly. it happens the night he takes you to a small town carnival. he planned on kissing you on top of the ferris wheel, but he unfortunately surpassed the weight limit. instead he holds your hand on the rollercoasters and you feed each other fair food. he insists on stopping at every game until he’s won you too many stuffed animals for you to carry and eventually you’re forced to leave.

he’s shaking in his boots by the time you get back to his place, tripping over the mess on his floor and stumbling over his words. sensing his hesitancy, you’re the one to lead him to his room, your hand wrapped around his large finger.

“are you sure, maus? we don’t have to, i have DVDs–”

“shut up and fuck me, köni.” you huff, already fully naked and exposed on his bed. “please.”

he plans to take it slow, he really does. getting the chance to please you, to be let inside your hot body for the first time, is a privilege he doesn’t take lightly. he wants you both to savor it, he has to make it good for you :(

instead, he absolutely loses himself the moment his fat, pulsing cock sinks into your gummy cunt. he goes full caveman, your headboard slamming against the wall with the force of his thrusts for all your poor neighbors to hear :( all thoughts leave him when he’s sheathed inside of you except for how perfect your sopping pussy feels around him, borderline animalistic as he uses your smaller body as a fleshlight. the sounds of his heavy balls smacking against your ass accompanied by your pretty whines and moans only spur him on.

he fucks you in missionary so it’s more intimate, but there’s nothing romantic about the way he’s mounting you. you thank god for making you flexible as he’s pushing your knees up to your ears, seemingly trying to push his cock deeper than your small cunny has room for, stretching your poor cunt past its limit. you swear you can feel him all the way in your stomach, mushroom tip bruising your cervix with each thrust.

you don’t even notice you’re sobbing until he does. “are you okay, liebe? does it hurt?” he asks through heavy pants. “fuck, i’m sorry. i don’t think i can stop myself, you just— you feel so fucking good. you’re so… warm… squeezing me so tight. just- just hang in there for me, ja?”

your brain can’t work for long enough to form words, rough thrusts drawing nothing but high pitched staccato “uh-uh-uh”’s from your throat. you’re drunk on the feeling of his thick cock splitting you open, the way his heavy body squishes yours, barricading you in so you’re completely engulfed by him. his hairy stomach ruts against your sensitive, puffy clitty until you’re clenching around him, your sudden orgasm draining the cum out of his tight balls. “so good. fuck, you’re so perfect. best pussy i’ve ever felt.” he fucks you through the high, mindlessly overstimulating you both until you have to physically push him off of you.

you might’ve created a monster…

[scoobydoodean]

The thing is that when Cas first laid a hand on Dean in hell he was lost, and not actually because "For the first time, I feel". Cas had felt before he knew Dean. We know this because we know Cas had rebelled before. Naomi tells us Cas never did as he was told—that Cas had a "Crack in the chassis straight off the line" (something Chuck later echoes in a rage).

Cas's rebellion is far older than Dean and that rebellion is a function of what he feels. Cas just doesn't get to remember feeling. Each time he does, he's stripped of the memory of it... but subconsciously he starts to understand it as something he must keep secret.

Can I tell you something if you promise not to tell another soul?

Cas is in love with humanity, and we conflate this with Dean because Dean is the narrative heart, and the subject of Cas's greatest love, and because the concept of humanity and Dean are so deeply linked they're almost one in the same. We are not at all wrong to conflate the two, but make no mistake—Cas is in love humanity.

You misunderstand me, Dean, I’m not like you think. I was praying that you would choose to save the town.

Cas calls humanity a work of art, and the camera pans to Dean sitting on the bench beside him. Dean represents humanity. Not just as precious works of art, but also because humans get to feel. Humans don't get lobotomized for feeling. Dean encourages Cas to feel. He encourages Cas to feel by asking him to—begging him to, and by feeling for others, and by existing and deserving to be loved himself.

Dean echoes free will to Cas like a call from the wild. He's the beauty of humanity. He's the liberation and beautiful terror of choice. The reason "You always have a choice" and "There is a right and there is a wrong here, and you know it" works is because Cas already feels, already hopes, already loves.

You were gonna help me once, weren't you? You were gonna warn me about all this, before they dragged you back to Bible camp. Help me -- now. Please.

The function by which Dean gets through to Cas is through Cas's own feelings and convictions. He gets through because Cas is "not a hammer, as you say". Cas has questions. Cas has doubts.

Cas is in love with humanity, and every time he remembers it, he gets packed off to Bible Camp and he forgets. But he can remember again. What it takes is a push. What it takes is a hand reached out in the darkness. The day Cas rescued Dean from hell, two people were saved. A hand clawed out toward Cas too, breaking through his own torturous prison and offering him escape. For the first time in a long time, he felt.

Dean's importance is that he touches Cas. He makes Cas remember. And he keeps making Cas remember. Through touch, through words, through the expression of his own affection for Cas and for others. Because Dean cares, Cas cares.

[sigmasoyboy]

Surely nothing in the world ever felt better than [THIS]

Was suggested on instagram to write from Gage's POV and thinking about how I would ever write from someone who's been essentially dog lobotomized actually got me thinking so hard I started writing. The formatting of this one is a reading nightmare but the never ending run-on sentence tightly packed into one block of text feels the most appropriate to a dog's inner thoughts so… You have to suffer for the sake of art™️

cw: ableist and misogynistic language, PTSD, panic attack, murder, vomit, loss of humanity through being genetically spliced with a dog

Right now there is only [RUNNING] and [PANTING] and the wind whipping your face and twigs digging into your paw pads and snapping under your weight and the sweat tickling the inside of your thigh as it rolls down the expanse of your (ever) hairless leg. You almost want to throw your hands down into the decaying grass and leaves to propel your body further but (something) keeps you anchored to your bipedal ways, your body knows it was never made for sprinting on all four but your body was also bent once and could probably be bent further all the way to the other side transhumanised so far the evolutionary path to break all knowns nomenclature and classification and leap from (human) to [DOG] just as you do out of the shrubbery as soon as your hear [YOUR NAME], toes skidding into the overgrown lawn as you halt, tongue hanging out dumbly trying as you might to bring moisture back into your bone dry mouth. The useless instincts you (forcefully) have inherited work against you but thankfully [HE!!!] turns on the garden hose [HE!!] uses to bath you with and fresh water springs out, splattering everywhere against your open mouth. There used to be a better way to drink but you (forgot) how so you chew at the air trying to catch this pesky pesky water into your mouth while getting drenched, you were hot anyway, running so so hot from all the excess dopamine secreted by your happy happy dumb brain, so easily pleased.

Surely nothing in the world ever felt better than [THIS]; it’s the 100th time you thought this exact thing today not with words or inner monologue only pure unadulterated stabs at your mesocorticolimbic circuit, things are only [GOOD] or [BAD] not in terms of the morals (you lacked) but in terms of [PLEASURE] and [PAIN], so simple and so good like quenching your thirst and moving your limbs and eating and shitting and nerve endings being stimulated by a [GOOD SCRATCH] just like [HE] is doing right now immediately replacing the serotonin from the water [HE] just shut off, not having a care in the world for how greasy your (hair) feels or the way you wildly shake off to dry yourself or the fact that you are (not) a dog at all. You wouldn’t get any of it anyway because all you understand now is [ANGRY] and [SOFT] tone so as long as [HE] coos at (you) softly [HE] can say anything and (you) would happily (giggle) and [RUB YOUR HEAD] against his big calloused hands even if he was (talking shit). You were liberated against your (will) and you are too dumb to realize it, of course you are why would you ever stop and try to think when you can just march alongside [HIM] like [HE TAUGHT] [YOU]] like a good stupid fuckass (dog) getting all [EXCITED] because you realize [HE] is walking towards the [KITCHEN] which can only mean any and all (doubt) or [FEAR] that’s desperately trying to join each others can be [SILENCED] by a motherfucking spoonfull of [PEANUT BUTTER HOLY SHIT] sticky and salty and obstructing your airway momentarily but thank goodness you still know how to breath through your (nose) while you smack your (lips) desperately trying to (get away from the [DELICIOUS TREAT] clawing at the leathery cushion with your splitting nails nerve endings stimulated by [HURT HURT HURT FUCK what did you do why were you bad why is this happening to you this wasn’t supposed to happen you weren’t supposed to get caught in the first place but the [BITC H] squealed and slipped through your fingers and now you’re the one being [GUD LA DET SLUTTE VÆR SÅ SNILL] you should’ve made a bigger hole and (fucked it) so [BAD] no one will ever be able to identify your whore bitch corpse you r eally fucked up this time you can barely breathe through any hole now in out in out in out head heavy with the weight of ([HUMAN CONSCIOUSNESS]) getting really really light so much so you don’t feel your (claws) slicing until the victim became unrecognizable aggravated [MASSACRE] of your (ultimate reality) now there’s only [DROOL] and a little bit of [VOMIT] and your clammy skin against the (cold old tiles) of the kitchen floor and [HIS] form above you [WARM] palm encircling almost your entire still trembling arm and (garbled speech) you can never [UNDERSTAND] again, it’s so [WARM] and (nice) your [TAIL] slaps the kitchen floor, beginning to unknot [HIS] brow as you can feel yourself (smiling) dumbly at [HIM]. And now there is only [PETTING] and [ROLLING ON THE FLOOR] with the sweet-acrid aroma of [PEANUT BUTTER] and [VOMIT] [HE] stops you from [LAPPING] just before your tongue touches it.

Surely nothing in the world ever felt better than [THIS].

[sketchedspiders]

Cotag actually breaks my fucking heart knowing the reality of their relationship and the fact that they could never be able to truly love each other.

1. Their workplace literally steals their mind, body, and soul so they can just become machines that don’t think of or take interest in anything else.

2. It’s the 1970s and they’re both guys; being gay wasn’t allowed anywhere back then.

[Full analysis under the cut + Spoilers]

[Keep in mind some of this is my own interpretations, but it still goes off canon)

Normal Guy literally tells Protag this when he tells him that Coworker was a great help and they got along well.

He gets frustrated by this fact and worries that Coworker is a distraction for Protag. He doesn’t want them to form a relationship of any kind because it would distract them from their work. Immediately after Normal Guy tells him that, he goes on to ask this:

Maybe I’m reaching right now because this question comes up no matter what, but for this it’s important. There’s multiple reasons and aspects as to why he asked this question, but one of them could be the fact that if Protag did feel anything around Coworker, then Normal Guy would know. It’s hard to explain, but think about a racing heart for example. People’s heart rate increases when they’ve infatuated by somebody, and when they see that person do even the tiniest things it makes them flustered. If they become nervous around that person, their breathing may become weird; which is why it brings us to this question. If Normal Guy finds an abnormality in Protag’s body that would prevent him from working, he would wanna know the reason, and if that reason is Coworker, then it pushes him to think their relationship is even more of a distraction to the both of them.

Normal Guy wants all his employees to dedicate their entire lives to the company. He doesn’t want them forming any sort of relationship that’s not entirely business related. If Protag’s heart is in something else, then that would create a multitude of problems. Not even his organs belong to him anymore, so neither of them even get the option to be together fully.

I think it’s also important to note that if you do choose the option to tell Normal Guy that Protag and Coworker did get along, this can lead you to get the bad ending where he literally erases Protag’s entire identity and makes him a different person. It’s wrong for them to be together no matter the circumstance, and their entire lives would be erased, along with their original relationship.

However, if the company did allow them to have a full on relationship, it wouldn’t have worked anyways. They’d be a gay couple in the 1970s, and homophobia was not only rampant back then but it was illegal. People would get arrested, sent to conversion therapy, or even lobotomized for being homosexual.

I’ve been wanting to talk about this for a LONG time, and this is also what pushed me to write “I wish you were born a girl” (yes hi I’m destroymeiloveyou on ao3 I’m exposing my identity for a moment here and if you don’t know wtf I’m talking about then ignore this).

They could be together in private theoretically, but with them being gay and also working at a company that doesn’t even want their employees to have a life outside of work, it’d be near impossible. Both of them would be at a constant risk of losing everything. Although, they already have given up so much for their work, would it even be worth it?

Coworker is already a closeted person with his feelings and such. He puts up a narcissistic front because of how insecure he is. His title means everything to him because he doesn’t have much else. It gives him a sense of security, and he wants somebody else to recognize that because he wants to feel loved. That’s a whole other analysis for later, but taking this into account with everything else, would he be willing to give up the little that he has to give him security for a relationship that was doomed from the beginning?

With how desperate he tries to impress others (especially Protag), and how attached he is to his title as well as his nepotism, his life being turned upside down just like that would be a nightmare. Everybody would turn against him, and no longer would he be the star employee at the company. In reality, he would be just as in denial about his feelings as Protag would be.

Also. ALSO!!! Speaking of Protag, it is heavily implied and agreed upon that Protag has religious trauma because of floor 4. If he did grow up in a strict, christian household, he would definitely have internalized homophobia.

The sight of a cross makes him nervous, meaning he’s probably no longer christian, but it has left a longterm effect on him.

This means that despite how he left his christian past behind, the things he was taught as a kid has never left him.

If his parents wanted him to be a “good kid” and follow God, I think they would’ve taught him that homosexuality is a sin. That’s one of the lessons that have also never left him, and he still stands by it even if hiding his identity makes him miserable.

Although, no matter how hard he tries, it’ll be obvious his heart will never be in the company or christian values. He’s gonna end up hurt and hurting whether he hides his feelings or not, which is just as tragic. He’d feel terrible once he recognizes how he feels about Coworker and I don’t think he’d ever confess. Protag would just suppress his feelings and they would both suffer silently.

If either of them did end up confessing, they still wouldn’t ever be able to truly get together anyways.

So, cotag could be in love, but they would never actually be able to be romantically together or express their feelings at all. They can do the littlest acts, like spending time with each other on breaks, but it’ll never be enough.

It’s not even right person, wrong time; it’s wrong person, wrong time.

I would write WAY more and I’ll probably yap about this later too because I’ve been keeping this to myself for so long, but I have to cut this short for now.

I probably sound like matpat right now with how im reaching with some of this stuff but I don’t care I need everybody to suffer along with me LMFAOO

I would add a funny image here but I’ve reached the limit. Anyways if you have any questions PLEASE let me know I love yapping about my cotag interpretations and theories

[gaymurdersalad]

Jack! You should try talking it out with Dave. Tell him how you feel, how from your perspective how tiring and agonising this whole situation is.

Dave cares about you a lot. I'm sure he'll understand you.

> Fuck you! Quit giving me those puppy dog eyes! It’s not gonna work this time, no, you’re not gonna ruin my life and waltz back in like we’re still friends. I only liked you when I hated myself. Get it through that fucking lobotomized skull, you purple leech.

> … Do you even realize what you’re sayin’ to me, Sportsy?

> I know exactly what I’m saying! You deaf too, you bastard?

> I didn’t ask for your help! Y’know, Sportsy, I coulda been perfectly fine rotting in that alleyway! You didn’t HAVE to drag me back to your home just to fuckin’ chew me out you goddamn hypocrite! What the fuck is wrong with you?!

> It was a moment of weakness. Never in my right mind would I ever let you back in here!

> Sportsy, I know that ain’t really what you think, so can you stop bein’ so goddamn difficult and just tell me what the hell is pissin’ you off today?

> Today? Today?! You’ve been making my life fucking miserable since the moment I met you! You saw I was struggling, you noticed that I hated the company, and instead of leaving me well enough alone, you took advantage of me and made me do your fucking dirty work! I was prepared to do good, I was prepared to save whatever kid was stupid enough to let your cryptid ass lure them into the backroom, but god, when offered with the opportunity to burn it all down, I took it! I couldn’t have met a worse person, someone who fed into that fucking hate and malice and made me worse!

> You’re— You’re blaming me? Sportsy, You’re grown! You are a grown man, you made your own goddamn decision! How are you being so childish right now?! Stop tryin’ to escape the parts you don’t like about yourself, just deal with ‘em like every other adult!

> Deal with it?

> I killed children! Little kids!

> And that’s somehow my fault?

> If you’d have never been there, I never would have done it.

> But you did, you stupid motherfucker, you did! So grow up!

> If you weren’t so fucking obsessed with the legacy of a man that doesn’t even love you, I would never be here! I’d still be living my shitty existence with my shitty family in a shitty house that I couldn’t afford in a shitty world with a shitty job! Your bullfuckery cost me a life, it costed dozens of kids their futures, it destroyed families! Telling me to grow up?? You can only do whatever the fuck your daddy tells you to do!

> Do you know what the hell this means to me? Do you even understand why I’m doin’ this at all? It’s ‘cause I trust him, Sportsy, I trust him with my life ‘cause he’s saved it over and over again! You don’t know what’s happened to me, you don’t know what the hell I’ve seen, what Henry’s dragged me out of! You’ll never fuckin’ understand what he means to me!

> You’re right. I don’t know. Although what I do know, as any other sane, rational person would, is that whatever he’s done for you, it does not justify snuffing out the lives of little kids as some twisted form of gratitude.

> You’re bein’ really unfair!

> Unfair?? I didn’t realize murder was unfair! Okay, you should have every right to take someone else’s life! It’s only fair! It’s only right ‘cause it’s Henry!

> You’re just sayin’ that ‘cause you ain’t never had a dad, you don’t know what the fuck I’d lose if I didn’t satisfy him!

> …

> Yeah, turns out I ain’t brain dead, you soulless bastard. I remember everything you’ve ever told me. Everything you spilled outta those rotten guts in Vegas. You wanna know why, you sick fuck? ‘Cause I liked you. I liked how you treated me, like a person. Lookin’ at me wit’ them doe eyes, so fuckin’ receptive and so goddamn… affectionate.

> Look, Sportsy, I know you whether you want me to or not. I know you don’t hate me, I know you never did. I don’t hate you neither. It’s not a question of if you’re ashamed of what you’ve done or whether it’s my fault or not— you like me. You are so fuckin’ violated to know that I can see through you. Sometimes that’s what I like about you, but right now it’s pissin’ me off. Lay down the goddamn charades and tell me what you want without usin’ any of that goddamn language you were dishin’ out earlier.

> Stop living for Henry.

> …

> Stop making it impossible for me to like you.

> … I can be close with Henry and still be your friend, Sportsy—

> No, you can’t! My entire reason for existence is to right Henry’s wrongs! My best friend cannot be his fucking protégé! Dave, you don’t understand what this is doing to me! I want you more than I want to do good in the world! Do you realize how sincerely fucked up that is?!

> … You’re not the only one who feels this way, Sportsy. This is puttin’ me in a uncomfortable position too. You’re askin’ me for a lot.

> I didn’t realize not murdering anyone required serious introspection.

> Gah, it’s not just about the murder, get over it! That’s all you ever wanna fuckin’ talk about! The very fuckin’ notion that I should lay all my loyalties down for the likes of you is downright insulting— the one who abandoned me after givin’ me a taste of humanity! Yer a joke and a conman and I cannot fuckin’ stand you!

> Yet I care about what you think of me, which is the wildest part of it all! I want you to like me again, but as you’ve so clearly forced down my throat, you won’t do it again unless I betray my own father! Unless I submit to YOUR goddamn ideology! Is it just that you’re usin’ me? Do you just want another pair of hands just like I asked for yours all those years ago? Trynna worm your way into a heartless vessel, are ya? All I got left is my brain, Sportsy, and you and that pink fuck are rippin’ it apart at the seams! Gah!

> You ain’t blameless yourself, anyhow! What, you had one good trip on ether and decided you were a saint? You’ve killed same as me, don’t you dare try and look down on me like you’re any better! So easily persuaded to kill, so easily persuaded to spare— can you ever make up your goddamn mind, or are you just gonna let people boss you around your entire afterlife? Yer like a fuckin’ sheep, like goddamn livestock for people that wanna use you! Turns out we ain’t so different after all, huh?!

> GOD, YOU’RE SUCH A FUCKING PLAGUE!

> I WISH I NEVER TOLD YOU TO SKIP WORK! I WISH I MAIMED YOU IN THAT SPRINGLOCK SUIT, I WISH EVERY RIGGED PIECE IN THAT FUCKIN’ THING WRANG THE LIFE OUTTA YOU OUT FOR GOOD! GOD, I WISH YOU WERE FUCKIN’ DEAD!

> … You… You wish you what…?

> …!

[pretty-weird-ideas]

This was literally the most harrowing piece of television I have watched in YEARS because it's just a lynching with no strings attached. And then I watched how white fans twisted themselves into knots to make the clear lynching seem like the evidence presented is actually punishable and entirely factual with no agenda attached.

The agenda is "How can we quickly lynch Claudia and Louis and make it a spectacle?", that's it, the information presented is all there to push the coven's agenda. If propaganda helicoptered itself on your face, you people still wouldn't get it.

"What they said about Louis is actually correct. He's unreliable as a narrator and we're finally getting his comeuppance." What about a lynch mob seems like a reliable source of information?

Quickly now! What about a clear metaphor for a lynching gives you the vibe of "unbiased information told to the audience that we should take to heart"? I'm genuinely scared of some of y'all because I'm getting the vibes that if someone told you a dude "whistled at a white woman" you would just go with it. Any bad-faith gum flapping about a black person would just be believed on the spot by some of you. The benefit of the doubt for Black people is nonexistent around here.

Question: Do you not take Fox News, Infowars, and alt-right media's depiction of POC seriously because you PERSONALLY can tell that it's racist and that the information is wrong? Or did society have to TELL you that it's racist and you know there's a social consequence to believing it? Do you hear racist language about real Black figures and you can tell that the source isn't trustworthy, or does someone have to come down from their ivory tower and regurgitate basic sense to you?

I'm starting to realize that this fandom doesn't understand racist agitprop... at all. They're only against racism when someone tells them it's racist and there are consequences to believing racist propaganda. Someone has to hold their hand and tell them that calling someone an "uppity violent Jezebel that should put out more" is racist. Someone has to tell them that racists who have an incentive to lie about Black people aren't reliable sources on Black people. And that is a level of incompetence that I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. Someone could literally list 30 antiblack stereotypes and someone would be like "What is wrong with calling a black person all of these at once?". People's cultural awareness is fucked.

And there's a learned incompetence as well here, a cycle. People refuse to understand that Black people are intentionally held under a harsher light and read in bad faith ways that consciously mimic stereotypes. "I only believe something is racist when others tell me that it's racist" and "I don't seek out people discussing racism so nobody is here to tell me what is racist" is a deadly fucking combo with this show.

Read literature, read about slavery, read about lynchings, read about Black Queer liberation, read about domestic violence, read about race and Monster theory. Like read SOMETHING. MY GOD.

The show is intentionally riffing off of historical and cultural subject matter, and white fans are purposefully not learning about it so that their lives aren't upended by the reality of current and past race relations and how it affects their own lives and fiction. You guys are lobotomizing yourselves so the show's basic principles aren't visible. Just because you do not understand racism or domestic violence doesn't mean that the show isn't talking about them and it's not just going over your head. Things going over the white audience's head does not mean it is not present.

Anyways... I keep saying that the people should collectively get my laptop taken away and it still hasn't happened so this post was penned. Take away my laptop or my posts will continue.

[uchihaharlot]

Soooo, Madara fan is here, thanks for your last head canon about him. ^^

Can I get "what if Madara falls in love with the girl who is much younger than him (let's say he is 35? And she is 18 or 19). 😔🙏

Hello my little Madara nymphomaniac 🥵🥰 I did not forget you!! ❤️‍🩹❤️‍🔥 Sometimes inspiration finds me at awkward times.

NSFW; mild grooming; age gap fuckery; consensual; he brings all the girls to the yard; obsessed.

— Madara is definitely the kind of man to go for green girls. The younger, the better. Though he won’t touch one that’s not an adult. He’s a pervert, not a pedophile.

— It’s not something he seeks out either, these types of situations work best if the girl comes to him. He is always accepting the warmth of a woman, especially if she’s fawning over him and such.

— Absolutely loves, loves, loves fucking them into stupid little babbling idiots. These are the kind of girls who just broke up with their first boyfriend and never had a real man inside of them. Probably never had an actual orgasm until he rearranges their pussy. H O L Y Mackerel, when he does lobotomize them with pleasure.

— Now this particular girl though, she’s fiesty and demanding. Knows what she wants. Rocks the boat just as much as he does. Actually has Madara on edge before he’s even ready to cum. And it’s not that she’s different from most girls her age, but damn if she isn't liquid katon in his palms and on his cock.

— Edging him to his heart and cocks content until he flips her over and fucks her rotten into his mattress. The sounds she makes are sweeter than any sakura tree in bloom. Filling her soft cunt to the brim until she’s panting his name over and over. With no end in sight, they fuck like they had been well acclimated to one another for years.

— At the end of their little tryst, Madara can't decide who is more desperate for more. Him or her? Several rounds ensue until the late early hours of the morning. By the time he wakes up she's gone, which is unusual. Madara will typically spent the next several hours coaxing these young girls out of his bed and off his cock. But her?

— She just door dashed his cock and slipped out under the radar. There's something arousingly unholy about this situation. That unregistered fear of missing out kicks in and, well, he's an Uchiha. They tend to fuck hard and fall fast—usually on their terms, but damn she got him good. How aggravating it is to Madara that the seemingly obtainable has slipped through his fingers. Its not that he really wants her, but he feels slighted by her ability to fuck now and talk later never.

— Ok, maybe he is a bit jaded. More than jaded, actually. Since feelings are like the common cold to an Uchiha, he goes about waiting it out...not today old man. For some reason, it's not his cock that aches for her return, but a deeper throb. One right underneath the ribcage that makes his throat lump up with a sense of forlorn and abandonment. So, with this...uncharacteristic and intrusive as hell mindset. Madara searches for her.

— Elicits the help of friends, under the guise that she stole something valuable of his (his poor Uchiha heart). Which, to him isn't necessarily a lie....but not the full truth. He's mad with lust, would be ignorant enough to call it love almost. But that's too soon. His corneas don't make this any easier, he replays their salacious night together over and over until he has every curve and speckle on her skin memorized. 10/10 jacks off to it.

— When they finally do cross paths again, the unfamiliar squeeze of his heartstrings is nearly as taut as when she had came all over his length those some nights ago. Madara will act as indifferent as he can, but fuck if he doesn't look like dog on the street. Eyes ravaging her fully clothed form as she stands before him.

— If falling into this sort of thing for her is something she will agree to, there is not a single place on this earth she can ever hide that Madara's affections won't follow and swallow her whole. She's basically going to be treated as acting Uchiha royalty, for as long as she is by his side. No other girl dare crosses paths with this woman and Madara is finding his feelings easier to accept than he initially imagined.

[schizopositivity]

how to advocate for schizophrenics and psychotics in every day life:

correct people when they misuse the word "psychotic" (as in if they use it in any other way but a serious disconnect from reality, delusions or hallucinations)

correct people when they use the word "schizophrenic" as an adjective (its not!!! its a severe and persistant mental disorder)

correct people when they call people "crazy" aka "shes been acting crazy lately" (they likely dont actually mean it and this word is thrown around a lot, but as a schizophrenic im asking you to not use this word to describe people since this has been tied to me and my fellow psychotics for ages)

do not assume that a psychotic person is dangerous in any way (psychotic people are more likely to be the victims of abuse than be the abusers)

when talking about mental illness or the mental illness community as a whole consider, does this apply to psychotic and schizophrenic people as well? (if not, youre not talking about the whole community! its that simple)

do not purposley trigger someones paranoia aka telling people that theres someone after them (this is always harmful and potentially life threatening, its not a joke and never was)

dont assume schizophrenia is "just hallucinations and delusions" (its much more than that, it has negative and cognitive symptoms as well, which for some people is much worse than the positive symptoms of hallucinations and delusions)

dont make lobotomy jokes aka "lobotomize me" jokes (these procedures were used to turn schizophrenics into "pets" so that other people could better deal with us, its not a joke)

dont act "crazy" for shock value aka wide eyes, rocking back and fourth, shaking (our mannerisms arent for you to pretend to be crazy with, this is who we actually are, im looking at you rock bands)

dont fear the people on the street talking to themselves aka calling the cops on them (these people are suffering, these people need help, them being psychotic doesnt make them any more dangerous than anybody else)

dont use the word delusional for every idea you dont agree with aka "that conservative politician is delusional!" (delusions specifically describe strongly held beliefs outside of reality, not just beliefs outside youre specific world view)

dont expect people to express emotions the same way you do aka "why arent you reacting?" (many schizophrenics stuggle with flat affect and cant change it, it doesnt mean we dont feel things, just that we dont express them the same way)

dont expect us to be able to do the same amount of, or intensity of work you do aka "i work 5 days a week, you have it easy!" (executive disfunction is very common in schizophrenia, it doesnt make us lazy, we are just disabled)

dont post derealization without tagging it or TWing it as such aka that post with a fake european country saying that americans dont even know what country this is (we already struggle enough with figuring out whats real and whats not we dont need "pranks" or "jokes" trying to fool us without any TW)

dont assume schizophrenic and psychotic people cant see your post or view your media or anything else (we are real people interacting with the world just like everybody else, we can see your jokes about us, or your media portraying us as dangerous, we arent fictional characters)

dont assume youre superior to, or smarter than us (once again we are real people, we deserve the same respect as anyone else on the planet)

dont call someones delusion stupid aka "obviously youre not the reincarnation of kurt cobain thats stupid" (you have no idea how real these are for us, they dont always make sense to you but they do to us, please respect that)

dont ask if were hallucinating right now (its none of youre business! and if we say yes youll likely ask where it is, and if we show you youll likely look in the direction of the hallucination which is dangerous, it blends the real world with the hallucination and its already hard enough for us to tell the difference)

dont stop trusting us and what we say just because were psychotic (we still deserve to be listened to and trusted just like everybody else)

learn about less talked about symotoms like catatonia, avolition and word salad (these are just as common as the talked about ones, but just less talked about cause i guess it doesnt make for an intresting horror movie)

learn more about schizophrenia and psychosis from actual schizophrenics and psychotics (a great example is the podcast Inside Schizophrenia, scrolling through this blog, looking up students with psychosis)

TLDR: no go back and read it, its the least you could do

[jhuzen]

I hate that tumblr has turned me into a Dottore simp...

But now I can't stop thinking about Dottore with a boyfriend with ADHD. Would he make notes?? I also think it would be extra hilarious if the reader was his lab assistant, like-

Dottore: How the hell did you get this done so quickly??

Reader: I haven't eaten, drank or moved from my desk for the last 12 hours.

-Morax

to worry a physician [m.reader]

morax anon and i are so in sync in the simping game, it’s beautiful. this is why ily. this was hilarious to write LMAO. so here’s another quickie for you. also don’t imitate dottore’s methods, he’s a lil unhinged 😔

𖦹 slightly suggestive in the end (again do not imitate dottore’s methods), a brief use of dottore’s real name

“H-Hey now… let’s not… jump to certain actions that we might soon regret…”

The cold metal was difficult against your back, you felt like a slab of meat hurled on some form of metal chopping board. You tried to get up but your beloved was quick to push you back down.

You winced as the buckles tightened around your body.

“You know how much I despise hypocrites, [Name].”

Suffice to say, it was a miracle that you were the last man standing amongst the myriad of assistants that the infamous second harbinger have been given. He went through all of them like a child digging into sweets ferociously, sometimes even quite viciously tearing them all apart limb from limb.

And yet somehow, you were the odd one out. You somehow managed to even keep up with the asinine nonsense that Dottore prattles on and on, writing down notes that you can barely organize either because your master is already jumping on the next topic, that or simply because there are tendencies of you forgetting to do them.

But even that didn’t trip you up. Because by a shot of luck, the harbinger found himself curling into your presence and starting to appreciate your efforts to a certain degree. He’s merciless, but he’s grown lenient on days where you are completely restless. Dottore may be cruel but he’s not a hypocrite.

Perhaps it is why you’re proudly wearing the title as Dottore’s far more favored being than the rest — his dearest beloved, a promised love that Dottore could never bother to share with others. He was possessive, that’s for sure, and he will keep you away from anything and anyone, even from the many segments of himself. It was hilariously pathetic, it’s like seeing a cat get so terribly territorial — only that it’s the very same cat that can lobotomize you in a split second if you so much as screw up any of his work.

However, it was as if it was innately built in you to catch up with him. It’s why Dottore finds you so interesting and remotely entertaining — the fact that you can barely make an organized effort on certain things, but when it comes to him, you’re all ears and can fulfill just about any task he has given you. Truly, you are his pride and joy and there can be no one in this world that can even refute that in the slightest.

But even Dottore can be extreme in his expression of affection, often toeing the threshold between something wholesome and adorable to something completely insane.

And aren’t you just the klutz, making the poor doctor worry.

You knocked on the door before entering — Dottore already told you to come in regardless, considering that you’re the only he has given his permission to do so. But still, you were his assistant, and even as his boyfriend, you still held a high degree of respect to the man (lest you barge in on him on his bad day and end up becoming a lab rat).

“I got what you asked for.”

Tearing himself away from his work, the doctor turned to you, half of his brain still very much attuned to the poor monstrosity of a cadaver that he just recently hacked away and toyed with, “What did I ask for?”

“Uhh… well, financial expense report for your Balladeer project in Sumeru, some relevant literatures for your current… cadaver endeavors, the new assignments that you got from the Jester that you somehow managed to push on me, the letter from Sumeru’s grand sage that you kept on whining about, and some samples that you asked from some poor unfortunate soul out there.”

Dottore’s eyes narrowed as he retained all the errands you’ve listed. Only for him to turn to you, a look of complete skepticism plastered on his temporarily unmasked face, “…That’s everything that I asked you to do.”

You slowly nodded, “…Yes? Is… something wrong with that?”

“I have made precise calculations of the average arrival of every single thing that I asked from you. A good half of them would have taken you a few weeks at most.”

“…Yes, well aware of that.”

You suddenly felt your poor tie getting yanked down as you came face-to-face with your normally unhinged lover, “Are you slacking on me? Are you cutting corners? You know I have no tolerance for such things.”

“Wait, dear— my tie.”

“I believe that head of yours should be the focus of your concerns, dear.”

At this point, resistance was futile, so you merely gave in with a sigh, carefully placing the basket filled with every single thing that he asked for. Dottore gave a side glance at your submissions, almost taken aback by the mountainous height of the papers you’ve stacked.

Still, while he may be lenient on you on certain things, he knows and expects that you above all are aware of the fact that he highly prioritizes his work. He still has to keep you in line after all if you’re starting to slag on your duties as his assistant.

“This is suspiciously early. It’s only been four days since these assignments. What did you do?”

You laughed a little, “You know I would never jeopardize your work, Zandik. I’d rather be six-feet under than even consider that in the first place.” The way his red eyes glowered, was enough to make you feel small, “…I… swear it…”

“Talk.”

“I only had to cut out a few unnecessary things on my schedule so I can focus on my tasks… like… sleep or… meals. Just… a couple, I promise.”

That wasn’t true. It wasn’t a deliberate cutting out. It’s only that you’ve fixated on your work and that you were always itching to be on the move that you completely lost track of your time and ultimately screwed with your time frame in eating and sleeping. You barely ate and barely slept and your stack of work was the testament of that.

What. Dottore blinked slowly as his brain processed the information you so very generously dropped on him. You, in your efforts of focusing on your tasks… had managed to cut off the only very reason why you’re even alive in the first place. The most necessary part of your day, which now somehow was deemed as otherwise, was cut out of your schedule just to do his work.

Dottore has discreetly admired your dedication as his assistant, and quite frankly that was the reason why you’re still alive and still sleeps in the same bed as he does every single night. But something about the fact that you’ve neglected yourself just for his work was enough to irk the ruthless doctor.

The loosening grip on your tie tightened into a vice and before you knew it, your back was met with the cold hard surface of an empty operating table — it wasn’t even one of those that bend and are cushioned for comfort, it was where he often placed his experiments in.

“Wait, wh—” you quickly swallowed your complaint the moment you saw his eyes glinting dangerously down at you.

“I need to pry your brain open.”

You almost choked on air as you heard your lovers words, you immediately propped yourself up by your elbows, “What do you mean pry my brain open?!”

“I mean cracking that thick skull of yours to see whether or not something went wrong in your wiring,” Dottore’s movements were swift as he climbed up to the table, straddling your hips as he reached for the belt buckles attached at the side of the this cold metal slab.

“H-Hey now… let’s not… jump to certain actions that we might soon regret…”

And now here you are, at a complete stalemate with your beloved boyfriend, with you completely under his mercy. You were tied down and those leather straps were not at all helping you in making your grand escape. Not to mention, you can’t exactly just shove off your boyfriend.

“Not eating or sleeping for days just to complete your work would have been admirable had it not been for the fact that you need it.” Dottore sighed, reaching out a gloved hand to cup your face, squishing your cheeks together, “And here I thought you were slacking on your work… only to find something far worse.” The grip on your cheeks tightened.

You only shot him a pleading look, absolutely trying not to get your brain picked on. Your beloved had finally granted your reddening cheeks some mercy as he let go of it, “It’s not exactly something I can help, y’know? It just comes onto me naturally.”

“You not eating or even barely sleeping for the next four days is natural?” The harbinger was perplexed to say the least. “Would you like me to repeat that again so you can hear just how utterly asinine your words are?”

Huffing, you turned your cheek to the other direction, only to be faced by a dismembered head and immediately looked back at your lover, “I just wanted to make sure you have no hassle in the long run. And like I said, I don’t mind it.”

“I, however, mind the fact that if you keep this up, I might be looking for a potential replacement in just a few days once you kick the bucket.” He huffed back at you, “I hate inconveniences.” His scowl was deep and showed complete frustration towards you and your actions.

And for a quick second, your sleep and nutrient deprived mind had finally stopped to take in as you realized that this was Dottore’s odd way of showing concern. He met your gaze, and with the way your eyes tendered as the realization sank into you, he was far too late.

“Aww, pumpkin… you were worried—?”

“Perish the thought. Absolute lunacy. Whatever. Have it your way — I’ll indulge myself this time.”

“Indulge your… H-Hey! Where are you touching?!”

Dottore’s smile was wicked and devious as his hands traveled somewhere far south, copping a quick feel, “By my initial diagnosis, it seems as though you’ve been experiencing bouts of hyperactivity to the point of neglect at your food intake as well as the much needed rest. Why don’t I sort this out? As your personal physician, I suggest we do something about that before assigning your prescribed medications, no?”

Fret not, he made good on his promise — and fed you before tucking you in bed… but not after feeding him yourself.

[pinnithin]

enver gortash fascinates me from the perspective of his relationship with the dark urge because like, as far as i know his alliance with them is one of the very few he didn’t actively despise. the guy was sold into slavery by his own parents (who tried to justify it by saying their child was a hateful monster and anyone would have done the same) and spent his formative years employed by a devil who gets off on gratuitous levels of suffering and manipulation. and then once he's escaped that and built himself up so he can never be used and enslaved again he meets this bhaalspawn who also had to adapt and survive a violent and manipulative environment for years by becoming the monsters who raised them.

gortash sees how the dark urge has risen to command armies and slaughter hundreds in the same way he outfoxed raphael and ruthlessly controls the people in his employ, and after earning and owning his reputation as a tyrant heres another person who might actually have like, a shared lived experience. not exactly a friend, because people like them can't afford to have friends, but someone who at least understands. and he willingly works with them on this plan to enslave the sword coast and agrees to share power with them.

and then orin lobotomizes them, puts a tadpole in their head, and leaves them for dead at moonrise.

like, can you imagine. youre working with the first person you see eye to eye with and prooooobably arent plotting to actively sabotage (or, at least would hesitate to do so) and the rug just gets yanked out from under them by their own sister, and now you're stuck with her because the plan still has to move along. and as the days go by a group of adventurers start to screw up your plot right when baldur's gate is within your grasp, and you learn that among them is your old almost-friend who you actually liked and respected - and they have no memory of you whatsoever. oh, and on top of that they're rolling with people you've actively fucked over and want to kick your ass.

did it hurt for him to learn this? did he ever think about how things could have been different? did he think, you were supposed to be my ally, my friend, someone who actually understands that becoming a monster is the only way to keep yourself safe and in control. we were going to rule together. and now you're ride or die with this squad of people you've only known for a few weeks at best, and you want me dead. you don't even remember me. you don't even remember yourself.

[kerubimcrepin]

Wakfu Season 3, Episodes 7-13

Episode 7 - Pinball Hazard

Of course you would say that, Ruel.

Are those Nora's........

Anyway.

Fun fact: these are Kerubim's cards from rehab.

I have no idea what Ush is doing with them, but it is funny that he has them.

Episode 8 - Arpagone

Even though I have rewatched s3 multiple times (sadly), I am still not sure if Ankama means for us to go away from it thinking that Ruel is an enutrof demigod.

If I am not insane, and it is what we are meant to understand, then all I can say is: instead of retconning things, they should have added some cool new demigod, or brought in an old one. This sucks.

They shuoild add Meriana in Wakfu. Though not as a brotherhood member, she would never join their cult.

HIIII SIMONE. Once again, I am not sure if this is Ankama saying that Ruel is older than 600 years old and all of his "omg dofus era was so long ago... haha" was a strategic gaslight to keep people from knowing (AND that his grandmother is ALSO older than 600 years old)

Or if Ankama just has no regard or respect for Dofus Aux Tresors de Kerubim and people who watch their shows, and decided "we hate one of the literal main characters of that show so much that we will use her as a background character design" as early as s3, actually.

More weirdass asset reusages have hit the pentagon. Yeah, I'm pretty sure Ankama just unironically hates Dofus fans or expects nobody to care about that show or Simone as a character.

Like... what does this mean. Does this mean that he's older than 600 years? Does this mean he's a demigod, BUT he's a normal mortal age? One of leaked studio timelines says he's approximately 200 years old, but so is YUGO'S DAD, WHO IS MORTAL. Is THAT canon? Ankama can you actually settle on a singular thing here?

I think I hate enutrof lore now 🤪

Episode 9 - The Sadida Temple

#kin #me #same #female manipulator #literally me #coquette

Episode 10 - When the Walls Fall Down

This episode is so cringe it makes me suicidal.

Ok fine, Pinpin being happy IS cute. I'll give you that, Tot.

Episode 11 - Oropo

When Ankama Misogyny Olympics happen and Julith, Aurora, Lou, Jiva, Eva, Simone, and Bakara show up to compete — they all just start crying the second Kali comes near them, because they KNOW they'll lose.

I need this season to be over asap, I can't take this anymore. Adamai, Amalia... I'm so, so sorry that the writers have lobotomized you.

Episode 13 - Inglorium

Ok I unironically cried. I hate this series for making me cry because of season 3.

[limetameta]

Was anyone going to tell me about alternate dimension lobotimized Joker, or was I just supposed to find that well of opportunity out by watching the episode A better world in Justice League?? Like my dudes, this is amazing batjokes real estate here. *slams Joker like the hood of the batmobile* The potential alone. The angst. Superman lobotomizing Joker to put a stop to him finally as he has done to numerous others. Batman thought that he was ready for this. That it had to be done. The voice in his head says that this should be everything he's ever dreamt of. The Joker stopped. He's not dead, either.

Surely. Surely this is what he's always hoped for.

But it isn't.

And it's far too late to return to how things were. All of the rogues gallery are lobotomized. They're calmer, and they don't cause any trouble. One can even say that Arkham is a home to them now. It's certainly nicer without all of the screaming and the mad cackling.

At first, he comes to visit him. The few doctors there treat this as his curiosity, but Batman is sceptical that the treatment worked. Surely, the Joker’s mind is unlike any other. A part of him he doesn't dare call hope wants the Joker to be faking his mellowed behaviour, his eerie calmness. He doesn't laugh, but he does smile when he sees Batman. And there's such a tragic layer behind the looks he gives him. No. It's tragic because the Joker has been stripped of the ability to hide. What Batman sees when the Joker looks at him now is the most raw display of love the clown has ever donned. When you strip away the guns and the knives and the acid and the gas, the purple suits and the maddening laughter - this is what's left: his deepest, sincerest form of love out for Batman to see. To judge. And he can't even hide behind a joke.

Even lobotimized, even after Superman destroyed the Joker - he couldn't destroy this.

Batman sees the Joker move gently, shyly to cup his hand in his. Over the glove. Batman’s breath hitches. He braces for impact, for when the Joker will take a knife out from his sleeve or a razor edged Joker card to slice at him with.

But it doesn't come. How could it? Those two lobotomy marks on his forehead, from where Superman's laser vision did its work, they glare.

"Batman," his smile doesn't reach his eyes, it doesn't even stretch wide enough for teeth to show. But what teeth are left to show? Have they not defanged the Joker?

Quiet and obedient are two things that don't suit the Joker. And Batman feels bile rising in his mouth. He feels anger at himself for letting this happen. But if Superman could kill Lex Luthor, surely this compromise is something Batman can accept.

"Joker, how do you feel?"

He blinks. Trying to think. "Half a brain lighter," he says and shrugs.

Batman dares to hope. But the laughter doesn't come. The Joker doesn't even wink. He yawns, exhausted, or too medicated. They're pumping him with more drugs than is necessary still. Precautions.

Batman grasps hold of the Joker by his wrist. Tighter than he intends. No flash of panic or excitement or even anger flashes across the Joker’s face. Nothing that can let Batman know there's anyone under that hollow mask, that face.

He's killed the man under the acid bleached skin and left something neither here nor there. Is this what might happen to him if the man under the cowl is to die?

"What do you like to do?" Batman asks him, controlling the way his voice sounds. Everyone is listening. Everyone is watching.

"I don't know. No jokes, though. They say I can't tell jokes anymore. But, um, well," he looks sheepish in this light, and normally Batman would say it's a ploy. But now he knows it isn't. So the honesty in the Joker’s expressions is worse than anything he's ever seen. "I don't really remember if I ever liked to do that. Did I ever make you laugh?" It's with childlike wonder that he looks at him now, inching closer than is allowed, but Batman can't find it in himself to push him away or to raise his voice at him. To remove him from himself and send him off to therapy or to his cell. His room. Wherever.

He won't be able to look at Superman again without seeing this.

"Yes." The admission comes at a cost.

The Joker’s eyes crinkle with happiness. "That's good." He grasps hold of his gloves hand and squeezes it. Not to hurt him. Just to feel him. Batman will never be able to return to Arkham. He will never be able to see this man again.

But it's too late anyway. The man he wants to see was ripped through those two marks on his forehead.

"Thank you." The Joker says. He's clasping both hands over his and smiling up at him. This is not the Joker you know, this will never be the Joker you knew. Nor will it ever be the one you wanted to know, the one who willingly went through rehabilitation.

But. But. The voice in your head goes on, louder, quicker: this needed to be done. How many people would need to die at his hand for you to realise this? Be happy Superman took this difficult task from your hands. You didn't kill. You still haven't killed.

The Joker mumbles something.

"What?" Batman barks, his voice flooded with wretched pain he hopes comes across as anger.

It doesn't. Even lobotomized, the Joker can tell: "Hush now," he comforts, patting his hands and humming, "you don't have to explain anything to me. You don't owe me anything, o Justice Lord."

The bile in Batman’s mouth is worse than any acid the Joker might have thrown at him. There is not a hint of irony in the Joker’s voice.

He rips his hands away from the Joker and stands. He isn't shaking only because he is a master of control, and he knows everyone is watching. Everyone is always watching.

It's heartbreak, pure and simple. "You aren't coming back, are you?"

"What's there to come back to?" Batman asks, hollow in his heart, looking at a hollow man. A shell of someone he doesn't want to think about. Because if he does think about him, he'll wonder if this really needed to be done. And he can't have such thoughts. Not when everyone is watching.

The Joker nods his head. He doesn't have the capacity for anything else. "That's all right."

Where is the fanfare? The fireworks? The theatrics?

Batman cannot recognise the man in front of him. So he turns around, cape billowing behind him. He cannot look back. But unlike what was promised to Orpheus, even though Batman doesn't turn around, the Joker never returns by his side.

Diana stands next to him. She puts a hand to his shoulder to ask him something, but he slams it away and growls: "I don't need anything from you."

Her eyes harden to steel and he knows that he said too much.

So he amends it: "I need some time. To recuperate. This is... a lot to take in."

Her voice is gentle when she speaks to him: "Of course. I am here for you."

"Yes." Batman says. Anything longer and he might let something else slip in his voice that he can't allow.

It is easy to disappear in the Batcave. It is easy because the other Justice Lords are all very much happy to be in the spotlight.

Batman obsesses over the man in Arkham. He never comes back. But he knows, because it is his business to know, that he is a model patient. Even entrusted to help out run Arkham. He loves being around people. But too much excitement tires him out. To pass the time he paints or he spends time with Ivy in the garden. Harleen Quinzel sometimes visits them.

Any footage he can find of the cctv in Arkham depecting the Joker has him subdued. He has scoured so much footage without seeing him shake with laughter. At most he smiles and shrugs his shoulders.

Alfred doesn't say anything. But he makes him tea and he brings it to him more frequently, trying to help him in any way he can. It feels similar, Batman takes the tea and drinks it, to how the first cup of tea tasted like after he had come home that night.

The Justice Lords attempt to get him to leave the Batcave and help them, but Batman tells them he is busy dealing with something important.

He watches the Joker attempt to put puzzles together with Edward Nygma. It's a 12+ puzzle. They're struggling.

Harleen Quinzel brings them 5+ puzzles next time. She sits with the Joker and she tells him about her day, about her new job at a different clinic. About how she wised up. Then, mushing her head in hand: "It was either I wised up, or I became like you and Ivy. Not much of a choice."

The Joker has given up on the puzzle. He tells Harley about this butterfly he saw in the garden. He has nothing else that stood out to him. It was purple. He thinks he likes purple.

Harley scoffs. "Now that's funny."

The Joker shrugs. "Sorry."

"What for?"

He shrugs again. And he manages to look into the camera. And how many times has he looked into Arkham cameras and left messages just for Batman to decipher? Is this something he remembers. Is this something he wants to tell Batman?

"Sorry." He looks at Batman. But Batman thinks that this is the Joker telling him he has nothing to be sorry for.

Batman cuts all contact with Arkham. He does not look at cctv. He does not read any news or any reports.

Alfred still brings tea and he still doesn't say anything. What can he say?

Nothing. So Batman doesn't waste words. He instead pursues research that leads him to finding alternative realities.

Watching himself is not something Batman is interested in. It means nothing to him to see Bruce Wayne or Batman or some amalgam of different circumstances.

And he is just about to step away from the computer and put an end to this research - when he hears it.

It's loud and maniacal and freeing and mad.

It's angry and despicable and outrageous.

It's dangerous and intelligent.

It's him.

Batman stares at the Joker, clad in purple and green, holding a laughing gas bomb and aiming it at the Batman of his world, with a grin so wide it must hurt. "Batsy, just in time for the punchline!" He throws the bomb and laughs.

[nowoyas]

Boiling Point 1: Rabbit Season - Miguel O'Hara/Reader (NSFW)

Next - M.list - Ao3

A/N: hi I'm very normal about miguel o'hara. come be normal with me.

EDIT 9/20: DUE TO A URL CHANGE LINKS ARE CURRENTLY BROKEN. FOR EASE OF READING PLEASE PROCEED TO AO3. I HAVE NINETY FOUR FIC LINKS TO UPDATE SO IDK WHEN THIS WILL BE FIXED BUT SOON.

Summary: You are determined to put an end to the onslaught of your toy collection. In your quest, you set out to re-train yourself into some discipline.

Warnings: smut, vibrator use, masturbation. reader is afab and a sub.

Word count: ~3000 words

You are really starting to hate Miguel O'Hara.

Oh, sure, you’d follow him to the ends of every earth, Earth-47 notwithstanding—fuck Earth-47 and its migraine-inducing everything—and you will never thank him enough for everything he’s done, for you and all the other dimensions saved by him, directly or otherwise. He’s brilliant, he’s a genius, he’s easy on the eyes, his leadership is instrumental to holding together All of Everything, all that which you can comprehend and conceive, all that which you cannot. He does not always have all the information, but you trust him to do as much good as he can with the information he has. He is fundamentally good to a fault, and while he can be abrasive at times—perhaps more often than not—we can’t all be winners all the time.

No, your issue with him has nothing to do with any of that.

Your head is more than a little fuzzy right now, given your current circumstances, so I’ll be nice and put this in a way you can understand:

Miguel O'Hara keeps breaking your fucking sex toys.

Like I said, he’s easy on the eyes. Maybe too easy. Maybe, more than once, you’ve fought at his side and had an entirely separate fight in your head just to keep your mind on the matter at hand. Maybe, one time too many, you’ve seen his fangs flash during a flare of the temper or a slip of his guard and not quite forgotten the sight. Maybe you’ll need to be lobotomized if you want to forget that time you’d gone on a mission with him and he’d leapt directly at you, claws out, fangs bared, eyes vermilion, to tackle you out of the way of some particularly dangerous debris and stayed on top of you for a full eternity after that to make sure you were okay.

If that final image was the one seared behind your eyes as you sighed and pressed your vibe into yourself this fine afternoon, that’s between you and no one. And, in fact, it wasn’t, because you are never admitting to getting off to the general thought of your—boss?—your boss, not today or ever, under oath or the threat of death.

That being said, it had started as a bit of a coping mechanism.

He was stupid hot, and he walked towards you like you were quarry he had hunted, and the first time he’d done it, your brain had gone completely offline for a full five seconds. Getting off that night had been unrelated, you tell yourself—you didn’t think while pumping two fingers into your cunt, let alone about him, let alone when you’d added the third because you were certainly not imagining something thicker plunging into your heat. Fingers hadn’t been enough, not for a job like that, and by the time you overheard him finish a playful spat with Lyla with the words “good girl”, you’d given in and broke open the vibrator collection, a relic of a much more impulsive time, before you were fucking yourself on toys definitely not to the thought of your boss.

The first casualty had been your green rabbit vibe. It was a mainstay, and your oldest toy—a thruster, thick, good insertable length, great battery life, not so loud you struggled to get off for fear of your next-door neighbor hearing its buzz. Miguel had bitten someone during a mission that day, just held them and sunk his teeth in and set them down as they slumped, paralyzed, and wiped his mouth of the blood afterward like it wasn’t the hottest thing known to man.

Monsterfucking porn had been your saving grace. You’d turned to werewolves and tried not to overthink the image in your head when you pictured their teeth scraping your flesh, and then your old reliable rabbit vibe had made an odd noise between your writhing that tore you out of the image entirely. Seconds later, it stopped thrusting whether you wanted it to or not. When you hit the button, it made a pathetic noise like a spent lover, wriggled a moment, and went right back to motionless.

You’d groaned in frustration, pulled it out, told yourself it had just died, except it was still making that buzzing noise and the clitoral stimulator was still working fine. You pulled the third orgasm of the night out of the clit stimulator and your wrist work alone—it had been a bit better, because the ruined orgasm 2.5 had ultimately turned out to be an edge, and a name that no one would ever be able to prove was Miguel’s ghosted your lips by then. A good cleaning, a good charge, and some cooldown time, and you determined that the thruster of your poor little green rabbit would never work again.

Miguel O'Hara’s second casualty among your collection was nearly as tragic. You’d come to see him at the wrong time that day—walked in, said his name, and he’d turned to you with red eyes and actually growled at you, and holy shit, you couldn’t calm down for the next hour or the rest of the night.

Your green rabbit had been relegated to a glorified dildo and clit vibe, and as you thrashed on your bed, desperately chasing just an echo of the things that ran through your head when he growled at you, pressing the vibe into yourself as far as it would go and nearly there nearly there nearly there, it buzzed oddly and its power suddenly fell away.

You’d choked back a sob at that one. Again, you assumed it’d been a case of poor battery life, though you hadn’t charged it all that long ago. When you reluctantly pulled out the dripping vibe and saw its indicator lights flashing and flickering in the dark room, you did sob, and then, because you were still thinking about the growl in his voice and the flash of his fangs, you dragged yourself out of bed, dumped your old friend in the trash, and found your backup vibrator to finish the job.

The next casualty of your collection had been your pink vibe—she was an upgrade in every way to the green one. More speed options, rotating beads in the shaft, an attempt to imitate “tongues” on the clit, however the hell that was supposed to work, and more money to have discreetly shipped to your apartment.

This time, Miguel hadn’t even done anything in particular to catch you in his toy-breaking throes. He’d just been existing. Vibing, if you will. And your horny ass—by that point you were starting to suspect yourself some kind of nymphomaniac, and that was before casualty number three—saw him just sitting there and eating food like a normal-ass person, had some really fucking horny thoughts (first about just cooking for him, nice, domestic, sweet) (second about him pulling up the apron you’d wear for him in the first scenario and splitting you in half over the kitchen counter), and that was it for your evening post-shenanigans.

So, naturally, when you got home, you took off the bracelet, stashed it in another room, leaned over your kitchen counter, and revved up that rotating-beads-in-the-shaft thruster, pistoning it into your cunt with obscene squelches like your life depended on it. You’d kept it up, free hand clasped over your mouth, until you were forced to finish on the couch lest your legs give out, and the poor thing overheated from the strain of trying to keep up with the image you had in your head of Miguel and the thruster never moved again. Great investment, that one.

It was at this point in time that you had two options:

First, seek therapy to help you through the excruciating condition of being sex-crazed for one Miguel O'Hara.

Or, secondly, you could funnel those feelings through a surrogate and fuck someone else’s brains out so you didn’t have to think about him.

You, in all your overwhelming genius, decided that the city’s superhero could not retain the services of a therapist in any way that mattered, let alone any of the Spider-Therapists abound at HQ, and instead found your way into a myriad of fuck-buddy relationships with perfect strangers.

You found your pool of eligible fuck-buddies wanting, to say the least. You never used to be all that picky—I mean, sure, you were never exactly all that attracted to anyone before the whole Spider thing, and then you were a little too busy to worry about it, but you still probably would have slept with someone if they were decently pretty enough and nice to you—but then you tried to find someone and filtered out half of them on looks alone.

Hair too light. Too waifish. I could snap this one in half.

Some were just generally not great candidates as you swiped through: weird thoughts about domming, one whose bio mentioned how he would expect you to throw out your toys once you were “dedicated” to him (those were expensive and you’d been forced to throw out one too many already), misaligned kinks, one guy who literally said “I don’t believe in safewords” and didn’t see how that was the biggest red flag in the universe.

It took too long, once you’d settled on a few choice matches, to figure out what they all had in common beyond making profiles on a hookup app and claiming to be dominants:

They all reminded you of Miguel.

This, admittedly, did not become clear until later, when you slept with the first one for the second time and it wasn’t all that bad and while he had you blindfolded on the bed, you forgot yourself and moaned a name.

Not ‘sir’, like had been discussed in your initial meeting.

At first, you’d frozen because you’d forgotten to use his title, and that meant you were due for punishment. Then, it was because you realized the real mistake:

That hadn’t been his name you’d moaned.

You broke it off shortly after that. When the second guy went the way of the first, you gave yourself one last shot with this whole diversion idea, and that went pretty well. You lasted three whole months with this one—he was sweet, he was funny, and when it came time for you to be tied down and have your brains fucked out, he respected your hard stops and made your head fuzzy by the time he was done with you.

He bit you in the heat of the moment, and you moaned the wrong name again, and this time, you gave up on having any sort of sex life, even though he tried to be understanding of the misstep.

His teeth weren’t sharp enough to live up to who you wanted him to be, anyway.

How many casualties had Miguel O'Hara racked up in your bedroom, now? Three partners, two thrusting mechanisms, one vibrator, and now, as you sit on your knees on your bed and ride the half-defunct pink rabbit, the still-functioning vibrator buzzing in the night, you give in and admit to yourself that what you need more than anything is for him to break you in half. To chase you down, clamp his teeth on your throat, and have his way with you.

Riding this stupid toy isn’t enough. You slump face-first onto the bed, ass in the air, and try to imagine how his hand would feel on the back of your neck as you reach a hand back to pump the toy into your weeping pussy.

This, too, is not enough—you resort to full-power vibrator, nearly spasming as you try to reach the heights you need to feel satisfied tonight. And you even nearly get there, before Miguel O'Hara’s stupid everything claims its seventh casualty and the vibrator sputters out with a noise that you’ve come to associate with a profound sort of grief.

You throw the broken vibrator aside, reach for the shitty purple bullet vibe that had come as a free gift with one of your collection. In your haste and with the strength that comes with being a Spider, the fucking thing snaps in your hands. Another casualty of his. At least you didn’t pay a hundred dollars for that one.

It’s little consolation. Tears slip down your cheeks as you reach back to do the job manually, but no amount of fingering yourself or frantically rubbing at your clit is going to be enough, and fuck it, you know that by now, but that was your last toy and now there’s nothing left and his stupid pretty face is still in your head and you have to do something!

It’s no good.

Nothing you’ve tried has ever quite been good enough, and you know that.

Short of buying yourself a fucking machine, too expensive and noisy and hefty to even really consider, you’ve got nothing.

After fifteen frustrated minutes of crying and trying to bring yourself up to that climax you so desperately need, you throw yourself down fully onto the bed and actively cry into your pillow.

He’s stupid.

He’s burned through every sex toy in your collection, every vibrator and thruster, every partner you’ve tried to lay with since meeting him.

You are really, really starting to hate Miguel O'Hara.

~

Okay, so that’s one unhealthy coping mechanism lost to your complete inability to be chill. Luckily, you’re not just a sex-crazed simp for him, you’re also an adrenaline junkie, and if your substitute for all the lost sexual outlets happens to be taking some bigger risks than you normally would when caught up in some fight or another, that’s between you and the wall you went through.

Keep telling yourself it’s sustainable, and maybe you won’t have to worry about the weird look from one of the many various Peters running around or the stern look on the face of Miguel when you report back in. Which Peter? Fuck if you know. You were faceblind before joining the society comprised of 95% the same guy in different flavors. They don’t take it personally. At least you almost always get the name right.

And really, it is! It is completely sustainable! Bruises are a thing you wear with pride, and you’re beyond the worry for broken bones and serious injury by now. If anything, the dull ache in your back could be a useful grounding point to keep yourself from thinking about things you shouldn’t, a skill you probably should have been practicing well before you broke the first vibe.

Nothing you try works, of course, not when he’s standing in front of you looking an awful lot like he has something to say.

“I should head back, too,” you say when your backup Peter has moved to leave. A perfect segue to heading back to your home dimension and—

“[name]. Stay back a moment.”

He doesn’t word things like requests. You’ve learned, over time, that he is requesting, in a way, but his voice is forever just a bit too deep and rumbly for your body to interpret it as anything but an order, and god you’re useless. So much for not thinking about the things you’re trying not to think about.

You have to remember that you can’t stay here and chat, so you remember that you can’t stay here and chat, and so you turn to leave anyway. “I can’t really stay and chat—“

“That was stupid,” he interrupts.

Ah. He was watching you fight today.

He raises a single eyebrow as he studies you. (You hate his stupid face you hate his stupid face you hate—)

“You could have moved out of the way.”

You snort, brush it off. “He was just some villain of the week type. I thought it’d be cool if I could get him before he hit me.”

“You let him hit you because you thought it would be cool?”

“No, I waited too long to move the way I wanted to, because I thought it would be cool. It’s not like I really got hurt, anyway.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose with a long-suffering sigh, muttering something in Spanish you don’t quite catch.

“What was that?”

“I can’t decide whether you’re stupid or just need discipline.”

That is decidedly not what he said. You caught enough shreds of his muttering to know that much. And anyway, it doesn’t matter, because it takes all your willpower not to reply with discipline me yourself then, coward and you’re so focused on that thought that it clicks.

Oh.

What you need is not to get over your monumental attraction to him.

It’s discipline.

Before you fucked the life out of every vibrator you owned, you had discipline.

Before you met him, you had discipline.

It was something you’d given over to sexual partners to handle—to tell you when to masturbate, when to cum, when to pull your toys away regardless of how needy you were.

And, in the absence of any such partners between your newly exacting standards and inability to sleep with anyone without thinking of someone else, it’s once again going to have to come from you.

You meet his eyes, a new fire within you. “I’ll do better.”

He holds your haze a long moment, his expression one of those enigmas you could spend centuries trying to crack and still turn out to be wrong in the end.

He breaks it off first, turns away from you.

“Then do it. I’ll be waiting.”

You slip out of the room and clear out of the dimension.

You’ll get your discipline back if it kills you.

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[blubushie]

if y'all think the tf2 fandom is bad now, i found some old posts from 2021 where someone was like "the fact that straight people ship miss pauling and medic scares me" and the replies were just full of ppl going "people actually ship them? 😰" and acting SO scandalized over the most harmless m/f ship you could imagine. i am convinced everyone there was lobotomized bc no way y'all are that braindead (signed, a raging homo who thinks pauling x merc ships are cute)

Fucken oath

It's not like it's even on SpyScout level where I can understand the apprehension of "how can people ship a father and son GASP"

It's just. A man. And a woman. SCANDALOUS.