#constantly hysterical in this world

[starrytones]

the word "cupcake" incites a different response from different people. for example, the reaction of an arcane fan would be quite different from the reaction of a my little pony fan. i, who happen to be both,

[bacchuschucklefuck]

the nsbu table is five DM pets and rekha shankar

[strilondism]

classic bro revives postgame scenario. dave's avoiding him, like five other ppl are standing between them telling bro to fuck off. they talk eventually. bro's definitely the kind of abuser to get all defensive & justify himself when confronted like "well it's thanks to me you're alive & can fight etc. you think i enjoyed beating the shit out of you & watching your every move? only kind of, i had better things to do" and so on. anyway at one point he says "after everything cal and i did for you?" and dave fucking loses it

[cantdanceflynn]

Also for the first time in nigh 8 years now I'm playing the stalk market... Time to enjoy these highs and lows

[lesamis]

If you're up for it could you explain what is making the Germany government stuff so funny? I can find news articles about it (a coalition is dissolving? There's been tension for a while?) but they're all fairly serious. Thx!

ohhh, sure thing! i'll do my best!

i'll say upfront: this is a pretty serious thing to happen. our chancellor fired our minister of finance, Lindner, which definitively breaks up the governing coalition. germany will likely have snap elections at a moment in which far-right parties are polling extremely well. if news coverage about it seems like people are Worried, that's because, well, they are.

however. the reason it's funny is because our minister of finance was fired. ministers aren't really... ever fired. like, it's not a done thing. i'll fully admit i didn't even know it was an option until yesterday. and our minister of finance wasn't just anyone, he was one of the most mocked and hated figures in politics to germans who vote anywhere left of center.

the coalition that governed until yesterday was made up of the green party, the social democrats, and the neoliberal party (FDP). the FDP is infamous (and i mean, my parents already raised me to hate them for that) for playing kingmaker in coalition governments: they never get all that many votes, but they get just enough that whoever they agree to form a government with will probably succeed. they then tend to force extreme concessions from their coalition partners, because hey, if we walk off, you can't govern at all! so you better play along!

for the past three years, this behaviour has been extremely frustrating for germans who voted for greens or social democrats, because policy from their faction was constantly being blocked by the FDP and often by Lindner personally. the FDP received 11,5% of votes in 2021, but to many of us, it felt as if they were the only party who really had any say in the governing coalition. it made the green and social democratic coalition partners look spineless and passive.

and now, i invite you to imagine how on the day of the US election results, the day the whole world rolled their eyes at the sheer fucking stupidity and pointlessness of it all, at NINE IN THE EVENING, just as germans are getting ready to settle in to bed to dream of nightmare global politics -

the news suddenly breaks that our notoriously invisible chancellor just decided to fire Lindner for that exact behaviour. this chancellor comes out and says, on camera, to the entire sleepy nation, that acting the way Lindner did - blocking necessary policies, refusing to approve budgets unless his party's interests were met - was childish, selfish, irresponsible, and unfit for government, so, whoops, he had to go. shame. coalition over, i guess.

so, politically, that was a long-needed but never-expected moment of triumph for those of us who think the FDP is a clown show made up of human TESLA shares, and it came at a hysterically funny moment.

on a personal level, i can barely explain how uniquely hateable Lindner has always been. he's what would happen if a stock index graph came to life. he hates poor people with a relish; he mocks welfare recipients and would ax minimum wages in a second. he's everyone's business major roommate who shows up in boat shoes fresh off a yacht to discuss NFTs with you. throughout the entire time that he's used his rich boy policy blackmail strategy, he's been smug about it, and he was never taken to task for it, and millions of germans have been longing to throw rotten fruit in his face since 2017. and now we finally get to do it. via memes. on the day of trump's election win.

so that's why it's funny.

[mochiwrites]

Grian is a hypocrite. He knows. God, does he know it. He’d never acknowledge that fact, however, would never admit to it. He isn’t exactly the type that goes around readily confessing his flaws, after all.

He had told Jimmy he wouldn’t restart the session if he died, right after he’d been knocked down a few lives. Grian said it without hesitation, as amusement spilled from his voice like it had been paint in a can that tipped over. It wouldn’t be fair, nor right, to restart the session. And if he restarted it for Jimmy, what kind of message would that send the others? It might become expectation if someone permanently died so early on.

He needed to be firm about it—even if Jimmy’s misfortune came from bad luck, things out of his control.

Grian can’t go giving out special favors. He can’t be biased.

He’s a hypocrite for it.

It happens on the mountain, right by the long staircase made of soft pink cherry wood. He doesn’t even notice at first, attempting to avoid his personal harbinger, a snail. Honestly, Grian didn’t mean for things to go this badly. As with most things with him, Grian thought it to be a silly joke. A hat tip toward a well known hypothetical query.

But in typical fashion, Grian overestimated his friends’ survival capabilities. With their own personal snails tailing them constantly, he watched as death after death rolled in, giggling over each one (unless it was Mumbo or Skizz).

Maybe by now he should know better.

“Who would make my snail invisible?! Who would boobytrap my snail like that?!”

Grian looks over at Lizzie, both flabbergasted and impressed, “That’s—that’s devious.”

The second he turns, it happens.

(Sandy domes under their feet, a ravine cutting right through their path. Mischievous giggles shared between them before they’re torn apart, the sound coming to an abrupt end.

With a shout he pushes his hand out, but to no avail. Yellow turns to red and all that’s left are their foot prints in sand, a pile of items below.

He’s left at the top, lips curling around the syllables of a name as hysteric laughter follows it, distress wrapping around it like a ring.

He never did manage to catch him.)

Grian is a hypocrite, because the moment Scar dies right in front of him, he panics. That invisible snail wasn’t Lizzie’s. It was Scar’s. He stops, breath cutting itself short on its own blade, body freezing itself in ice. He gets a second of eye contact with the man, seeing the shock and fear lacing his expression before he’s gone.

“Oh, Scar!” The outcry is loud as it crackles with distress.

This is it, he’s on his final life now. If he dies it’s permanent. No do overs. No restarts. No special favors. Scar will die. Grian can’t stomach the thought, can’t let it happen. He’s failed every other time and this world has only just begun. It’s too early. It’s… it’s not fair.

END THE SESSION. END THE SESSION! END IT. SAVE HIM. END END END END END END END!

Grian is a hypocrite.

Whether it be out of some sort of twisted and tangled guilt, or the lingering feeling of a debt to Death that never truly went fully repaid, he isn’t sure. There is no hesitation, just a natural instinct, an ingrained habit. If it were anyone else he’d let it happen, let the game run its course.

But his choice is obvious when it comes to Scar, even when he doesn’t want it to be. He’s always going to be drawn to him, always going to feel this pull. He’ll sacrifice it all, twist himself up in however many different contradictions he needs.

For Scar.

“The session is over!” he shouts, rapidly typing in the world chat for the others. He spams the message a few times in his hurry before switching to turn the wild card off. And he does it just in time, with Scar’s snail just a few inches away from the man. It disappears, along with the others, and a collective sigh of relief is released from those among them.

He feels Them watching, unhappy with their meal being cut short. But Grian doesn’t care. He never has.

“Man, that was a close one! I thought I was a goner,” Scar laughs over to his side, drawing Grian’s attention. “Thanks for the quick save there, G-man.”

Grian smiles at him, some small thing. ��Don’t get used to it,” he returns.

There’s a knowing look in Scar’s now ruby eyes, and the sun on Grian’s hair feels warmer; heated, nostalgic. “Of course.”

He’s not supposed to play favorites, not meant to be biased. He’s not supposed to interfere to keep a player alive (something he made very clear to Mumbo and Skizz prior). But existing in a world like this without Scar feels wrong and near painful so early on. He couldn’t stand around and do nothing. He couldn’t just watch.

Not when it’s Scar.

Grian pretends not to notice the glance Jimmy throws at them, a brow raised. He’s been seen right through.

[kimmie2me]

Dynamite and His Player 2

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀𓂅⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Twitch Gamer!Bakugou x AFAB!Reader

.....

Bakugou glances over at the camera, brows furrowed as he adjusts his headset. "Alright, you extras, get ready to shut the hell up," he growls, his voice laced with annoyance. "She’s real. I’ve got her right here, and she’s playing with me tonight."

You laugh off-screen, causing his chat to explode with reactions. Up until now, they didn't believe a word Bakugou said when he claimed he had a girlfriend. After all, this is the guy known for his explosive reactions when things go slightly wrong. He grumbles, trying to keep his cool, but the slight blush on his cheeks gives him away.

The game loads up, some horror-puzzle co-op that requires a ton of coordination. But while Bakugou’s all business—focused on solving puzzles and surviving—you have other ideas. You’re busy teasing him, wandering off to explore the map, or purposely messing up just to get a rise out of him.

"Can you just—dammit! Will you STOP wandering off?" Bakugou snaps as he watches your character take another detour. "We’re supposed to be working together!"

You grin at the screen, purposely moving your character in circles. "Aw, come on, Suki~ We’re just having fun, right?"

His jaw clenches, and he mutters something under his breath about "not having fun if you keep screwing around." But his viewers are eating it up, laughing at his frustration and flooding the chat with comments like "She's brave for messing with him, LMAO😭😭" and "Bros .4 seconds away from exploding his monitor for the 10 millionth time🪦"

Eventually, he just huffs, slouching in his chair and mumbling, "Fine. Do whatever the hell you want. I’ll just wait here." His expression says he's beyond annoyed, but the hint of a smile peeking through his scowl gives away that maybe, just maybe, he's actually having a little fun too.

Grumpy Twitch Gamer Bakugou Headcanons

...

— Every time he messes up, he narrows his eyes at the camera with that “are you stupid?” glare. Chat spams "IT’S NOT OUR FAULT!” and "WHY R U LOOKING AT US LIKE WE DID THAT??" but he just huffs, “If you idiots weren’t DISTRACTING me…”

— Bakugou’s streaming style is brutally honest—constantly throwing out curses like it’s second nature. If he dies in-game, his go-to is, “How the hell am I supposed to win with this garbage game?!” and he never blames himself, ever.

— He has zero chill. Every so often, he’ll pound the desk so hard that the camera shakes, and one time he punched his mic so fiercely that it cut out, leaving chat in hysterics as he tries to fix it, muttering about “this piece of crap gear.”

— After every gaming session, he gives a review of the game he’s playing—most of which devolve into full-on rants about terrible controls, stupid enemies, and “whoever the hell designed these levels.” At this point, it's an entire essay by the time he's done.

— There are moments when he hits the mute button just to scream or cuss off-mic. Chat sees him red-faced and mouthing words, knowing he’s losing it, which makes them spam laugh emotes to annoy him further.

— Sometimes, when things get really bad, he just simply says "Okay." and goes quiet, leaning in close to the screen with this intense focus. Chat knows that if he’s silent, it’s only because he’s plotting to obliterate whatever got him killed.

— It’s become a running joke with his followers—every time he streams, they place bets on which piece of his equipment he’ll break. He’s replaced his keyboard three times already and had to upgrade his camera stand because he broke the last one during a particularly heated rage quit.

— When he finally beats a level, he acts like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “See? Wasn’t even hard, you just have to not be a dumbass.” Cue the smug smirk.

— Occasionally, in his absolute rage, he’ll end the stream immediately after a loss. One second he’s there, screaming at the game, and then—stream offline.

— Despite all the rage, he’s actually insanely good at gaming. When he goes on a winning streak, chat blows up with admiration, but he barely acknowledges it. “’Course I won—who the hell do you think I am?”

— He has zero patience for backseat gamers. “Oh, you think you could do better? Why don’t you go start your own damn channel, then!” The mods know by now to instantly time out anyone who even hints at suggesting how he should play, and the ban count is astronomical by the end of each stream.

— Occasionally, Bakugou gets so into the game that he goes almost silent, and chat jokes it’s an ASMR session because all they can hear is his intense breathing and muttered curses. “Oi, STOP saying it’s ASMR, it’s not ASMR, you freaks!”

— Loading screens are his worst enemy. Every single time, he glares directly into the camera, arms crossed and seething, ranting about the “stupid long loading times” and how he could’ve “beat the damn game twice by now.” and how "a whole child could've been born by now." Chat watches in suspense because they know the rage is simmering, just waiting to explode.

— If he’s playing a console game, the controller does not have a safe future. He’s thrown it across the room, slammed it on his knee or desk, and even threatened it like, “You’re next, you little piece of shit, keep messing up on me.” He’s gone through so many controllers that his sponsor had to send him extras.

— When he loses in a PvP game, he has 1,001 excuses. “Lag. Dumb luck. Exploiter. The devs nerfed my character, obviously.” If chat calls him out, he just scoffs, “You think that was my fault? Keep dreaming.” And the mods instantly clear out any “L” spam from chat because he’s already dangerously close to slamming his keyboard.

— His channel has special emotes for when he loses his temper—explosion icons, angry Bakugou faces, and even one of his own “ARE YOU FUCKIN’ KIDDING ME?!” face. Chat spams these whenever he starts heating up, which only fuels his fire.

— His viewers love to try and provoke him. Someone will innocently say, “Hey Dynamight, I think you missed something back there,” and he’ll instantly pause, glare at the screen, and say, “I DIDN’T MISS ANYTHING, DUMBASS, WE'RE MOVING ON.” It’s like a game within the game for his followers. (He goes back to check right after.)

— “Easy mode?” he scoffs at the suggestion. “I’d rather throw myself into a fire than play on easy mode.” Even if he’s dying over and over, he’ll never, ever change the difficulty. Chat has tried for months to get him to switch, but he’s stubbornly loyal to “the only real mode” (aka Hard Mode, Nightmare mode or above).

— If he actually wins a match, he’s unbearable. He’ll sit there, grinning and basking in his victory, smirking at the camera with a smug, “And that, extras, is why I’m better than every single one of you.” Cue chat sarcastically clapping.

— He once had a bet with his mods that he’d try to do a stream without cursing or raging. He lasted five minutes before he exploded, screaming, “THIS GAME IS FUCKING RIGGED!” after an unexpected jump-scare. The mods were dying, and he banned half of them out of spite (they were unbanned five minutes later, but still).

— Every time he’s about to start a new game, he’s got this exaggerated, dramatic intro: “ALRIGHT, EXTRAS, prepare yourselves ‘cause we’re about to dominate the shit outta this game. And if I see anyone backseat gaming, you’re banned. Don’t even THINK about telling me what to do.”

— Every now and then, when he dies for the tenth time in a row, he just deadpans to the camera, “I swear to God, I’m deleting my channel after this.” Chat knows he’s bluffing, but they still spam crying emojis like “NOOO PLEASE DON’T” just to mess with him.

— Every so often, when he’s focused on a tough level, he’ll mutter something like, “Okay, maybe you’re not so bad, chat. Don’t tell anyone I said that,” and the comments absolutely blow up with hearts and “WE LOVE YOU, DYNAMIGHT.” He immediately goes red and yells, “Didn’t mean it, idiots!” but it’s too late.

— Once, he rage-quit a game so hard that his entire setup fell silent. He’d punched the desk, and the screen went black. Chat watched in shock as the stream just… cut off. The clip went viral, with an entire 30-minute compilation titled “Every time Dynamight destroyed his setup” He came back the next day, reacted to it, and you already know he gave the video a thumbs down and left a long hate comment.

— His mods convinced him to play a “relaxing, casual game” that was secretly full of jump scares. The first time it happened, he almost flipped his entire desk. He immediately banned half of his mods and told the rest they were “on thin ice.” Chat still laughs about it every time he plays a “cute” game.

[communistkenobi]

prefacing this post by saying that I am a big enjoyer of “this site has poor reading comprehension” jokes on here, but I think there needs to be better and more precise language about this sort of thing that isn’t bound up in like, the ability to parse text, which is always going to be tied to class and ability. I’m not saying every joke about this site not being able to read is classist/ableist, and I don’t think anyone is making any grand ideological proclamations when dunking on a stupid reply to their post, but the backing behind that kind of joke is, ultimately, “haha you’re an adult that can’t read.”

And aside from some potentially troubling baggage, I don’t even think that’s what’s going on in the first place! I think the more precise (but admittedly less catchy) term for “poor reading comprehension” is something along the lines of chronic incuriosity, or a rigid adherence to normative thinking. if you see a post saying, for example, women shouldn’t have to wear makeup to be viewed as human beings, and the comments are filled with “actually you can just wear some winged eyeliner and foundation it’s not that hard to wear makeup and also women love makeup stop gatekeeping,” what is happening is not a failure to comprehend the text in front of them. these responses are not made in ignorance, as in, they are not the result of a failure to understand the sentence they just read. these responses stem from a refusal to challenge base assumptions, and reacting emotionally to the mental dissonance this causes (probably something along the lines of “I think of myself as progressive but this person is challenging something I like doing and this threatens my weak political instincts”). These people are rejecting the opportunity to analyse the habits and behaviours they previously assumed to be non-political (eg, wearing makeup), and then externalising that rejection as a defence mechanism. That is not a failure to read a sentence, that is a demand to be intellectually coddled, which is very different.

Again, I’m sure people are already aware of this. I enjoy being a hater, and having people constantly swarm your posts with ridiculous and hysterical replies is incredibly frustrating (speaking from a lot of personal experience here lol). This is also not me saying you have to do the coddling and explain to them that they’re being ideologically incurious about the world, you don’t have an obligation to do any of that. but I think framing a person’s failure to be curious about their own biases as “they don’t know how to read” situates the problem as an issue of ignorance or lack of technical skill, instead of the much more prevalent problem of people refusing to be challenged or reconsider things in their life they didn’t think about before. Calling these kinds of people ignorant is just letting them off easy

[uhohdad]

(18+) König X Reader - Dacryphilia

WARNING: ABUSIVE & NON-CONSENSUAL THEMES

♡ Requested by @xanvasy ♡

König always takes it too far.

Too stubborn and arrogant to believe there’s not a boundary he’s not special enough to cross. Because when König wants something - he gets it. If it feels good, he is entitled to it.

His intentions weren’t in the wrong the first time it happened. In fact, you forced it on him.

Forced him to endure your sensitivity, that little heart that can never seem to keep from bleeding all over everyone and everything. So much emotion stuffed into such a tiny little thing, it’s no wonder it’s constantly flooding from you without restraint.

Maybe if you’d bothered to toughen up at some point in your life, you wouldn’t have wandered into the den of a lion and exposed your bleeding wounds to him voluntarily.

He is truly sorry that you have to pay the price of his desire.

But you just look too pretty as a pathetic mess. Putty for him to knead in his big, rugged hands.

Shoulders stuttering, face streaked with tears and snot as you sob into your hands. Your weakness thick enough to inhale, intoxicating enough for him to miss every squeaked word stitched into your grating high whines.

It’s the most painful, aching erection he’s ever had, and you were too distressed to notice him palming himself through his pants underneath his desk. Oblivious to the way his irises flickered behind his eyelids with each rut of his hand against his throbbing cock.

It’s your fault. If you expose your soft spots to the world, you can’t be surprised when someone comes along and jams their thumbs into them. Boredom would be the least of your concerns. It could be dangerous - if the wrong person came along and saw how easy it was to reduce you to a useless puddle.

Think of it as König teaching you a lesson.

When he’s towering over you, raising his voice at you until your cheeks are raw from the tears streaming down them, until your sleeves are covered in your snot and you’re choking on your own sobs, your pleas hysteric and entirely unintelligible as he pumps his cock to the sight of you on your knees.

He’s teaching you that only resiliency can keep you from the danger that festers in weak, vulnerable things like you.

“Jetzt weit aufmachen.”

♡ KÖNIG DRABBLE MASTERLIST ♡

[radfemsiren]

Radical feminists are viewed as “man-haters”, when in fact, this is simply the only community unwilling to participate in the mass hysteria group effort of upholding male supremacy.

There is no hatred here. No organized violence. No trafficking, no killing sprees or mass shootings like the incels go for. No plots of revenge, no rape or torture fantasies. But we are often hailed as a notorious gang of “misandrists” …

When in reality, this is just a counter narrative to male supremacist propaganda… which is the standard upheld ideology in every culture currently, all over the world.

Every other place on earth employs whatever method necessary to uphold the illusion of men being superior. It coddles, victim blames, strokes the ego of, explains away, silences opposition, performs logical backflips, employs every cognitive dissonance... does everything in its power to put men on a pedestal and paint women as inferior, hysterical, unintelligent and undeserving of basic human respect and safety. It’s a lot of work too, to constantly uphold men as superior beings whilst they commit the overwhelming majority of violence: rape, torture, child sex abuse, domestic violence, femicide, terrorism… society must employ extreme levels of brainwashing and blind faith to keep a veil over the reality.

So of course this is the reaction to seeing a narrative unwilling to bend over backwards to male domination. It seems like hate when it’s simply the absense of worship. They see that we do not worship men, and because this is what they are used to… it feels like hatred and callousness, when it is only blunt accountably and upholding boundaries, no matter what tantrum or guilt tripping is thrown our way.

[hughiecampbelle]

The Boys Preference: Dying Of The Supe Virus

Requested: Hi!! I wanted to request a preference for the boys + homelander reaction if R was dying from supe virus... I love your blog, thank you ♥️♥️♥️♥️ - anon

A/N: I kinda took it in two directions, either actively dying or already dead. I think some perspectives just worked better that way! I really hope you like it my love! Feedback is always appreciated 💜💜💜

Butcher pretends it didn't matter to him, but he definitely blames himself. It might've been Sameer who shot you up with the virus, but it was him who put you in charge of him. It was Billy who thought to put a Supe in charge of the only thing in the world that could kill you. When Frenchie breaks the news, Kimiko carrying your body in, he feels like he's going to be sick. He was the one who was dying. It should have been him. He tries to help the team move on, focus, and orders Frenchie to extract the virus from your body, but underneath he's broken. He didn't trust or like a lot of Supes, the majority actually, but you were different. You were close, whether or not he could admit to it. There was nothing he could do to save you. He couldn't turn back time, he couldn't prevent this. He looks like he's moved on, but Butcher feels stuck in the moment, watching your face, waiting for you to laugh and tell him it was just another sick joke.

Hughie laughs. He's hysterical. The ridiculousness of it all, of the situation. You? Dead? You couldn't die. You walked away from a bullet between your eyes with a smile. You made moving on from death look easy. Effortless. He's afraid to touch you, to look at you. He truly believes, for a moment, that that's not you. Your features are bubbled and blistered, but he recognizes your hands. Hughie backs away, stifling a laugh, escaping to the bathroom where he throws up. Annie tries to go after him, but M. M. stops her. He smiles despite himself, crying and laughing, unable to control himself. He already lost his dad. He couldn't lose you, too. Like M.M. he feels like an idiot, selfish even. He never imagined a world where you could be killed. He never thought he'd have to worry about you. Now you weren't just hurt, you were dead. Murdered. He can't accept it. You didn't deserve to suffer the way you did. You didn't deserve to die. Hughie is a mix between denial and hysteria.

Annie is overwhelmed with despair and depression. You've known her since the beginning. You were the first person she ever became close to in NYC. Now you were gone. She throws herself into your funeral arrangements, practically biting the head off anyone who tries to interrupt her or make her take a break. When she's not staying up until the early morning trying to make the memorial perfect, she's sobbing behind closed doors. She tries to keep herself composed as much as possible, but everyone can see the mask slipping. Cracking. Her eyes are permanently black from mascara running. She's not eating or sleeping. When Butcher says to extract the virus from your body, she goes postal. She calls him cruel and heartless and pathetic. She can't help it. Your body is barely cold and he's still thinking about taking down Homelander. It was inhumane.

M.M. is angry. Angry at Frenchie and Kimiko (he knows it isn't fair, but he just can't help it), angry at you, and angry at himself. He got too close to you. You were a Supe, after all. The very thing he vowed to hate. And then you showed up, and he started to care about you despite himself. And now you're gone. He feels like in idiot. He thought you were bulletproof. Literally. He never once had to worry about you or think about what would happen if you passed. It never crossed his mind. He was constantly worrying and fixating on everyone else, but you would always be okay. His OCD gets so much worse in response to his grief. Everything must be done in threes. The burners, the locks, everything must be checked three times. Everyone starts to worry the more out of control his rituals become. His panic attacks, too, get worse. Less manageable. Every time he thinks about you, what happened to you, he feels like his heart will pound out of his chest.

Frenchie is deeply in denial. He was so busy bickering and then making up with Kimiko that he hadn't realized Sameer had broken free. You were the first to jump at the chance to stop him, and that's what got you killed. The needle plunged into your ankle. He couldn't stop it. He couldn't cut off your limb. Your Supe abilities didn't work like that. The blisters bubbled fast, moving up your leg to your torso, your chest. You clawed at your neck, crying out, unable to form words. Frenchie begged and prayed, but it wasn't stopping. He had to break the news about your death. He definitely blames himself. If he had been paying more attention. If he had been the one to react instead of you. Even though he watched you die, he's still in denial. He can't accept it and thinks you'll be back in no time. He gets angry when you don't call or text and is intensely lonely because he's expecting you to reach out. He just can't wrap his head around it and absolutely hates that Annie's planning your funeral. You were fine. Why did you need a funeral for someone who was perfectly fine?

Kimiko blames herself, too. If she'd been the one to get the virus, if she'd been the one injected, they could have stopped it. They could have moved on. Instead, she sat beside you, unblinking, unmoving, stroking your arm. Even as Frenchie extracts the virus from your body, your blood, she doesn't let go of you. M.M. and Annie urge her to sleep and eat (though they're both doing little of that themselves), but she can't move from you. When she does sleep, it's with her head beside you. Everyone knows you only have so much time before your body starts to decompose. They want to give her as much time as she needs, but they're also working against the clock. She definitely reacts like after Kenji was killed, crawling and hiding under tables, unresponsive with her usual kindness. She's cold, cagey, spiky. There's no reaching her when she's like this. They have to let her be. Let her grieve. Eventually she'll find her way back.

Bonus! Homelander thinks everyone's lying. Ashley breaks the news to him, petrified and sweating. Something, a virus or bug or whatever, killed you. Because The Boys still needed your body, they mailed pictures of you to the Vought Tower addressed to Ashley. He looks through them, and though she tells him they're not fake, he orders them to check again. He holds on to one, unable to look away. When they tell him that yes, definitively, they are real, he orders everyone out. He goes to his floor and destroys everything. Everything is a mess. He hasn't cried like this in years, decades even. Uncontrollable sobbing, caressing your picture. You were the only one he ever really cared about. Now you were dead because of those asssholes. He doesn't come up with a strategy or plan. He will search the entire world until he has Butchers head on a platter. Until that whole fucking group is torn limb by limb.

[vampiricgf]

Because I love you enough to turn around

(I will never turn from you)

leon kennedy x f reader

wc: 1k +

warnings : alcoholism, self guilt, self shame, mention of a noose as imagery, angst into like hurt comfort sort of thing

sorry im sick n also been thinking heavily about orpheus and eurydice and what it means to love someone enough to turn around (promise it's not all angst but it's pretty heavy on it)

You're in that twilight space between sleep and wakefulness when the door opens. There's no need to startle because you already know who it is, know from the heavy footfalls that make a particularly loose board on the floor groan as he slips off his boots. Know from the softer padding you catch turning the left hand edge, into the bathroom and just as you think it you hear the light click on.

Not every day can be a good day.

It's what circles around and around in your mind as you catch the sound of the taps squeaking on, the sink running at full blast. At least he has the decency to not climb into bed with you reeking of whiskey and possible bile. But you don't resent him for it.

You've never resented him for anything. Never begrudged him anything. Not the constant distance, the secrecy, the occasional white lie you knew was for your own comfort so you never told him you knew he was lying. Never asked him about details, never pressed him, never let yourself get so overwhelmed you dissolve into hysterics no matter how many times you felt yourself reaching that point.

And you don't do any of that now, as you feel the mattress dip with the additional weight and feel him staring at your back. You'd forgotten you put on one of his old t shirts, just to comfort yourself against the uncertainty of if he'd be back before the sun, aggressive and ever constant, demanded you get up and face another day.

Being with Leon was like being stranded on a sheet of ice. Uncertain of its thickness, if it could handle any fluctuation in weight or pressure. Terrified of every crack and fissure that threatened to spread, to send the portion you found yourself on plunging into subzero depths that would stop your lungs and squeeze like a vice grip over your heart.

But it was exhausting to constantly monitor for those hairline fractures, to be the loving partner while wishing you could just grab his shoulders and scream in his face about how desperately you needed him to get his shit together. But you'd never do that, know he doesn't need it from you of all people.

But you don't turn around. You don't give any indication that you're awake and aware and grieving like some old war widow for the millionth time in your short life for a man that still has breath in his body.

Not even as his fingers run down your bicep, hesitant as if he's touching spun sugar that threatens to melt with the slightest heat.

"I know you're awake."

You don't respond, let the silence hang heavy and imposing as a noose from a solitary beam, but you do turn then to finally take him in. And fresh chips are dug out of your own heart as you do, a proverbial ice pick gradually working to cleave you in half.

God has he always looked so tired?

"You should get some sleep," your hushed voice sounds flat, even to your own ears and you hope he doesn't take it as cruelty when it's not. It's a kind of bone deep, spiritual exhaustion. An unspoken wish for a rest so deep the entire world could collapse around you and you would be none the wiser, uncaring as the sky above and just as unseeing.

"I'm sorry." He says it to no one in particular as he turns away from you, stripping off socks and pants.

As you turn back over your eyes burn in the dark, like someone stuck two searing hot coals into the sockets and you bite your bottom lip hard enough to feel a sting. It's good, it's grounding. You shouldn't cry, not like this, not now. Just another burden added to the lump sum is all it would be.

So you don't, you level your breathing as best you can as you feel him climb back into bed fully this time, tentatively putting a hand on your hip as his chest presses against your back. He touches you like he's afraid.

And you're powerless against the way that one single touch acts as a battering ram, destroying the hurriedly constructed emotional dam in a spectacular splintering of wood, and you feel yourself start to tremble. The moisture from your nose is the next signal of disaster, the sign that there is no undoing what has just occurred. And your eyes are suddenly full of all the water in the world, as if you've drunk dry every sea and river on earth only to refill them from yourself.

It feels more like watching someone else weep and sniffle as if their life depends on it, being the unattached observer before turning away, hand over the mouth to hide the shape of words. Glad it isn't me.

But it is.

His arm comes around you, tightening up as he presses his own face against the back of your neck. And the tears flow ever faster, spurred by the shame of being the emotional one. The one that can't help but be naked in their weakness.

You don't move to shift him away, don't move to get up or hurry to the bathroom. You simply can't be bothered. If nothing else he can witness your grief, and there is a strange sort of comfort in that.

You could wail, berate him about breaking his promises of things being different, being better but what's the point of shooting at something that's already dead?

And it's then that you feel it: wetness spotting against the skin of your neck, rolling down your back before being absorbed by the well worn cotton. You feel it and you turn and your heart breaks again seeing his blue eyes twinged in red, one of the many different shades regret dresses itself in. Your reflection is drowning in saltwater, as if trapped in the sea with no hope of rescue.

So you cling to him, arms around his neck and fingers lacing a crown as you hold each other and you cry as if it might be endless. As if all that might exist for eternity is this: the longing and the waiting and the grieving and the sobbing. But in his embrace there is a hope, a small light that peeks through the cracks, so faint you could almost swear you imagined it.

He doesn't smell like liquor.

And for some reason it makes you sob harder, like you're trying to form the shrieking gale force winds of a hurricane from one small human vocal chord.

"I got hung up when we got back, I tried calling- figured you were asleep." His voice is a fragile thing, shaking as a newborn foal on its unfamiliar feet.

For all that you don't begrudge him neither does he towards you. He can't muster up indignation that you doubted him, not when recently he's given you no reason to believe in him. He knows the biting amber liquid is both a crutch and a dog collar with inward facing spikes. Hasn't ever been able to trace the exact point when he stopped seeking comfort in you and instead sought it in sticky bar tops and grimy shot glasses, a flask snuck into a jacket pocket. But it hardly matters when the damage is done.

He spends every day choking on each word he can't say to you. Each time he comes home like a stray that got in a fight to collapse on your doorstep, it bulges and sticks fast in his throat. Every time you cradle his jaw with your fingertips and clean blood from some fresh wound his esophagus caves in on itself. Every time your eyes get unfocused as they linger on his drunken form before you turn away he feels more of the paint peeling off himself.

All of you has felt so out of focus. So he clings to you now, squeezing your body against his like he might be able to absorb you into himself, tuck you away for eternal safekeeping, if he just tries hard enough. Like if he presses his lips to your cheeks, nose, forehead, again and again you'll gain more opacity with each one, be returned to flesh and blood like a princess turned to stone in a story. Awakened by true loves kiss.

So he kisses you, over and over and over. With each pass of his lips you seem to reanimate, hands fliting around his body like you can't decide where they belong, can't decide what part of him to touch or if you should touch all of him. His own drag the worn out shirt over your head, bare your body to his stinging eyes and it's like a salve for all the wounds that still feel like they're split open and oozing all over the floor.

Your kiss tastes of salt and of pain and of loss and of guilt. He wishes he could unhinge his jaw like a snake, swallow all of that ugliness in one pass and leave you as pristine as you were in the beginning. Before he ruined you. Turned you into a hollowed out city, teetering on the edge of uninhabitable.

But renewal, rebuilding, it's all possible. Crumbling structures can be fixed without ripping down the entire framework. They do it every day, how many does he drive past at any given time?

So his lips carve a tender path down the column of your throat until he's hovering over your heart, placing a kiss so chaste against the skin of your chest it's almost religious. You gasp, wrapping your arms around his neck to hold him still, hold him in just that perfect space above the thundering muscle echoing in his ear as it presses against your warm body.

Not since he was a child has anyone held him so firmly, so tenderly. Not that he would even allow it anyway, not from anyone outside of you. You were the first taste of softness. The first time you whispered that it wasn't selfish to want to be held he felt the fault lines erupting inside himself. It wasn't brave or righteous to continually deny himself or to self flagellate through every word and action, it was nothing but one continual act of self desecration.

But you poured all your love into an empty man, made him whole again and watched as he wasted it. Fresh tears pooled between your breasts, dislodged to drip down your ribs with every breath. He could cry for eternity and it would still never properly express the depth of his shame. Shaking fingers crawl spider like up your sides as he struggles to keep a firm hand on his own breathing, not give into the temptation of rapid, lightheaded madness.

Your fingers marking light trails through his hair soothe him, like calming a thrashing rabbit kicking against its cage. Slowly he can hear his own heart falling into sync with yours, his own chest expanding and sinking in time with yours.

It feels like maybe the world has stopped, stopped and fallen away and all that's left is this room and the two of you. One eternal embrace, stretching out across time like summer saltwater taffy.

And he swears a new promise, whispering against your skin like he could brand the words there forevermore.

I won't waste it.

[evanpeterswhoresblog]

Hi! You know that inexperienced smut prompts that you reblogged? Could I request you a smut based on them pls? It would be a Kit Walker x fem reader smut based off prompts 14, 16 and 32 if possible... thanks! :)

of course!! i worked on this all day so i hope you enjoy :)) let me know what you think!

prompts:

14. “You’ve never even touched yourself?”

16. “What do you like?” “I don’t know.” “Then how about we find out together?”

32. “Is it going to hurt?”

~~~

Love in the Darkness

Kit Walker x f!reader

warnings: smut, soft dom kit, oral female receiving, slight fingering, unprotected sex (p in v), slight mentions of murder / stalking, loss of virginity, slight innocence kink if you squint hard enough, very minor drinking, i think that’s it but as always lmk if i forgot any!!!

summary: you never thought in a million years you’d fall in love with a murderer, but here we are.

word count: 3.6k

~~~

You were remanded to Briarcliff for what the doctors called “female hysteria”. But you weren’t hysterical, not even close. All you had done to get thrown in was get into a few fights with men who wouldn’t leave you alone. Stalkers, potential rapists, followed you around, not accepting your constant rejection. It wasn’t fair that you were punished for simply not wanting to be sexually harassed, but it was never fair for women. You’d known since you were a child that being a woman in this world catered to men would be difficult, but you never imagined it would be this difficult.

After being admitted to the asylum, you lost hope in all men, and most women. All the nuns besides Sister Mary Euinice treated you awful. They constantly berated you, telling you every day that you should be a more respectful young woman, that you should be flattered by the attention you get from men. It made you sick. But what made you angrier than anything though is how they called you “unclean” as if the whole situation was your fault. In the beginning you tried to explain to them that those dirty men were the unclean ones, but all that did was make them punish you more. So, you decided not to fight them anymore and take what they dished out.

When you were admitted you knew about Bloody Face. You knew you were going to be in the same place as him. You were scared at first. You knew the rumors, heard the news of what he did to those poor women. It gave you flashbacks to when those men stalked you. You considered yourself lucky that Bloody Face had already been caught, because if it were him following you, you’d be dead.

You were certainly surprised when you saw him for the first time. It was in the common room. You were sitting on one of the couches, trying your best to read a magazine while your fellow inmates did whatever it was, they do. Bloody Face walked in and immediately your eyes were drawn to him. He was tall, with dark hair and dark eyes. You were surprised at how handsome he was. You always imagined him as a large scary looking man, but he was quite the opposite. His real name was Kit Walker. He claimed to be innocent of all charges. You avoided him as best as you could.

One day though, you were placed on kitchen duty with him. You were frightened by him at first, worried he was going to bash your head against the metal tables until your brains oozed out. But all he did was silently separate the bread dough. His stance wasn’t threatening, but to be safe you stood on the opposite side of the table, the side closer to the door.

“I know you’re afraid of me,” he said out of the blue. His accent was thick, his voice soft.

You avoided his eye contact. “I’m not afraid of anything.”

“If you aren’t afraid why are your hands shaking?” He asked. “Why are you standing all the way on the other side of the table?”

“Personal space,” you mumbled your answer.

Kit chuckled quietly, and it made you finally tear your eyes away from the dough that was in your hands. Your eyes met for the first time, and your heart beat began to quicken. What if this is his tactic? You thought. What if his charm and beauty is how he captures women?

“Perhaps I am wrong, I’ve heard you were locked up for attempting to kill a few upstanding guys.”

You shook your head. “That’s not true.”

“Really? Then what’s your side of the story?” He continued. By this point both of you had stopped working on the chore and instead stared at each other. It was far more interesting than working, you had to admit.

“They were trying to… force me to do things I didn’t want to do. I barely caused any harm, but they had more money than me so here I am,” you explained vaguely. “It wasn’t my fault.”

He chuckled; it made your eyebrows raise. “See, me and you aren’t too much different. Both of us were wrongly put in here.”

“You murdered and raped three women,” you said, looking back down at your hands.

“And you brutally tried to kill those men,” he replied.

You were about to reply, but the nuns entered and started to escort the two of you back to your rooms. That was the first time that you started to believe the innocence of Kit Walker.

~~~

As time began to pass and you and Kit were paired together more for chores you were convinced little by little of his innocence. It was the small things. Like how he would hold the door open for you, apologize if while the two of you spoke anything made you uncomfortable, and most importantly how he never questioned whether you were guilty or not.

Eventually, you found yourself becoming excited whenever the two of you spent time together. Kit was sweet, he was nothing at all like the horrible newspapers and radio reports made him out to be. He wasn’t crazy. In fact, he seemed to be the sanest person in Briarcliff besides yourself. You thought it was impossible, but you began to harbor feelings for “Bloody Face” and you found out one night he felt the same way for you.

It was movie night, the two of you snuck away to talk. You made it down to the kitchen without being caught, you were glad. For some reason you knew in your soul something different was going to happen on that night, and you were right. The two of you casually talked about what was happening with your plans to escape, but you noticed as you spoke Kit inched toward you, so slow that if you hadn’t been paying attention you wouldn’t have noticed.

“What are your plans if we succeed?” He asked.

You smile and lean back on one of the tables. “I want to go to the beach. Feel the sun on my skin again. It’s far too gloomy here, I’ve almost forgotten how it feels to be outside. What are your plans?”

“I suppose I’ll be going to the beach, since that’s where you will be,” he answered.

You feel your cheeks begin to burn. You look away and chuckle, you're nervous like the first time you ever spoke to him. But for a whole different reason. When you looked up at him again, he was barely a foot away from you. Your heart skipped a beat.

“You’d stay with me even after we get outta here?” You asked, your voice softer than before.

“I’d stay with you forever if you let me,” he replied. He reached forward and touched his knuckles to your cheek, brushing them so gently across your skin you can barely even feel it. You swore you couldn’t breathe. “I’ve never met anyone in my life that has as much of an effect on me as you do y/n. I can’t stay away from you.”

“Kit…”

“You don’t have to say anything, I understand if this is too much for you. I understand if I’m not enough for you, you are one special woman y/n. I just-”

You didn’t let him finish his sentence. You cut him off with your lips meeting his. He kissed you back as quick as he could, his hand now cupping your cheek. It was soft and sweet, everything you’d expected Kit would be like. After a few seconds he pulled back and looked down into your eyes, your knees felt weak at the look in his dark eyes.

“I think I’m in love with you,” you whispered. “No matter how odd that sounds it’s true. You’re the most caring man I’ve ever laid eyes on, I can’t help but want you.”

“I’ve wanted to hear that for so long. I am in love with you, and once we get outta here I want to spend the rest of my life with you,” Kit declared.

Before you could reply, he leaned down and connected his lips to yours once again. You felt as though you had died and were already in heaven. Being with Kit made you have hope, he was light in that everlasting darkness of Briarcliff. You loved him, you really did. And as the two of you kissed you knew you’d do anything to one day get out and marry him.

The kiss moved fast and before you knew it Kit was starting to put his hands on you. Your body felt as though it were on fire. Every inch of skin that Kit touched became lit with the flame. He moved his hands along your waist, your arms, your back… you couldn’t get enough. But as he started to reach for your breasts you pulled away. He looked down at you, concern on his face.

“Sorry did I do something wrong?”

You shook your head. “No, of course not. It’s just that well… I’ve never done anything like this before. That was my first kiss, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, you’ve got nothing to be sorry for. We’ll take things slow all right? We’re gonna have all the time in the world,” he spoke. He was so sincere; it made your heart melt.

“Yeah, I’d like that,” you replied with a smile.

Kit returned the smile. “But would you mind it if I kissed you again?”

“I’d like that too.”

~~~

In the weeks that followed, you and Kit spent as much time as you could together, along with Lana planning your escape. You and Kit were set on getting out. He promised the second the two of you were free he’d marry you. You loved the fantasy. You’d be married in secret and run off together, forgetting all about the terrible parts of your past. He’d buy you a house in a calm neighborhood and you’d raise his kids. It was all you wanted.

One night the two off you had managed to get a few minutes alone in one of the bathrooms. You were against the wall, Kit’s lips on yours. He cupped one of your breasts, while his other hand was dragging its way up your thigh. You try your hardest to keep quiet, but as he begins to trail his lips down your neck you can’t help yourself. You’ve never felt such pleasure in your life.

“Can I touch you baby?” He whispered against your skin. “But you gotta stay quiet.”

“I don’t know if I can, I’ve never been touched down there,” you admitted, your cheeks turning red.

Kit moved back and looked you in the eye. “Well, you know what it feels like from yourself, it’ll be just like that.”

“Well, that’s the thing I’ve never really done that.”

“You’ve never even touched yourself?”

You shook your head and Kit exhaled deeply. You began to feel ashamed; he must’ve thought you were a prude. You figured he knew what you were thinking though, because he touched your face softly and gave you a smile.

“You’re purer than any of the nuns in here,” he joked, earning a small laugh from you. “You’re perfect. I just wanna ask, what do you like? You know, in those ways.”

“I don’t know. I’ve never felt these feelings for another person, hell I don’t even really know how all of it works. The only thing I was taught as a girl was that sex is when a man puts his… in a woman,” you explained.

“Then how about we find out together? There are some other things I wanna do to you than that,” he replied. He looked out the window and back to you before speaking again. “We don’t have too much time left, but let me try something before we go. Do you trust me?”

“With my life,” you answered, and you meant it.

“I’m going to make you feel so good,” he mumbled.

You thought he was going to kiss you again, but instead he dropped to his knees. You were confused for a second. What was he doing? You then remembered the time you walked in on Shelley doing something to one of the guards. She was on her knees and his pants were down… she was using her mouth on him. That’s when it hit you. Kit was going to use his mouth on you.

He stuck his head under your gown and began to leave small kisses up your thigh. You covered your mouth with your hand and gasped. You’d never felt anything like it. He was quick with his motions, so quick you didn’t even have time to think. In a matter of seconds, he had pulled your panties down and spread your legs. You held in a breath and you felt his hitting your most sensitive spot.

Once his tongue made contact with your clit, that was it. You hit your head against the wall as you threw it back. His tongue was so warm, so soft. With every lick you felt electric shocks pulse throughout your body. You moaned into your hand, your legs becoming wobbly with each passing second. You’d never imagined that much pleasure was held between your legs. It was unearthly.

A wetness started to drip down your leg, but neither of you paid attention to it. You were too engulfed by the building sensation inside you, and Kit was too busy making it happen. You used your free hand to bunch up your gown, you wanted to see him. You didn’t expect him to already be looking up at you. The sight was one you never could have thought of. Kit’s dark eyes were locked on your own, you watched as he licked and kissed your clit. You were speechless.

“Kit, stop. I feel like I might pee,” you suddenly whispered. It was true, you did feel as though you were going to.

“You’re not going to pee, you’re going to cum,” he murmured. “Just let it happen.”

You were going to object, but that’s when you felt it. Your legs started to shake and you couldn’t stop the loud moan that left your lips. That was it, what you’d heard of through whispers. Your first orgasm. Kit didn’t stop for one second, in fact he sucked on your clit even harder. You felt your insides pulsating with pleasure, and by the time it was over you could barely stand.

Kit pulled your panties back up once you were finished and stood. You could see the glistening of your juices on his chin. He smiled and rubbed the back of his hand over his mouth.

“I want to do that every day,” he said. “You’re delicious.”

“Oh Kit,” you mumbled before pulling him in for a kiss.

~~~

The day you and Kit were freed from Briarcliff was the second-best day of your life. The best day of your life came only a week after being free. It was your wedding day. You and Kit traveled a few towns to get to the quickest courthouse. Even though it wasn’t a real wedding, and even though it only lasted an hour, you would never trade it for anything else.

After the ceremony was over and you were officially Mrs. Walker, Kit took you to a motel. You were nervous, but more so excited for what was to come. Like you were straight out of a movie Kit picked you up bridal style and carried you inside your room, the both of you full of joy and laughter.

Once inside, you realized Kit had made preparations. Rose petals were on the floor trailing up to the bed. Candles were lit all around the room. You looked at the dresser and saw two glass cups accompanied by a bottle of champagne. Your heart melted at the gesture.

“Would you like some champagne Mrs. Walker?” He asked after placing you on the bed.

“Champagne, so fancy. Of course, I would Mr. Walker,” you answered with a laugh.

He grabbed the bottle and popped the top off, pouring both of your glasses and bringing it to you. He sat next to you on the bed and took a sip, you did the same. After he finished his glass, he got up and turned on the radio. The soft melody eased your tension a bit.

“Are you happy?” Kit’s voice interrupted your thoughts.

He was standing in front of you by this point, you looked up at him and smiled again. “I’m happier than ever my love.”

“So why am I getting the feeling you’re anxious?”

“I dunno,” you spoke, you placed your cup on the bedside table. “Is it going to hurt?”

“Oh, that’s what this is about.” He sits beside you and takes one of your hands in his. “Don’t be nervous, it’s gonna be good. It might hurt a little, but don’t worry I’ll take good care of you.”

You sigh in relief. “Thank you, for being so patient with me. Not many guys like to wait nowadays.”

“I’d wait forever if that’s what you wanted y/n, don’t feel pressured to do this just cause it’s our wedding night. We don’t have to.”

“No, I want to do this I’m just a bit nervous that’s all. I trust you’ll be gentle with me and make it as good as it can be,” you said. You kick off your heels and slip the little headband with your veil of your head. “I promise I’m ready.”

“I’ll be very gentle,” Kit spoke before closing the gap between your lips.

He keeps that promise throughout the entire night, going only at your pace. First, he laid you back on the bed, undressing you slowly. You couldn’t hold in your laughter as he struggled to drag your garter down with his teeth and you couldn’t stop blushing when he starred at your nude body and called you the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

Watching him undress himself made you clench your thighs together in anticipation. His body was perfect, his abdomen full of muscles clear as day. Up until this point neither of you had seen each other fully naked, and you were both glad you waited. After he was undressed, he crawled back on top of you and resumed his previous kisses. He kissed down your jaw, your neck, until he took one of your breasts in his mouth. You moaned, your hands weaving through his hair as he sucked your nipple. It was a sensation you’d never even thought of being so good.

When he was done with that he moved down between your thighs and didn’t wait a moment to begin his careful licks on your clit. Your back arched, your thighs clenched around his head, especially after he slowly started to thrust a finger inside you. It was the first time anything had been inside you, and it didn’t feel half bad. In fact, after a few minutes you began to enjoy the feeling. That’s when he added a second finger.

You came fast, and Kit didn’t stop until you were almost asking him too from the overstimulation. Your chest was heaving as he moved on top of you. He kissed you hard, you could taste yourself on his lips. You knew it was time, and you weren’t nervous.

“Are you ready?” He asked.

“Yes.”

“Just say the word and I’ll stop, okay?”

All you did was nod. Kit placed a short kiss on your lips before spitting on his hand and lowering it to his hard dick. You felt him place it at your entrance, it was big. He placed his hands by either side of your head, lacing your hand in his on one side. Without wasting anymore time he began to push himself inside you. You gasped, grabbing his shoulder with your free hand.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he whispered.

You didn’t reply. You bit down on your lip until he was fully in. It hurt, but it wasn’t the worst pain you’d endured over the years. You could handle it. Kit waited until you gave him another nod to continue. Once you did, he started to slowly move in and out of you, each thrust hurting a little less than the previous one. He nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck, his soft noises only making the experience better.

“You can- you can go faster,” you said shakily after maybe ten minutes.

“You sure?” he mumbled.

“Yes.”

He did as you said and began to truly fuck you. You loved how much he loved it. His hand traveled down your body to grip your thigh. He lifted it up, his thrusts going deeper inside you than before. You moaned and pulled his lips to yours. He was insatiable. Biting your lip, sucking your tongue, it was nothing like what the two of you had done in Briarcliff. You loved it.

Kit didn’t last much longer after that. When he came, he moaned your name in a tone that made your stomach fill with butterflies. He collapsed on top of you, his breathing heavy, his heart rate erratic, and his dick pulsing inside you. You moved your fingers through his sweaty hair and held him tight as he rode out his high.

“I love you,” you whispered softly. “And maybe it’s not the time to say this, but I’m grateful to have been put in that terrible place because it gave me you.”

He lifted his head from your chest and starred into your eyes as he spoke his next words. “I love you more and if I could go back in time, I would never change a thing. Meeting you was the best thing that ever happened to me.”

[monakisu]

I want you to know that I came across a random post of your Death Note art, went "Awww, oh my gosh, with the way this person draws Light I think Akechi would look fantastic in the same style!", clicked onto your profile, and then saw your newest artwork was Akechi. I'm still kind of cackling over it and thought maybe you'd find it funny too. Your art is SO cute, I'm very happy I found it <333

HAHA THAT’S AMAZING (<< was an akechi artist wayyyy before i fell head over heels for light)

but rlly… theyre so similar:

- brunet

- asshole

- pretty boy

- mass murderer

- black-haired homoerotic rival

at the end of the day, the key difference is one is a top and the other is a bottom.

ok but seriously, they’re vastly different characters on a fundamental level:

- light was handed everything him on a silver platter: family, friends, looks, intellect, a comfortable life… as a bastard child of a sex worker and now an orphan, goro had to fight his way to his current position and will always harbor a terrible sense of inferiority (light is completely confident in his absolute superiority, Always (that’s why the challenge of L sent him off the deep end of obsession lol))

- light genuinely sees himself as a hero, while goro would like to feel the same but is nonetheless depressingly aware of his villain’s journey (his undesirable position as the detective vs the underdog phantom thieves, his string of assassinations, his ultimate dirty bloody goal, etc.).

- light’s motive is about the world’s salvation, cleansing, the birth of his ideal reality (very messianic of him with the slightest loving tinge of mary cradling her lamb hahaha) while goro is laser-focused on ruining this one asshole’s life in particular, vengeance and revenge at once! one’s focused on rebirth, and the other gunning straight for death! they both use murder to get what they want but light probably floats around thinking himself so clean and divine as mother of the world (ignorance is bliss) while goro is constantly desperately trying to cover up his suspiciously red hands with his gloves hehehe… they’re both constantly striving for perfection, just with varying levels of self-awareness!!

- goro is a canonical loner; light has a horde of friends; this is probably due to a difference in public persona! goro is an untouchable idea of what he thinks a human should be and is completely out of the loop when it comes to normal social interactions (believes opening with hegel will instantly endear himself to the average person (luckily he inflicted that upon akira who is decidedly not average in the slightest)), light is implied to be more down-to-earth and even slightly goofy (he’s gaming decorum like an advanced speedrunner)! it’s probably good how distant goro is, because getting any closer to him will allow you to see how off-putting and uncanny he is, sorta like an AI-generated image—seams in the wrong places and far too much teeth LOL. meanwhile light has this whole shebang so thoroughly figured out that he’s BORED with it all! he’d like to move on to the next game (with L), thank you!! light definitely still exudes uncanny creepiness (it’s his natural state of being) especially when he zones out or starts hysterically cackling out of nowhere at his own thoughts, but he’s a hundred times better at masking compared to goro due to a better upbringing. goro is starved for the adoring friends he sees akira easily picking up one after another; light couldn’t give less of a shit because he’s always had those trivial luxuries! he’d much rather prefer an adoring WORLD!!

- then there’s the difference in how they die… one started out surrounded with company but ultimately died alone, while it’s the opposite for the other (if you count the de-realization of maruki’s reality as goro’s “death” (which i don’t)).

- in conclusion, light and goro are like funhouse mirror reflections of each other!!! one is a pampered lapdog getting a taste of rabies and letting loose, while the other is a starving wolf trying to domesticate itself for treats and headpats!! and i <3 them both!!!!!

anyways i may be wrong about light because im going purely off of fics, tumblr shitposts, and my own imagination :] feel free to school me in a way that won’t destroy my delusions!

[itsabouttimex2]

any lmk ideas you wish were touched on more often in fanfic??

Underused LMK Premises

Oh so many dude you don’t even understand-

1. Courtnapping as a legitimately bad thing. Not “ooh it’s romantic for demons” or “it’s just part of their culture” or “it’s proof of how much they love you” but like… a portrayal of courtnapping that actually demonstrates how viscerally dehumanizing it is to be stolen away by someone you might not even know and treated like a prize who can be won with the right application of charm or power.

(Like I’ve used it I think only once before and pretty much stopped at the “this is what demons do in general thing, but the potential for varied application is just… so high.)

Especially for mortals- imagine being bruised and battered from a long period spent unconsciously slung over someone’s shoulder or under their arm, strewn over a lounge chair or tied up in front of the kitchen table, seething. Eyes focused and hateful, knowing that this would happen eventually if they let down their guard or let a demon too close. It doesn’t matter how the monster peacocks about with that tome or this battleaxe, it’s not attractive, it’s not sexy,- and nothing can steal the feeling of violation that settles in over having been stolen from home in your sleep so you could get an extended IRL version of “I showed you my dick please go out with me” from a thirteen foot demon who is more interested in wooing you than actually wanting you.

Or just… old demons who mumble and huff about “losing their traditions” or “young demons going soft” as they look at woven tapestries in their homes, proud depictions of past conquests standing frozen in time, unaware that their great-great-grandson would lose his newest baby to a hysteric mortal’s iron-toed boot, wild with unforeseen hormones brought on by demonic birth, unaware that his youngest granddaughter would face a life of misery as she grew up, constantly stolen back and forth by two demons as part of a glorified pissing contest, both more interested in one-upping each other than the sapient being they steal from her room each night.

Young demons secretly taught by the last crotchety stalwarts of an old generation that “What you want is yours to take, if you can take it,” before their parents can snatch them away from great-great-great-grandfather and hurry off, praying their little one is too young to understand what was said. Growing demons brought up with those horrid words rattling their horned skulls, heeding and obeying them, then wondering why their dearest friends snap and crack as they’re “spirited away”. Grown demons who come up lonely and tired, seeing their diminishing race in a world flourishing with soft little mortals and wondering spitefully “Why did we ever stop conquering”, only learning the answer at the blunt end of a glowing golden staff when their time is near, the finishing blow timed to the cheers of their captives.

(If I ever write a satire fic, it will 100% be about a Y/N who gets isekai-ed into LMK, but instead of any of the cool or attractive protagonists, they get courtnapped by a crusty-handed, balding and portly demon who doesn’t practice hygiene or housecare. Just to put into perspective how actually awful the whole “I’m being kidnapped as a spouse” thing would probably really be if it wasn’t your attractive, young, in-shape, washes regularly blorbo doing the snatching.)

2. With this, demons just… not understanding mortals. Not for lack of trying, and not for lack of wanting, but through simple psychological incompatibility.

Demons struggling with empathy toward mortals because their minds are shaped by instincts that value strength, endurance, and survival of the fittest. Emotions that seem obvious to humans, like fear, discomfort, or sorrow simply not registering for demons in the same way. They see these reactions, but interpret them through their own lens, often believing that mortals are playing games or faking them or maybe outright performing.

Communal demons in broad daylight snatching up children for hours or days, only to return them with scars and bloodshot eyes, and wondering why they receive no gratitude for, in their opinion “taking up parental duties” without so much as being asked. After all, isn’t a little bit of “toughening up” good for children?

Demons who don’t understand “allergies”, especially when they range from “mild cough” to “near-instant death” and maybe misunderstand how epi-pens work- “Is stabbing the flesh a way to bleed the illness”, asks an curious demon with ancient eyes, worn hands, ragged skin, “and will any weapon do?”

Demons who become artists that need calligraphy tools so large they get mistaken for weapons. Demons who don’t understand tipping culture and assume they’re being fleeced. Demons who need custom chairs and custom clothes and custom bedding. Demons who pick fights on behalf of their friends and coworkers, and then to combat this, demons who get hired on as protection against “honor battles”.

Demons being demons, not just immortal humans.

3. Characters with variable ages that widely differ- like, I’ve gone on here and there about my view on ambiguous ages for characters and why I love that trope so much and how it makes a series infinitely more attractive to larger crowds and audiences than a concrete “14” or “23” or “46”, you know? And the fact that MK and Mei and Red Son could be sooo many different ages all in different configurations is super interesting to me!

Like, imagine- Adult!Red Son with Teen!Mei and Teen!MK, having an absolute full-throttle meltdown when he realizes that the two upstart semi-mortals who keep beating his demonic ass are teenagers. Red Son being both mortified at his continuous defeats and furious at these children’s parents for allowing them to fight in such high stakes.

And then with that slowly growing sense of pity and anger he just scoffs and shakes his head the one time they maybe aren’t in such high spirits (drenched from rain and wind and exhausted from the vigor of battle) and whisks them off to his family’s lair, throwing a demon-sized towel for them to share as he whips up something spicy for the kids.

Children.

They’re children.

He goes home and thinks on that, and then decides that maybe he just doesn’t want to fight them anymore.

Red Son then being reverse adopted by Pigsy + Mr. and Mrs. Dragon because, hey, if he’s playing big brother, might as well let him. Then Red gets to learn what (mostly) healthy family dynamics are through direct interaction and then hold his parents to those standards and basically everyone heals together.

Or hey, Red Son being a teenager while MK and Mei are adults! The two heroes doting on this ever-furious demon with treats and drinks to “cheer him up” after his frequent losses and kinda… accidentally teaching him what unconditional kindness is by becoming surrogate older siblings to the kid.

Red Son freaking out because his parents are going to be mad about this loss or that failure, and

(Red Son getting a phone call in the middle of a fight because PIF is mad he didn’t take out the trash lmao)

4. Y/N being protective of Sun Wukong.

Man, I don’t know if it’s just me but I don’t touch most romantic Shadowpeach x Y/N fanfics at all because I know I’m in for more of the same “Macaque legitimately being an awful person to someone he’s sharing a mate with/to one of his two mates and Y/N thinks it’s funny/doesn’t care” and just like… dude.

Like I know I’ve talked about how much I hate Fanon!Macaque, the simpering sadsack who only exists to get babied and patted on the ass, all his actions whitewashed and cooed over, so like, obviously I wasn’t gonna be a fan of this.

Maybe I’m just not the target audience here but like holy shit… why? It’s never portrayed as unhealthy or anything more than a silly goofy thing that Macaque is constantly tormenting someone he either is supposed to love or share a lover with, and the reader in regard to that mistreatment is little more a drooling dumbfuck without enough braincells to breath through their nose.

I don’t get it. A Y/N who says “Teehee my mate is being abused ‘oh noes’ but Maccy needs cuddles so I’ll disregard one half of my relationship~” is not a Y/N I care about, and I don’t see what’s so compelling about neglect and mistreatment portrayed as the order of the day. I don’t see the merit in “I’m Y/N, and I’m stupid and blind to abuse!”

Cause I think it’s so much more interesting if it’s like…

“Do that again and you’re out.”

And Macaque whips around in shock, looking up from the shadow portal he just shoved Wukong into. “Excuse me-“

“Do that again,” you repeat, voice low and tense- Wukong would be fine, you were more angry than worried-, “and you’re out. Gone. Out of my house and out of my life.”

“I wasn’t-“

“I don’t give a fuck, Macaque! You will not MISTREAT my mate in my own house!”

“I- it’s not- I don’t-“

“I DON’T FUCKING CARE! HE’S NOT A FUCKING PUNCHING BAG, SO I’M NOT LETTING YOU TREAT HIM LIKE ONE!”

You know, a scenario where Y/N isn’t a passive enabler of abuse and bullying, and they actually have a voice of their own outside of “Teehee Mac you’re sooooo mean to my lover but I’m totally okay with that for some reason!~” but also gives Macaque explicit instruction on what he needs to do in order to better the relationship (ex: not abuse their other mate), in which they aren’t stupid or unforgiving and all three can grow together, instead of the usual: “Macaque isn’t ever a bad person. But when he is it’s not a big deal. But when it is his victims “deserve” it.”

5. Transhuman identities and abilities. I mean, just… there’s shapeshifting and magical artifacts and all manner of mystic trinket in the world. Does being gay or trans really matter when anyone can learn the 72 Transformations and become what they wish? Is it any bigger a deal than your child deciding they’re going to live life as a dog, or a demon? Are there potions to make these transformations permanent? Can a person become a demon, instead of transforming into one?

Does being immortal fuck with your taxes? Does knowing magic fuck with your insurance? Does your family look at you differently after you’ve tasted that ambrosial nectar, consumed that slice of eternity? Do they fear or long for a taste? Does your grandmother refuse to come to your wedding, ashamed that you would “break yourself from the cycle”? Does your mother cry into her hands that you wed a demon? Do you run to an old monastery to elope, wed by an old monk with ancient eyes because no other soul will officiate you and that demon? Will you be welcome in the celestial realm if you wed a heavenly soldier? If you take the hand of a god? What will you have you learn? How long until you feel at “home”?

Just… humans getting into mystical trouble outside of battles.

(If anyone else has some stuff they’d wish was expanded on more often, feel free to add on in the comments or reblogs!)

[vigilskeep]

I appreciate how Spire knows and uses our pronouns, number one ally Spite (well Ghilan'nain uses romanced Taash’s correct pronouns too which I find so funny when they could’ve just framed the sentence differently, “I’m an eldritch horror bent on world domination but I’m not a transphobe what the fuck”)

i think spite is having a kind of objectively hysterical experience with gender here, in that... okay so if you believe mary kirby’s bluesky word of god then spite has no concept of what it looks like, or appearances at all. we are seeing it as lucanis’ mind perceives it, which is as what lucanis thinks he himself looks like (always in armour, never relaxed). and i rlly believe spite only gets he/himmed in veilguard because lucanis projects his appearance onto it and then makes the straightforward if a bit limiting assumption that something that looks like him is a he. this happens a lot to spirits e.g. justice gets automatically he/himmed because he ends up in kristoff and anders’ bodies, despite not having had much choice in either matter and canonically expressing curiosity about the new perspective being in a “female body” might offer. you could make the argument that spirits become what they’re believed to be and probably are affected by these interactions, but it’s more complicated than that, spirits do have individuality, and i think it would be obviously quite lame and bad if the form they end up in, and others’ thoughtless assumptions about it, defined everything

i don’t think spite objects to being he/himmed but i also don’t think that means spite necessarily has a gender. it just doesn’t have an opinion here. i’m not convinced spite knows what gender is. (i think we constantly need to lower our expectations on everything spite is actually aware of. i mentioned this before but i cannot express this enough: it doesn’t know why it and lucanis need to have skin.) all of which goes to say, in response to your ask, that i really don’t think spite is even capable of misgendering someone when it does not understand the situation here and is likely borrowing directly from what it probably thinks are the completely fucking arbitrary rules in lucanis’ head rather than comprehending any of this at all

(this is part of why i have made a habit of using it/its for spite even though i think he/him is generally used in the game. i think that’s more interesting in terms of exploring what spirits are, plus just easier to differentiate from lucanis while writing, plus i genuinely do not believe it’s invested in any of this. or at least i think it has not yet figured out enough to be invested in any of this. maybe it could do! spite is such a baby spirit with so much room to grow as it develops a place for itself in the mortal world. rook lucanis spite gender discussion is very funny and sweet conceptually to me, especially because i do not think lucanis has really thought about this either.)

i don’t know who ghilan’nain even gets her news on rook’s paramour from. but she’s up to date! i don’t think it’s that surprising though, i don’t know why ghilan’nain would be transphobic. there’s no reason to assume ancient elven society was like that afaik. i mean, they came directly from, and were led by, spirits who crafted their own bodies the way they wanted them. you couldn’t really describe any of the evanuris as cis exactly?