#courtesy of my sleep deprived brain

[owlapprentice]

Do we really believe that the only people who knew Harrow’s parents were dead were Harrow, Gideon, Crux, and Aiglemene? Like surely there was a point where a nun realized that no one’s seen the Reverend Parents eat a single thing in years? That they haven’t spoken a single word since Harrow was 10? Like I get Harrow told everyone that they took vows of fasting and silence and a bunch of other things, but there’s gotta be a point where it starts lookin a little sus right? Does Harrow make them blink and breathe? Harrows a necromantic prodigy but surely there’s no way she’s been flawlessly puppeteering two whole ass people since she was 10 years old

But no one’s ever brought it up cause you can’t just ask the Reverend Daughter if her parents are dead what are you crazy?

[leeny-leens]

Knives Out (Wounds In) | BCJ x Reader

Pairing: bsf!Barty Crouch Jr x bsf! Reader

Summary: You accidentally stab Barty and he...asks for more?

Warnings: BLOOD, STABBING, INJURIES, Barty has issues,I've never dressed a thigh wound before, description of injury being taken care off, Barty likes pain (and blood), proceed with caution okay I'm sleep deprived

Content: Barty and the Reader are a little unhinged, Barty is having a crisis, Barty being called doll (courtesy of @vun3r4b13xwrites for this brain rot), not proofread or edited, Barty makes like one really dark joke abt dying but it's not too dark

WC: 3.83k

AN: this was inspired by a post of @unconventional-lawnchair and honestly idek what happened, it somehow spiraled into being something much longer and ??? than anticipated so have this. Also tagging @esotericloser BCS ya said ya want it <3

Being friends with Barty meant that there wasn't much that could actually traumatize you anymore when it came to gory horror. Oh no, you’re bound lose that ability quite quickly in his company, with the way he walked around looking like a splasher horror victim half of the time. He barley ever had an explanation for it either, always shrugging and mumbling something incoherent about where the blood on him came from.

So really, you'd say you're pretty desensitized when it came to blood and injuries, especially when it came to Barty being bloodied and injured.

Nothing however, could have prepared you for the sight of your very own dagger piercing his thigh, blood spilling and splashing on the ground and wall.

It's your worst nightmare come true; a loved one injured and bloodied because of you and your stupidity, though Barty would go on a tangent, chiding you for the self deprecating notion of that thought.

The boy in question, you just noticed, stood by the open door, his face pulled into a blend between amusement and a grimace of pain as he stared between the dagger and your frozen form on your bed.

“Damn doll, when I said your stare could throw daggers at me I didn't think you'd take it seriously,” he said, painfully failing to conceal the wince in his voice as he joked.

The sound of his voice was apparently all your brain needed to reboot itself and jumpstart again. Immediately, you hurled yourself up from the bed, standing by his side in a few quick strides as you crouched down to examine the injury on his thigh.

“Merlin I’m sorry Bee, I was doing that stupid Charms assignment and- and you just came in and I panicked and oh my god are you gonna die?” there was seemingly no stopping you the moment you began to speak, the words stumbling out in no rhyme or rhythm as you tried to remember what little you’d learned about first aid.

In your panic, there wasn't much you remembered aside for needing to stop the bleeding somehow and making sure to keep his leg raised high, or was it keep it low to prevent bleeding? You couldn't recall it, your mind too riddled with guilt and terror at the vast amount of blood staining the carpet.

“You can't die on me,” you whimpered, tears barley held at bay “They're gonna expell me if they find out I killed you-”

The sudden realization of who your best friend was hit you harder than any hex you've sustained in your lifetime before you stared up at him with terror blown eyes “Oh my god your father is sending me to Azkaban for killing his only heir.”

This was evidently the straw that broke the camels back, Barty finally doubled over from laughter, his barking voice probably resonating through the entirety of the dormitory. His laughter quickly turned into pressed coughs as he tried to straighten back up again, mild gasps of pain escaping him in-between. Quickly, you're on your feet again, gently yet firmly guiding him to your bed and hissing at him to not put any weight on his injured leg.

To his credit, he let you push him around like a pliant ragdoll, following your instructions and keeping his pretty mouth shut aside for a few pained noises here there. His eyes flickered between you and the dagger, regarding the latter with a glimmer of fascination and you could tell it took everything in him to not poke at the metal protruding from his flesh.

“Relax doll,” he said in an attempt to reassure you “’M not gonna die yeah? Tis but a scratch.” As if trying to convince you, he tapped the dagger lightly, smiling at you with that wide expression, his lips pulled apart so much it brought his dimple out. “See? I've survived worse,” he added, and to your utter dismay, it did help calm you down.

“Right, it's probably worse than it looks like” you muttered, taking a few deep breaths to compose yourself before finally gathering your thoughts to help him. “Okay, stay right there and don't move okay?” you threw him a warning glare before disappearing into the bathroom, occasionally glancing over your shoulder to make sure he was following your instructions. You knew staying still was hard for Barty, his natural inclination to always be in motion was one of the biggest hurdles he faced in his day to day life. He couldn't sit still for longer than a few minutes, not without bouncing his leg or tapping his fingers against the nearest surface or hell, rocking back and forth. Don't get him started on people telling him to be still, that somehow made it much harder to comply than if he tried to do it on his own.

He was however, trying his best to stay still, probably to not worry you more than he already had, and you appreciated his cooperation immensely.

Returning back to his side, you knelt down at the bedside and set down a plain white box and opened it, revealing various bandages, potions and vials along side bandaids and scissors of different types and sizes.

Barty decided to stay silent, watching your movements with an attentive, hawk-like gaze and arched his eyebrows in surprise as you grabbed the biggest pair of scissors, only to bring it to the hem of his pant leg, quickly cutting through the dark fabric.

“You know,” he said amused, watching you cut apart his pants “This is not how I imagined you undressing me would go, could've taken me out to dinner first at least.”

“You're so lucky you already have a stab wound,” you replied dryly, moving the fabric away to reveal the pale skin of thigh and barley held back your grimace at the sight of the dagger lodged into it. “Otherwise that comment would've gotten you one.” you grabbed a whole bunch of gauzes and disinfectant, slowly trying to assess how bad the wound was in order to decide your next course of action.

This was the part you'd feared the most, the one where you pulled the dagger out.

As if he’d read your mind, Barty reached out to take your hand into his, bringing it to his lips so he could press a kiss on your knuckles. “It's gonna be okay doll,” he murmured softly “I trust you, you're bloody brilliant and you don't have to be scared of this.”

It was comical really, how he'd gotten hurt because of you and yet was the one to offer you comfort and reassurance. Had this been anyone else, you would've scoffed and thrashed against the gesture, but this was Barty, your Barty, who'd watched you overcome every obstacle in your life for the last six years, your Barty who knew you like the back of his hand and studied you like you were the biggest mystery in the universe to be unraveled. You could only nod in agreement, squeezing his hand tightly as you steadied your breath to pull out the dagger.

You vaguely remembered how Madam Pomfrey would talk up injured students to distract them from procedures, and you decided that if the matron of the hospital wing did it, it couldn't be that stupid of an idea to try out.

“Why did you come into my room?”

you asked suddenly, and he leaned back into the nest of pillows you had propped against your headboard.

He shrugged, a lopsided grin on his face. “No reason, just wanted to see my favourite person,” despite all the years with him as your best friend, the response still managed to draw out an over exaggerated eyeroll from you, one that did nothing to mask the smile that tugged at the corners of your lips.

You questioned him some more, asking about his day and what he was going to do, and because this was your Barty, you knew he wouldn't pass up an opportunity to talk your ear off, the dagger in his thigh quickly forgotten. Fortunately for you, that meant you could pull it out with one smooth movement, granting Barty barley any time to register the pain before you began to press a mountain of gauzes against the wound. The white fabric quickly became a soaked, scarlet mess and you could hear his breath hitch at the sight, not the way it would've from pain, but rather from something akin to speechlessness. He watched you press against the wound, switching out gauze after gauze whenever it became unusable after soaking up too much blood, and he was sure the blood rushing to his head at the sight of your fingers gleaming with the red liquid of him was significantly more fatale than the stab wound to his thigh. There was just something so primitively alluring about the sight, your face contorted into a grimace of worry and concentration as you applied moderate yet firm pressure against his thigh, not minding how dirty your hands became in the process. It didn't help that it was him sullying your pretty hands, and he swore his soul left his body when you moved a stray strand of hair out of your face, cursing when you felt the blood smear on your cheek.

He wanted nothing more but to lean forward and wipe it off, perhaps clean it up with his own mouth just to see how he tasted on you, but he remained rigidly seated like a statue, his mind a battle field of desire and rationality.

You were none the wiser to his predicament, taking his sudden silence as a side effect of pain or shock. You took to murmuring encouragement and random things about your own day, partially to fill the silence and partially to make sure the boy was still rooted into reality instead of floating into the realm of dark memories, just on the off chance that the sight of his own blood and the feeling of pain brought them forward. You told him about the stupid Charms project you’d taken up for extra credit, letting a dagger float around in a coordinated pattern, and how you'd been sitting at it for hours on end before he barged into your room, startling you into sending the dagger straight at him. He made the occasional grunt of agreement or let out a snort at a particularly funny joke you cracked, and after a few minutes that felt like an eternity, the bleeding finally seemed to stop enough for you to be able to actually inspect the wound.

It looked worse than it actually is, not too deep and not too long, and your entire body slumped in relief at the realization. For a moment, you rested your head in your hands, muttering thanks to whatever might hear you. “Thank everything you're not gonna die,” you said once you looked at Barty again, whose attention had been on you the entire time. “What a pity,” he replied almost too plainly, yet the grin on his face betrayed the self deprecating statement. “Here I was looking forward to bringing joy into my father's life for once,” you rolled your eyes so hard you worried they might actually fall out, and you could only lean forward to hit his shoulder with a warning scoff. “Don't be mean to my best friend,” you chided “That's my job, I can't afford to lose it in this economy.”

“So true, the prices are ridiculously high these days,” he mused, eyes glimmering as he watched you disinfect the wound and bandage it up.

“Exactly! I mean come on, 5 galleons for a pack of chocolates frogs? Do they think all of us are made of trust funds and old money?” Barty is unable to hold in his snort at your statement, reminiscing how you haven't let it go ever since your last trip to Hogsmeade nearly a month ago. If anyone knew how to hold a grudge, it was his doll for sure.

Absentmindedly, your fingers traced slow circles around the red, angry skin of the gash, careful to not press or touch anything that might elicit unnecessary pain. Barty’s entire body went stiff at the soft touch, so gentle and soothing, like he was made of porcelain and too fragile, the lightest press of your thumb against his thigh a breaking hazard. It was a stark contrast to how he was usually treated, but he’d come to accept it from you. While he hated being seen as vulnerable and weak- because he was everything but that-, he found himself relishing your touch and care, for it stemmed not from pity or underestimation but genuine care and love. And oh how he soaked up every ounce of affection you gave him, starved of it for his whole life but finding you there to give it to him like a steady stream flowing from the creek of your heart.

You took his stiffness as a sign of discomfort and swiftly withdrew your hand to stop the ministrations, almost missing the imperceptible whine of dissatisfaction that barely escaped the boy’s lips. When you stared at him with a puzzled look on your face, he greeted you with one of his own, cleverly covering for his mindless slip-up.

When it seemed like he hadn’t actually made any sound, you were content to get back to treating the wound, your fingers brushing over the tools in the first aid kit.

After realising the wound wasn't life threatening, your mind had cleared up significantly, rendering you able to think and remember what you needed to do to properly take care of the gash. You grabbed a bottle of blue disinfectant alongside more of the gauze, dousing the latter in the blue solution before pressing it against the injury.

The lack of warning, coupled with the sudden action, had Barty hissing and bucking in pain, even if the momentary sting left an aftertaste of pleasure in its wake.

You glanced up at him, your expression one of sheepish apology, before dapping the gauze carefully on the cut.

“’M so sorry, just a bit more yeah doll?” you murmured, your other hand coming up to rub along his knee. Barty wasn't sure what knocked out the breathe out of his lungs; the endearment or the touch or perhaps the sincerity and care that he could feel seeping into his cold and hollow bones with every second he spent in your presence. If getting stabbed by you meant he could have you this close, this warm and soft and attentive all for him? Merlin, he'd let you stab him over and over again, like he was your personal pin cushion.

He tried to keep the noise to a minimum, alongside the flinching in fear of losing your touch. The last thing he wanted was for you to let go of him, as selfish as that sounded. He quite liked having your full attention on him, like nothing else in the world mattered as much as he did.

Selfish and self-centred? Maybe.

Did he give a fuck? Not in the slightest.

A tap against his knee brought him out of his reveries, and his eyes met yours in a questioning manner. “Whadya say, darlin’?” he asked, trying his best to sound casual “Too busy enjoying your hands on me.”

His comment drew an amused chuckle from you, much too used to his flirtations. You never quite knew whether he meant it or not, all those playful jabs and nudges that toyed the line between friendship and something more, yet neither of you made a move to explore that territory, too afraid to lose what you had.

“I said I’m putting some of that scarring ointment on the wound,” you said, repeating the statement that had been lost on him. You’d already grabbed the small tub with the greenish paste. When you uncapped it, dipping your finger into it to apply it to his wound, you were surprised by his sudden recoiling, as if the mere notion of applying the ointment would sear his skin down to his bones.

“Bee?” You asked, surprised to see him flinch away from you.

He was mortified at his own reaction, not having had enough time to control his movements. He didn’t quite know how he could explain this to you, why he flinched away when you’ve been nothing but a perfect caretaker, inspecting and treating his injury.

Just as he began to sputter out a messy apology and an explanation, realisation dawned on you. You weren’t stupid, just like Barty knew you better than anyone else, you had the privilege of knowing him like no one else had. You’d watched him get into fights more often than you could count. You’d talked to him plenty about it of course, unable to just stand by as he destroyed himself, body and soul, over and over again. What had bothered you the most was him never properly taking care of his injuries, opting to let them fester and scar until his entire body was littered with gashes and cuts of various sizes. Over time, you’d come to understand that he didn’t necessarily enjoy the act of fighting itself, but rather how alive he felt with each punch, with each crack and broken bone. The scars were a testament to his existence, proof that he hadn’t been complete worn numb by life and its hardships. He liked the reminders, liked to look at them and trace along their edges whenever he felt himself slip away into the darkest corners of his mind, and you’d figured that this gash was no exception.

“You want it to scar,” you said, not a question but rather a fact. You watched as colour rushed into his pale face, mouth falling open and closing in a comical fashion. He could muster up nothing more than a nod, knowing that trying to talk his way out of this wasn’t an option.

Softly, you traced along the edge of the gash, your eyes never once leaving his. “Why?” There wasn’t an ounce of judgment in your voice as you posed the question, just pure curiosity and the need to understand him.

Silence blanketed the room as you patiently waited for him to answer your question. His eyebrows furrowed in that typical Barty manner, the one that made the silver piercings in his eyebrows more visible, catching the lights around him. When he spoke up, his voice was quiet, almost too quiet, as if afraid that speaking any louder might shatter both you and him.

“I want your mark on me,” from all the answers he could’ve given you, this one was the last one you’d expected, yet somehow the most perfect Barty answer of them all. His love had always been that way, all teeth and scratches, leaving marks in its wake as evidence that he had been there. In the same fashion, it made sense that he wanted love in the same manner; with marks left on him to prove that he was loved.

It was crazy, really, how much you understood him. It should’ve scared you, weirded you out at least, but no such sensations arised. There was only love and understanding cursing through your body for the boy you called your best friend.

Emboldened by his vulnerability, you found yourself leaning in closer, your lips ghosting over the edge of the gash before pressing them down in a gentle kiss. “It’s alright,” you mumbled “You can keep it Bee, ‘m not judging you.”

His breath hitched at the feeling of your lips pressed so closely to the wound, mind reeling at having you so close, so understanding and so incredibly loving despite him being so himself, a warning in and out of itself.

“Does that mean you’d be down to giving me another one?” He asked jokingly, trying his best to lighten the mood by even an ounce.

“Maybe,” you quipped back, pulling one of the bandaids out to put it over the wound. “If you ask nicely, I might,” you grinned up at him, enjoy in seeing him squirm for once. His eyes drifted to the dagger, mind running wild with anticipation.

“Please?”

“Is that the best you got, doll?”

“Bold statement for someone who just stabbed me,” he retorted “And took off my pants without asking!”

With a snort, you stood up, patting his thigh softly before putting the first and kit on the ground to sit beside him. “Well when you put it that way, I have no choice but to oblige, no?” You grabbed the dagger, twirling it in your hand before you ever so slowly lowered it down to graze the skin of his thigh.

He was completely still beneath your touch, his breath shallow as he waited for your next move. There was no hurry in your movements, the glinting tip of the dagger barely tracing across his flesh. “What do we say when we want something, doll?” You asked, amused by the extreme change in his behaviour. You’d never seen Barty so complacent and mellow in all your years together, much less because of you.

“Please,” he mumbled “Give me another one?” Subconsciously, he’d leaned in closer to you, hazel eyes almost completely swallowed up by the darkness of his pupils.

A small smile tugged on the corners of your mouth, and not wanting to tease him any further, you pressed the blade into his skin.

You watched as he bit his lips, trying to the best of his abilities to not wince in pain and spurred on by the heat of the moment, you closed the distance between the two of you, crashing your lips against his. The sounds of pain he let out were swallowed by your mouth, moving in frenzied hunger as you let the dagger blade dig deeper into his thigh.

In that moment, you realised two things.

One: You were in love with Barty Crouch Junior, your best friend since first year.

Two: You were incredibly and thoroughly fucked, for you would go to the ends of hell for this boy, the same way you knew without a doubt he would do the same.

And here, in the quiet of your dorm room, your mouth on his and the distinct, metallic smell of blood, you didn’t quite mind going to the ends of hell if it meant you could have Barty by your side.

[idiotmf]

Hear me out...Amur Leopardess x Cane Corso husband helping her out with her heat

Hey! Sorry for the late response, work is very busy and I'm a chronically sleep deprived mess.

This one is a little short, I really wish I could've come up with more but my brain is so tired, I'll stow it back and maybe reopen this idea at some point.

Edit: Yup, me calling a non-anon anon also proves my point I think.

As always:

Minors DNI, NSFW

Who is in heat again?

When you start your heat, hubby is a little surprised, since you never really let him see you in that state.

You're quite shy when it comes down to it, and perhaps even a little insecure. Of course, he would never let you feel like that for long; he'll lick your body up and down, whispering reaffirming words about how he only wants you and no one else.

So, naturally, when your heat does arrive, he vows to be supportive and alleviate the stress of feeling so vulnerable.

Well, that is until he catches a whiff of you; his mind immediately going into "I must breed my wife" mode; however, for your sake, he tries to keep himself together, repeatedly telling himself that your heat is only a few days long.

He does, of course, help with your physical needs; he can't resist you that much, but he's gentle. Much to your disappointment.

You're too shy to tell him you need more, and he's too worried to unleash his full need for you, instead humping the pillow on your couch during the night when you sleep.

By the third day, he couldn't take it anymore. He's tried holding back; he's tried fucking you gently so you'll cum and calm down for a while, but that's not what he wants; hell, it's not what you want either.

When the evening comes around and he helps you cum again, using nothing but his tongue, instead of stepping away to let you fall asleep while the heat is low, he positions himself between your spread thighs, his cock resting on your lower abdomen.

Without too many words between you, he thrusts inside, not even giving you the courtesy of adjusting. Instead, he sets a punishing pace, the tip of his cock forcing itself against your cervix over and over, making you mewl and purr at the same time.

He's rutting into you over and over, changing positions as he goes. First it's missionary, since you were laying in bed anyways, then he fucks you from behind, but by the end he's got you in a mating press, cum gushing out, but oh, he's not stopping, and you're not that bummed out about it either.

He keeps snarling something about you carrying his pups, but your mind isn't capable of thinking about much other than the way he fucks into your needy cunt and pulls on your tail while his thumps against the mattress behind him.

It does make you wonder which one of you was supposed to be the one in heat. 

[uselessmoonlight]

Stranger part 5

Reader is Telemachus' friend, and when he leaves for his "diplomatic mission" he asks her to watch over his mother.

Later, once the king has returned, she stumbles upon an injured Poseidon.

Previous / series masterlist / Next

Content specs: she/her pronouns used, afab reader, Platonic! Telemachus x reader, Epic!Poseidon x reader, possible OOC!Poseidon, Polites’ daughter! Reader, unrequited love, blood, fighting, nudity, illusion, possibly more?, trying to avoid using y/n, slowburn, suggestive themes, but no smut, English is not my first language, sorry if it's too much exposition, it's my first fic.

Ónoma literally means name in Greek, at least according to google translate. View this as the y/n of this fic.

“When that man went to far, you slayed him without second thought, but now, when a woman does the same, you let her off with a warning. Why?” A voice sounded. As she looked around no-one else seemed to have heard it. She wanted to reply, but had no clue how, would she have to speak aloud?

“I’m in your head, there no need to speak.” Well, that cleared one thing up, she still had no idea who it was, or how they could get in her head. Was she going insane? Or had the sleep deprivation finally caught up to her.

She’d given the man, the same courtesy she’d given Agathe, but while Agathe had realized she’d gone to far, the man had doubled down on his behaviour. Both Ares and Dionysus had given her permission to protect the priestesses.

If Agathe had not stopped, she wondered what she would’ve done. The choice was easy to make if she had divine permission, but if she hadn’t been granted that, what would she have done? Stop her and possibly face the wrath of an angry God? She imagined Dionysus would not take kindly to an attack on his priestesses.

Even if had not minded it, would she be willing to face the consequences in town? Agathe was very influential, her mother would not forgive her, she’d be living a personalized hell. And what of Irene? She was incredibly fond of the girl and could not imagine how hurt she would be.

“You mortals are so, Complex. All those feelings, and rules, and repercussions.” Mortals? Not another God. Gods had only brought death in her life. If her past was anything to go by, this exchange was not a good omen.

“Now, now, I never told you to stop playing. I just wanted to pick at your brain a bit, see what all the fuss is about. You’ve caught quite a few eyes, you know.”

Poseidon had used up all his energy to call off the storm after his humiliating fight with Odysseus. Healing would take some time, but he was mortified at the idea of anyone seeing his godly form so injured. He pushed himself even further, just so he would not be recognized in his wounded state and then he promptly passed out.

When he woke up he was disoriented, without opening his eyes he realized he was on something softer than sand or stone. There was more covering his figure then when he’d fallen asleep, when he opened his eyes, he saw that he was in a room. A very pretty girl was sleeping on a chair next to the bed he was on.

For a moment it distracted him from the fact that he had no clue how he’d gotten here. Wherever here was, anyways. In addition to that, the pretty girl was covered in blood.

The things that covered him turned out to be bandages, but they could’ve been laced with poison, for all he knew. He had to get out, and quick, but his body betrayed him. Every movement felt like he was getting stabbed all over again.

He’d been caught off guard when the previously sleeping girl chastised him for ruining her handiwork. So, she’d been the one to patch him up, then. He didn’t know if he should be relieved or worried because of that. For a moment he thought the blood that stained her must have been his, but then he noticed her wounds and the bloody axes by the door.

Soon after he woke up she’d left. His voice had been croakier than he’d expected. How long had he been out for? He’d smiled at the prayer the girl had sent his way, how amusing, sending a prayer to a God, all the while he’s in your home.

The next day had been more eventful, he’d not seen the girl when he initially awoke, but when he heard someone rummaging in the other room he figured she must have slept there. He’d kept his eyes closed as he heard her return and leave once again, but not before checking on him. Once he thought she wouldn’t return anytime soon he started prying off his bandages again.

They’d been neatly wrapped around him, he’d almost found it a waste to remove them, but he had to see his wounds for himself. He was a God damn it; he should’ve healed by now. Of course, that would be the time that the woman decided to walk inside. She’d helped him, offered him a bath. He could not stop himself from teasing her.

He’d expected her to run away like a blushing virgin or jump his bones, the former was more likely after her reaction to his actions, but she’d gritted her teeth and actually helped him. He’d hoped for the latter. Poseidon, or Perikles as he’d introduced himself as, had taken many lovers in his life, but not many were as beautiful as she.

Her friendship with the prince had been a shock, for someone who lived as humbly as she, to be close to a member of the royal family? It was unheard of. Then there was the fact that this was the son of the man who’d done this to him, who’d caused him this pain. He’d not had the chance to talk much with the girl that day, but she intrigued him.

What business did she have at the temple, who’s temple was it anyway? Where’d she learn to play the lyre like that? Why was Athena following her and her friend? Where was her family? Surely a girl her age would not live here alone? From what he’d observed the shack she called home was quite secluded. Was she widowed? She was hardly of age to be married, so likely not.

Who was Ónoma, and why had she been covered in blood?

Next

Taglist:

@suckerforblondies

@barrythestrawberry041

[ghostlythistlefics]

Track V. Freshly Baked Nightmares [Hisoka - HxH]

It was 5:07 AM when you decided that sleep was optional and caffeine was a lifestyle choice.

Not the good kind of 5 AM, either. Not the “watch the sunrise while sipping artisanal coffee and contemplating the beauty of existence” kind. No, this was the feral 5 AM—the kind where the world felt slightly unreal, like reality itself had given up for the night and left the backup generator running.

The only place open this early was a tiny, suspiciously empty bakery two blocks from your apartment, wedged between a laundromat that no one ever seemed to use and a shop that sold nothing but antique dolls. (Yes, they were terrifying. No, you did not ask questions.)

You were hunched over a sketchbook at a corner table, nursing a cup of aggressively strong coffee and doodling like some kind of sleep-deprived cryptid. The drawing was not going well. your brain had filed for bankruptcy, and every line you put down on paper looked like it had been drawn by someone actively fighting off possession.

You muttered something unkind under your breath, flipping to a new page, you needed inspiration, you needed muse.

What you did not need was new nightmare fuel.

Which, of course, meant that the universe was about to serve you a steaming-hot plate of exactly that.

Because the bakery door opened, and in walked a man—

Tall. Pale. Red hair slicked back like he’d personally offended the laws of physics. A smirk that could only mean trouble.

He moved like he was in on a joke no one else knew, his steps slow and deliberate as he approached the counter. The bored-looking owner didn’t even react, just paused arranging freshly baked goods to give a curt nod and started bagging something up, like this was normal.

You stared.

Then, just to be sure, you stared some more.

“Well, that’s just perfect,” you muttered, taking a slow sip of your coffee. “I was running out of nightmare fuel for a moment there.”

The man turned.

His gaze slid over the bakery, pausing when it landed on you. And then—because apparently your luck had officially hit rock bottom—he started walking toward your table.

Oh, good. Because what you really wanted this morning was to make polite conversation with a serial-killer-coded magician.

He stopped beside your table, tilting his head like a curious bird. Too tall. Too still. Eyes sharp enough to cut.

“How charming,” he said, voice smooth as silk and twice as insidious. “I do enjoy a well-timed compliment.”

You blinked at him. “Buddy, if you took that as a compliment, you might want to reassess your standards.”

A slow grin spread across his face, and wow, that was so much worse.

He pulled out the chair across from you, sat down, and steepled his fingers. Uninvited. Unbothered. Entirely too comfortable.

You stared.

He stared back.

The bakery’s ancient clock ticked ominously in the background.

“So,” you said, because you were apparently committed to bad decisions today. “Do I get the courtesy of a name, or should I just label you ‘Creepy Guy #347’ in my mental list of mistakes?”

You asked despite knowing the answer.

His grin widened. “Hisoka.”

You exhaled slowly. “Of course it is.”

Hisoka leaned forward, resting his chin on one hand, fingers tapping against his cheek in slow, deliberate motions. His eyes—too sharp, too knowing, too damn entertained—glinted with something you had no interest in identifying.

You kept your coffee cup in hand, mostly because it was your only available weapon if things went south. Not that you thought a lukewarm Americano would do much against the clown of Hunter x Hunter, but it was the principle of the thing.

“Hisoka, huh?” you echoed. “Sounds fake, but okay.”

His laugh was soft, curling at the edges, like the sound of something unraveling. “And what should I call you, little artist?”

You set your cup down with an unimpressed clink. “Preferably ‘left alone.’”

He smirked, but there was a flicker of something behind it—not quite amusement, not quite boredom. Interest? Curiosity? Hunger?

Great. Because what you needed at 5 AM in your safe, normal, mundane bakery was a serial killer looking at you like you were a particularly interesting puzzle piece.

You forced yourself to keep your posture loose, your expression neutral. No sudden movements. No fear. Predators, after all, had a habit of playing with their food as you have seen in the anime.

Hisoka reached out, and for one brief, unfortunate second, you thought he was going to touch you. Instead, his fingers stopped just shy of the edge of your sketchbook, tracing the table with an absentminded sort of curiosity.

“You’re quite the peculiar little thing, aren’t you?” he mused. “Awake at this hour, drawing in solitude, yet sharp enough to recognize a nightmare when it walks through the door.”

“Oh, don’t flatter yourself. You’re more of an inconvenience than a nightmare.”

His eyes lit up. Like you’d just handed him a particularly interesting new toy.

You regretted speaking immediately.

“Ohhh…” He dragged the syllable out, eyes glinting. “I do love a challenge.”

You regretted everything.

“Look,” you said, rubbing at your temple. “It’s too early for whatever this is. I’m tired. I’m over-caffeinated, which is probably why I’m imagining you here. And quite frankly, if you’re about to pull some weird magician-slash-murderer trick, I’d appreciate a heads-up so I can at least get one last bite of my cinnamon roll.”

A pause.

Then—a laugh. A real one, sharp and amused, full of something that should not have been as delighted as it was.

“I like you, little artist.”

Wonderful. Your life expectancy has just plummeted.

You sighed, glancing at the clock. 5:23 AM. The world was still half-asleep, lost in that eerie in-between space where time felt stretched too thin. Like reality hadn’t quite settled yet.

You turned back to your sketchbook, flipping to a fresh page, determined to ignore the literal walking red flag sitting across from you.

And then—

A whisper of movement. A flicker in the corner of your vision.

You looked up.

The chair was empty.

Hisoka was gone.

No sound. No parting words. No indication that he had ever been there at all.

The bakery hummed on like normal—coffee brewing, bread cooling on wire racks, the owner flipping lazily through a magazine like nothing had happened.

Like you had imagined him.

You exhaled slowly, closing your sketchbook. The edges of the pages felt too real, too solid beneath your fingertips, anchoring you in a moment that felt just slightly off-kilter.

Had you just hallucinated that entire conversation?

The thought almost reassured you—until you glanced down at your table.

Sitting beside your untouched cinnamon roll was a single playing card, face-up.

The Joker.

You stared at it.

Then, without a word, you picked up your coffee and drank the entire thing in one go.

The Joker card sat on the table, its grinning face tilted slightly toward the dim bakery light, as if it were in on some private joke. The moment stretched long and thin, reality pressing in on itself, demanding some sort of logical explanation that simply did not exist.

And then—something else.

Beside the card, almost unnoticed in the lingering haze of disbelief, was a neatly folded paper bag.

The same one he had bought.

The same one Hisoka had taken from the counter just moments before.

The chair where he had been sitting was empty now—untouched, like no one had ever been there at all. The bakery continued its slow, early-morning hum, oblivious to the sudden, gaping absence. The owner still flipped through their magazine, the scent of freshly baked bread still hung in the air, and the walls were still painted in that dull, unremarkable beige.

But the bag?

That was real.

Fingers curled around it hesitantly, the paper crinkling at the touch, cool and solid—proof that something had happened. Slowly, cautiously, the bag was pulled open.

Inside were two perfectly round red bean paste buns and a to-go coffee.

Still warm. Fresh.

At the bottom of the bag, folded with almost lazy care, sat a receipt.

It was smoothed out with careful fingers, the numbers and words crisp, freshly printed, undeniably present in a way that made the world feel just a little less stable.

Total: ¥1,200

Items Purchased: 2 Red Bean Paste Buns, 1 Coffee (Black)

Customer name: Hisoka

There it was. The name, inked plainly as if it belonged here. Like this was normal.

The bakery clock ticked on, indifferent.

But Hisoka was gone.

No footsteps. No door swinging open. No trace.

Just a bag of food, a receipt, and a playing card left behind.

The Joker’s grin seemed wider now—mocking, knowing.

A slow exhale filled the empty space where conversation had existed just moments ago. Then, without a word, the coffee was lifted from the bag, the lid popped open, and a careful sip taken.

Bitter. Strong.

Real.

The receipt was placed back on the table, resting beside the card as if it belonged there. The world outside was still dark, the sky barely shifting toward dawn, and the bakery, oblivious, continued on.

A quiet chuckle escaped—tired, exasperated, resigned.

“Yeah. Sure. Why not.”

After all, it was only 5:30 AM.

Plenty of time for more nonsense.

[jellyfishsthings]

Ok, first of all, I would like to apologise for not posting something for almost a month, bit it was exam season so... and I know I let you my fans down *que laughing bcuz it's not true*. Secondly, I would like to say that this is a bit different, it's not smut but I think it is quite funny and represents my character a little bit... also mean!Remus cuz he rules... so enjoy ig!!!

Part 2 , Part 3

I woke up, gasping for air, sweat making my shirt cling to my body like a second skin. I must look downright crazy, with flushed cheeks, hair a wild mess, and rubbing my thighs together without a stop. My mind drifted back to the dream that caused the state of my reaction.

His hands were roaming my body like I was the only thing he had ever wanted. And finally gripping my hips and making them move backwards until they hit his, and he was balls deep inside of me. Again. And again. And again.

The dream itself wasn't the problem. Sure, a sex dream wasn't that bad, and she had several over the years, but what she moaned and who was supposedly giving her all that pleasure was. Remus.

How? How had this happened to her? Not him. Not the one boy she never got along with. Not the one person who drove her up against the wall. Not the one that-

No, it actually made perfect sense. He was the only one who made her feel something. Sure, said "something" was regularly negative feelings. Like irritation, deep-rooted hate. But it certainly was more than anyone has ever made her feel. She looked at her alarm clock. And… great, only fifteen more minutes before it was time to get ready for breakfast. How was she supposed to pull herself together after that? It was going to be a long day.

She dressed in her uniform, only leaving her blue-silver striped tie, loosely knotted around her neck, her top two buttons open, exposing her collarbones. Her trousers, replacing the usual skirt, hugged her waist and hips nicely. Thank God, if there is one, but she had single-handedly managed to convince the professors in the monthly Perfects meeting, that the female population of this school, formal and fancy vocabulary had definitely been a strong part of her remarks, should be allowed to wear trousers whenever they wanted and felt like it.

She walked towards the Ravenclaw table and quickly filled her plate with pancakes doused in chocolate because well… who doesn't love chocolate? Her eyes roamed the blurry Dining Hall. Man, she really should start using her wire-framed glasses, the ones that were an identical pair to his. They had bought them so as to match when they were still friends. Before he ruined everything.

There he was. The beautiful, arrogant blurry bastard. She would recognise his curly hair and mischievous dark green eyes paired with his scarred face glory. Damn him and his annoying good looks. And when the hell did her eyesight get that bad? Maybe it was the sleep deprivation, which was again his fault. She could proudly say, though, that she was still squinting and glaring at the world as she always did. And everything was right. Until…

"My God, you are so tight. And so perfectly marked up. Everyone should know who you belong to, don't you think?" He said as his hand travelled upwards, one of her thighs. Moving easily as all her previous orgasms slid down her legs. All courtesy of his mouth, of course. "I love seeing you like this. I never thought that fucking your brains out until you are senseless would be such an easy way to shut you up."

… she remembered that and choked on her treacherous hot chocolate.

"Well, well, the she-devil just choked on her hot chocolate? Is it because your body detests anything sweet? " his voice called out. That deep, still slightly raspy and sleepy voice that made his Welsh accent stand out more prominently. She hated that voice, she thought, yet her body betrayed her and shivered, as if it was somehow remembering all that fantastic, imaginary, things it supposedly whispered in her skin.

Oohs and aahs echoed in the room, accompanied by chuckles and whispers, praising his "sick burn."

"You know what, Lupin? I always thought you were a pretentious piece of shit, but I never thought you were so self-centered to actually call yourself indirectly sweet. Is it one of those days of the month where you need a little confidence boost?", I called back as I finished eating and stood up from my seat.

A fuming Remus was the last thing I saw as I exited the room. Now, every member of the school faculty was laughing because of my comeback.

Lost in thought I walked towards the Ravenclaw Tower, and then felt an arm grasping my wrist and pining me into the wall, despite driving my elbow into said attacker in his nose, stomach (were those abs? Who was she kidding of course her attacker would have abs) and well … dick. But they didn't react at all as if those blows, who should have winded the air out of someone. Except- right lycanthropy super strength bullshit.

"You think that was funny?" He said in a deathly quiet tone, as if he wanted to murder me on the spot… or fuck me against the wall? Okay, now she was just self projecting.

"I think it was hilarious."

"Sometime you are going to learn to respect me, foxy?"

"Sure, when Hell freezes over."

"You know, you remind me of those foxes and black cats. They consider themselves so smart and mean, yet they are unaware of the danger they will face because of it. "

"And you are the danger? Climb off your high horse Lupin." I whisper in his face. Our lips only mere centimeters apart.

words: 900 (should I continue this?)

[purpleajisai]

Drop your Madara headcannons 🧠 💣

Hi! This is going to be quite a long list. Didn't add every single hc because I'm planning on writing a little fanfic and don't want to spoil some details to you hehe. Anyways, hope you enjoy! Some of these are very oddly specific, this man occupies at least half my brain if not more.

🔥 misc!

* He drinks his tea boiling hot. Burning your tongue? Never heard of it

* Is actually good at cooking and makes the most out of any ingredient available. Growing up in war, he knows how to make meals out of anything.

* Has a pillow to cuddle in bed! The dude is lonely.

* Very elegant and expensive hanko to stamp his documents. A clan leader needs to be fancy sometimes!

* Neat freak. Never has his house messy or his clothes out of place. Even his hair strands are calculated.

* Is actually able to mend/sew his clothes very well if some stitches are damaged during training.

* Sleeps a maximum of 6 hours a day, minimum of 30 minutes. The amount of sleep he gets is like playing a roulette (ever seen the eyebags? yeah)

* Speaking about the eyebags. His eyebags are both sunken and protruding (based on my personal experience of being sleep deprived+stressed) the lower eyelid pops out a little and the dark circles extend more.

* The man is physically unable to go out in social settings during the day. Only has social battery for the night. If he has to do some sort of diplomatic celebration with other clan leaders or kage during the day, he’ll leave the talking to someone better at social gatherings like Hashirama. 

* Has houseplants both for decoration and for cooking. We’re talking pretty succulents and mint plants or peach trees.

* The type of guy to wake up and immediately jump out of bed. Things have to be done everyday and he doesn’t trust people to do things the way he likes. 

🎀 appearance!

* Shaves to perfection every single morning, no excuses. Takes a little razor to missions, hates the feeling of facial hair growing. Trims his eyebrows as well. The Sharingan needs a pretty frame, right?

* The gloves have 2 purposes: protecting his hands from getting calluses or any form of damage due to the metal handle of the gunbai, kusarigama, etc and to hide burn scars (courtesy of @madaraservingcunt go follow her!)

* Continuing with the gloves, they’re made out of leather or thick cotton. Maybe has several sets of them for different activities.

* Smells like a mix of wood (cedar or pine), soot/ash, aloe and maybe lavender or wild daisy.

* Skincare and haircare? He’s VERY serious about these. Aloe vera facial masks for soothing the itchiness of constant katonjutsu, washes face with caution, rice water to keep his hair shiny, protective hairstyles to not damage the long hair strands, bamboo hairbrush to retain the natural oils, etc.

* Either has thick straight hair or textured and slightly wavy hair, definitely cut in layers. The wavy hair would make more sense as it poofs up when dry but looks rather straight when wet, taking into account the scenes of the battle in the Valley of the End (thank you Indra for the wavy hair and gorgeous mane genetics). Definitely loves his hair, fav part about himself.

* The bandages above his ankles are to keep the pants in place because his calves are thin and not very muscular, a small insecurity when he was a teen.

* Speaking of the terrible teens, he got grumpy whenever he got a breakout, zit, etc.

* Has mixed/dry, sensible skin. Dealt with painful and itchy sores due to lack of skin hydration while in war.

* Is a bit ashamed of his height and body proportions (i.e. wishing he was taller, less lean and more bulky, broader shoulders). These were regular nuisances during his teens but he eventually controlled the insecurities in adulthood, not managing to make them disappear completely nonetheless.

🍡 food!

* The databooks say that his fav food is inarizushi, so I've added that he likes similar things: onigiri, temaki, nigirizushi, tamagoyaki or even gyoza.

* Eats with little pleasure, only to fuel his body or whatever. That changes when Konoha is founded and he can actually enjoy and taste his meals.

* Dislikes greasy foods. Not a fan of ramen or katsudon, gyoza has to be boiled and would never eat tempura or ebi furai.

* Has a sweet tooth. We're talking dango, wagashi, dorayaki and more. However, only Izuna knew about this. Can't have a clan leader that eats candy like a little child.

* Prefers his sake cold and drinks mostly umeshu in informal gatherings.

* Actually likes fruit. I have no reason for believing this but he has the face of a man who likes fresh fruit. Fav fruit is persimmons or apples.

* Was malnourished as a child, giving away his food to his brothers or clansmen. Eventually took a toll on his muscle growth and height.

* Eats very light breakfast (maybe tea and some rice with nori or miso soup with wakame), heavy lunch (meat or fish, rice, more tea and other side dishes), no dinner.

* Favourite tea is jasmine or pu'erh, mostly drinks green tea and actually enjoys a good ceremonial matcha.

Thanks for the fun ask! I legit have a google docs of 4 pages full of hcs 😭 please send more asks about him I need to dump my brainrot

[blancaleona]

hypothesis: Yudias will stay in the past, will somehow become the ancestor of the Ohdos and that's why their family crest represents galaxies fusing, it's a reference to him/his galaxy monsters

courtesy of my early morning before sunrise sleep deprived brain

spoilers:

oh boy he IS going to stay isn't he? I'll cry

[sucrosette]

★— ⋆｡˚ [Bring Him Comfort Pt. 2]

For Day 10 of Carry on Countdown 23, Wrath. @carryon-countdown

Continued thoughts on not such a terrible boyfriend. You can find part one here.

This is rated T, again, for the language, themes and parental feelings.

⋆｡˚

The wrath of Simon Snow was a thing to behold. All fire and righteousness, flashing hot enough to scorch any in the vicinity. It was an easy thing for Baz to empathize with, even when he had been at the brunt of it. It had been often enough that he’d been at the brunt of it that he could see it stirring in Simon now.

Now, the morning after a particularly nasty fight with his father, the morning after his father had made him bloody cry and bolt off on pure instinct, the morning after he’d stumbled to Simon’s with no warning and no expectations. Baz should’ve called first, out of courtesy’s sake, but Simon always welcomed him. He’d been bloody perfect, bloody fucking sweet, and now he was bloody fucking fuming.

Maybe he should’ve left the talking until after breakfast. Simon’s always a bit more logical after a meal in his stomach, more amenable, but Simon’d asked when they woke up. “Do you want to talk about it?” all sweet and gentle with his asking.

Of course Baz wanted to talk about it, he was just emotionally constipated. He always wanted to talk to Simon about his feelings, sometimes it just took a moment to settle and a gentle prod before it all came tumbling out.

And Crowley.

Had it all tumbled out.

So now, just after they’d showered and gotten cleaned up and clothed fresh, Simon was fuming, somewhat more than slightly. Simon had a back-up pair of those jeans, specifically for Baz, which had brought him a moment of a smirk. Baz wasn’t about to ask exactly where he’d gotten funds to buy Baz’s best pair of designer jeans, but he did appreciate Simon’s attention to detail, despite the fuming.

“I’m going to give him a talking to,” Simon decided three bites into breakfast.

“Please do not, Simon,” Baz could feel all the tired of the night before come rushing back through every fibre of his being, “He’s not going to change from one talking to.”

“But,” Simon protested, “What if that talk… involved… my fists. Or, better yet, a sword.”

If it hadn’t been such a ridiculous idea, it would have sounded logical to Baz’s sleep deprived brain. “Snow, please. That’s not going to help the issue, it would only catch you assault charges, and I much prefer you out of jail.”

“Well–” Simon’s face looked just a little bit sadistic with whatever he was thinking, “–I’ve already gotten away with one murder–”

“Simon.” Baz cut that train of though short with a hand firm over one of Simon’s, stopping him from that bite of scramble he’d been about to scarf down. “Don’t bloody joke about that. We both know you had zero intentions of what happened to the mage.”

Sometimes… it felt a little odd to just call him the mage like that, after all Baz knew about the bloke, but he didn’t bother to correct himself on it. There were more important things to focus on than what to call the man.

“I know,” Simon huffed, his wings flaring slightly with his annoyance, “But I’m still bloody pissed your dad still treats you like that.”

“Yes, well, you can’t solve everything with your fists, Simon Snow.”

Simon huffed again, much more dramatically and Baz took that as his cue to get more coffee. He stood up to do so and pressed a kiss to Simon’s forehead as he passed, his spare hand squeezing Simon’s shoulder at the same moment. “Do you want anything from the kitchen while I get my coffee?”

Simon only shook his head, but Baz could see the wheels in his head were still turning.

“I’ll be back in a moment, alright? We can talk more if it would help.”

A soft hum was his answer and Baz supposed that it was the best answer he would get just then. Simon leaned his head back over his chair, watching Baz disappear into the kitchen, and Baz figured that was a good sign too. He really didn’t want to worry about Simon getting into trouble.

Of course, only three minutes later, when Basil exited the kitchen, the table was bereft of any Simon Snows. He checked the bathroom first, and then the bedroom, maybe he’d needed warmer socks, but no. Simon was not in the apartment. A fact annoyingly confirmed by his winter coat not being on the hook and his boots not being at the door.

The keys to the Ford Anglia, thankfully, were still hanging by the door above his own shoes. Baz shoved on his shoes as quickly as was reasonable and found his own way out the door and into the car, certain he’d find Simon walking angrily along the way towards his father’s house.

Just three blocks down, Baz caught up to Simon.

Baz scooted the Ford out of the main thoroughway and slowed down to a crawl, thanking Merlin and Morgana both that the road was empty but for him so he could keep pace with Simon as he reached over to roll the manual window down.

Simon was ignoring him, as though they were in some kind of fight, and Baz couldn’t help but laugh a little under his breath at that. “Simon!” Baz called, “Darling, please, it’s a two hour walk.” He knew because he’d done it in his own fits of annoyance on more than one occasion.

“I don’t care!” Simon shouted back, and Baz could see his wings bristling under his overly large coat as he started storming that much quicker down the pavement.

“At least get in the car with me, love, it’s bloody near freezing out there,” Baz tried again, attention painfully divided between the road and Simon.

It was enough to make Simon stop in his tracks. “Will you at least drive us there?”

Baz stopped the car beside him, flashing his emergency lights just in case. “We will talk about it more while I drive and not make any one-sided decisions. Does that seem fair?”

Simon grimaced down at Baz, but he took a step towards the car. Eventually, after a long moment of furrowed brows and contemplation, he took another. Finally, he closed the gap the rest of the way and slid into the passenger side, rolling up the window to block out the cold. “Fine. We’ll talk about it.”

“We can get comfort sweets after we talk, alright?” Baz offered a hand to Simon as he corrected the car back out to the road.

Simon took his hand and squeezed, his own silent acquiescence. “I demand at least a pound of liquorice.”

“We’ll get us the big tub, the stupid sweet red kind,” Baz agreed, “And some caramel corn and set up a dumb movie to watch after whatever we decide on. But no rushing into things alright?”

“I still think the sodding bastard deserves a kick to the shins and a fist to the face,” Simon huffed again, pouting something ferocious beside Basil, “I really bloody dislike him right now.”

“I know, love,” Baz soothed, “I do too, but I also don’t really have the energy for another fight today after last night.”

Simon glanced over sideways at him and his grip on Basil’s hand softened some, “You think he’ll come ‘round on us ever?”

Baz’s grip on the steering wheel tensed, his lips pursed as he thought of the possibilities, and eventually a sigh slipped from his lips. “I don’t truly know. I hope he will, often. I love him still. But he’s not doing a great job of accepting us so far, is he?”

“He really isn’t…” Simon’s nose scrunched up as he said it and Baz just caught it out of the corner of his eyes, a moment of fondness softening his own expression.

“If you really want,” Basil caved slightly, “I will drive us over there today. If it’s so important you say something to him directly. But no assault, please.”

“Ah,” Simon breathed with a shake of his head, “No. I was just… I don’t like how he treats you. It makes me impulsive. More than usual. Let’s not today. Let’s get our sweets, detox, and go from there.”

Baz corrected the car, squeezing Simon’s hand gently, already taking them towards Simon’s preferred sweet shop. “Thank you, love.”

“I don’t want to make it worse for you,” Simon muttered against the skin of Baz’s fingertips, pressing soft kisses over each of them while they drove, “I don’t want to wear you down more. I just wish he could love you like you deserve.”

“You love me like I deserve,” Baz answered without a moment's hesitation, “That’s really all I need.” 

[the-lore-and-art-cave-go-brrrrr]

Incorrect quotes again, once again courtesy of my friends and our giant quotebook

Niko: I’m going to stand up so you no longer tower over me.

Rizu: NOOOO BROTATOCHIP!

————————————————————————

Rizu: I always feel high, on sleep deprivation and anxiety. It creates this wonderful mix of crack addict energy. Niko: So basically your constant state of being is high but not because of drugs.

————————————————————————

Asa: Yeah, no. She's already high.

————————————————————————

Twm: [Remember, more espresso less depresso.] -sips espresso- [Redacted]: [Im still depressed but now I’m fast.]

————————————————————————

Asa: By the way friendly fire is on-

Niko: I would know, I punched you in the face.

————————————————————————

Sage: Well why don’t we fuck around and find out??

————————————————————————

Asa: Stop being homophobic. Sage: I’m literally going to marry you.

————————————————————————

Niko: The purple triangle, not the green one. Dumbass.

————————————————————————

[Redacted]: [I was a fucking peanut, how else?!]

————————————————————————

Niko: Carpeted kitchen. Twm: [What the f u c k?!]

————————————————————————

Niko: Shoot me again! I have an idea-

————————————————————————

Asa: [Redacted] come pick me up I’m scared… Wait I have the car-

————————————————————————

[Redacted]: [What is this??] Niko: IT’S BRITNEY BITCH!!

————————————————————————

Younger [Redacted]: [Barbs, do you know why the guillotine was important to world war 2?] Aura: What? Younger [Redacted]: [Well I was just wondering since it was… cutting edge technology.]

————————————————————————

Niko: Asa we’re doing Heroin. Asa: Good to know.

————————————————————————

[Redacted]: [I never actually wanted children.] Niko: and now you're here. [Redacted]: [Consider yourself privileged.]

————————————————————————

Twm: [Reality is blending with my brain rot…]

————————————————————————

-takes a very long sip of their tea-

Niko: Alcoholism.

————————————————————————

Rizu: Why not??

Asa: Because fuck you, that’s why.

Rizu: is that a request???

Sage: It sure could be.

————————————————————————

Twm: [Hi welcome to my Christian Minecraft server, today we’re killing [Redacted].]

————————————————————————

[Redacted]: [You think you got parenting down but then your adopted lesbian child becomes the pope.]

[pixelwixard]

Thoughts on my brewing Mariner/T'Lyn fic

I keep putting off talking about this, but hey, it's my day off, so I have time. Here's what I have in mind for the fic. I'll put it under a cut for courtesy. Read if you dare. It's long. I'm kind of working through it as I write it.

I know I have talked about this before, so if you read something you've read before, apologies in advance.

I'll start with the original idea. T'Lyn, aware of the danger of Starfleet away missions (and just living on the ship, apparently), asks Mariner to train her in combat. Mariner agreed, if T'Lyn teaches her the nerve pinch.

The very first version of this idea had the punchline of T'Lyn not knowing the nerve pinch, so it was deception for her own gain. It was a simple gag. Maybe not the best characterization, though.

I eventually changed it to T'Lyn admitting that she didn't know the pinch, but they could try to learn it together. Bonding experience, so nice. Still funny to think of Mariner getting "tricked." Also, Vulcans aren't supposed to lie, I guess? I'm sure they can use loopholes.

Canon made this version impossible. Also, from her fighting stance in "Empathalogical Fallacies," it looks like T'Lyn isn't COMPLETELY defenseless. Not that she might not still want training, of course, hence why this idea is still viable with tweaks.

So, then the idea evolved into Mariner wanting to build up her resistance to the nerve pinch, “for reasons.” So, instead of combat training, it would be stealth training, because she would insist that T’Lyn try to sneak up on her throughout the day and try to pinch her. I still like this idea, and it might be what I end up doing. I changed it from learning the nerve pinch itself because I've decided that it's something that Mariner just can't do for whatever reason.

But if I DID still do the combat training, what form would it take? This is still a mystery. Another reason I'm second-guessing the combat training is because I don't really know anything about combat, so it probably wouldn't end up very good.

That being said, I came to a realization yesterday. I was a little sleep deprived, and I was riding my bike to work. Sleep deprivation combined with road brain to reveal a truth to me. Why would T'Lyn ask Mariner for training? Yes, she might have read about it in her file, and we know she reads files. However, she hasn't witnessed Mariner's combat prowess firsthand yet. She HAS, however, witnessed TENDI'S. Now, I think T'Lyn knows it's a touchy subject for Tendi, but she might ask anyway, if she can properly frame the question as education and friendly sparring rather than combat. So, either T'Lyn would just ask Tendi, or she would ask both of them instead of just Mariner. GIRL SPAAAR!

And this is the scenario I currently have in my brain: T'Lyn has made a holodeck recreation of her encounter with the Betazoids. She's trying to figure out where she went wrong in order to correct herself for future battles. She asks Mariner and Tendi to observe and give their impressions. I imagine T'Lyn as something of a perfectionist, and she will obsess over this in her quiet way.

This might become two different ficlets at this point. First with the nerve pinch resistance training, second with the holodeck Betazoid attack. Maybe combine them into two chapters? Or better to keep them separate, perhaps.

I guess that's everything that's in my head at the moment. I really need to start writing the damn thing/things. Maybe just start one and try to figure it out as I go, even if I'm more of a planner.

If you read all that, bless you.

[starlitvases]

I've said a lot of this in a previous post, but I'll say it again. The medical industry is built on sexism, racism, and ableism.

I've had a psychiatrist in a residential facility state that I couldn't be autistic for the simple fact that I was able to speak to him. I have been diagnosed twice by two different psychologists in two different states. He also spent the first fifteen minutes of our session asking me about Alaska. He was more interested in the fact that I was an Alaskan resident receiving psych services in this facility in Illinois rather than the fact that I was there for trying to kill myself and that I was sleep deprived and missing group therapy for two weeks due to their own rules.

When explaining my fainting episodes to a doctor, she said it was likely due to my period. My period is regular and only occurs for five days each month. I was fainting nearly everyday. She didn't even bother with an iron panel and just sent me home. I got diagnosed with POTS this May.

I was misdiagnosed with BPD. When reading my records, the only reason a doctor cited me for BPD was that I had a self-harming issue. I was self-harming in this psych facility because I have severe PTSD of psych facilities due to being sexually assaulted by another patient in a psych facility. I've had multiple nurses and therapists evaluate me for BPD. Every result was negative. Turns out I have DID instead.

Everytime I speak Spanish in front of doctors, I am suddenly treated as if I am less intelligent and naive. I graduated high-school as a junior and in the top 2% of the entire graduating senior class. I am currently a college student studying computer science. I will soon be switching my major in favor of nursing. I am not less intelligent just because I happen to be Mexican and speak Spanish.

I assume I don't have to tell you that many women in the late 19th and early 20th century were diagnosed with "hysteria" and placed in mental institutions by their husbands. I assume I don't have to tell you that medical schools often taught students that black Americans had a higher pain tolerance than white American and therefore didn't need pain meds. I assume I don't have to tell you that queerness was regarded as a mental illness. I assume I don't have to tell you that disabled people were forcibly euthanized after the ruling of Buck v. Bell. "Three generations of imbeciles are enough," sure is a memorable statement.

The medical field is Eurocentric, sexist, and reinforces ableism in our society. Doctors do not know everything, and plenty of doctors in my life have been misinformed and even downright discriminatory. Some people do indeed know themselves better than doctors. It sounds like you have had great doctors in your life, and for that I'm happy for you, but many of us aren't afforded that same courtesy.

I do know my brain more than medical professionals, because many medical professionals ignore the brain of a queer and chronically ill Mexican.

You in fact do not know yourself better than medical professionals. We see alof of posts saying how "i know my brain better than medical professionals" no. You don't, they are called professionals for the reason that they have studied and gotten degrees in specific fields. - Riley

[writer59january13]

Pronounced side effect upon my dreams...

courtesy Fluoxetine hydrochloride

Fluoxetine Hcl (C17H18F3NO·HCl)

known as Selective Serotonin Reuptake Inhibitor (SSRI),

especially prescribed to treat

depression, panic disorder,

and obsessive-compulsive disorder

the above symptoms

profoundly experienced by yours truly

said prescription medication

seriously impacts sleep (mine).

Debilitating panic attacks wrought (particularly years gone by)

physiological displeasures chiefly constituting

vertigo, racing heart, nausea,

excessive perspiration particularly palms of hands (diagnosed quite some years ago courtesy Doctor Harold Milstein as palmar hyperhidrosis), adrenaline coursing thru body,

whereby Prozac (brand name regarding

aforementioned synthesized chemical) ameliorated unbearable, unmanageable, untenable... earth-shaking, devastating, and crushing manifestations

disabling, exhausting, jackknifing... functionality

hijacking life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness.

Essentially yours truly experiences

dilemma analogous to sleep deprivation,

cuz ofttimes upon arising,

I feel utterly tuckered out, exhausted, bushed...

thus zapped body, mind and spirit ill suited to physical, mental or spiritual endeavor subsequently lovely bones (mine)

(pine to join grateful dead)

rather than feebly kickstart lame effort to write, read or meditate.

Thus respecting Sir Isaac Newton's first law of motion a (human) body at rest inertia keeps said entity at rest.

Interestingly enough as daylight doth wax and wane

casting dark shadows along the outer limits of the twilight zone demarcating

the edge of night upon urbane

countenance buzzfeeding hidden reservoir

exerting estimable energy

decreasing arduous strain

therefore purposefulness, I seek renewable resource to imbue garden variety generic

doubting thomas and ordain

him (i.e. me) with spontaneous

magnificent grandiloquent enlightenment

ala Orson Welles Citizen Kane

laughable comparison linkedin with story extraordinaire quite insane

September 5th, 2024 insight one can gain

perchance even coaxing passable poem

from deep within Matthew Scott Harris' brain.

[damnhitsuzen]

The night before yesterday I slept around 3-4 hours (not consecutive) courtesy russian fucking missiles.

Yesterday I slept for couple hours again, because there was a lot of preparations and early departure.

Today I am taking part in a traditional night vigil for grandma - if I (ans others) will get 2-3 hours of sleep, it would be great.

So tomorrow, after the funeral, I am going to be either a dead weight or my sleep-deprived brain will write something truly brilliant. We'll see.

[insipid-drivel]

This'll be lengthy, but I've stumbled upon a potential workaround for certain people going through this like I've been:

I'm going through this with my own doctor right now, but courtesy of having DDNOS-1B (aka OSDD-1B; a form of Dissociative Identity Disorder), one of my alter personalities, Alex, came up with a way of getting him to take a more focused interest on my case:

Weaponizing my family members.

I started seeing my current doctor after a lot of positive review from my mom, who was the first to start seeing him as a regular patient for routine stuff. My mom is generally very healthy despite closing in on 70, while I'm legally disabled and on SSI with a body likes to pull Weird Shit Sometimes Just To See How Much I Can Suffer Without Dying. This week? I was in the ER with symptoms of sepsis and in so much pain I hadn't slept or eaten in 3 days.

0 abnormalities on my test results. CT scans, X-rays, ultrasounds, blood tests, urinalysis; everything an ER was capable of testing and imaging.

My doctor says he's stumped and "working on it", but at the same time, wouldn't initially prescribe anything in the interim that can control my pain so I don't start seizing from sleep deprivation or fainting from malnutrition.

I live with my mom and younger brother, both out of financial convenience and because we like each other's company. They both love me very much, and I love them back. When I get horribly ill, they both suffer from anxiety and start getting physically ill, too.

Enter: Alex. Alex is awesome. Alex is a part of my System in my head. He would be a doctor if he had his own body to wear the white coat on, but since he's stuck sharing a brain stem with me, he gets by through rigorous studies of medicine for fun. Alex is so phenomenal at diagnostics that he has never been wrong when it comes to a diagnosis. He's out-diagnosed my own doctors, trouncing them dozens of times now. He's even saved lives of our pets by catching them in such early symptoms of something serious that we could get them to the vet in time. It's just that this time, he's not sure what's going on, either. He's hypersensitive to changes in my body, but with all-normal test results and such abnormal pain, he's struggling.

But he won't quit. My alters know each other and can interact, and Alex is like a brother-figure to me. I don't actually need therapy specifically for my DDNOS, because all of my alters get along and work so symbiotically that they're lovingly nicknamed "The Team" by my family. Alex proposed that, since my health directly impacts theirs, my brother join and complete our family under my doctor's umbrella.

Now, he has 3 patients to treat. He's a Family Doctor, and is now treating an Entire Family At Once. The only way to treat them is by diagnosing me. The pressure for him to stay focused on my case is more intense, because, while I'm disabled, my mom and brother are both employed and missing work. My doctor can cure 2 of his patients simultaneously by diagnosing me and helping me find some comfort while he keeps working on my case. He can heal a whole family at once.

Suddenly, I have nausea medication to help my appetite, a bottle of Vicodin to help me sleep, and referrals to more specialists. I feel better emotionally, because my mom and brother are starting to finally feel empowered when they used to feel helpless.

None of what we've done is in any way dishonest or underhanded, as far as I'm concerned. My family has been suffering along with me, and when you have a job and stress-related illness is making you miss work, it makes sense to go to the doctor. All we've done is emphasize Family Medicine.

[pluribusxunum-blog]

What did one pack for Greenland? It wasn’t exactly Green... It was fucking cold, so Nicholas assumed winter clothes would be the best bet. The sound of his half closed door opening had him looking up. “Look, I get that I left my door partially open, but that’s not an invitation into my room. Maybe I should put a sock on the door next time,”