#graphic depitions of violence | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

iriswords · 2 years ago

Text

Febuwhump Day 28 - “You’re safe now”

You can also read this on ao3 and find the rest of my febuwhump fics here

tw: graphic depiction of violence, mentions of death (and subsequent undeath)

Fandom: Batman (reverse robins au)

Words: 2135

Damian’s first reaction is to disbelieve his mother. It is a sign of how shocked he is because he trusts his mother with his whole heart. They’ve had disagreements in the past, but he now knows for certain that she loves him unconditionally. She would not lie about something so big. Not even if she were forced to.

That means Timothy is alive.

And yet, the first words that come out of his mouth are, “You’re lying.” His hand is white from how hard he grips his phone but he does not care. His mother has to be lying. There is no way what she is saying is true.

“I am not,” says Talia softly. “Timothy is alive, Damian. Some assassins spotted him in Gotham a couple of weeks ago, and Ra’s went to retrieve him. I called you as soon as I could.”

Timothy, alive. Damian didn’t attend the funeral. He hadn’t had the strength, as hypocritical as it had been of him. He spent so long hating this bright boy who had stolen his suit and his place in the family, and it took his death for Damian to realize that Timothy had not stolen anything at all. But at the time, Damian was blinded by jealousy and by anger coming from his stranded ties with his father.

Damian mourned Timothy from a distance. He didn’t know the boy all that well and wasn’t attached to him. The most they ever talked was when they argued and threw poisoned words at each other. To Damian, Timothy’s death rang more like a failure than like a wound.

It is over time that Damian learned to truly mourn him. After he reconciled with Bruce, Damian learned more about Tim than he ever had while the boy still lived. Damian got to know his brother through the memories of others and the pain in his father’s and grandfather’s eyes. After Jason came to live in the Manor, Damian took his role as an older brother seriously. Through it, he learned everything he had missed with Timothy.

“How is it possible?” asks Damian. The world spins around him and his mind reels from all the harm Timothy could be exposed to. A strangely protective feeling develops in his chest, one he has felt countless times toward Jason but never toward Timothy.

“I do not know,” answers his mother. “We have looked into his tomb. Everything indicates he crawled out of it.” Damian’s stomach churns. Timothy was long dead when they buried him. That can only mean that, for some reason, he woke up in his coffin. That he had to dig himself out. Damian cannot stop himself from imagining the scene. From the splinters embedding themselves in Timothy’s fingers to the dirt choking him. From his terror to his utter loneliness.

Damian wishes, suddenly, that he had gone to the grave in the past two weeks. He would have noticed, then, its desolated state. But would he have concluded that his brother woke up or would he have assumed someone stole his corpse?

“Ra’s forced him into the Lazarus Pit,” continues Talia. “His injuries are fully healed and he came out of his catatonic state this morning. He answered all my questions and I am fairly certain it is him and not a clone.”

“You want me to come and retrieve him.” Damian isn’t certain he is the best person for this role. Timothy would not be relieved at seeing him.

“Ra’s means to train him. You know how harsh this training is. Timothy may be healed and responsive, but he is no less a traumatized and lost child. Do you really want to leave him in the League? I will respect your choice if that is what you want, Habibi, but I know you.”

Damian knows she is right. He would never wish anyone to undergo League training. It is efficient, but it is also deeply traumatizing, and though Damian does not regret his origins and his upbringing, he knows how harmful it will be to Timothy. Bright, brilliant Timothy, so compassionate and insecure. Neglected by his parents and unloved by his only brother. Cunning and determined, too; he will survive Ra’s, Damian does not doubt it. But it will come at a price, and that price will be his innocence. His brightness. His love for the world, already so damaged by everyone who failed to love him properly.

“I’ll come,” he says.

Damian goes alone. He does not tell his father that Tim is alive. He does not tell anyone. He still has doubts about the reality of this coming back to life, no matter how much he trusts his mother, and he does not want to shatter his father. One death was enough.

He leaves under the pretense of paying a visit to his mother. It is not entirely false, and the event is not uncommon; over the years, as Damian’s relationship with his mother strengthened, he visited her several times, usually out of Nanda Parbat.

His mother waits for him at Nanda Parbat’s entrance. Damian hasn’t come back to the city in many years. It has been even longer since he saw his grandfather in person. In dreams, the man often haunts him. Some days, he even whispers in Damian’s ear. But the two have not met since Damian left the League at age ten.

Anxiety curls in Damian’s stomach at the thought of seeing his grandfather again but he ignores it. Ra’s is a threat and so are the rest of the assassins residing in the League’s stronghold at the moment. But Damian can best every single one of them individually and he knows many will obey him and his mother rather than Ra’s. Damian may not want anything to do with the League, but in the minds of many, he remains the Heir. With Ra’s reign wearing out, the assassins growing more and more tired of his endless cruelty and uncertainty it brings, Damian knows he is not in much danger in the League stronghold.

Talia and Damian, mother and son, slip into the stronghold silently, like old times. The building is achingly familiar to Damian, a remnant of his childhood he will never be able to let go of. Assassins bow their head as they pass Talia and Damian, their eyes trailing them with unmasked curiosity or riveted to the ground in learned respect.

“He’s in the training room,” whispers an assassin to Talia as they pass by her.

Damian’s mother thanks them with a nod, and the two of them turn to the next corner. They do not talk as they walk ever nearer to the training room. Whatever happens today, Damian knows his mother will bear the consequences. He does not dare ask her if she has planned to leave the League, too, too afraid of her answer. He wants to tell her she is always welcome in Gotham, but he doubts she wants to live there.

The training room’s door has been left open. Damian remembers from his childhood how Ra’s loved to offer a show to all the passersby whenever Damian was getting punished or when Ra’s knew Damian would fail to beat his opponent. The open door does not bode well for what is happening or going to happen.

Damian and Talia stop at the threshold. Ra’s turns his back to them, blissfully unaware of their presence. Timothy kneels before him, his head bowed and his shirt off. His back is marred with bloodied cane marks.

Anger swells in Damian but he reigns it in. Not yet. Not yet but soon, he promises himself and Timothy.

Around Timothy and Ra’s stands a circle of assassins, all of them masked and wearing similarly neutral expressions. Talia walks into the room first. Ra’s does not acknowledge her until she stops beside her.

“Ah, wonderful of you to join us, my daughter,” says Ra’s. “You’ll be Timothy’s first opponent.

Damian watches, his sword drawn and ready to use, as his mother bows her head in seeming agreement. The next second, she explodes in movement and goes for the nearest assassin. Damian immediately follows her and joins the fight. The assassins are skilled, but half of them fold to their knees in surrender before Damian even reaches them and the other half is no match for Talia’s and Damian’s abilities.

Throughout it all, Ra’s does not move. Damian can feel his grandfather’s eyes on him but, as always, he is more content with observing than with fighting himself. He much prefers to kill his enemies slowly, while looking them in the eyes once they’ve thought they won. But Damian knows he will win today.

Finally, when the assassins are either kneeling in surrender and acceptance of Damian’s authority or dead on the floor, Damian turns to his grandfather. Timothy kneels between the two of them, tense as a wire and shaking.

“Grandfather,” Damian greets coolly. His mother comes to stand by his side, and Ra’s lips pull into a derisive snarl. “How nice of you to inform me you recovered my brother,” continues Damian. He does not miss the way Tim’s head perks up slightly at the word.

“Your brother, you say? My informants must have been mistaken, then, for I thought you did not care for this boy. None of them saw you at his funeral.”

“That does not change anything to the fact that Timothy is family and I will never allow the League to touch my family.”

Ra’s takes a threatening step toward Tim, his hand going for the dagger at his hip. “And yet I am the one who found him and healed him. If you do not want me to touch him, then I will have to restore him to his original state.”

Damian does not hesitate. He leaps before he can think, stepping aside Timothy and lunging at his grandfather. Ra’s is strong and skilled. He has been training for lifetimes, whereas Damian is only in his twenties. But it does not matter. Ra’s is too arrogant, and he too often underestimates his opponent. Damian is no exception to that rule.

They fight, dirty and bloody. Damian drops his sword and favors his dagger, and he draws as much blood from his grandfather as his grandfather draws from him. He lunges, leaps, dodges, blocks, and parries with all the strength and skill he has honed over the years. He musters all his cleverness and all his desperation, his desire to bring Timothy back home. When Ra’s disarms him, Damian effortlessly picks up his dropped sword and keeps going.

They dance around Timothy, Talia, and the assassins for a while, neither managing to overpower the other. Finally, Damian presses the tip of his sword to his grandfather’s throat. His arm quivers slightly from exhaustion, but he keeps his grip firm.

“Give me one reason not to kill you today,” he tells his grandfather. Before today with the assassins, Damian had not killed in years. For his brother, he would put aside all and any rule concluded with his father.

Ra’s smiles ruefully. “I have none to give,” he says, and he probably thinks Damian will spare him, or that he will be transported to the Pit in time. But Damian is tired of the threat his grandfather constantly poses to Damian’s loved ones. He is keenly aware of Timothy still kneeling behind him, hurt and trembling. Vivid cane marks flash before Damian’s eyes, and he draws back his sword to swing it.

Warm blood splashes against Damian’s face and he watches with dispassionate eyes as his grandfather crumples to the ground, choking on the blood oozing out of his slit throat. A high-pitched keen rises in the air from behind Damian.

Damian whirls around to face Timothy and drops his sword when his brother violently flinches back. He crouches down in front of his brother and looks at his brother’s face for the first time in more than a year. Timothy has not aged. He is skinnier, and his eyes bear the haunted shadows of trauma, but he still looks just as young as he did before he died.

“Damian?” he asks in a tiny voice, and Damian recognizes in that voice the boy who constantly doubted his place in the world.

“It’s me,” answers Damian. “You’re safe now. Ra’s won’t hurt you anymore, I promise you.”

Timothy’s eyes frantically searched his face. “And the Joker?”

“Dead,” replies Damian grimly. Father didn’t know before the act was done, and he barely disapproved when he learned of it.

Timothy’s face crumples at Damian’s answer, and he throws himself at his brother. Damian catches him in a firm grip. It is the first time he hugs Timothy.

“It’s okay,” he repeats. “It’s alright. You’re safe, now, and I’m bringing you home.”

@febuwhump

#my writing #creative writing #fanfic #fanfiction #febuwhump2023 #febuwhumpday28 #reverse robins #graphic depitions of violence #tim drake #damian wayne #hurt tim drake #tim drake whump #dc #batman #batfamily

18 notes · View notes

fraugwinska · 8 months ago

Note

I LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE YOUR WRITING!!!

May I pretty please request Alastor’s wifey as like a Cheshire Cat?

Perhaps in her living life she led people to their deaths, as it’s sometimes interpreted as a guide. Then later on teamed up with Al and led victims to him?

I just like the idea of an unsettling smiley couple. That and Mad Hatter by Melanie Martinez has been on loop in my brain LOL

Anonymous, you beautiful bastard. You waited so patiently, but I do think it's worth it... I couldn't stop writing this!!! I had so much fun, I cannot tell you. And I will revisit this pair soon, because I can't get over how AMAZING they are! <3 Edit 14-05-24: This will be a mini-series! :D Let's see how many parts we get out of this one!

TW: Graphic depitions of violence and murder, mention of war, gore Minors DNI - Mature content - Adults only!

"Mon amour, can we go out tonight?"

You pulled the last strand of hair from the curling iron, scanning your work for any messy imperfection. Alastor, engrossed in a book, looked up at you, matching your sinister smile with his curious one.

"Oh? Bored already, darling? We went to Mimzy's only yesterday."

"Not that, silly." You walked over to him, setting the hot curling iron on a cool section of his dresser. You sat down, straddling him. Your hands folded behind his back, leaning in.

"I was just thinking that our last game has been a while, hasn't it?"

His eyes widened a bit, smile curling a bit higher. He set the book down on the side table and wrapped his arms around you, long, sharp fingers pressing into your waist with excited anticipation. You tilted your head, looking up at him.

"Well, we have been awfully busy lately with the hotel. I suppose it's high time we should find something to reward us for all our hard work, my darling!"

You nodded, giggling, and rubbed your nose against your husband's. The two of you always got excited when your interests lined up and plans of your games became more elaborate. It was how you met, after all.

Not even two months after your fall, you were well established in the capitol of the pride ring. Quickly adapting to your feline form and with wit and a good heap of charisma you landed a job at the overlord Zestial's newspaper agency, working your way up quickly to editor. Hell wasn't a scary place for you, at all. The world you came from had been the real hell.

When the germans invaded France, you knew your little village in the Somme valley would be the first they would take, and then Paris would be next. Your brothers and father were already dead. You had heard of the horrors the german soldiers were bringing upon the women and children of the countries they captured, which made the will of protecting your sister and mother even stronger. But you had always been a fighter, and you possessed the most unusual but useful weapons a woman could possess: beauty, cleverness and ruthlessness.

They had been such easy victims - young soldiers, craving a good pussy after being away from home for so long - you seduced them with laughable ease and your signature smile and lured them into the woods, where you'd kill them, your smile never falling as your knife would hit the lifeless body again and again. Sometimes, you'd get so many killings in one night you had to burn the clothes you wore because the blood would've stained them through. They would all be thrown in the Somme, where they'd be swallowed by the waters, never to be seen again. You didn't even care what the punishment would be once the war was over. All you cared about was to avenge the lost and protect the remaining members of your family and if killing the enemy was the way, you'd do it gladly and with as much pleasure as you could. You had disposed of about 40 bodies in the river before they caught you, red handed, the knife still in your victims crotch. They had been too cowardly to shoot you then and there. Instead, they had dragged you back to the town, tied your hands behind your back and forced you to kneel in front of the town square, your mother and sister watching you along the horrified villagers, and you watched them, as they were made to witness them put a bullet straight through your heart.

"On se voit en enfer, putains de salauds."

And then, you woke up. In Hell, naked, confused, hungry, angry. But not scared. Never scared. You were still you. And your smile never faded.

A lot of people were too weirded out by the constant smile on your face, that's when you first heard of Alastor. The radio demon, rising star of hell's overlords. Everyone feared him, and his smile. You didn't, and that's what made him approach you when you saw him at a party you had been invited to by one of Zestial's acquaintances, Rosie.

He was drawn to your smile, just as much as you were drawn to his. When he spoke, your ears twitched in excitement, as if listening to the greatest song in the world. He was unbelievably interesting, charming up to a point where you couldn't help but feel drawn to him, and his voice - Oh, doux comme un ange et vif comme le diable. You didn't want to, didn't expect it at all, but your heart did a jump the moment his hand touched yours when he asked you to dance.

"Your smile never falters, darling. I can't help but wonder why?"

You giggled, a gloved hand covering your mouth as he turned you, crimson glowing eyes never leaving yours.

"I don't know, really. My papan used to tell me that it was the only thing I had going for me, and it's what made silly soliders so easy to kill."

You could feel the air around him tense and shift, his grin widening at your words as he turned you in again.

"Ah, a lady after my own heart. I can appreciate a woman who knows how to have fun."

You didn't say anything to his comment, just smiled, and he pulled you closer.

"Why don't we have a little fun of our own? I have the right mind for a little game, if you're up to it, darling?"

It took the both of you only a few more minutes to decide to leave the party. It was the night of your first game. Your first kill. And your first kiss. You loved to retell the story of how you two met to everyone who'd ask. You didn't mind, not even when they were uncomfortable. They weren't used to the idea of two people like you, the serial killers, finding love with each other that none of you sought out. It was a genuine love that was born in a way that could only happen in hell, and yet, you felt that it was the truest and best love you had ever felt. It was the first time in forever you could remember your cheeks actually hurt from smiling.

Alastor stood up, lifting you from his lap with an ease that was effortless to him, and twirled you around.

"Well, then, why don't we go paint the town red?"

You laughed, wrapping your arms around his neck as he lowered you, placing a kiss on your nose.

"Red looks beautiful on both of us."

Dressed in your favourite dress, you and Alastor made your way into the city. You always had to keep from giggling when you saw the face of the other residents as they realized you weren't going out for a casual stroll, but for a game night. Especially the pricesses girlfriend made you want to burst out in laughter, her face scrunched into a mask of disdain and disgust. The two of you were always a sight, though. Alastor, looking as handsome as ever, the red suit and black dress shirt underneath complimenting his dark complexion and making his red eyes glow even brighter. And yourself, always a sight for sore eyes, in a black lace dress that accentuated your figure perfectly. People always stared at you when the two of you were out, and that was only part of the fun.

Alastor's hand held yours, his long, sharp nails scratching your skin, the both of you excited for the prospects of the night.

"Why don't you set the challenge today, mon chou?", you asked, looking up at him with a curious gaze, "I'd love to see what you come up with."

Alastor chuckled, pulling you closer to his side.

"Mh... let me think."

His hand was placed on his chin, his eyes closing as he hummed a tune, deep in thought.

"How about this? I'll give you a five minute head-start. You win if you bring them to kill themselves, before I catch them. If I catch them before they're dead, it's my win. That sound fair?"

You grinned, the thought of the game already getting you excited. You weren't nearly as strong as Alastor was, but so much more agile than him and with a few tricks up your sleeve - you had a feeling that this would be your night.

"More than fair, amour. As for my reward: If you lose, I get to decide what music we are listening to until our next game."

"Well, well, greedy now, aren't we, my little minx?"

His grin widened as he chuckled, his arm tightening around your waist, pulling you closer, his lips brushing against yours.

"You know what my request is if you lose. It's a deal, then. And the stakes are high, I hope you know."

You smiled, your eyes closing as you brushed your lips against his, and purred.

"The higher the better."

***

Oh, how you loved the sound of panicked breathing. This cretin really had no stamina, only one minute in and he was panting, crawling in the alley you chased the scruffy doberman sinner after slashing his feet in the shattered glass and debris. You made yourself visible again in front of him, hidden in the shadows as just a grinning, magenta scheme.

"Aw, poor boy. What's the matter, baby?", you cooed, licking your claws as if nothing had happened. "You seem a little frightened. Don't you want to touch me anymore?"

The man didn't speak, just gasped, crawling backwards. You took a step forward, crouching down, your sharp, pearly teeth glistening in the neon light of the dim street lamp.

"No need to be scared, sweetheart, I'm a nice kitty. Come here, let me touch you."

You stretched out a claw, reaching for him as your limb elongated with bone-chilling cracks. He backed away, trying to get up. You giggled, the sound high pitched and eerie. You made yourself invisible again, shifting behind him and suppressing a giggle as he shuddered, looking frantically around him to search for your frame. Two minutes down.

"I thought you like pussy, baby?", you purred, making your voice come from his left ear. He screamed, and ran, his feet leaving blood stains on the concrete, limping, holding the wound on his leg. You laughed and let the lamps blow out one by one as he passed them, showering him with broken glass and hot metal wires. He didn't know it, but you were guiding him, right into a dead end. You heard the sounds of Alastor's microphone feedback somewhere further down the road, and grinned. You had three more minutes to play, and you knew you'd win.

You appeared before this pathetic excuse of a man, who had reached the dead end and was looking frantically around for a way out. Three minutes down, time to wrap it up.

"You're breaking my heart, sweetie. Don't you like to play with me anymore?"

"Fuck, I... p-please, don't... don't hurt m-me, I'm sorry... just let... let me go." The man was shaking, pressing his back against the wall. You licked your teeth, and took another step towards him, your hands on his shoulders, leaning in.

"Oh, I'm not gonna hurt you, baby. I'm just a drunken, helpless little kitty, remember?"

He whimpered, and you smiled, a sick, sinister smile that made him shiver even more. He slid down the wall that was blocking his way as you bent down, caressing his cheek. One minute to go.

"No, I'm not gonna kill you today. You'll do it yourself."

You reached inside your purse, taking out a small, golden pocket knife. His eyes widened as he watched you place the object next to his shaking form and you let yourself fade out of existence, except for your ever-lasting grin.

"See, if you're a good boy, you'll die fast and painless. If not..."

The man looked up at what remained of you, breathing heavily. His eyes were wide with fear, but his pupils dilated as he scanned the place, and a glimmer of hope rose inside him.

"Well, you'll find out what else in about fifteen seconds."

His trembling hand wrapped around the handle of the knife, his eyes still fixed on the spot where your figure had been. You leaned in again, whispering into his ear, the air of your breath hot on his skin.

“Tik, tok, little pup...”

With a desperate roar, the doberman whipped the knife forward, ready to stab where he supposed you were. And he would've been right. If not for...

"Too slow, darling."

The man's eyes widened, his breath stuck in his throat as his hand was stopped, the blade millimeters away from your flesh. The cold, bony grip of Alastor's claw around his wrist tightened, and the knife was slowly being pulled out of his shaking hand as you made yourself visible. He chuckled, the sound reverberating in his chest and the surrounding buildings, and stepped forward, looming over the trembling mess of a man.

"Well, well, well. Look at this sloppy attempt. What's the matter, boy? Cat got your tongue?"

Alastor's claw dug deeper into his flesh, a pool of blood forming under the hand Alastor still had in his iron grip. His other hand reached out, grabbing the man's throat and lifting him up the wall. You joined his side, watching the horrified expression on the sinners face with a tilted head as you nestled into him, a slight pout on your lips.

"Aww, you're no fun, amour. I was so close to winning, too. What a shame."

Alastor's arm snaked around your waist, pulling you closer as he chuckled, squeezing the sinners neck a bit tighter. The man was gasping for air, his face turning red and his eyes starting to roll back into his skull. "Rules are rules, darling. I believe we said five minutes. That means the game is mine."

You sighed, your head leaning against Alastor's shoulder.

"C'est dommage, I was longing to listen to a little Presley again."

"Maybe next time, my love."

He leaned over to steal a kiss from your lips and you closed your eyes, not seeing but hearing the scream and the sound of ripping skin and muscles, the gurgling splatter of blood and the buzzing of your husbands static.

Oh, comme j'aime cet homme...

Alastor dropped the shredded remains of the sinner and it slumped into the pile of meat that used to be his head. He licked his lips, his eyes glowing in the darkness, a grin plastered on his face as he took off his stained jacket and put it over your shoulders.

"I believe I have a debt to collect, darling, and I'd rather do it in the privacy of our bedroom than here, don't you agree?"

He reached his hand out, and you smiled, taking it.

"Alors dépêche-toi et ne sois pas gentil, mon cerf"

Translations: On se voit en enfer, putains de salauds - See you in hell, you fucking bastards Oh, doux comme un ange et vif comme le diable - Oh, sweet as an angel and quick as the devil Oh, comme j'aime cet homme - Oh, how I love this man Alors dépêche-toi et ne sois pas gentil, mon cerf - So hurry up and don't be gentle, my deer

#hazbin hotel #hazbin alastor #alastor #alastor x reader #hazbin hotel fanfiction #fraugwinskawrites #quickfic #alastor x cheshire cat #i adore this pair #who wants a part 2 - 3 - 4 - ...#ME #I WANT

179 notes · View notes

blushing-concubus · 2 months ago

Text

Master list, Rules, & Request Info

Requests: Open

Pending: 4/10

➽───────────────❥

General Rules:

I write Male & Gender Neutral Yuu/Reader for Twisted Wonderland and Fragaria Memories, both SFW and NSFW, with some limits.

Note: Nsfw is not the main focus of this blog. The main reason this blog is labeled nsfw is because I write about blood and the like pretty often, and it's relatively descriptive depending on what I'm doing.

All characters I write for, regardless of if the request is SFW or NSFW, are aged up and depicted as adults. In the case of TWST NRC is depicted as a College/University, I have majors and minors I think they'd have, as well as “redesigns” in the works. My blog is for adults, I can’t control if younger people view or interact with my content. So I’m going to trust people respect these boundaries.

Otho is aged up to be an adult in this AU as well. I know a lot of people won’t like that decision so I will have an option for you to chose if I write Ortho as he is in canon for your request. If you chose that option he can only receive platonic requests, if not he is allowed the same requests as the others. His redesign can be found [here] ← Not finished

Myunna Can only receive platonic requests as I did not and will not age him up.

I will write yandere, but the way I go about it is pretty different to how a lot of other people. I only write "Soft Yandere." What that means is I will write a yandere as normal with the exception that they will not hurt the object(s) of their affection in any way. Most of the time I write them as fools falling over themselves for their love interest, depending on the character.

The only rules I have about requesting are:

Keep it to one fandom at a time. If you send in a request and want me to write for both fragmem and twst at the same time, I'll either ignore part of the request or delete it entirely.

I don't have a strict character limit, but the more characters you ask me to write at once, the harder it is on me as a writer. This isn't meant to be discouraging at all, just a reminder that I am a squishy rat of a man.

I also prefer writing fics as opposed to headcanons, i will still write headcanons, but most of the time, if left, unspecified what I write will be an actual fic.

➽───────────────❥

NSFW Rules:

Like I said above, NSFW is not the main focus of this blog. The main reason this is a lable is because I write decently graphic depitions of: blood, injury, violence, cannibalism, amongst other things.

I do also write typical NSFW, but the vast majority will be relegated to suggestive or mild content. Occasionally, there will be actual written smut, but those will probably be few and far between, even if they are requested, as writing those scenes can be difficult for me.

In these scenarios, only write dominant Yuu/Reader. I am incredibly flexible otherwise, there isn't a large list of things I won't write.

Kinks won't write: scat, water sports, flatulence.

Everything else I am open to writing, there might be things I didn't think of that will be added later.

All sexual content will be posted to my side blog, fiendish-concubus. The requests will be taken on this blog as side blogs don't have their own ask boxes.

➽───────────────❥

Other:

I don't use Reader in my writings themselves as I prefer giving the reader a placeholder name that's easy to replace. For TWST, that's Yuu. For Fragmem, that's Na, short for Name.

I will and have written things such as blood play and cannibalism in sexual and nonsexual lights. I am aware this kind of thing can be off putting for a lot of people which is why I tag and TW my nsfw writing extensively.

I love writing monster reader and monsters as a whole. Some of my favorites are: Changelings, Eldritch Entities, Slimes, ect.

I do write poly stuff, I have written a few poly requests in the past some of my favorites being: Idia/Floyd/Yuu, and Aduece/Yuu. I will also write characters as transmasc if requested.

I have a multitude of OC/NPCs that will appear on this blog as well. Feel free to request them if you would like as eight of them actually originated from a request, and it makes me happy to see people take an interest in them

➽───────────────❥

Twisted Wonderland Directory

Fragaria Memories Directory

➽───────────────❥

Twisted Wonderland AUs

Fragaria Memories AUs

➽───────────────❥

Art

14 notes · View notes