#haunted places near me

[tragedry]

the sbg kids, but instead of them getting trapped into the phantom dimension they get trapped into a corn maze.

[mousegirlheart]

16oz. Brick of Mild Cheddar my beloved

that big old homf from the corner... truly how cheese is meant to be consumed

[mrmeepsmadmind]

i think red alert would find kinship with cocaine bear

i like how the lost light's security was just a paranoid guy & a depressed guy, it rlly speaks volumes about the sanity on that ship

i think they should've been unlikely besties. chill guy who wishes people would look at him and anything but chill guy who wishes people would explode rather than even give him a glance

[bibleofficial]

I also had a Chevy Cobalt that would randomly turn off while driving. One time it turned off while going uphill on a highway and then started rolling backwards downhill 😭👎 managed to get it to go towards the shoulder, where it stayed still at the bottom of the U between two hills. Then I turned it on again after a few minutes of trying and kept driving. Literal death trap but I couldn't afford to replace it. Somehow passed the California Smog Test both times it got tested. Anyways the point is, I don't know what the hell is wrong with early 2000s Chevy Cobalts but clearly something is up

OK DEADASS I THOUGHT MINE WAS JUST BEING HAUNTED BY MY GREAT UNCLE BUT MAYBE THESE CARS WERE JUST STRAIGHT UP MURDER VEHICLES ?????? like i got it in 2016 & it Survived to November ‘23 on Spite & Hatred Alone

[skitskatdacat63]

Everywhere I go, I see their faces...

[tinogiehd]

isn't the meetup fic titled after "I Know The End"

yeah :] creation myth

[laesas]

Are we mentally stable or are we thinking about Tankhun thinking about Kim while listening to All I Need To Hear...

[realbacchus]

I hate so much that Washington State was going to be called Columbia then couldn't because of District of Columbia then chose Washington but DC is fucking called Washington most of the time!!! ??? !

[numbuh424]

How each of them would be like as Taskmaster contestants:

L is pretty chill. He thinks the tasks are ridiculous so he doesn't try too hard. Surprisingly good at physical tasks, and most of his stand-out moments are from that. Really good at food tasks but hates the ones with gross stuff so he tends to throw those ones deliberately. Had potential to score higher but didn't want to give the the tasks any more thought-power than necessary. He's clever, but cleverness unfortunately doesn't get you very far in this show. Fourth place.

Light is the smooth talker of the group. Even when he fumbles, he is really good at arguing for points in the studio. Keeps a cool head even when his attempts fall apart. Unfortunately, due to how obvious it is that he wants to win, the Taskmaster enjoys messing with him and docking him points just to watch his good-boy facade crack. By the end of the series, Light's gone full-blown joker. Second place.

Mello is the out-of-the-box thinker of the group. Doesn't trust anything and is constantly going, "What am I missing? What's the trick of this task?" Checks under the tables constantly. Tends to find the hidden items more than anyone else because of his insistence that there's a trick to everything. Sometimes he's right, but this tendency to check costs him a lot of his time. He's very clever and dedicated to unraveling the trick of the tasks, but like many of the very clever TM contestants, using your brain too much often worsens your chances at winning. In his attempts to outwit the tasks, he overthinks them and can't smooth talk his way into more points as effectively as Light does. Third place.

Near is the quintessential "insanely good at the tasks but is a bit boring to watch" contestant. It's because he takes pretty straightforward approaches and tends to be very literal with the instructions. His out-of-the-box thinking moments are few and far between, but they stand out considering the rest of his performance. He's really fun during the prize tasks though, always bringing in something obscure or something he made himself (which tends to get bonus points for effort). Ultimately becomes the series champion.

Misa is here to have fun. Just happy to be participating. Doesn't really care about points and the audience loves her for it. Gets confused by some of the tasks sometimes and ultimately is the most likely to do them incorrectly or forget a rule that gets her disqualified. But that just makes her so much more enjoyable compared to the others who are being so serious. Fifth place, but she's the people's champion for sure.

Create a Death Note x Taskmaster crossover.

Your time starts now.

[is-the-post-reliable]

(reposting as I am unable to reblog the original.)

requested by @kodicraft

🔶 Rating: Partially Reliable 🔶

The Devils Hole is home to the endangered Devils Hole Pupfish.

From the National Park Service's page on Devils Hole: 'Devils Hole--a detached unit of Death Valley National Park--is habitat for the only naturally occurring population of the endangered Devils Hole Pupfish (Cyprinodon diabolis).'

The existence of the pupfish does prevent the pumping of groundwater in the area, after a legal battle. I am not sure this would apply to all mining.

From a High Country News article on the pupfish: 'The Cappaert case went all the way to the U.S. Supreme Court, testing the power of the Antiquities Act and the weight of the new Endangered Species Act. In 1976, the High Court affirmed the federal government’s right to maintain water levels sufficient to support the pupfish, even at the expense of water rights held by nearby ranchers.'

The habitat of this fish is incredibly small. However, it is slightly larger than suggested, as the fish swim at least 20m deep; the rock shelf referenced is the only place where the fish feed and spawn in the wild.

From the same National Park Service page: 'Although pupfish have been found as deep as 66 feet (20 m), the fish forage and spawn exclusively on a shallow rock shelf near the surface, feeding on the algae and diatoms found there.'

It is true that multiple conservation attempts have failed. Previous attempts to breed or crossbreed the fish have not been successful.

From a National Park Foundation article on the pupfish: 'Despite past efforts to create a similar artificial platform for the pupfish, as well as attempts to breed Devils Hole pupfish and hybrids in captivity, this small ledge remains the sole spawning and feeding shelf for the fish.'

I have not been able to find any references to 'assassination attempts'. One individual did threaten to pour pesticide into Devil's Hole, but it seems this was never attemped. If anyone can find anything on this, please let me know, but in the mean time I have to say this claim is unsubstantiated.

From a High Country News article on an incident of tresspassing and the pupfish: 'A Pahrump newspaper editor even threatened to throw the pesticide Rotenone into the sunken cave to “make the pupfish a moot point.”'

The fencing was initially installed after two people drowned, not after an assassination attempt. Later, more fencing and security was installed after three men drunkenly tresspassed and killed a pupfish.

From the same National Park Service page: 'Subsequently, the Hole was fenced after two divers drowned in its water.'

From a High Country News article on the incident of tresspassing : 'Since the incident, Devils Hole has become an even more formidable fortress. The Park Service capped its towering fences with additional barbed wire. The public can only view the sunken cave from a distance now, more than 20 feet above it. And inside the fenced viewing area are even more cameras, motion sensors and “No Trespassing” signs.'

There is a breeding program at Ash Meadows Facility, where scientists have attempted to mimic the natural habitat of the pupfish.

From a National Geographic article on the breeding attempts: 'And when they built the Ash Meadows facility, the scientists tried to create a mirror image of Devil’s Hole, which meant bringing in water, substrate, and algae from the natural environment.'

It is possible that a different research/breeding facility is being referred to, but the Ash Meadows Facility does not seem to have a secret location. In fact, the facility is open to visitors, according to their website.

I wont attempt to fact check whether the cave is haunted, but I can confirm that at least two people drowned and were not recovered from Devils Hole. Whilst the cave is not truly bottomless, the bottom has not yet been found.

From an SFGATE article on Devils Hole: 'When the bottom of Devils Hole is one day found, the skeletons of two brothers-in-law may finally be recovered, fathoms below the frolicking pupfish.'

The breeding program has been more successful in recent years. This may be due to the discovery that diving beetles were eating the eggs and larvae, and the beetle population in the artificial environment being controlled. (This fact was not included in the original post, but I thought it was cool.)

From a National Geographic article on the breeding attempts: 'As Feuerbacher watched the infrared footage, which can visualize objects in the dark, a tiny pupfish larva smaller than a peppercorn flitted into the camera’s frame. This was big news. When a population gets as low as that of the pupfish, every animal—wild or captive, larva or adult—is critical to the species’ survival.

“I was pretty excited to see there was reproduction going on in the tank, and I just watched it for a little bit,” says Feuerbacher, a fish biologist with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. “Then I saw a beetle swim past.”

It began circling the fish, and closing in.

“Then it just dove in and basically tore the fish in half right while I was watching,” says Feuerbacher.

[...]

During the first beetle collection, facility manager Jennifer Gumm says they caught 500 beetles in three hours. And on the very next pupfish egg collection, which is done by leaving out pieces of carpet that the fish like to lay their eggs on, the team retrieved close to 40 pupfish eggs.

Before this, they had been lucky to find four or five pupfish eggs during a refuge collection. Usually, it was zero.'

[lostfracturess]

THREE LITTLE WORDS — SATORU GOJO

pairing — satoru gojo x gn!reader

summary — for twenty-four years, satoru gojo has carried three little words on the tip of his tongue, never daring to speak them aloud. growing up as the strongest sorcerer comes with its burdens, and loving someone means putting them at risk. but when you're about to marry someone else, satoru finally realizes that sometimes the biggest risk is never taking one at all.

word count — 7.4 k

genre/tags — childhood friends to lovers, mutual pining, slow burn, hurt/comfort, fluff, protective gojo, idiots in love

warnings — no explicit content (only kissing), mild violence mentions, references to injuries, angst, alcohol use, mentions of arranged marriages, family pressure, reference to assassination attempts

author's note — hey lovelies, with everything that's going on rn, i wanted to write something cute to maybe make someone smile today. there's a little bit of angst in this (sorry, yk me), but mostly it's (bitter)sweet moments. and i tried to keep it somewhat canon-compliant, but maybe not really. and i've written this with gender-neutral pronouns to ensure everyone can see themselves in this story. if you notice any places where i might have slipped up, please let me know.

masterlist

Three little words.

Just eight letters that had lived on the tip of Satoru Gojo's tongue for what felt like forever, desperately wanting to spill from his lips every time he saw you. 

Three words that had haunted him through the years, through scraped knees and graduation gowns, through first dates and near-death experiences.

I love you.

Simple words that carried the weight of universes, that could change everything — or destroy it all. And so, he'd held them back, let them sit heavy in his chest, like a weight that pressed against his lungs with every breath.

Because loving a Gojo wasn't easy. It never had been.

Love had always been a foreign concept to him. Growing up in the Gojo clan meant learning about power before learning about affection, mastering close combat before understanding emotions. 

Love was abstract, complex, something other people seemed to grasp naturally while he watched from behind barriers of privilege and power.

But with you? With you, it had been as clear as breathing.

It hadn't been the dramatic, earth-shattering revelation movies always promised. Instead, it was quiet, constant, like realizing the sun had always been there, warming his skin. It was in the way you shared your lunch without being asked, how you never flinched when his powers flared, how you rolled your eyes at his dramatics but smiled anyway.

Love had been the easiest thing in the world when it came to you. Understanding it, feeling it, living it — that part was simple.

It was everything else that was complicated.

Because Satoru knew what happened to people the Gojos loved. He'd seen it, lived it, carried the weight of those consequences since before he could walk. Love, in his world, wasn't just about feelings — it was about target signs and weaknesses, about giving your enemies a roadmap straight to your heart.

And your heart? That was something he couldn't bear to put at risk.

So he had learned to swallow those words, to tuck them away behind smirks and jokes and casual touches that never lasted quite long enough. He had become an expert at loving you silently, at pouring all those unspoken feelings into small acts of protection, of care, of presence.

Some days, the words would claw at his throat like living things, desperate to escape. On those days, he'd find himself watching you — the way you moved, the sound of your laugh, the simple fact of your existence in his complicated world — and the urge to confess would be almost unbearable.

But then he'd remember all the attempts on his life, all the enemies who would love nothing more than to hurt him through you, all the danger that came with the name Gojo, and the words would retreat back into his chest where they lived like a constant ache.

Loving you had been the easiest thing Satoru had ever done. Keeping that love silent had been the hardest.

✦ . 　⁺ Age 6 ⁺ 　 . ✦

The first time Satoru realized he wanted to say those words to you, he had been six years old and you were crying because some older kids stole your favorite crayon. You had both been sitting in the reading corner of your kindergarten classroom, and your tears were making his chest hurt in a way he didn't understand.

"Don't cry," he had said, reaching out to pat your head like his mom did when he was sad. "I'll get it back for you."

You had sniffled, looking up at him with those wide, watery eyes that made his little heart skip. "But they're bigger than you."

He had puffed up his chest. "So? I'm stronger."

Before you could stop him, he had marched right up to the group of second graders during recess. They towered over him, but Satoru hadn't cared. He was a Gojo, after all, and Gojos didn't back down.

Ten minutes later, he had been sitting in the principal's office with a bloody nose and a black eye, but clutched triumphantly in his hand was your favorite crayon. The principal had called his parents, of course. There was talk of his "concerning behavior" and "excessive force," but all Satoru could think about was how your whole face had lit up when he handed you back that crayon.

That night, as his mother tucked him into bed, she had asked him why he did it. And he simply said because you were sad.

His mother had given him a look that he wouldn't understand until years later. "The Gojo men have always been weak to those they love," she had told him, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

He had wanted to tell you then, as you colored together the next day, carefully sharing that rescued crayon. The words had bubbled up in his chest like soda fizz, but he had swallowed them down. Because even at six, he knew that being around him meant trouble, and he didn't want to see you cry again.

✦ . 　⁺ Age 12 ⁺ 　 . ✦

Middle school had brought new challenges and new reasons to keep those words locked away. 

Satoru had started to understand what it meant to be a Gojo — the weight of the name, the expectations, the suffocating responsibilities that seemed to grow heavier with each passing day.

You were still there, though, somehow always by his side despite the chaos that surrounded him. When other kids whispered about his family, about the strange things that happened around him, you just rolled your eyes and shared your lunch with him like nothing was wrong.

He had nearly said it one autumn afternoon when you were both sprawled on your bedroom floor, supposedly doing homework but really just talking about nothing and everything. The late sunlight had caught your features just right, and you were laughing at something stupid he had said, and the words had almost slipped out.

But then his phone had rung. It had been his father, summoning him to an urgent clan meeting.

Another reminder of the life that awaited him — endless meetings about maintaining the Gojo name, about upholding traditions centuries old, about sacrificing personal happiness for the sake of the clan's future.

As he had sat in that austere meeting room, surrounded by stern-faced elders discussing bloodlines and duties and arranged marriages, all he could think about was your laugh from earlier that afternoon. How free it had sounded, how untainted by the weight of expectations and tradition.

How could he tell you he loved you when being with him meant dragging you into this world of rigid traditions and suffocating responsibilities? When loving him meant you might have to give up everything you held dear?

So he had swallowed the words once again, buried them deep, even as they burned in his chest like embers that refused to die. Because he would rather suffer in silence than watch the weight of the Gojo name dim the spark in your eyes.

✦ . 　⁺ Age 16 ⁺ 　 . ✦

High school was when Satoru had started deliberately pushing people away. He had built walls of arrogance and casual flirtation, keeping everyone at arm's length while making it look effortless. He dated casually, never seriously, and cultivated a reputation as someone who didn't do relationships.

Everyone had bought it except you.

You saw right through him, just like you always had. You called him out on his bullshit, threw erasers at his head when he was being particularly obnoxious, and somehow still showed up at his house with his favourite sweets when he was sick.

"Your ego's getting too big for this classroom," you'd tell him whenever he started showing off. He'd just grin and make it worse, because your exasperated sighs had become his favorite sound.

During lunch breaks, while others gathered around his desk trying to get his attention, you'd just roll your eyes and steal food from his plate. He'd pretend to be annoyed, but he had started packing extra of your favorites, just to watch you light up when you found them.

High school had also been the time when the clan's pressure had threatened to crush him. Every day brought new expectations, new techniques to master, new reminders that he wasn't just Satoru but the future of the Gojo clan.

He never told you, but your presence had kept him sane. You had been the only one allowed to see him practice with his cursed technique, sitting on the sidelines of the training grounds doing homework while he worked himself to exhaustion.

On the days when the pressure of being the strongest got too heavy, you'd wordlessly share your earbuds with him, letting him rest his head on your shoulder while some silly pop song played between you. And you'd hold his hand, and he'd squeeze back so tight it almost hurt.

In those moments, the words had been right there, sitting on his tongue. But he couldn't. Not when your friendship was the one pure thing in his complicated life.

But the words had nearly escaped one night when you were both sneaking back into town after a concert two cities over. You had been wearing his jacket because you forgot yours, and you were singing off-key to some pop song on the radio, and his heart had felt so full it might burst.

But then he had spotted a car that had been following them for the last twenty minutes, and instead of confessing, he had to lose the tail while pretending everything was fine. You never noticed, too caught up in your impromptu karaoke session, and he had been grateful for that at least.

He had driven you home in silence after that, the words buried so deep he could barely breathe around them. You had fallen asleep against the window, blissfully unaware of how close he'd come to changing everything between you.

✦ . 　⁺ Age 18 ⁺ 　 . ✦

College had brought a new kind of torture. Because then he had to watch you date other people, normal people who didn't have assassination attempts over breakfast or cursed energy that could level cities.

He still kept you close, though. He couldn't help it. You were his gravity, his true north, the one constant in his chaotic life. You were still the person who brought him coffee during all-nighters, who listened to his ridiculous theories at 3 AM, who somehow knew exactly when he needed a hug even though he'd never admit it.

The campus had whispered about it — about how the untouchable Satoru Gojo let you into his space so easily, how you were the only one who could barge into his dorm at any hour without fear of consequence. 

They wondered what made you special, what kind of hold you had over him. If they only knew how many times he had bitten back those three words when you'd fallen asleep on his shoulder during late-night study sessions, or how his heart had nearly burst when you'd chosen to spend the evening with him instead of going to that party your crush had invited you to.

The words had almost broken free during your sophomore year, when you had shown up at his door at midnight, crying because someone broke your heart. He had held you while you sobbed, stroked your hair, and plotted seventeen different ways to destroy the person who hurt you (he had only acted on three of them, and nobody could prove anything).

He remembered how you had curled into his side that night, hiccupping through tears about how you "just wanted someone who understood you."

The irony had burned in his throat — he understood you better than anyone, had mapped every constellation of your moods and meanings, had memorized every shade of your smile.

But understanding wasn't enough when being with him meant inheriting all his complications.

You had fallen asleep in his bed that night, wrapped in his favorite hoodie, and he had spent hours just watching you breathe, his heart aching with how much he wanted to keep you there forever.

When morning came, you had smiled at him over coffee and thanked him for being "the best friend anyone could ask for," and each word had felt like a knife between his ribs.

He had wanted to tell you then, had wanted to show you how you should be loved — wholly, fiercely, eternally. But he knew he couldn't offer you the normal life you deserved, so he had swallowed the words again and just held you tighter.

Instead, he had channeled all those unspoken feelings into being the kind of friend you needed. He walked you home from late parties, threatened anyone who looked at you wrong and pretended it didn't kill him every time you gushed about a new crush. 

What you had never told him was that each crush faded as quickly as it came, because somehow they all fell short of the impossible standard he had unknowingly set.

He became an expert at loving you from arm's length, at being everything you needed while hiding how much he needed you.

The worst part was how naturally it all came to him — how easy it was to be the one you turned to, to be your safe harbor in every storm. Because loving you had always been as natural as breathing, even when it hurt.

Especially when it hurt.

College became an impossible balance of keeping you close enough to stay in your life but far enough away to keep his heart from completely shattering.

He dated casually, built up his reputation as someone who didn't do commitment, all while knowing that the only person he'd ever wanted to commit to was right there, wearing his hoodies and stealing his fries and completely oblivious to how much power you held over him.

✦ . 　⁺ Age 22 ⁺ 　 . ✦

After graduation, you had both somehow ended up in the same city. Different jobs, different lives, but still orbiting each other like you always had.

You dated other people, and so did he (sort of), but you still met for coffee every Wednesday and dinner every Sunday, still texted each other random thoughts at inappropriate hours.

Those Wednesday coffee meetings had become sacred. He'd show up at your workplace, two cups in hand — one with less sugar but lots of milk, the way you liked it, and his own ridiculously sweet like his smile, as you always teased. 

He had memorized your schedule, knew which days you worked late, which mornings you had important meetings. On the nights when your job kept you at the office past midnight, he'd lurk nearby, pretending he just happened to be in the area when you finally emerged exhausted. 

You'd roll your eyes but accept his offer to walk you home, and he'd fight the urge to take your hand every step of the way.

Sunday dinners were even worse for his heart. Sometimes you'd cook (badly), sometimes he'd order in (expensively), but it always felt so domestic it hurt.

The way you'd steal bites from his plate, like you always used to do, how you'd curl up on his couch afterward like you belonged there, the casual way you'd rest your feet in his lap while watching movies — it was everything he wanted and nothing he could keep.

The words had nearly escaped during one of those Sunday dinners, when you were both a little drunk on wine and nostalgia, laughing about all the trouble you had gotten into growing up. You had looked at him with such fondness, such understanding, and he had almost broken.

"Remember when you punched that guy at the bar who wouldn't leave me alone?" you had asked, cheeks flushed from wine and laughter.

"Which time?" he had replied, only half-joking. There had been several instances, each one burning in his memory because how dare anyone make you uncomfortable.

"All of them," you had laughed, reaching over to poke his cheek. "My hero."

The word had squeezed his heart like a fist. Hero. If only you knew how selfish his protection had always been, how each act of defending you had been as much about his own possessive need to keep you safe as it was about your wellbeing.

You had shifted closer on the couch then, laying your head on his shoulder in that casual way that always made his breath catch and his fingers had itched to run through your hair, to tilt your face up to his, to finally close the distance he'd been maintaining for so many years. 

The words had risen in his throat like a tide. But then his phone had buzzed with an alert about another threat, another mission, another reason why loving him was dangerous, and he had bitten his tongue until he tasted blood.

✦ . 　⁺ Age 25 ⁺ 　 . ✦

It had gotten harder as the years passed. Harder to watch you live your life, harder to keep pretending he didn't want to be more than your best friend, harder to keep those three words locked away.

He had started taking more dangerous missions, throwing himself into his work with reckless abandon. Because if he was busy fighting curses and saving the world, he couldn't think about how much he wanted to kiss you, to hold you, to finally let those words free.

At least, that's what he had told himself as he accepted increasingly risky assignments, each one a little more dangerous than the last.

The other sorcerers had started calling him reckless. But how could he explain that facing down cursed spirits was easier than facing the way you looked at him with such concern? That physical pain was a welcome distraction from the constant ache in his chest?

But you were still there, still calling him out when he was being stupid, still patching him up when he came back injured, still looking at him like he was someone beyond his name and his power.

He always saved one small injury for you to tend to — a scrape here, a bruise there — even though his reversed cursed technique had already healed the worst of his wounds. It had become your ritual, you'd patch him up at your apartment, your coffee table covered in supplies that he didn't really need, both of you pretending this wasn't an elaborate excuse to be close to each other.

"You're going to get yourself killed one of these days," you had muttered one particularly bad night, hands trembling slightly as you cleaned a gash on his forehead that would have healed on its own in seconds. But he had let you fuss over it anyway, selfishly savoring every gentle touch.

The words had almost broken free one night when you were stitching up a particularly nasty wound on his side. Your hands had been gentle but your lecture was harsh, telling him off for being so careless with his life.

He could have healed it himself — you both knew that — but he had wanted your hands on him, even if they came with a scolding.

"You're not immortal, you idiot," you had said, and there were tears in your eyes that made his heart clench. "I know you think you're invincible, but you're not. What am I supposed to do if something happens to you?"

The raw emotion in your voice had nearly undone him. He had wanted to tell you then that he only acted so reckless because loving you from afar was slowly killing him anyway. That every mission, every fight, was just another way to exhaust himself enough that he wouldn't do something stupid like confess his feelings and ruin everything between you.

Instead, he had just made a joke about being too pretty to die, and pretended not to notice when you wiped your eyes. But he had caught your hand as you turned away, held it perhaps a moment too long, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in what he hoped felt like reassurance.

Your apartment had become his retreat those days. He would show up at odd hours, sometimes bleeding, sometimes just exhausted, and you would let him in without question. You never asked why he came to you instead of using his technique to heal himself. Maybe you had known, just like he had, that these moments weren't really about the injuries at all.

There had been nights when he'd fall asleep on your couch, lulled by the sound of you moving around your apartment, by the domestic comfort of knowing you were near. He'd wake up to find himself covered with a blanket, a glass of water on the coffee table, and his heart would ache with how much he wanted this to be his everyday reality.

Sometimes, in his weaker moments, he'd catch himself watching you as you worked on your laptop, curled up in the armchair across from him. The soft glow of the screen would wash over your features, and he'd think about how easy it would be to cross that small distance, to finally tell you everything he'd been holding back.

But then he'd remember the last mission, the close calls, the enemies who were getting stronger and bolder, and he'd force himself to look away. Because loving him had always come with a price, and he wasn't willing to make you pay it.

So he had buried those feelings deeper, thrown himself into more missions, and pretended that the ache in his chest was from the fights and not from loving you so much it physically hurt.

✦ . 　⁺ Age 28 ⁺ 　 . ✦

The breaking point had come, as these things often did, on an ordinary day.

You had both been in your apartment, having one of your regular movie nights. You were wearing old sweatpants and one of his hoodies that you had stolen years ago, there were takeout containers scattered across your coffee table, and you were arguing about whether the movie's plot made any sense.

It had been so normal, so comfortable, so perfectly you and him that something in his chest finally cracked.

Because he had realized, watching you gesture wildly about the movie's plot holes, that he had been an idiot. He had spent over two decades trying to protect you by keeping his distance, but you had been in danger this whole time anyway. Because everyone who knew him knew that you were his weakness, his soft spot, the one person who could bring the great Satoru Gojo to his knees.

And you had stayed anyway. Through every fight, every danger, every close call, you had chosen to stay in his life. You had patched his wounds, celebrated his victories, mourned his losses, and never once asked for anything in return except his friendship.

That night, he had decided tomorrow would be the day. No more waiting, no more excuses. He would finally tell you everything.

He had barely slept, spending hours picking out the perfect flowers, hoping they would help say everything his heart had been trying to tell you for years. He had practiced the words in his mirror, ran through a dozen different speeches, each one feeling more inadequate than the last.

But when he had arrived at your apartment building that morning, flowers clutched in sweaty palms and heart thundering in his chest, he had seen them through your living room window. You weren't alone. Someone else was there, someone who had made you throw your head back in laughter, who had pulled you close with an ease that made his chest constrict.

He had watched, frozen on the sidewalk, as you reached up to brush something from their cheek, the gesture so tender it had felt like a physical blow. The flowers in his hands had suddenly felt like they were made of lead.

Satoru had stood there for what felt like hours but was probably only minutes, watching you be happy with someone else, watching you shine so brightly for another person. Then, with movements that felt mechanical, he had dropped the flowers in a nearby trash can and walked away.

Three words, still unspoken, had burned in his throat with every step.

For weeks after that, he had thrown himself into missions like a madman, taking on the most dangerous assignments he could find. Anything to avoid thinking about how he had waited too long, how he had lost his chance.

But then you had called him one night, voice slightly slurred from wine, asking him to come over. And like always, he couldn't refuse you.

That's how he had found himself back in your apartment, watching you pace back and forth, ranting about how empty it all felt. How you had tried to move on, tried to find what everyone said you should want — a normal relationship, a simple life, someone safe.

"But it's not right," you had said, running your hands through your hair in frustration. "Nothing feels right. They're nice, they're perfect on paper, but—"

"But what?" he had asked, his heart in his throat.

"But they're not you," you had whispered, the words hanging in the air between you like suspended stars.

A movie had still been playing in the background, forgotten as you both stood there, years of unspoken feelings spilled on the floor. The weight of your confession had made it hard to breathe, and for a moment, just a moment, he had let himself imagine what it would be like to close the distance between you, to finally say the words that had lived in his heart for so long.

But then his phone had buzzed in his pocket — another threat, another reminder — and reality came crashing back.

"You can't," he had said, his voice rougher than he'd intended. "You can't say things like that."

"Why not?" You had taken a step toward him, and he had forced himself to take one back, watching hurt flash across your face. "Satoru, I've waited—"

"Then stop waiting," he had cut you off, hating himself for the way his words made you flinch. "This isn't—we can't—" A pause. "Do you know how many attempts there have been on my life this month alone? How many enemies would love to know that the great Satoru Gojo has someone he—" He had caught himself before the word 'loves' could escape. "Someone he cares about?"

"I'm not afraid—"

"Well, I am!" The words had burst from him with more force than he'd intended, making you both freeze. "I am terrified, okay? Because everyone I've ever—everyone who gets close to me ends up with a target on their back. And you—" His voice had softened despite himself. "You deserve better than that. Better than looking over your shoulder for the rest of your life, better than wondering if each goodbye might be the last."

"That's not your choice to make," you had said quietly, and the resignation in your voice had been worse than anger would have been.

"Yes, it is. Because I'm the one who would have to live with it if something happened to you because of me." He had straightened his shoulders, pulled on the mask he wore for everyone else — cold, untouchable, removed. "Go back to them. Find someone normal. Someone safe. Someone who can give you the life you deserve."

"And what about what I want?"

"Sometimes what we want isn't what's best for us." The words had left a bitter taste in his mouth.

You had looked at him for a long moment, tears gathering in your eyes, and he had dug his nails into his palms to keep from reaching for you. Finally, you had nodded once, sharp and hurt.

"Get out."

He had turned to leave, each step feeling like he was walking through concrete. At the door, he had paused, his hand on the handle.

"I'm sorry," he had whispered, not turning around. Because if he had looked at you then, his resolve would have crumbled entirely.

The soft click of the door closing behind him had sounded like the end of everything.

✦ . 　⁺ Age 30 ⁺ 　 . ✦

Two years of carefully maintained distance had felt like an eternity. The clan's pressure had mounted with each passing month — meetings about bloodlines, about duty, about carrying on the Gojo name. His parents had finally put their foot down, presenting him with a list of "suitable" candidates from other prestigious families.

Satoru had turned it into something of an art form, really — how to be just obnoxious enough, just impossible enough, that each carefully selected partner would run screaming for the hills without him technically refusing anyone.

"This is getting ridiculous," his mother had sighed after the seventh failed meeting. "Are you going to chase away every eligible human on this earth?"

Yes, he had wanted to say. Because none of them were you.

You still texted occasionally — surface-level messages about holidays or birthdays, the kind of distant politeness that felt wrong after decades of intimacy. He had saved every message anyway, re-reading them late at night when missions left him too restless to sleep.

Your contact photo was still the same one from college, you resting your head on his shoulder, laughing at something he’d said. He couldn’t bring himself to change it.

Sometimes he'd catch glimpses of you around the city. You'd cut your hair, changed jobs, moved to a new apartment. He knew all this from the careful distance he maintained, from the reports he definitely didn't ask Ijichi to give him.

You seemed... fine. Happy, even. It was what he'd wanted, he told himself. You, safe and happy, even if it was without him.

The invitation had arrived on a Tuesday.

The envelope had been cream-colored, expensive. His name written in elegant calligraphy that had made his stomach drop before he'd even opened it. Inside, the words had blurred together, except for the ones that mattered.

You were getting married.

To someone safe. Someone normal. Someone who could give you everything he couldn't.

The invitation had sat on his coffee table for days, taunting him. He'd catch himself staring at it during his morning coffee, during late-night mission reports, during every quiet moment when his mind wasn't occupied with staying alive.

Your handwritten note had been worse than the formal invitation.

'I'd really like you to be there. Please come.'

His phone had been in his hand before he'd realized it, your number still muscle memory after all this time. The cursor had blinked at him mockingly as he'd tried to formulate a response.

'Congratulations,' he had finally typed, each letter feeling like a small death. 'I'll be there.'

Because of course he would be. He'd sit there and watch you marry someone else, would paste on a smile and give a toast if asked, would pretend his heart wasn't being ripped from his chest with every word of the ceremony.

It was what he deserved, really. He had pushed you away, had made the choice for both of you, had convinced himself it was for the best. This was the consequence of his protection, the price of keeping you safe.

He had gotten drunk that night, alone in his apartment, surrounded by the ghosts of all the words he'd never said. The three most important ones still burned in his throat, unspoken after all these years.

His phone had buzzed with your reply. 'Thank you. It means a lot.'

Four words that had somehow hurt worse than the invitation itself.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The day of your wedding had dawned grey and miserable, as if the weather itself was matching Satoru's mood. He'd been away on a mission until the last possible moment, taking out his frustration on cursed spirits with perhaps more violence than strictly necessary.

He had arrived at the venue late, soaked from the rain, his suit probably ruined. But he'd promised to be there, and he'd never broken a promise to you before. He wasn't about to start now, even if it killed him.

But when he had made his way inside, he'd immediately sensed the chaos inside. Hushed, worried voices had carried through the open doors. "Has anyone seen them?" "The ceremony should have started twenty minutes ago." "Check the dressing room again!"

But Satoru had known exactly where to find you.

The venue's grounds had stretched back to a small lake, and there, beneath an old maple tree whose leaves provided little shelter from the rain, you had stood. Your wedding outfit was getting steadily soaked, but you hadn't seemed to notice or care, staring out at the rippling water.

He had approached slowly, drinking in the sight of you. Even with dirt stained cloths and dripping hair, you had been the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

"Everyone's looking for you," he had said softly.

You hadn't turned around. "I know."

"Three hundred people in there wondering where you've gone."

"Three hundred and one, now that you're here." Your voice had been quiet, almost lost in the rain. "Why are you here, Satoru?"

"You invited me."

"That's not what I meant." Finally, you had turned to face him, and the look in your eyes had made his heart stutter. "Why are you really here?"

He had taken a step closer, drawn to you like gravity, like always. "You know why."

"Do I?" Your voice was so small. "Because I thought I knew, once. I thought I knew a lot of things. But then you pushed me away, told me to find someone safe, someone normal." You had gestured toward the building behind you. "Well, I did. So why are you here?"

"I—"

He had caught sight of a small cut on his cheekbone in a puddle's reflection — the one injury he hadn't healed, the one he'd kept out of habit, out of the memory of your gentle hands patching him up all those years.

Your eyes had followed his, landing on the cut. Without seeming to think about it, you had reached up, fingers ghosting over the wound like they had a thousand times before. The familiar gesture had nearly broken him.

"Don't marry them," he had whispered.

"What?"

"Don't marry them," he had whispered again. "Please."

"Why not?" The question had been barely a whisper. "Give me a reason, Satoru. One real reason why I shouldn't walk back in there and marry someone who actually wants me."

"Because—" The words had stuck in his throat, years of habit holding them back.

"I love you," he had whispered, the words falling into the rain-soaked space between you, and suddenly he could breathe again. Twenty-four years of holding back, of swallowing those words, of carrying them like stones in his chest — and now they were free, floating in the air between you like butterflies finally released from their cage.

"I love you," he had said again, stronger this time. "I've loved you since we were kids. I've loved you through every fight, every mission, every time I tried to push you away for your own good. I've loved you so long I don't remember what it feels like not to love you."

"You—" Your voice had broken. "You idiot. You're telling me this now? When there are three hundred people waiting inside? When I've spent months trying to convince myself I could love someone else?"

"I know. I know, and I'm sorry, but—"

"Shut up," you had breathed, and then you had pulled him down by his lapels and kissed him.

He had kissed you back like a drowning man finding air, like coming home after a lifetime of wandering. Your lips had been cold from the rain but soft against his, and when you had melted against him, he'd felt something in his chest finally slot into place.

Years of careful control had shattered like glass, and he had wrapped his arms around your waist, lifting you clean off the ground in a surge of desperate joy. You had gasped against his mouth, and he had taken the opportunity to deepen the kiss, pouring decades of longing into it.

He had spun you around, your hands threading through his wet hair as he held you against him like he was afraid you might disappear if he loosened his grip even slightly. Rain had continued to fall around you, but neither of you had noticed or cared.

His hands had splayed across your back, holding you impossibly closer as he kissed you like a man starved, like he was trying to make up for every kiss he should have given you over the years.

When you had broken apart, you were both breathing heavily, foreheads pressed together as the rain continued to fall around you. Your fingers had still been twisted in his jacket, and his hand had still been cradling your face like you were something precious, something he couldn't quite believe he was allowed to touch.

The weight of all those unspoken words, all those careful distances he'd maintained, all those moments he'd held himself back — it had all lifted away like mist in the morning sun. For the first time in twenty-four years, he had felt truly, completely free.

"You're so stupid," you had whispered, but you hadn't moved away. "There are three hundred people in there, expectations, plans, a whole life I'm supposed to—"

"Run away with me."

"What?"

"Run away with me," he had repeated, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. "Right now. Let me take you anywhere you want to go. Let me spend the rest of my life making up for lost time, for every moment I was too scared to love you the way you deserved."

"Satoru—"

"I know it's selfish," he had continued, words tumbling out like he couldn't hold them back anymore. "I know I have no right to ask this of you, not after pushing you away. But I can't— I can't watch you marry someone else. I can't spend the rest of my life wondering what if, knowing I let you go without fighting for you."

You had laughed, the sound wavering between tears and joy. "You really are the most impossible man I've ever met."

"Is that a yes?"

"My parents will never forgive me."

"I'll win them over."

"The clan will be furious."

"Let them be."

"Everyone will talk."

"Let them talk." He had cupped your face in his hands, thumbs brushing away the rain and tears on your cheeks. "I don't care about any of that. I just care about you. About us. Everything else… we'll figure it out together."

"Together," you had repeated softly, like you were testing the word. "You won't push me away again? Try to protect me by leaving?"

"Never again," he had promised. "I'm done running. Done pretending I don't love you more than anything in this world. Done letting fear keep me from the only thing that's ever really mattered."

You had searched his face for a long moment, and he had let you see everything — all the love, the fear, the desperate hope he'd kept hidden for so long.

Finally, you had smiled, bright and real, the smile he'd fallen in love with all those years ago. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Take me away from here," you had said, and his heart had soared. "Show me what it's like when Satoru Gojo finally stops holding back."

He hadn't needed to be told twice. In one fluid motion, he had swept you into his arms, your surprised laugh warming something deep in his chest.

"What about everything inside? My things, the guests—"

"I'll send Ijichi to handle it," he had said, already walking away from the venue, from the life you'd almost had without him. "Right now, all that matters is you and me."

"And where exactly are you taking me?"

"Anywhere you want," he had promised, pressing a kiss to your temple. "Everywhere. We have a lifetime of moments to make up for, after all."

You had wrapped your arms around his neck, tucking your face against his shoulder. "I love you too, you know. In case that wasn't clear."

He had tightened his hold on you, something fierce and protective and overwhelmingly tender swelling in his chest. "Say it again."

"I love you, Satoru Gojo," you had whispered against his neck. "I always have."

As he had carried you away from the venue, the rain had finally begun to let up, sunlight breaking through the clouds. A new beginning, he had thought.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Looking back, Satoru couldn't believe how stupid he'd been. All those years wasted, all that time spent pushing you away when he could have been holding you close. He'd thought he was protecting you, but in reality, he'd just been protecting himself from the terrifying vulnerability of being truly, completely loved.

Because that's what you did — you loved him entirely, unconditionally, with a fierce devotion that still took his breath away. You loved him through the dangerous missions and the late-night emergencies, through the clan meetings and the political drama. You loved him through the nightmares and the victories, through every high and low that came with being Satoru Gojo.

Life wasn't perfect, of course. There were still threats, still enemies who thought they could use you to get to him. But they had learned, quickly and painfully, that you weren't some helpless weakness to exploit. You were his strength, his anchor, his reason for coming home safely every time.

Those old fears seemed ridiculous now. Because yes, loving him came with dangers — but you had always known that, had always chosen him anyway. And together, you were so much stronger than apart.

The clan had been furious about the wedding scandal, of course. But it was hard to maintain their anger when you handled every social situation with grace, when you proved yourself more than capable of standing beside the strongest sorcerer in the world.

Eventually, even the most traditional elders had to admit that perhaps the Gojo heir had chosen well after all.

Your old routine had shifted, evolved into something even better. Now when you patched up his wounds (the ones he still deliberately saved for you), he could kiss you afterward. When you fell asleep during movie nights, he could pull you close instead of maintaining that careful distance. When you brought him coffee during all-nighters, he could show his gratitude with more than just words.

The best part, though? The absolute best part was being able to say those three words whenever he wanted. And he said them constantly — whispered them against your skin in the morning, called them across rooms just to see you smile, breathed them into quiet moments like prayers.

"I love you" when you handed him his coffee, exactly how he liked it.

"I love you" when you rolled your eyes at his dramatic entrances.

"I love you" when you fell asleep on his shoulder during clan meetings.

"I love you" when you patched up injuries that didn't need patching.

"I love you" for no reason at all, just because he could, just because the words had lived in his heart for so long that letting them free still felt like a miracle.

And every time — every single time — you said it back, like you'd been waiting just as long to be able to say it freely.

Sometimes, on quiet nights when you were both home safe, he'd watch you doing something mundane — reading a book, making tea, existing in his space like you'd always belonged there — and the gratitude would hit him so hard he could barely breathe. Gratitude that you had waited, that you had loved him through his fears and his mistakes, that you had given him the chance to love you properly.

Because that's what he did now — loved you properly, openly, with everything he had. No more holding back, no more careful distance. He loved you the way you deserved to be loved — wholly, fiercely, eternally.

And every day, for the rest of his life, he made sure you knew it. Three words, eight letters, repeated like a promise, like a prayer, like the most important truth he'd ever known.

I love you.

And every day, for the rest of your life, you said it back.

masterlist + tip jar

author's note — after editing this, i realised it's more angsty then intended but oh my i'm sorry, i can't help it. but i hope it made you smile anyway. thank you from the bottom of my heart for taking the time to read this story. your support means the world to me. in these challenging times, please remember that even the darkest nights eventually give way to dawn. sending lots of love your way <3

ps: if you want to get notifications for future updates, you can join my taglist here!

tags — @fayuki @starmapz @saurondriell @starlightanyaaa @sxnkuna

@cocomanga @nanamis-baker @rosso-seta @shervinss @chiyokoemilia

@janbannan @bloopsstuff

© lostfracturess. do not repost, translate, or copy my work.

[number-one-hog-hater]

i wish talking about cannibalism was a little less taboo tbh :/

I think I tend to not give a shit a little too much about the taboo of a subject haha. I think it's boring to avoid topics because it's seen as out of bounds? Idk if that's the right phrasing but anyway. Cause cannibalism is Such a good example of a complex idea that is often seen with a 1 dimensional point of view that it's bad cut and dry but it's just Not! Which let's you delve in and examine ok what could make cannibalism ethical, why do I view it as unethical, how would I perceive cannibalism if it were common in modern practice? There is So many ways you can turn the conversation and have an educational conversation about the subject.

Idk I've just never understood Not doing something because of a preconceived notion that's it's not normal?? Who gives a shit about normal dude (this is not me saying he'll yeah I LOVE eating people but im to the avoidance of subject or mannerisms that could make people view you as Off or smthn) I love just doing shit. I think avoid taboo topics is how you end up with bland conversations. Obviously every conversation can't just be only taboo but throwing one in occasionally? So fun! Keeps things fresh :)

[a-ikuoliver]

happy birthday to the man!! — katsuki sees your sex toys once and is haunted by what you look like using them

pairing: bakugou x f!reader w/c: 1.5k warning/s: nsfw 18+, m! & f!masturbation; sex toys, i think that's everything notes: this is a bit short BUT i had to get something out for the man, this took me like 2 weeks to write but hopefully now i'll be out of my slump a little bit! pls enjoy c:

crossposted to ao3 • masterlist • wip updates & voting • kofi • askbox

fuck… he really doesn’t know when the lines started to blur between friend and fantasy, from wanting to hang out with you to wanting you, from talking to you about your day to being bricked up hearing your voice. yet, here he was, hot water streaming down his neck, plastering damp hair to his forehead; the water pouring over his head nowhere near enough to wash his mind of you.

he’d been plagued by you, morning to night, even in his damn dreams since he tried to find a phone charger at your place.

it’s not like he was snooping, he wasn’t trying to find that sort of thing, bakugou was only trying to find your spare charger, he’d seen you put it in one of these drawers before, how was he meant to know you left your spare chargers right below all of that?

he’d slammed the drawer shut the absolute second he realised exactly what he was staring at; the bedside drawer stuffed to the brim with bright, phallic toys, a collection of smaller, rounder vibrators, something that looked awfully similar to a gag, and he heard the telltale metal clinking of at least one pair of handcuffs against the wood when he slammed it closed. embarrassing heat crawled up his neck, burning his cheeks and setting the very tips of his ears alight. stuck in the same spot, mouth half opened dumbly, his eyebrows creased in the centre of his face, all blood rushing from his brain down to his half-hard cock already straining against his pants, the need making him ache.

every hour since that, he’d spent thinking of what your wet cunt looked like swallowing the toys; so pretty and drippy, how it looked tensing around nothing when you came from the buzzing of your vibrator, how you’d look writhing and moaning handcuffed with that gag in your mouth, how your drool would stain your shirt, sticking the fabric to your skin. god, it was just so lewd, even under the purifying water, he felt dizzy, sticky, hot, sweaty, the image of your toys burnt into his retinas, no matter what he tried to distract himself with, he always saw your toys at the forefront of his mind, the perverted imagery refusing to budge from its newfound home.

bakugou groans, a deep, rough sound drowned out by the even buzzing echoing in his ears, the sound slowly building, kicking to a new level when your whine drowns it out. you always start nearly silent in his dreams, just tiny gasps escaping your parted lips when you’d nestle the toy right against your clit. you only get louder from there, your eyebrows scrunching together like his own were, marking two little tallies in the middle, tilting upwards at the centre as you pulled your lip up between your teeth. the motion did absolutely nothing to muffle your sounds, your whimpers and moans only growing louder with every heave of your chest, every passing moment with the vibrator pressed to your pulsing clit making your hips jolt into it.

you reach between your thighs with a whine that sounds all too similar to his name torn from your lips, dipping your fingertips in your slick cunt, collecting all the cum gathering at your trembling hole without even taking a breather from humping your vibrator like your life depended on it. your movements grew jerkier and jerkier the longer the intense vibrations were held to your drooling pussy, your eyes fluttering closed with a breathless shout of his name, shaky, wet thighs squeezing around your hand, even as the vibrator slipped from your grip, falling forgotten onto the sheets beneath you, the constant stimulation growing too much for you—

“fuck.” he really couldn’t help it, his hand travelling lower down his abdomen, trailing behind droplets of water still running down his torso to his hard cock, the tip already leaking from the thought of you. wrapping his fist around the base of his cock, he squeezed once before twisting his wrist, slowly jerking his cock, wondering if you were in your shower doing the same, fucking yourself on one of your toys imagining him in its place just as he wished it was your warm cunt squeezing around his dick instead of his hand.

“katsukiii—” bakugou can feel you beside him, your figure displacing the dense steam surrounding him, a heavy, thick silicone dildo hanging from the glass wall of the shower, your figure slick and soapy from the shower, damp hair sticking to the soft skin of your neck and face when you bent at the waist, lining the tip of the plastic cock up with your drooling hole. the head of the cock would slide into your cunt all too easily in his fantasies, always greedy to watch you take more and more, inch by inch sinking onto it. your mouth falls further open the more you take of the toy, the pleasure too much for you to even hold your head up by the time your ass was pressed against the cool glass, your back arching with the tip of the dildo nestled deep inside your cunt. he wonders if the curve of it would rub on your g-spot at this angle, if it would drive you crazy grinding against the glass, whining when you can’t take it anymore.

bakugou’s head falls back thinking of you reaching for the shower head, his cock pulsing in his hand when he grips the base, his muscles tensing and relaxing while he tried desperately not to cum; the image of you playing behind his eyelids making that a near impossible task. even with his eyes squeezed shut, there you are at the forefront of his mind, switching the settings of the shower head to a concentrated stream, aimed directly at your aching clit, your broken moan jolting his hips forward into his hand, stroking the length languidly. your voice wavered, repeating his name again, the stimulation inside and outside your cunt just so overwhelming.

bracing against the tile with your spare hand, you lift yourself back off the toy, the base suctioned to the glass remaining stuck as you grew quicker in your movements, starting to bounce and roll your hips in a smooth tempo. he matches the pace of your hips with his fist, his breath coming out in nothing but deep huffs. his uneven groans were nothing compared to your sweet chorus of moans and whines, an endless symphony playing in his head of “ah-ah-ah”’s and “mmmng”’s the closer you got, your cum coating the toy just like his pre was smearing all over his fist.

he can’t help the guttural sound that escapes him next, a garbled, broken version of your name when your thighs tremble, your knees only moments away from buckling from the pure bliss; the water is still aimed at your clit, even when you can’t bounce on the dildo anymore, wave after wave of pleasure drowning you until your eyes rolled into your skull and your cum gathered in a creamy ring at the base of the toy, your ass flattening against the glass as you greedily took more of the toy, intensifying the euphoria wracking through your body. he knows your toy fills your cunt so perfectly, knows how you’d hump the air to get more and more of the water aimed at your clit, unrelenting in chasing your orgasm, jolting and jerking until your knuckles turned white against the tile wall, until your voice was so high and loud it didn’t even sound like you anymore.

he wonders if you’d ever screamed taking the fake cock, if you’d ever been so overwhelmed you squealed, your pretty cunt clenching around the toy, milking the poor plastic for everything it can’t give you, or if he’d be the first to make you cum so intensely.

“ka-aa-ki—” you can’t even spit his name out, your name the same mess on his plump lips, caught so hard between sharp teeth he worries he’ll split the thin skin. all his muscles tense, his abdomen clenching low on his stomach, the veins stretching along the underside of his cock throbbing with the need to join you in the throes of pleasure, to cover your cunt in milk white cum you desperately tried to squeeze from the silicone.

your name is a choked mantra tumbling from his lips, over and over again, dark crimson eyes rolling into the back of his skull the longer you bounced on the toy, pinching sensitive nipples between your slippery, soapy fingers, dragging your orgasm out as long as you could, as long as he would, until your knees were weak and your couldn't even manage to dumbly spit out his name anymore.

“fuck.” he damn near whines, a mess of cum covering his fingers, coating his knuckles as he kept fucking his fist through the waves of his own orgasm, shivering even with the hot water running down his body, cleaning his hand even as he continued to stroke his cock, relaxing his muscles as his toes still curled, his knuckles stark white against the tile.

his head fell forward onto the cooling tile, a temporary relief for the haziness swirling around in the steam.

shit, how was he meant to look you in the eyes after this?

© all works belong to @a-ikuoliver, @gwen0m, and dlirious on archive of our own, do not plagiarise, translate, repost, feed my works into ai or recommend my work on other platforms, or bind my fanworks for sale.

[comicaurora]

So uhh. If you feel like talking about it. As someone who lives in the US, how are you being kind to yourself on this upsetting morning <3

Checked in with my loved ones first and foremost.

It's interesting. The vibe I've been getting from my circle is very different from 2016. Much less… dread and horror at a realignment of the understanding of what can and can't happen here, now, in this place and day and age. More "fuck, guys. again? whatever. enjoy your consequences, maybe you'll manage to learn something this time."

Frustration and anger is not the most positive feeling, or even the most fair one to express, but it is a protective one. It hurts a lot less than most alternatives.

And it's quite a shift. It was earthshattering back then. How could this have been allowed to happen? Why couldn't it be stopped? Why couldn't we stop it? Why couldn't I stop it? Why couldn't everyone see what this meant? Why couldn't I make them understand? Did they really not care? What did that mean about humanity as a whole? Were we so thoughtless? How could anyone be trusted?

It seems… much less earthshattering to see it happen twice. Disappointing, sure. Frustrating. But nowhere near as devastating as the first time I saw it unfold. We already knew it could happen. I've already had time to digest the implications. Now I'm just freshly disappointed.

It also feels less indicative of Crushing Truths Of Reality this time. We've seen shit get bad. We've also seen shit get better from here! We know both outcomes are possible, even inevitable. We know hoping for a better future is always worthwhile. This isn't the apocalypse. It's an unremarkably bad turn of events brought on by unremarkably self-centered well-documented human impulses. It's utterly mundane in its unpleasantness. It doesn't need to be dignified with despair.

A democratic election, no matter the outcome or the side we're on, makes us all acutely aware of how outnumbered we are by people whose worldviews and priorities are demonstrably incomprehensible to us. And the first time you get outnumbered, it's a shock. Defeat is haunting. It didn't matter how badly you wanted it; by the very function of democracy, you do not have the power to override greater numbers. (insert electoral college caveat here)

The second time through, I find myself focusing on a different facet that has dramatically reduced the amount of spiralling I'm doing. I don't expect this to work for everyone, but for me specifically, it helped to crystallize a few thoughts:

You don't have the power to control anyone else. You don't. You can't share your worldview and your revelations with them. You can't make them think or understand anything. You can lay it all out for them, but you can't make them listen, and you can't make it click. A mentor can't make their student learn a lesson; that's why teaching is so complicated and hard. An active choice must be made by the person to enable themselves to understand, and they must put the pieces together in their own mind before it makes sense to them, and the pieces must have been presented in a way that makes sense to them in the first place. Lead a horse to water, can't make them drink.

These elections highlight a disconnect in what different groups of people care about; and no matter how clearly you explain yourself or how passionately you perform, caring cannot be forced on someone. Understanding and connection cannot be forced. You cannot make anything or anyone matter to someone. They have to choose to see how it matters in order to internalize it. If they choose not to, that is not your failing. You couldn't have made them do it by just Explaining Better. They are not your responsibility. They make their own choices. You can't reach inside their head and connect the dots for them.

I'm a storyteller. I make stories and put them out into the world. I hope people get something good out of them, but I have no control over what that something is. I want people to be thoughtful and kind and compassionate and hopeful and see themselves reflected in stranges, no matter their differences. I can craft stories that I hope encourage this. But that is the extent of my ability and the extent of my responsibility. I control no-one's actions but my own, and so while I am not having the best day, I am at least content that I am doing what I can, and I am not shattering myself against impossibilities trying to control the things I can't.

Sometimes, people make decisions that I think are really bad. I can't make that not happen. All I can do is try to make decisions that will result in things I think are good. Today, that means checking in on people, and not assigning too much dramatic narrative weight to an ultimately mundane set of unremarkable bad decisions outside of my control. We'll take life as it comes and help each other out when and how we can. Everything else is out of our hands.

[flwrkid14]

The Tim Drake Heartthrob Conspiracy

It started as a slow, creeping suspicion. A few throwaway comments here, a couple of odd interactions there. At first, no one thought much of it.

One day, Dick was grabbing coffee near Wayne Enterprises when he overheard two interns chatting in line. “I saw Tim Drake today, and let me tell you, I think I’ve developed a new celebrity crush,” one of them said, giggling.

Dick nearly choked on his iced latte. Tim? Celebrity crush? He shook it off, chalking it up to the occasional corporate crush, nothing out of the ordinary for someone who runs a massive company. But then he heard it again the next week at a Titan’s briefing. Garfield leaned over to him during a meeting, nodding toward Tim across the room.

“Man, Tim’s really come into his own, huh? Guy’s kinda a looker now,” Gar commented.

Dick blinked, then frowned. “Wait, what?”

“Oh, come on, Nightwing,” Gar teased, “you can’t tell me you haven’t noticed! The quiet broody thing is working for him. I bet half of Gotham has a crush on him.”

By the time Dick got back to Gotham, the gears were turning in his head. Did half of Gotham have a crush on Tim?

Then it happened again. This time it was Damian’s turn.

He had been sparring with Jon in the Batcave, when their conversation drifted, as it often did. “You ever think about what it would be like to date someone like Tim?” Jon asked, completely out of the blue.

Damian froze, mid-punch. “What?”

“I mean, he’s smart, right? Responsible, kinda low-key. Would probably make a great boyfriend,” Jon continued, completely oblivious to the growing horror on Damian’s face.

“Grayson and Todd, are enough. I refuse to let another sibling of mine become Gotham’s romantic fascination!” Damian exclaimed later that night at the dinner table. The others laughed, assuming Damian was just being overly dramatic, as usual.

But the seed had been planted.

It didn’t take long for the other Batfamily members to start picking up on the signs.

Steph first noticed when she logged onto a Wayne Enterprises fan forum (because yes, those exist) and saw a thread that was simply titled, “Tim Drake’s Glow-Up Appreciation Post”. The page was filled with comments fawning over him—talking about his “sharp jawline,” his “dark, mysterious aura,” and how “charming” he was during interviews.

Naturally, Steph sent the link to Cass with a laughing emoji. “Look at our boy, growing up into Gotham’s next heartbreaker,” she joked.

But as more and more of these comments popped up in the oddest places, Steph’s joking tone faded. Was Tim really the next heartthrob?

The realization hit Jason last, as most things concerning Tim usually did. He was scrolling through his usual online haunts, browsing forums that discussed Gotham’s vigilantes, when he stumbled on something unusual.

A post titled: Top 10 Reasons Why Red Robin is the Best Looking Vigilante in Gotham.

Jason almost clicked out of it immediately, assuming it was some kind of joke. But no. There were paragraphs. Analysis. Photos that somehow made Tim look like a damn model, even in his ridiculous Red Robin cape.

Jason scrolled through in disbelief, not sure what he was more stunned by: the fact that people were thirsting after Tim, or that someone had gone to this much effort to explain why he was hot.

“That’s it. The internet is officially broken,” Jason muttered to himself, before sending a screenshot to the family group chat with the caption: Since when did Tim become a fashion icon?

The real kicker, though, was Alfred. After weeks of the Batfamily casually throwing around jokes about Tim’s newly discovered “status,” Alfred finally made his observation one morning over breakfast.

“Master Timothy has always had a certain quiet charm about him,” Alfred said as he served coffee, completely unbothered by the ensuing chaos.

Dick, nearly spilling his coffee: “Wait, you knew about this? Why didn’t you say something?”

Alfred raised a brow. “It hardly seemed necessary. I assumed you all were already aware of Master Timothy’s appeal.”

Appeal. Appeal.

Jason was laughing so hard he had to leave the room, while Steph and Cass exchanged glances that said everything: they needed to re-evaluate everything about their little brother.

The whole Batfamily was still coming to terms with it. They joked, they teased, but there was an undeniable shift. When they looked at Tim now, they saw what others had apparently been seeing for years—a quietly confident, strikingly intelligent young man who had somehow grown into one of Gotham’s most eligible bachelors.

Of course, the moment that really sealed the deal came when Tim rode into the Batcave one evening on his Red Bird bike, wearing hastily thrown on stylish outfit—a black leather jacket, perfectly fitted jeans, and a shirt that gave him a casual, yet effortlessly cool look. Running a hand through his still damp hair, a look of mild annoyance on his face.

“Sorry, I’m running late. Got a date.”

For a moment, the Batfamily just stared.

Holy. Shit.

And then, as if on cue, Dick, Steph, Cass, Duke, Jason, and even Damian had the same thought at the same time: Oh my God, Tim Drake is the Batfamily’s biggest heartthrob.

The realization was almost too much to handle.

[ceilidho]

I’ve been watching Spartacus with my dad and I must share with you the vision I had.

Gladiator 141 and the sweet little thing they got as a reward after a fight well fought.

this is very old:

Sometimes he spends as much as an hour staring at you through the bars of your cell. 

You haven’t yet worked up the nerve to say something to him. Not while he still wears the silver-plated galea that obscures most of his face. You can still see thin lips through the middle slit of his helmet, where the cheek plates don’t meet and the thin strip running down the bridge of his nose gives way to his philtrum, and the barest slivers of dark eyes. 

Apart from his helmet, he wears little else—sometimes the customary leather pteruge around his waist or a simple tunic belted at the waist. Nothing that would hinder his movements. It keeps the bulk of him on display. A prized fighter then, you surmise, as if the helmet weren’t enough to make that known. 

He still gleams bronze from his fights under the sun. Perhaps he’s counted at least a full hand’s worth this week alone. He comes to you sometimes after those very fights, still dripping sweat and prowling the length of your cell like one of the lions kept beneath the arena. You never know what to say to him then. There’s little you can do apart from curl up into yourself in the far corner of this cell you’ve come to know as a temporary home and eye him warily. 

It’s hard to reckon with the size of him. That’s what keeps you wary, watchful of him when he comes to keep you company for reasons unbeknownst to you. He hasn’t made them known yet, in any case. 

There isn’t an augur to warn you the day he chooses to speak. 

“Where'd they take you from, pretty bird?”

You flinch at the sound of his voice. It comes from the pure depths of him, Tartarus deep. You think it would take nine days for it to reach you, like a bronze anvil falling alongside it. In the days that he’s spent at your side, haunting the length of your cell like a sentry bound to his post, you’ve never once heard so much as a whisper.

His words take a moment to register. Across from you, he sits back on his haunches, thick thighs bunched up under the fan of his pteruge. It’s hard to tell how long he’s been there—the hallway outside your cell is relatively dark, the only windows being on the leftmost side of the building, near the door where he must have quietly slipped in. 

“East of here,” you answer hesitantly.

He hums, nods his head. Ruminates on your words. 

In truth, you can only guess—the village where you grew up, where you suckled at your mother’s teat and played with the other children in the glen surrounded by mountains jutting up from the earth and ochre yellow and green wildgrass, the fog sometimes sitting so low in the valley that you could lose yourself in it, is far from here. At least a month’s walk, perhaps more (you lost time along the way). Your feet are still blistered from the march back to Rome, legs still covered in sores and bruises; even now your cell is a poor comfort, the dirt floors harsh on your knees and shins, abrasive to the partially healed skin of your feet. 

You’ve never been very worldly though, never known more than the four walls around your bed. Perhaps the walk wasn’t nearly as long, as treacherous; maybe you came from the west instead, or the south. You can only guess. 

“I came from the north,” he says, breaking the silence again. That startles you somehow. The thought of him under the thumb of another feels inexplicably gut-wrenching; if a man with a virile, sweat-laden chest like his, arms corded with muscle that yours will never see in a thousand years, has been yoked to Rome’s chariot, what hope do you have? 

You wonder for a moment if he’ll tell you more, but he falls silent after that simple revelation. The weight of his gaze still pins you in place.

“…You’re a prisoner then?” you ask, considering briefly whether to say like I, before discarding the thought. Like I, like me. Are you too in a cage, like me?

It’s difficult to suppress the urge to ask him more, but you do. It does you no good to endear yourself to men that move and stare like beasts. There’s something malignant in him, you think, a rot burrowed in deep. You can feel it stir in you too when your eyes dip too low, halted by the muscles of his thighs and the thick slabs packing his arms. You’ve seen beasts copulate; you imagine he’d be much the same. 

He tilts his head, considering your words. Wolf-like, and you’ve seen wolves before. Though the ever-present helmet obstructs most of his face, the sharpness of his eyes pierces through. “They don’t put me in a cage anymore. What would you call that?”

Your chest collapses under his words. Hopes dashed. Does he go in the cage of his own accord then? Does he lock the door himself, deliver the key to the guard standing watch? You think people taken from their homes should see their plight in each other, but the gladiator before you doesn’t look at you like the two of you share a fate. 

“A slave?” you postulate, perhaps too boldly. Worry crawls inside the walls of your belly when his lips flatten, almost imperceptibly.

“Do I look like a slave to you?” he asks, and you can hear it this time. A gentle warning. A rebuke. A question that tells you all that you need to know about this man and how he sees the two of you. 

You remain silent, cowed under his stare and the tone of his voice. Perhaps he’s right, in a way; he’s not the one in the cage. He seems free to come and go as he pleases, his movements unrestricted. Unlike your own. You’ve hardly left this cell once since a faction of the legionaries left you at the gates of the city to be handled by those in charge, watching slave after slave made empticii, helpless, until finally you were dragged to the stand for viewing. 

You flinch when he grabs one of the bars of your cell, thick fingers coiling around the metal and overlapping easily. 

“What did they take you for, pretty bird?” His fingers tighten around the bar, knuckles whitening. “Every day I fight and yet they never offer you as a prize.”

The new scars on his body make sense then, fresh lacerations across his arms and legs that have multiplied by the days since he started visiting you. Why he gleams with fresh sweat every day, correlating with the fights you hear in the arena above you, the cacophonous chants and stamping feet. You can imagine him in front of a crowd frothing at the mouth for blood and gore. 

He comes stained in it sometimes. You hold your breath until he leaves on those days, reminded too much of your village in the aftermath of the plundering. 

“I don’t know,” you whisper, tucking your legs into your chest and trying to get as close to the wall behind you as possible. 

It’s the truth. No one tells you anything. No one told you what would happen when they ransacked your village and burnt it to ash, the bodies of everyone you’ve ever loved still burning char black in the tall grass, whittled down by the flames. No one told you what would happen after they dragged you back a thousand passus to a city scorched in white marble and stone and immaculate gold. They dragged you here and shut the door. 

He seems frustrated at your words, lips thinning like he has to hold back his rage.

“I’ll slaughter a hundred more if that’s your price,” he says, his helmet knocking into the bars with a rough clang and making you jump when he leans in. His chest lifts with his quickened breaths, working himself up at the thought of more bloodshed. “Then give you their hearts. No other man will take you. I’ll rend their limbs if another man tries. Make you taste their blood on my fingers and lap it up when I split you on my—”

Your heel skitters across the ground, digging a small groove into the dirt and scattering small rocks across the cell. “I don’t k-know what they intend—”

You stare at him when he rises back up to his feet, words dying on your tongue. Standing, he towers over you, shoulders rolling back to puff out his chest. 

“You wait, little bird. Flutter your wings. Soon you’ll see the sun.”

You can only imagine what he means. The thought of sunlight on your face fills you with dread for the first time in your life. 

He leaves without another word, heavy footsteps carrying him to the door until you hear him pry it open, sunlight streaming in for a second before it slams shut. The silence in the absence of him feels monstrous, gargantuan. 

All you can do is let out a shuddering breath.