#he's on tumblr! and will probably read this

[siriuslylantsov]

Spencer doesn’t want to be hurt, to hurt, it’s a morbid byproduct of his upbringing; all he ever endured was mockery.

😕😕

This time it deepens and Spencer sees stars. It’s an astronomical phenomenon, something interstellar— and god, he’s relating kissing to space. They should just tape the word ‘virgin’ to his back and call it a day.

so silly

You know, he could probably write a thesis based on this.

i would read it

anyway, this was so good, another incredible piece, you write him so well. i revel in your spencer fics tumblr user vatelixx. im your biggest fan.

The enormity of my desire (disgusts me),

Very very early seasons (1 — start of 2) Spencer Reid x afab!BAU!reader

SMUT!! (and fluff, some angst in relation to Spencer’s past because it can never be too happy, we’re not allowed nice things here). first times & explorations of intimacy.

──── autistic spencer (it’s a central theme to the plot), reader is actually morally good (for once).

Warnings: sub spencer (what did u even expect?), heavy corruption kink, first time for Spencer (all i do is sit around and think about how i’d like to devirgin that genius), HEAAVY praise kink, very very inexperienced Spencer, slight? oral fixation, they’re both just rlly down bad (i told u i would write something light, i delivered), Reader is whipped, Spencer is sooo much worse. Biblical references, Religious imagery, i think i talk about math equations???? And random metaphors/complexes.

w.c: 4k

a/n: i rlly wanted to explore aspects of spencer that criminal minds swept under the rug (cough cough his undiagnosed autism, cough cough his social exclusion, cough cough his crippling fear of forever being alone). Next upload will prob be heavy angst/no smut post-prison spencer (god help me please, i must be a masochist for the way i make myself suffer)

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There’s a lot Spencer hasn’t done.

He knows he’s behind, that he never quite caught up when it came to the taboo of sex and intimacy. Everything, everything, he’s ever had has been centred around exclusion, alienation, he feels like he’s lived on pause. Frozen, never advancing, stuck on ‘go’. Touch isn’t easy for him, interpersonal relationships are worse. He’s different, god he’s heard that his entire life. ‘You’re not weird, you’re just… different’, but maybe he is weird. Maybe his whole existence is just one big cosmic fuck you, because he’s missed out on so much, so much that he can’t understand, comprehend, act out against. Falling behind; this is the only area of life where he continuously comes up short, inexperienced, naive, he’s not used to being incompetent.

He’s never experienced want the way others do. He could never just hook up, fall into the body of another, expose them to the vulnerable elements of his stature. Open himself up to scrutiny. He might be a genius, he might be intellectually advanced, accepted into a multitude of ivy leagues before he was old enough to vote, but there’s drawbacks to his success. Social awkwardness, an inability to blend, mould, be one of the crowd. Sometimes he wishes he was average, something grey and mundane, so far reduced from the person he is now— it would all be plainly simple.

But he’s not, he’s not. So, this is the weight he has to bare for the brain he never asked for.

Pyrrhic victory, he’ll always be renowned for his intelligence. ‘You’re going to change the world kid,’ maybe, but simultaneously, he’ll never get to experience said world. There’s a chance he’ll always be on the outside, watching normal people gravitate towards each other. Live dreary lives of domesticated simplicity. Stacked bills, arguments over money and parenting techniques. Going to bed angry, only to turn around, mid-night, and resolve it, to not sleep on bad blood. To take them off the couch, to settle into predestined sides of the mattress.

There’s not enough possessions in the world he’d sacrifice just to experience love.

Hedgehog dilemma, the challenges of human intimacy. The hedgehogs want to move closer, to preserve heat during cold. But, they are forced, biologically cursed to remain apart, in order to prevent themselves from harming each other. Spencer doesn’t want to be hurt, to hurt, it’s a morbid byproduct of his upbringing; all he ever endured was mockery.

He thought he’d never get to experience the physical, carnal aspects of existence. And sure, he made peace with the notion, accepted the consequences of being born atypical. Learnt to live without.

But then, oh then there was you. Pretty, intellectual you who quite literally tipped his world on it’s axis. Upheaved the most stable of routines. New to the BAU, he wanted you to last. To stay around, endure the worst of the job. If only for his selfish benefit of orbiting in your presence.

He remembers how it all started: Detroit, another case, more budget cuts, forced proximity that sent you spiralling into a shared bed for the night.

“You’re my favourite person in the team.” you admitted, “And I know that’s dumb, because we’ve spoken the least, but… you’re just, so you. That’s a good thing by the way, a really really good thing.”

He couldn’t quite believe you were talking about him. Spencer, who spilt coffee, and slipped into ceaseless tangents about obscure information. Spencer, who walked into walls when you were around, stumbling over his sentences before deftly, very astutely, giving up, walking away mid-conversation. He wore sweater-vests and colourful mismatched socks, it’s not like he was going to be crowned ‘white boy of the month’.

“Not dumb.” Spencer had responded, shifting closer to tangle further into the warm mess of this accidental situation. “That’s good. I like being me.” he mumbled. “Sometimes…. sometimes it sucks. But that’s okay. I think it’s okay?”

He moved to press his face into the crook of your neck, but you were faster, gathering him by tousled hair, forcing him to look you in the eye.

Oh.

“Please. Please.” he whispered, breaking apart, fracturing, “Please like me. And more than in a weird, ‘just friends or coworkers’ way.”

You did. You do. He should’ve kissed you then, but maybe he was scared, maybe he couldn’t quite discern his feelings, separate the logic from the emotional. So he waited, waited, waited until now. Your third date, you take him to an exhibition within a science centre: replica models of the solar system, filling rooms up, papier-mâché sculptures illuminated by light.

Best date ever. You listen, even when he’s rambling about planets, when he’s pointing out that yes, Jupiter’s density is less than water. That, technically, it would float in a bathtub, if one was built to accommodate its size. You don’t care that he’s not exactly the staple-piece for conventionally attractive males. That he’s nerdish, and awkward, and so so inexperienced when it comes to this.

In his apartment, later, much later, he looks at you, looks at you like you’re the one who just solved the fucking Riemann hypothesis.

“What do you want the most? Like,… if you could ask for one thing.” you say, and god, Spencer loves when you pose these deep, hypothetical questions. When you make him think, because you, you are the biggest challenge to his intellect yet.

You. He wants to say. But he settles for ‘Being remembered,’ instead. He works to untangle layers of fabric, your scarf, your jacket, letting out an exasperated laugh when he meets your amused gaze. “Right now though? I think I’d settle for kissing you.”

You cup his jaw, tracing your fingers along the sharp curve, and god he has perfect anatomy. “Settle huh? You should be more appreciative.”

He leans forward to press a chaste kiss against your lips. Drawing away for a moment, just to return because he’s never had this before. Because for the first time in his life, he gets it. He gets physical attraction, even if it took time. He’s kissed, been kissed, yes. But he could count those moments on one hand, and if you asked how many he truly enjoyed, he’d be left with no fingers raised.

“Believe me, i’m very appreciative…”

This isn’t like before, what he felt in the past; he expected something monotone, flighty, a brief fleeting moment of satisfaction. Means to an end. No, it’s actually the best thing he’s ever experienced, and he’s going to become so insufferable after this, because he’s just found out he is very very into kissing.

Correction: he’s very into kissing you.

In the moment between parting, and touching again, he assumes you to be divinity personified. Spencer has never been religious, but something of this magnitude should be canonised. He wants to ask you. Ask you when you became this beautiful. When you became the person he needs to kiss a second time, kiss a third time, kiss until his lips go numb.

A shaky inhale, a pause. “I hope… I hope that it was okay - I mean, it was good for me. Really, really good. Um—“ to be honest, he’s just glad he didn’t say thankyou.

“Yeah, Spence. That was… wow.” you draw your bottom lip between teeth, press into tissued flesh. Jesus Christ. “Wanna try again?”

Yes yes yes yes. He looks at you, pupils blown obscenely out of proportion. Part of him wants to say, ‘why didn’t we do this sooner?’ But that’s not fair; he’s only ready now. Now that he feels, now that he might be a little in love with you.

“Please,” is his answer, and then he’s catching your face in the palms of his hand, tugging your lips back to his, because admittedly, they have ached in the long, extensive period you were apart (53 seconds).

This time it deepens and Spencer sees stars. It’s an astronomical phenomenon, something interstellar— and god, he’s relating kissing to space. They should just tape the word ‘virgin’ to his back and call it a day.

There’s soft little breathy sighs escaping his mouth now, bleeding into yours. And yeah, spontaneous combustion might be a real threat. Actually no, it would hardly be spontaneous; there’s a clear, clear cause, and it just so happens to be your ruinous lips.

This is an entirely new facet of the human experience. The kiss is electric; he’s always been partial toward physics, and right now his veins carry an alternating current.

You know, he could probably write a thesis based on this.

You both stumble back back back until he’s hitting a wall, and yes, thankyou. He’s making all sorts of sounds he can’t justify, and it’s a supernova, an infinite black pool of— oh, he thinks he might die, ascend, transcend, when you press your thumb against his chin, hold your lips at just a little slant from his. Force him to wait there.

“Please,” he’s never been above begging. A worthy sacrifice, one he’ll certainly repeat again because you return to the kiss, and the world around him dissolves.

You’ve got one hand tangled in his hair. Tousled auburn, fingers sinking into strands, pushing all the way down to the root. The other is still cupping his face, keeping him close, keeping him selfishly close actually.

“Spence,” you murmur. And yes. Yes. He likes that. The way his name sounds rolling off your tongue, like it was destined to be there. Like he was destined to be yours.

His world is ending. So is yours. Fuck it, he presses himself against your thigh, and ohmygodohmygod. He’s being loud, he’s actually being so criminally loud right now because apparently he’s the most whorish virgin to ever exist.

“I lied, I lied,” he admits between messy kisses, “When you asked what I wanted the most? It’s not to be remembered, well it is, its on the list. But—“ he groans, kisses you again because talking interrupts matters that are more important. Like your lips.

“I wanna cum.”

Eloquent.

Spencer Reid being dirty? Oh, it’s hot, it’s so hot to reduce someone to such an obscene state. To reduce him, the boyish fumbling nerd (who just so happens to be the most beautiful person in existence) to such a degrading mess.

Still, there’s shock. Not because he said it (you greatly appreciate the indecent things falling from those pretty lips right now), but because—

“You’ve never? Haven’t even experienced it once? By yourself?”

He should be embarrassed, but his lips are red, his eyes are glassy, and the bulge in his pants is straining to be touched. “Never,” he sighs shakilly. “Never, and i’m— i’m starting to understand why it’s so popular.”

He whimpers, pushes himself against your thigh, because the friction, yes. “Is that weird? Please don’t think i’m weird. Because I’m really, really weird. Just maybe… not in that way?”

It’s never been enough. His body sometimes feels numb to the touch, and yet still so very overstimulated. Like he manually blocks himself from feeling, already prepared for the flinch. How does he explain that life hasn’t been kind to him? That he hates his body because of what people made it out to be when he was a child. Stripping him naked, tying him to a goalpost, always the underdog. The one to be targeted, tormented.

“It’s actually kinda hot,” you interrupt his thoughts, and just because you’re evil, corrupt, the worst, you press your thigh harder against his clothed cock, palm covering his mouth when a plethora of whiny sounds escape his mouth.

It’s performative, really. Alone in his apartment, there’s no need for noise control. So when your thumb slips between parted, swollen lips, he knows to suck. The average human hand has between 10,000 and 10 million bacteria, and Spencer does not actually give a fuck anymore.

“To think that you’ve never even felt what it’s like. That you’re gonna feel it with me for the first time. I get to see that shit— god, you’re going to look so fucking pretty for me.”

You draw your thumb out of his mouth, and he has the audacity to whine.

He’s never wanted anything more in his entire life. It’s all tertiary now. Only this matters.

“Please don’t praise me—“ he protests, “I’ll probably finish in my pants.”

“Praise kink, noted.”

You laugh, and he can only groan, curse existence for being this cruel to his overworked, undervalued body. “Don’t— don’t laugh. You’re not supposed to laugh, that can heighten performance anxiety. Increase insecurity, and…” he sighs, “You do not care. Sadistic tendencies, noted.”

“Shut up. Wanna see you.” you say, and he’s just muttering breathless mhm’s, too delirious to function; his body is betraying the last iota of self-control like the little whore it apparently is.

His sweater comes off first, then his top. Discarded fabric, his raised arms when you mutter a candid ‘up’, giving way to exposed skin. In response? Your pupils dilate. Spencer knows because he’s analysing, profiling. If you hate him like this, he’s fairly certain he’ll drag himself into a self-dug early grave. He wishes he was being melodramatic. That your approval didn’t have such a substantial impact on his carefully-constructed ego. But, oh, it does. It does.

Thin, with a long, defined torso, he blushes, rose blemished skin, when your hands drag across his stomach. He’d love to say he reacts sanely, suavely. Urbane to your touch. But that would be a total, discreditable lie. Instead, his back arches, seeking contact, following the path of your fingertips with pitiful desperation. He feels malleable, willing to bend and contort, if only to feel more.

“How can you not think you’re pretty, Spence?” His pants are gone next, then his stained boxers, fabric borderline sheer now, soaked through with pre-cum.

Spencer feels betrayed. His body never responds, not to his own hands, not to his own thoughts. And yet, the moment you’re on him, he’s a live-wire. It’s sick, heinous, double-crossing. Maybe it’s purposeful, done just to spite him. Figures.

“Holy shit, look at you. Look at how perfect you are.” Spencer wants to object, because he distinctly told you not to praise him. However,.. right now, the lights are on but nobody is home. Brain-death, he’s certainly in a vegetative state.

“Ohmygodohmygod,” he whimpers, because no amount of knowledge about human anatomy and physiology could prepare him for how he feels under your touch. No amount of education in the psychology of relationships could inform him of how viscerally wrong the way you look at him feels.

Because it’s not wrong, not all. It’s the most right he’s ever felt, and he’ll tell you that if you’ll just keep it up.

The sounds he’s making are phonographic, lewd, you’ve given up on trying to stifle them now. Where have you been hiding? Your eyes fall, and he wants to blush away from the exhibiting gaze, but he’s just…. too far gone; the thought of your touch outweighs any previous reticence. Then, oh then, you drop to your knees, and shit. He expected your thigh, maybe your hand if he was lucky, not—

This. Your mouth, your tongue, your pretty lips; god, god, is this a sin? Because if it is, he’ll take it.

“Please,” he whines, and he can’t look anymore because the sight alone is going to send him over the edge. He’s gripping the wall, scrambling scrambling for purchase, because he’s trying not to grip you, but how exactly does he keep this respectful?

He’s pretty sure they’re past that, considering your mouth is currently wrapped around his cock, and he’s debauched.

You want this, you want him, he feels like he’s transcended humanity, like he’s become someone, anyone and anything, that deserves the way you’re taking him apart, piece by piece. In the aftermath, he hopes you don’t leave a single ounce of him intact.

“Wanna kiss you. Oh— oh oh,” he’s sobbing now, “Come back here. Miss your mouth— even if it’s,” he looks down and that’s a mistake. “Please.”

Of course it would be Spencer to disrupt the best (and admittedly only) head of his life because he needs you closer.

You oblige, raising from your knees, and Spencer thinks it might be sacrilegious. But then again, he feels religion in your touch so it can’t be too profane. Maybe? He’s not sure, he’s not sure and it doesn’t matter. Ethics and morality have long since disintegrated, sins are engrained into humankind. He almost wants to thank Eve for tearing into the apple, because it’s allowed this irreverence to occur.

Spencer blindly follows you through the apartment, stumbling and muttering until he can collapse against the bed. Baring his pretty neck as his head hits the bedframe. Tangled in sheets, draped over his lap, his deft fingers run across your waist, mapping out the structure of your frame. If only to remember, recite this act of blasphemy.

“Spence,” you whisper, and then his lips are crashing into yours, stealing breath, stealing sanity. He whimpers, murmurs a protest when you draw back, and you can only laugh. “Lets get you off, yeah? You wanna feel an orgasm, pretty boy?”

“Yes, yes please. That would uh— yes.” he’s not even sure how he’s conscious right now. His body, god his body, has endured more pleasure in the last hour than it has for the majority of his life. Your hands scathe, and Spencer is willing to indefinitely burn, if just to feel them one more time.

You only stop to take off your clothes, and surely there needs to be prep? To reaffirm, he knows anatomy, the correct procedure, how the transgression is supposed to occur. And yet, that’s from a clinical, objective mindset. Do this, do that, etc etc. Nothing works out like that in practice.

You’re so wet, panties stained through, he spares a moment to run his fingers across your thighs, hand slipping beneath fabric to graze your clit. The moan that follows has him distracted, thumb tracing circlets, over and over until you’re pulling back to return the balance. The balance, which admittedly is skewed, tipped scales, you’re on top. He falls to the weight of your influence.

And yeah, he’s more than fine with that. Jesus, you drag your panties down, down your thighs, your legs, then they’re reaching your ankles, pooling there for a moment before they’re being discarded, tossed somewhere on his floor — leaving behind a souvenir that yes, yes this happened.

“I can’t,” he says, burying his face into your shoulder when you take him. It’s slow, sinking onto his cock like every inch of warmth will destroy him. Maybe it will. Maybe he doesn’t care, because he deserves this. He deserves to feel after so much repression.

Or maybe, maybe he’s just become the biggest slut known to mankind. Likely.

Your body presses against his, and he thinks he’s going to disintegrate, because he feels so good. He understands now, he understands why people do this. Why it’s integral to the function of most. This is the best day of his life. This. Is. The. Best. Day. Of. His. Life.

There’s this noise, this pathetically loud whimper when you start to roll your hips— and oh your body is wet against him, and you’re so tight, and it’s perfect because he doesn’t have to do anything.

He can just sit here, look pretty, and cry.

He knows he’s a giver, that he’d bleed himself dry for you. It’s a curse, he supposes: so willing to bend backwards for the satisfaction of the people he trusts. But, this is foreign, and he wants to watch you, aimlessly stare, dumb and empty-headed as you wield his body like a weapon. Turn him into something perniciously yours.

Spencer has no reference for what an orgasm is supposed to feel like, and yeah, he’s really good at guessing in these type of situations. Because he’s rolling his thumb over your clit again, and he wants to draw it into his mouth, to see you laid out across bedsheets, writhing, unable to do anything but suffocate him with your thighs.

You clench around him, back arched, releasing a series of strained moans. With one hand tangled in his dishevelled hair, the other pressed against his chest, your face contorts, your body stiffens. There’s no way his incessant whimpering just got you off?

Okay. So you like him desperate. Point taken.

“Please— please, wanna cum. Wanna feel it so bad,” he’s slurring over his words, sentences punctured by devastating whimpers. And look at him, asking for permission, waiting even though his body has been teetering on the edge for so long now.

“Shh, shh..” you press your forehead against his, and he melts. Reoccurring theme. His hand grips your jaw, thumb pushed firmly against your chin, keeping you close. “You wanna cum for me, baby? Gonna give me your first?”

“Mhm— mhm…” is all he can say. When you pick up your pace, he has to burrow his face into the crook of your neck, whimpers messy and broken off, suppressed against your warm skin.

“Oh. Oh…” he repeats, again. Like there’s anything else he could utter, because this is earth-shattering.

It’s the sun, and all eight planets combined, and the universe collapsing in on itself, and he’s bucking, squirming, releasing into you, spilling deep.

He sobs. Breaks down. Because it’s so so good, and he can’t believe he ever deprived his body of this.

Neediest whore to ever exist, apparently.

It takes him a while to come back. Longer to regain motor function, to sink into present day. Life, and expectations, and everything, everything, your touch eradicated.

“Just… just stay like this?” he asks, collapsing against your body after he’s drawn out of you. There’s mess, evidence of your ministrations, but cleanliness seems futile when he’s blissed out, caught in a post-orgasmic haze that yes yes yes he needed so badly.

You card your hands through his hair, watch the way he stares up at you, large, widened eyes, chin resting against your chest. “Hi,” he mutters dumbly.

“Spence,” Spence, Spence, Spence. He could drown himself in that nickname.

“Yeah?” he breathes out.

“You we’re so good—“

He rolls away from you, finding a home for his face in the pillow. “Stop. Stop.” he groans, “Don’t do that. You’re going to destroy me. I’m not… equipped for this, for you. Someone should just sedate me, put me out of my misery, a coma sounds like—“

He tilts his head to the side, relinquishing, “Okay. Sorry. Meltdown over. Can we shower? Then maybe do this again? Which will make the shower inconsequential, I suppose. There’s a new documentary I want to watch, and oh, you still haven’t seen the third Star Wars—“

He’s happy, content, over the fucking moon, to be silenced with your lips. “Yeah,” he murmurs, hand interlocking with yours as you both fall back against the mattress, “Let’s do this again.”

[fanatic564]

Learning Weakness (DPxDC) Chapter 1

I just posted this to AO3 and figured I would post it here as well. Here's the AO3 link if you want to read it over there instead. Summary:

Damian had been forced to kill his twin, Danyal, years ago while still with the League. He mourned, grew stronger in his grief, and moved forward in life (but not moved on, never moved on). Now, his supposedly alive brother has turned to him in his time of need, with the only condition being Damian not tell anyone of his living in Wayne Manor. Chaos ensues as the family gains a resident ghost, who is determined to show his brother that living life to its fullest (showing emotion, loving others, and being a kid for once) is not a weakness, but a strength.

Notes:

Based very loosely on this tumblr post. No real upload schedule, just when inspiration hits. This first chapter is a prologue of sorts. Next chapter will probably be the beginning of the actual shenanigans. No content warnings

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Damian, despite what some people think, knows how death affects others. He knows that for every drop of blood on his hands, there is family or friends out there to mourn the loss of life. Of course he knows that. Because he’s experienced it himself. Has been on that other end before.

Damian killed his brother.

He has long since come to terms with that fact. He was the hand behind the blade that slit into his brother’s throat, as unwilling as that hand had been, just as much as he was the family on the other end to mourn his death. Sometimes, Damian felt as if he was the only one who did mourn. Grandfather was the one who called for the duel in the first place, and Mother had only watched with cold emotionless eyes as the motionless body of her own son was removed from sight. By the time Todd had come to the League years later, no one ever spoke a word about the defeated heir. As if he never existed at all. And so Damian was the only one left to mourn, despite being the one to cause the loss in the first place.

Which is why he’s confused as to how and why his brother has decided to show up once more into his life, years after his death.

The being floating in front of him in his bedroom is unmistakably Danyal. Sure, he is older than the last time Damian had seen him. His hair is a stark white, his eyes are glowing green, and he is floating in front of him. But Damian could recognize that cheeky grin anywhere, and the pose he is in, laying with his hands behind his head despite being midair, is so Danyal that Damian would cry if he were a weaker being.

“Correct me if I have misunderstood, Danyal, but you mean to tell me that not only did you survive my blade all those years ago, but you managed to leave the League and convince a civilian family to adopt you, only to die again only a few years later and somehow still survive after death.”

Danyal shrugs in response. “I mean, I didn’t actually survive your blow. But CW told me it ‘wasn’t my time to go yet’, so I got better.”

“You got better” Damian deadpans.

“Yup”

“You are unbelievable.”

“Aw, but you missed me!”

Damian is not a weaker being, and so he does not cry as he responds. “Yeah, I did.”

He pats the bed beside him and Danyal floats down to sit. Damian almost flinches when the bed caves as the body next to him settles. He had expected his brother to simply float near the bed, not actually be able to interact with it. Damian wants to bring it up, discuss the specifics of his brother’s condition, but there are more pressing questions to be answered, and if Damian has his way then he will have plenty of time to ask later.

Damian wants to lean his head on his brother’s shoulder for the upcoming conversation, like back when they were in the League and only had each other as a source of comfort, but he holds himself back. This may be his brother, his Danyal, but its been so long, and they’ve both changed so much, that he doesn’t think it would be appreciated if he does. He takes a deep breath, looking down at his feet as he starts to speak.

“Why come to me, Danyal? And why now?”

“Why wouldn’t I come to you?”

“’Why wouldn’t you?’ Danyal, I killed you. Sure, you apparently survived but it doesn’t change the fact that for all intents and purposes I am your killer. Unless you are here to haunt me or torture me or something else for what I have done, then I don’t see a reason for you to come to me of all people.”

“Damian, look at me” Damian continues looking at his feet. A cold, no, a freezing hand touches Damian’s cheek, and this time he does flinch as it forces him to look his brother in the eyes. “Sure, you may have killed me, but you didn’t have a choice. It was me or you. And for what its worth, I’m glad it was me.”

Damian goes to protest but is cut off as Danyal continues. “I came back. There’s no guarantee that you would have. And even if I didn’t, I’m still glad that you’re the one to survive. I wouldn’t have lasted long as the Demon’s only heir. We both know I was never cut out for it. You’re so strong, Damian. Strong and brave. You survived Grandfather, you survived the League, and you got out of there. I’m so proud of you.”

Damian is not weak. He’s not. But then again, he’s always thought that maybe its okay to show weakness when he’s wrapped in his brother’s arms. This apparently hasn’t changed, for the moment Damian feels those very same arms wrap around him, albeit longer and slightly more muscled than when they were kids, he breaks.

Damian has never been a loud crier, but the tears flow down his face as he struggles to catch his breath. He feels his brother’s arms tighten, feels wet drops drip into his hair, and he knows his brother is showing weakness as well. Damian vows to never take advantage of his brother’s weaknesses. He will not lose his brother again, no matter what.

The two end up laying down on Damian’s bed, still wrapped up in each other’s arms. They lay there quietly until Damian eventually breaks it. “You didn’t answer my other question.”

Danyal simply hums in response to show that he’s listening.

“Why did you only return now? What has happened to make you seek me out? Why not go to your civilian family or friends?”

Danyal takes a moment to respond, long enough for Damian to wonder if he even plans to. “I… can’t stay with them any longer. Because of what I am. I am considered an illegal entity by the government and am eligible for experimentation and torture if caught-”

Damian cuts him off as he sits up quickly, dragging his brother up with him. “What‽ Surely that goes against the Meta Protection Acts?”

Danyal takes being dragged around in stride, simply tightening his arms around Damian as he goes on. “Nope. According to the US government, I am considered a non-sentient ecto-entity who is incapable of feeling pain who only wants to cause chaos and destruction and thus should be eliminated.” The way he says it, as if reciting a script, makes Damian think that he has said or heard those words way too many times.

“And what does your civilian family think? Do they even know about this?” Surely they would protect him from whatever government agents wish to take Danyal away.

Danyal’s face goes cold and he takes a moment to respond. “My parents are the researchers who’s studies influenced the law in the first place.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Once they found out about me being a ghost, there went any safety I had with them. And I couldn’t stay with any of my friends cause they’re already on the cusp of being liminal, so me being with them would only put them in danger. I can’t stay with my older sister cause she’s in college in a city that doesn’t have enough ambient ectoplasm to keep me stable.”

“And Gotham does?”

“Gotham is the haunt of the Never-Born Lady Gotham. She’s very protective of her city and those she calls hers. Once she found out I was your long lost brother she basically did the ghost equivalent of adoption. So I’m allowed to stay here and use her ambient ectoplasm without repercussion.”

“I see” In truth, Damian only understood half of what Danyal said. Liminal? Never-Born? Ectoplasm? Damian didn’t know what any of that was, but hopefully he’ll have the time to learn. “Well, I suppose I should inform father-”

“No!” The speed at which Danyal responds shocks him, as well as the firmness in the answer. “You cannot tell anyone I’m here.”

“Why not? Surely you don’t expect me to hide a whole teenage boy in my bedroom without anyone noticing?”

“If the GIW finds out that Bruce took me in, he could be arrested for harboring and illegal entity. The less people that know, the more they can have plausible deniability. That, along with Batman’s ‘no metas in Gotham’ rule, makes it safer for me to hide. As for the hiding part…” With that Danyal disappears from Damian’s sight, and if he couldn’t still feel the arms around him he would have paniced that the other had left him for good. “...I’m pretty good at that. Just call me Casper, cause I’ll be the friendly ghost of the manor.”

“Your name is Danyal, why would I call you Casper?”

Danyal lets go and stares at him at that. “Oh you poor, poor soul. I’m going to introduce you to so many things while I’m here.”

Damian lets out a small, but genuine smile as he looks at his brother. “I look forward to it.” ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ End notes

Not beta-read. Ending feels kinda abrupt, but I've never been good at endings so… Feel free to leave suggestions of things you'd like to see. I have some ideas of shenanigans and what not but I'm curious to see what y'all say. Or if you see any mistakes, let me know.

[rafesbabyg1rl]

The Watcher ~ Part Two

Part One

Summary: Rafe Cameron x Reader, Stalker!Rafe x Pogue!Reader Your parents work late on Friday nights, which you spend alone. Except you haven't been alone in a long time, not that you know of at least. Rafe has watched for years, he's very good at it. His idea of staying an anonymous stalker is ruined when you catch him in your bedroom one Friday night. Rafe has to figure out how to fix his mistake before he loses the only thing that makes his life worth living. After you find the surprise he had left for you, you choose to believe that his threats were empty and try to turn him in. But, your plans are interrupted and you take an unexpected visit to Tannyhill.

Warnings: Rafe stalks reader...that's literally the plot. Strong & descriptive language, suggestive themes, death threat(?), manipulation, kidnapping (?). If I missed anything from this part that I should include in the warnings, please let me know!

Word Count: 3.5k

Author Note: Part Two is here!! I know this chapter is shorter than the previous, but I figured it's better to get what I had out. Also...I'm not sure if I like where this is going, so please share your thoughts about this part and ideas for future parts. Thank you all for the support on the first part of this story. Especially with this being my first work I've published on tumblr, I am very pleasantly surprised with how everyone has reacted to it. So, please enjoy and feel free to leave feedback! I love you all, thank you so much!!

CREDITS: The foundation of this fic was heavily inspired by/ based off of one of @faiszt 's bots on character ai. So, if you like this and you like character ai, I greatly suggest that you check out the bot!

The blinding morning light shines into your room through your curtains. You sit up and rub your eyes. You glance at the digital clock on your nightstand which currently reads: 10:34 am. Those sleeping pills really worked, you think. Your parents are already at the restaurant, probably just getting over with the morning rush. 

Your eyes begin to focus, your brows furrow as your eyes land on one of the posts of your footboard. You lean forward to grab the pair of panties you had just worn yesterday which are hanging from your bedpost. You’re pretty sure you had put these in your hamper last night and wait, why are they sticky…? You wonder, you examine them and come to the realization of what it is. Immediately you toss them away, that was not from you. It was your stalker, it had to be. Of course, the first night you spend alone since four weeks ago and he already breaks in. And he does this? You think about his words, “tell anyone and I’ll come back and fuckin’ kill you”, shivers roll down your spine. 

You hadn’t even had time to realize how horny you had been when you had woken up; and now that you have you feel so wrong. But your dream…oh god your dream. You can still remember it vividly, even more so the longer you think about it; you can see the face of the man who fucked you stupid in your dream. You know who it was, who your subconscious mind let you fuck while you slept. It was your stalker. 

Without another thought, you’re in the shower scrubbing the shame and disgust from your skin—or at least attempting to. When you feel somewhat satisfied, which also happens to be when the water begins to run cold, you finally get out. Wrapping a plush towel around your freshly clean body, you lean over the bathroom sink and wipe the condensation from the mirror leaving just enough space to see yourself. Before the glass fogs back up you’re able to see a small part of what appears to be a bruise poking out from underneath the towel wrapped around your chest. You lean in closer using one hand to re-wipe the mirror and using the other to pull your towel down past your boobs. Looking back at the bruised area on your chest, you can see that the closer you look at it, the more it looks like a hickey. You just about stumble backwards at the realization. 

You’ve had enough. After you quickly toss on some clothes, you grab your keys off your dresser with a shaky hand. You rush out towards your car and get inside, pulling out of your driveway carelessly and speeding off. When you arrive at your destination, you take a few moments to rethink this plan. You have to do this. You can’t keep living with some creep sneaking in your bedroom and touching you as you sleep. You twist the keys in the ignition and pull them out, you confidently strut towards the entrance of the building. When you feel the vibration of your phone in your pocket you pause, sighing as you reach back to take it out. When you read the random number, with the same Outer Banks area code as you, your brows furrow. Typically you wouldn’t answer a call from an unknown number, but something in you is telling you to answer. As you press the green button and bring your phone to your ear, you glance up at the building you were about to enter which reads, ‘Kildare County Sheriff’s Office’. 

“Hello?” You ask warily.

After a few long seconds, the person on the other side of the line answers you. “Stop.” The man’s voice sends familiar chills down your spine. 

“Excuse me?” You respond, your voice audibly shaky. “Who…who is this?”

“C’mon pup, you already forgot what I sound like? It’s already been that long?” Your eyes widen at the realization of who this voice belongs to. You’ve heard it one other time, well one time that you remember.

As your head darts around the parking lot looking for your stalker, your voice comes out in a tone that easily betrays you, revealing your fear, “No…no…what the hell do you want?”

Rafe smirks from his truck as he watches you from afar. “I want you to turn around and get back in your car, m’kay princess? And I highly suggest you do what I want.” 

“Or what? What’s stopping me from walking in? Or from yelling for help?” You take a step closer to the building’s entrance.

“Stubborn, stubborn girl…” the man chuckles, “If you don’t get back into your fucking car right now, you’re gonna really fuckin’ wish you had just listened to me. I’m gonna get what I want no matter what, baby. You’re mine.” And with that, Rafe hangs up the phone, still watching you from a distance. 

As much as you want to just run into the building and beg for help, you know that unfortunately since you’re a pogue, the cops aren’t going to believe a single word that comes from your mouth. In their minds, all pogues are liars and thieves. And since you don’t have the slightest clue on who the man you saw in your bedroom is, you figure there’s not much they’d be able to do even if they did believe you. So you reluctantly turn back to your car and get inside. The moment your door shuts you inside, your phone buzzes yet again with another call. It’s coming from the same number, but this time you don’t answer. This was your second mistake. 

Rafe’s already pissed off. You went against his rules, you didn’t listen to him, none of this will work if you don’t listen. He thought he had been threatening enough that you’d behave, but clearly you need another scare. You need to be taught that disobeying him does nothing but hurt you more. When you don’t answer the phone when you definitely know it’s him calling, this is just the cherry on top; the icing on the cake. Rafe is fuming. 

You drive out of the parking lot, breath heavy as you stay on high alert–searching for him. A truck suddenly pulls behind you, tailing right on your ass. You can’t see through the truck's front windshield due to the dark tint. You being paranoid, step on the gas and speed up a bit, well exceeding the speed limit. A few quick seconds pass by and you jump at the sound of sirens. It doesn’t take long for you to check your rearview mirror and realize that the sirens are coming from the truck behind you, which is flashing its red and blue lights. You let out a breath of relief. You’re being pulled over yet you’re relieved because it means you aren’t being trailed by your stalker. The feeling is short lived as you flick your signal on and pull off to the side of the road. You roll your window down and shut off the engine.

The officer approaches you and goes through the typical routine and you try to calm your nerves. All sound is drowned out as you get lost in your thoughts. 

“Ma’am?”, the officer repeats. “Do you know why I’ve pulled you over today?”

The sharp and unintentionally threatening voice of the deputy snaps you out of wherever the hell it was that your mind had taken you to. “Yes, sorry sir, I…I was going over the speed limit.” You submit, wanting to get this over with. You can’t help but worry what your stalker would think if he saw this, he’d probably think you’re turning him in. But, you’re not. Really this whole thing was a misunderstanding, but you can’t explain that to the cop. 

“And why is that?” He questions you ever further, his gaze staring at you intensely. You get nervous and want to look away, but you worry that might make you look guilty of something. You’ve been pulled over before, it’s not usually a big deal for you. However you’re just so goddamn nervous and need this moment to be over. You feel like you’ve done something wrong; like you’re hiding something. But you aren’t.

“I–I thought…I just got distracted sir, wasn't thinking about speed. I apologize for the inconvenience.” You catch yourself, technically you aren’t lying; you just aren’t explaining why you were distracted. The threatening words of your stalker still echo around your head. The deputy gives a small lecture as he writes up a ticket for you. Once he gets back into his truck and drives off, you rest your head back against the seat and let out the breath you’ve been holding. When you start your car back up and finally open your eyes, you look straight out across the road. You can see a tall man leaning against a truck parked across the road, staring right at you. The familiar grin on his face has you sick to your stomach. 

After making direct eye contact with him, you pull off the side of the road and do an illegal U-turn so that you’re heading in the opposite direction, leaving the man behind. You know that he’s following you, so you drive around aimlessly until you get another call from the same unknown number. You want to decline, but you’re too afraid to face the consequences that might follow. 

“What do you want?” You ask, voice full of faux confidence. The only thing you hear on the other side of the line is a heavy breath that causes your skin to become full of goosebumps. 

After you’ve had a few moments to panic, he finally speaks, “Keep driving”. His words are not said lightly. This is undoubtedly a command, not an option. 

“Keep driving to where?” You stammer with nervousness. 

“Tannyhill.” He replies strictly. 

“Tannyhill?” You question before being able to stop yourself. You can’t help the attitude that slips into your voice. When a few more moments of silence pass, you get more and more anxious for his response. “Hello…?” You ask quietly, wondering if you lost connection. Still nothing. “Hello?” You ask again with more volume. After another minute or two, you hear the phone beep; the call disconnects. 

Why the hell does he want you to go to Tannyhill? It doesn’t make any sense. But you don’t exactly have a choice. He’s following you either way and it’s not like he doesn’t know where you live…and just about everything about your life. So, it’s probably best to just play along and obey his commands. 

When you get close to the general destination, your phone rings with yet another call. You answer, already knowing who it's from. This time you don’t speak first, you wait to hear what he has to say. It takes a few moments, almost like he’s trying to wait long enough that you’ll talk. The silence starts to get unbearably awkward, but your mind is set on waiting for him to speak and Rafe doesn’t have the time to wait; having to give you directions and all. When he finally talks he doesn’t greet you. His voice breaking the silence startles you as he instructs you with the directions to get wherever it was he was forcing you to go. 

“Wait…turn left h-here?” You ask, confused at his directions. You had missed the beginning of what he said since you had to collect yourself after being frightened. 

He sighs in impatience, “No dammit, the next one. Were you not listening?” 

“I…no I-I was listening–” you stumble over your words as you turn onto the street he wanted you to. 

“Bullshit. You need to learn how to fucking listen to me, don’t you?” When you don’t respond, trying to focus on remembering the directions he gave you, it only serves to piss him off even further. “Huh?! Don’t you?!” He shouts into the phone as he follows behind you.

You whine in fear, “No..I can listen. I promise I can listen to you.” You practically beg. “J-just tell me where to go?”

Rafe directs you to his house, which you of course recognize as the Cameron’s mansion. You’ve heard about the Cameron’s, but you wouldn’t be able to point them out in a crowd or anything. Besides from the father, Ward Cameron, whom you’ve seen on the news several times. Is he a Cameron? As you park in the large driveway, you rack your brain trying to recall the name of the Cameron son. 

His truck parks behind you, blocking your car in. He quickly kills the engine and exits his vehicle. You don’t notice him walking up to you until he’s yanking your car door open and pulling you out by the arm.

“R-rafe?” You mumble insecurely. He pauses to look at you, chuckling at your words. He mutters a quick ‘smart girl’ before retightening his grip on your arm and continuing to pull you into the large mansion. You start to cry, getting overwhelmed as you imagine the many possible scenarios that may occur. “P-please,” you manage to choke out. “What do you want?”

Unlike the last time you cried to him, this time he doesn’t stop. He drags you up one level of the large, spiral staircase; pulling you into his bedroom. As soon as you see the bed, you’re already feeling it beneath your back when he shoves you down just a few seconds later. As if you hadn’t already embarrassed yourself enough, you can’t help the tears that begin to stream down your flushed cheeks at a flooding rate. 

“Wait…no, please, please!” The way you keep shouting and choking back sobs causes you to gag from how worked up you’ve gotten yourself. All the Cameron son does in response is lean back to get a full view of you as a smug grin spreads across his face. “Please, I—oh god, I’m gonna be sick…” You mumble, which is quickly followed by another gag that interrupts your constant sobs. 

Rafe snakes his hand up from your arm to your hair, wrapping his first tightly around a large section of it. He tugs on your hair to force your head to look up at him, causing a small whine to escape your lips. “Shhh…baby, shhh…” He mumbles, his ‘worried’ tone working to oppose his previous amused expression. “Calm down, alright? Calm down. Ain’t gonna do nothin’ you don’t want, m’kay pretty girl?” The way he says that last part…you’ve never heard his voice sound like that before. You didn’t even think he was capable of talking in that tone. He sounds like he might actually truly care about you. You’re relieved; maybe even a bit…comforted by the fact that he might be telling the truth about not doing anything you don’t want. Well, besides having you basically held captive in his home. 

“What…what are you gonna do?” You manage to choke out between sobs, trying to catch your breath so you can calm down.

“I just wanna talk to you baby. Alright?” Rafe mumbles your name into your ear, allowing you to feel his hot breath against the side of your face. Immediately you’re taken back to the first time you had met him, in your bedroom a few weeks back. You try to push that aside and bring yourself back to the present; the memory only brings back the feelings of complete and utter fear you experienced at that time. Not that the present was any better, hell, it was worse. 

Hesitantly, you nod. He waits a few minutes to speak; waiting for you to catch your breath. Once you’re calmer, at least on the outside, he finally starts to talk. “I wanted to talk about my proposition…” He looks down at you, bringing his hand up to cautiously run through your hair. “Last time I got cut short…remember that?”

You nod. “I…I tried to warn you my parents would come home. I-I swear I didn’t tell them anything.” You say frantically, trying to prove your innocence.

“Hey, shh…it’s okay babe. I know. I know.” Rafe speaks slowly, his eyes never leaving your lips. He pauses to momentarily dart his tongue out to wet his parted lips. “I know. You haven’t told…you’ve been a good girl and listened to me, hm? Haven’t you baby? Haven't you been a good girl?” 

You nod frantically. “I…I’d never turn you in…” The false seductiveness in your voice turns him off, if that’s even possible. 

He pulls back from you and sighs, “Shut up.” He runs a rough hand over his buzzed head and begins to quickly pace across his bedroom. 

“B-but you wanted to talk…” You remind him. The way his attitude was constantly shifting in great amounts had you furrowing your brows as you tried to figure him out. 

“Yeah, I do. But not to a goddamn filthy, lying whore.” He retorts, a large grin appearing on his face while he watches your beautiful features move on your face, displaying your thoughts  as you take in his words. “Just be yourself alright? I can always tell when you’re not you.” He says almost sincerely. “I want…I need you to want this. Don’t try to pull that fake crap on me ever again, yeah?” 

Immediately you nod. “I…yes-”, you stammer, instantly regretting even trying to talk in the first place. Rafe chuckles, making your cheeks heat up in embarrassment. He stops pacing and lets out a long sigh, turning to face you again. His steps pause when he’s standing just before you. 

He leans down to whisper in your ear. “I really need this to work, okay…? This is good, this can be good for the both of us. I can help you; we can help each other, baby.” A silent tear rolls down your cheek from the fear of what’s to come. “I know…I know I messed up, alright? I know. But, you don’t have to be scared, baby. It’s all gonna be okay.” He brushes a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

“Please…I just wanna go home, let me go home!” Your cries are ugly, and very, very real. The fear in your voice only worries him. Worries him that you may never get past this. But you have to. You don’t have another option. And he really, really doesn’t want to have to hurt you. That was never his intention. 

“But you are home, baby. You are home.” He mutters as his fingers brush over your cheeks, smearing your tears. Your breath hitches at his words and your eyes slowly move up to meet his. This cannot be happening. Why is this happening? You think.

“No…please I…just let me go home. I won’t tell. I promise I won’t. I’ll…I’ll never tell anyone about any of this okay, I’ll never say anything about you.”

“I can’t do that, baby…you know I can’t do that.”

“Why not? I swear, I’ll never ever breathe a word of this to anyone.” You say enticingly.

Rafe sits down besides you, causing the mattress to dip and make you lean towards him. He puts an arm around you and his hand lands on the back of your head, pulling it into his chest.

He leans down to speak into your ear while his hand pets over your hair as you cry into his chest. “Because I need you baby, I need you. And I need you to let me take care of you, yeah? I know…I know you’re scared, but you don’t have to be. Just trust me okay…we’re gonna be so good together baby.” He tugs at your hair, gently guiding your face to look up at him. “Just listen to me and nothing will happen, I don’t wanna have to…do anything. I just need to know that you’ll listen to what I say.” Immediately you nod, going along with what he says. He tugs on your hair harder, eliciting a gasp to fall from your lips. “Ah ah, I know you can talk. You’re a big girl, now fucking act like it.” He says forcefully.

“I-I’m gonna listen, I’ll listen to you, just please, please don’t hurt me.”

He smiles softly as his eyes dart across your face, unable to pick a feature to focus on, everything about you is just too damn perfect. “Don’t worry I won’t hurt you, not as long as you listen.” His grip loosens on your hair again. “But you’ll be begging for it soon enough.” Rafe’s whispers are enough to make your sobs start again; in which he pulls your head back into his chest. Your tears soak into his shirt as you have no choice but to cry into him.

To be continued...

Thank you for reading! I hope this was enjoyable. This part took quite a bit for me to finish, since life has been a bit busy and I haven't had much time to plan or write. I apologize for the short chapter, I'll try my best to make up for it with the next part! I never really feel done with anything and as I said before I'm not sure if I'm a fan of this part or not. So, if you have literally ANY feedback, questions, or suggestions, PLEASE feel free to let me know! I don't really have any solid plans for this fic so if you have any ideas I just might include them in future parts. And there's not much I won't write!

[whencyclopedia]

Indo-Greek

The first Indo-Greek kingdom appeared circa 190 BCE may when the Greco-Bactrian king or (general for his father) Demetrios was busy in India, when his Indian possessions were divided between several kings, probably firstly in order to better govern them but then due to civil war. The term “Indo-Greek” is generally used because these kingdoms were almost always separated from Bactria and thus differed politically from the Greco-Bactrian kingdom.

These kingdoms, in which there were already some Greek settlers called Yonas, took more and more Indian characteristics, becoming truly unique political entities with a mix of Greek and Indian culture, at least for the ruling elites. Indo-Greek kingdoms timeline is very approximate. Between 190 BCE and circa 165 BCE, Greek possessions in India were divided between several Euthydemid kings which fought among themselves and their Greco-Bactrian neighbors. These kingdoms extended to Western Punjab and had Indians of Sunga dynasty as neighbors.

Circa 165 BCE the Greco-Bactrian rebel Eucratides invaded the Indo-Greek kingdoms and, defeating Antimachos II, succeeded to take control of most of the Indo-Greek possessions. Unluckily for him, Menander, his last Euthydemid enemy, pushed him back to Bactria circa 155 BCE. Thus the Indo-Greek kingdoms were safely under Euthydemid rule for the next 25 years. In this time Menander extended Greek rule as far as Paliputra (today Patna, in northeast India), but fell in a civil war.

However circa 130 BCE, the Euthydemid kings were chased away from Bactria by the Yuezhei and settled down in strength in the Indo-Greek territories. From 130 BCE to 80 BCE, numerous Indo-Greek kings ruled in India, often in little kingdoms, fighting among each other, while Arachosia was lost to the Sakas. Some kings seem to have nearly succeeded to reunite these areas, like Eucratids Philoxenos and Diomedes, but finally failed. One Euthydemid queen, Agathokleia, made a strong regency for her son Strato in this time too. Yet at the turn of the century the Indo-Greek regions were highly fragmented.

The disruptive element came circa 80 BCE, when the Saka king Maues attacked the Indo-Greek kingdoms. He won against several Euthydemid and Eucratid kings, taking the Paropamisadae, Gandhara and Western Punjab. Against this invader, the both dynasties forged an alliance under the rule of Amyntas, whose resistance in eastern Punjab saved Indo-Greek kingdoms, and by circa 65 BCE the Indo-Greek kings regained their kingdoms and their rivalry.

The final moments of Indo-Greek history are written in civil wars once more, with the quick loss of all the Western possessions to the Indo-Saka kings. The last Indo-Greek king Strato II ended his rule circa 10 BCE, vanquished by the Indo-Saka king Rajuvula.

The Indo-Greek kings and kingdoms are absent in the Greek imagination, because of the estrangement from the Greek world and the cut of political links due to Parthian and Sakas presence between India and Greece. However these kingdoms appear to have strongly influenced their Indian subject and Indian or nomad neighbors, as the nature of Indian art from the period, as well as the mention of the Yonas in Asoka's edicts suggest.

Continue reading...

[kujakumai]

Ok, question. I’ve been following your blog for a while now and while I’m not really that into Yu-Gi-Oh itself (haven’t read the manga or seen the anime outside of the stuff you’d usually find on Tumblr) I have been drifting around the periphery and reading fanfics. However there’s one thing I just don’t get - who or what is Yami Marik? It’s pretty well established that both Yami Yugi and Yami Bakura were people once, back in ancient Egypt (Yami Yugi being Atem and Yami Bakura being the Thief King) and they’re now possessing the millennium items, but while Yami Marik share some similarities with them he or it was never a person, it seems? Like, he/it isn’t a ghost or a reincarnation, just a sentient conglomeration of bad vibes without a proper descriptor or name. I might be way off base with this, but you probably know better than I do (like, I always assumed Yami Marik was a priest or something in Atem’s court who was involved in the coup that got Atem killed). I’m also ok with spoilers if there are any involved

Yami Marik is Marik's split-personality/alter which formed after Marik's father forced him to go through traumatic ritual scarification. He is not a ghost and he does not have nor ever has had an existence outside of Marik's psyche. I would recommend simply reading the source material.

I don't want to sound snappy but this question reads to me like saying "I have never watched or played Pokemon but I read a lot of fanfic and they sometimes mention Pikachu, who I have always imagined as a 6'11" Albanian man. But sometimes people seem to imply he is some kind of mouse, which confuses me. Can you explain this to me?" I mean...I guess, I could, but the answer is very much just reading/watching the thing you are asking about.

[my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction]

HI FEN do you have any hcs about nathan + carving pumpkins?? like I think that'd be the only thing he'd wanna do for spooky season but also he'd probably Suck At It and i just wanna knowwww

i'm sure your ask box is exploding so it's ok if you don't get to it ily

Firstly, I love you. Secondly, this is intentionally late (I hope that will make sense when reading <3). Thirdly, I love you some more!

Nathan Bateman x gn!Reader • Rating: 18+ pals Masterlist• ao3• want to be tagged? | request info • buy me a coffee? • ask-travaganza masterlist •

Summary: Nathan's been working himself too hard and is a little forgetful.

Warnings: Swearing, overworked Nathan, teasing, references to sex chairs and porn, not beta read, please let me know if I have missed a warning!

Word Count: 517

You pause as you enter the kitchen and take in the sight before you. 

Nathan is sat at the table, crouched over a pumpkin. 

“You okay there?” You ask, a little hesitantly. 

His head wipes around to look at you, a pained expression on his face.

“You alright?” 

“This is disgusting.” He pulls a face. 

“What, erm, what are you actually going there?” 

He moves to the side, showing you the pumpkin he was trying to deseed on the table. He waves his hands at you, showing a pair of blue plastic gloves he has on. “Even through these, it’s gross. I hate it.”

You nod a little, “Why are you cutting up a pumpkin like that?” 

He looks at you like you’re a lesser lifeform. “It’s Halloween.” 

You let his words hang in the air for a moment, “It’s November.” 

“What?”

“The 14th.” 

“What?” He stares at you incredulously. “It is not.” 

“You see,” You swallow, savouring his outrage, “Nathan, normal people-”

“Don’t give me that bullshit.” He folds his arms and then grimaces as wet, gloved hands touch his skin and quickly unfolds them. 

“Normal people, you know, those that are normal.” You walk towards him and sit down next to him.

“I’m holding a knife you know.” He scowls and you smile sweetly. 

“Normal people have phones, that tell them the dates and times, they have the date on their computers, the watch the news and look at-”

He holds his hands up, “Alright, I get it, I get it.” He scowls a little. “I just wanted to…”

“Wanted to?” 

He rolls his eyes and sighs. “I just wanted to do some, you know, holiday shit with you. Thought you’d like it.” 

You’re a little touched by the thought, but then you frown. “Nathan, you know I had time off, literally around Halloween, so that I could go home and spend it with people. You complained the whole time that you were lonely, and sent me that video of you on that sex chair you made.”

He pauses. “That was on Halloween?” 

You shove him playfully in the arm, but you can see the flush of colour in his cheeks. He genuinely had lost track of the days.

You rest your head on his shoulder and wrap your arm around him. “You’ve been working too hard.” 

“Hmm.” He mumbles, obviously not happy. 

“Hey,” you stroke his cheek as you sit up, “I’ll carve the pumpkin with you, we can have Halloween 2.” He gives you a little smile, “Electric boogaloo?” 

You snort. “Electric boogaloo… we can watch that later if you want.” 

“No, I wanna watch some terrible mock horror porn.” He says in mock seriousness.

You giggle, “You got something in particular in mind?” 

He nods, “Oh yeah, you’ll like it, I promise.” 

You watch his face for a second, “Is this actual, you know, professional porn, or is this something you made yourself?”

“Are you saying my videos aren’t professional?” 

“You’ve got good lighting in them, that’s for sure.” 

He grins happily as you scrape out the pumpkin seeds with a spoon.

Thank you for reading!

(My taglist is too long now for tumblr to work right, which is very humbling, so I'll be adding them in a reblog.)

If you'd like to be taken off the tag list please let me know here

[the4n4juggalo]

hey idk if this is creepy or not 😭 I'm really new to tblr so I tried to respond kindly, but I found this really weird (I'm a m1nor btw for context)

idk I found this weird and maybe their intentions weren't bad? maybe I'm just overreacting? I'm so so sorry for wasting ur time if I am

i'm going to be so brutally honest, if you can read this and think "maybe their intentions weren't bad" after confessing to dating a minor in spite of how illegal. what the hell- dude

looking through their blog it is all about the movie "lolita", a film adaptation from the book lolita. a book about hebephilia meaning "feeling attraction to 11-14 year olds"

upon translating his posts he talks about loving "small bodies"

how he would want to find a girl who's broken so she'll be dependant on him

which makes me so SCARED FOR THIS GIRLFRIEND HE SAYS HE HAS

good god-

thank you so much for bringing this to my attention

and know this. you will find men like this all over the place

if something feels wrong, it probably is

be careful when a guy DMs you first

everyone please block — @giostisapolias

(i might email tumblr's safety team themselves after that one cos god damn reading through their blog made me feel ill)

[that-student-that-has-homework]

YOU’VE SEEN GOODWILL HUNTING?!

Yeah Marineford was a watch. Like Ace already blames himself for not listening to Whitebeard. But he also takes responsibility for what happened with Teach and Thatch. I read a tumblr analysis that pointed out that Ace probably feels responsible for what happened to Thatch. Of course it’s his fault.

So Marineford is his fault. Thatch is his fault. It’s all his fault. He should’ve listened. He should’ve known better. He should’ve-

Even if Ace had survived he was going to carry the guilt of all the sacrifice because he can’t comprehend just being loved as is. Like they just love him, that’s it. But he doesn’t understand and he has to give back.

(Not to be annoying but I wrote a fic of us just hugging Ace and making him sob if you’re interested)

Watching Marineford: ooh if he survives this he’s gonna need a hug (I knew going into OP what happened to him). Seeing Oars Jr. ooooh it must be eating at him. Whitebeard and Marco claiming he was acting out under Pops’ orders: that’s crushing guilt right there.

waiting for someone to do a “psychology of ace” video on youtube so i can watch someone put into words how i think about him. i wish i could triple major and study psychology so i can just do it myself 😭😭

[yeloenk]

⟢ VOTE INK!!

my obligatory ink propaganda art

vote ink or else /j

link to poll: here

ink belongs to @comyet

[girl-of-stupidology]

I LOVE PENTIMENT SO MUCH!!! WHERE WAS I WHEN THIS GAME HAD A COOL FANDOM BACK IN 2023 😭😢

As a person that never played a single video game besides Hades this year, never have I found a niche game that is legit made for me if not for Pentiment by Josh Sawyer. If you are an art historian lover, Illuminated manuscript lover, or love silly men and monks GO play it.

[welcometogrouchland]

(ID in alt) hi sorry for back to back marvel fanart I swear I still have dc stuff lmao. However I did recently read X-Men: first class and got a bit carried away doodling this after Lmao

[tj-crochets]

Thanks everybody!!! I have so far been unable to convince my dad to try any of the options you suggested, but I realized all our leftovers right now are the right combo of ingredients for chicken soup so I am making chicken and dumplings for dinner well, I say I'm making it but I have recruited my brother to help me lol

Hey what are some hot beverage ideas for someone who does not like coffee or tea to help with a sore throat? It's not for me, so allergies are not a concern, my dad's just only willing to drink like one mug of hot cocoa a day absolute max lol

[chiiroptereh]

[Please zoom in, there's a lot of detail! And a massive file size...ouch]

Hi guys, long time no post! Been working on Art Fight and life stuff, but I've got something kinda fun for you.

This is a compilation exploring how a mortal Bill may interact with our world if there were still some kinda Euclidean instincts buried in there. Y'know, before the Book of Bill ruins all my headcanons >:P (EDIT: IT HAS BEEN READ. YAHOOOOOO)

Also quite an experimental piece as you can probably tell. Lots of details on both said headcanons and the art stuff under the cut, but I invite you to study the colorful texture yourself beforehand and think about what it might be representative of, just for fun because I got some really cool answers from my friends when asked :]c

TL;DR: the headcanon is that Euclideans have exceptional eyes for geometry. They find things like symmetry, tessellating patterns, graphs and fractals very aesthetically pleasing. If pushed into our 3D world, they feel comforted by the familiarity flat objects/spaces bring, as well as high-contrast patterns. Shadows especially are a familiar dimensional reduction that may bring them much comfort.

Bill would surely not be happy about these inclinations, constant reminders of a past long gone, but I'm not sure he's even aware of them here :P I think his ego gets in the way to the point where he just views these interests as common sense, which, of course, us lame humans just don't understand because we aren't nearly as cool as him. Of course he likes perfectly symmetrical leaves and staring at the kitchen floor, it's called taste, look it up!

And yet, he can't seem to shake the strange sense of melancholy he gets from viewing his own shadow.

~ End of TL;DR, long version below! ~

🔺 Headcanon Development

So, the catalyst of this idea was in relation to my friend and I's AU ( @love-triangles-au ). TL;DR, Bill's brought back mortal, meets another triangle named Y.V. (it's his hand holding the paper in the piece, actually), at some point they fall in yaois together, you know how it is. And, in writing a pair of triangles (or, more broadly, writing from the perspective of a different species), something I've had to consider was that you really can't get much further removed from a human being than sentient geometry.

The anatomical aspect was mostly figured out (see my piece on Bill's eye-mouth), but I wanted to consider what psychological differences might be at play. I wanted them to be weirder, more alien, double-so for Bill. At first I explored these possibilities through the lens of Bill and Y.V.'s relationship, specifically the question "what might a triangle find appealing about another triangle?"

Well, really the only things that came to mind were straight lines and symmetry, anything related to the geometric form of such a creature. That's more-or-less where that ended until the thought struck me that there's no reason this aesthetic appreciation couldn't extend to the rest of the environment, and then further when I realized, "wait, this is a species that is designed to live in a 2D environment. Like, they should seriously be really weird. I need to push this like 200% more."

So...yeah! I did some thinking and brainstorming with others and came up with a pretty long list of things a Euclidean in our world may be inclined to enjoy or find some level of comfort in. It's worth noting again that in this piece specifically this is a mortal/powerless Bill, so he can't really escape this Earthly environment. IF he's aware of these instincts at all (and that's a big "if"; when have you last been cognizant of your own instincts let alone known where they were stemming from?) I think he'd have snuffed them out in immortality and/or purposefully gone against them; he doesn't take kindly to being told what to do.

In order from left-to-right, top-to-bottom, here's an explanation for each!:

Flat objects such as paper are something he may find particularly engaging. It's basically 2D!

Tessellations are especially fascinating, and our world has them everywhere in the form of tile floors. Symmetry and such a predictable pattern...as the infinity of the starry sky might for us, the infinite potential of tessellations might invoke a similar sense of awe in him. Add on the maximum contrast of black on white kitchen tiles and the forms are only even better defined! A sensitivity to contrast would be very helpful for a 2D being navigating their environment.

Fields are flat and open, much like Euclydia itself. Laying flat may make him feel a little more at home.

More tessellation in the honeycomb of hymenopterans (bees, wasps and friends)! It helps that pain is hilarious.

The city is an absolute treasure trove. Rectangular buildings, precise architecture, square sidewalks and straight lines abound...he may as well be looking at a rainbow or an art gallery! I think a Euclidean's brain is very fine-tuned to mathematics, especially in regards to trigonometry. What may appear to be a straight painting might appear obnoxiously crooked to him.

Zebras are high-contrast :]

Another flat surface, another relaxing space <3

I think graphs are about as high as high art gets to most Euclideans.

I've touched on shadows before, and for good reason; truly they must be something borderline magical to the Euclidean and perhaps bitterly nostalgic.

This one kinda speaks for itself. Dweeb.

🎨 The Artsy Stuff

Lately I've been trying to find ways to fit more color into my work, as color is perhaps one of my favorite things in the world. My wardrobe is rather garish; my dad jokes that you could see me from space. My fursona is obnoxiously bright for a reason -- I feel my soul is a very colorful one!

I also realized recently that I don't actually know the exact style that speaks to me. I could talk about the phenomenon of the "style crisis" that many artists have all day, but in my mind the best cure for this feeling is to go against it entirely and begin stealing as much as possible.

So, I've tried to keep an eye out for more sources of inspiration everywhere I go, physical and digital. I've tried to train my mind into making a habit of considering, "can I do anything with this?" everywhere I go, and it recently paid off!

The glittery rainbowy texture you see plastered all over Billiam is this one, a photo-manipulated set of fruit stickers. I must confess I've been obsessed with this image for the past 72 hours, and this seemed like a good excuse to try it out!

I worried throughout the process if it might be so abstract that it loops back around to being horribly deliberate, if that makes sense -- like each sparkle was not a piece of a whole but rather an object in itself -- but it seems like that hasn't been a problem, so I'm grateful for that :Dc

I hope it can dazzle and delight you as it does me, but as long as you find it fascinating at the very least then I consider it a success! I really enjoyed hearing my friends' interpretations while workshopping it, and got tons of amazing answers from opal to kaleidoscope to fossilized bone marrow! I truly believe that the best art has some room for interpretation and it really excites me to be surrounded by that kind of creative energy that follows said pieces. That definitely adds to my pride in this work. It's weird, it's colorful, it's detailed and yet ambiguous. I'm feeling pretty autistic about it

Alright, I think that's about it. Thanks for listening!

[whencyclopedia]

Ptolemy XII

Ptolemy XII Neos Dionysos (r. 80-51 BCE) was king of Ptolemaic Egypt and father of Cleopatra VII (r. 51-30 BCE). His illegitimate birth and drunkenness inspired ridicule, and he was nicknamed "Auletes" ("the Flute-Player") for his musicianship. He reigned for nearly 30 years, bribing leaders of the Roman Republic like Pompey and Julius Caesar to prevent the Roman annexation of Egypt.

In 58 BCE, amidst a surge of economic turmoil and anti-Roman sentiment, his throne was usurped by his daughter Berenike IV. Ptolemy XII bribed the Roman proconsul Aulus Gabinius to restore him in 56 BCE. These increasingly large bribes forced him to borrow money from Roman bankers, and his children Cleopatra VII and Ptolemy XIII inherited crippling debts. However, his actions also ensured the continuation of the Ptolemaic dynasty by safeguarding Egypt from Roman warfare.

Early Life

Ptolemy XII was a member of the Greek Ptolemaic dynasty, which ruled Ptolemaic Egypt after Alexander the Great's conquest. Ptolemy XII was born at an unknown date, probably after 100 BCE based on the Roman contemporary Cicero's description of him as a teenager in 80 BCE. He was the illegitimate son of Ptolemy IX and an anonymous mother. Modern historians have speculated that his mother may have been a Greek or Syrian courtesan or an Egyptian aristocrat. Children born out of wedlock were viewed with contempt in Ptolemaic Egypt, and he was called "Nothos" ("the Bastard" in Greek).

In 88 BCE, Ptolemy IX's rival and half-brother Ptolemy X Alexander died while trying to take over Cyprus. Before dying, Ptolemy X allegedly bequeathed Egypt to the Roman Republic in his will. Rome ignored this bequest because Ptolemy IX was in control of the kingdom. Additionally, the Roman Senate feared that whichever general conquered Egypt would be rich and popular enough to become a tyrant. The threat of Roman annexation was constant throughout Ptolemy XII's life.

Ptolemy XII spent his adolescence in Syria for unknown reasons. Mithridates VI of Pontus (r. 120-63 BCE) may have taken him captive when he conquered the Egyptian-controlled island of Kos in 88 BCE. Some modern historians have theorized that he was actually one of Cleopatra III and Ptolemy VIII's sons, who were sent to Kos before 113 BCE. However, these princes were legitimate and much older than Ptolemy XII.

Continue reading...

[cfffrk]

[its-flame-art]

“wait a minute. wait a minute, Doc. ah... are you telling me that you built a time machine...out of a DeLorean?”