#his personally feelings are entirely unrelated to the point

[synergysilhouette]

9 hot takes/unpopular opinions with DC and Marvel Comics

Originally this was a Marvel-exclusive post with just 5 hot takes (because I was NOT ready to defend myself against people who disagreed with 10), but some of my hot takes were things I shared with DC, so I thought I'd just do a 10-point hot take post on both (only to realize I miscounted this after posting, so it's just 9). And these opinions are slightly generalized, with very few focusing on individual characters. This is largely still an X-men post, but has some other things.

Different codenames--It's fairly common in comics books for a character to take a codename that someone else already had, either for story purposes (ie to honor the character) or for marketing reasons (certain names carry a lot of weight and would make people more interested in an unrelated character). That said, it's very unimaginative and boring to me. Unless you're purposefully trying to steal someone's identity or deceive someone, get your own codename.

2. No magical mutants--(Dislaimer: BIG X-Men fan). Okay, everyone's gonna kill me for this, especially since this has been a staple since I got into comics, but I'm not the biggest fan of it. At the very least, stop doing it going forward. I'm not against mutants having fantasy adventures and villains (ESPECIALLY as a fantasy fan), but being mutants is supposed to be what unites them, having powers derived from human evolution and the consequences that come with it. Not saying every story has to be about racism and how they overcome it, but I do think characters with powers independent of their mutant status kind of cheapen the experience. It's almost like "why be a mutant at all?" And for some characters, it's not entirely clear what powers are mutant, and what are magical. While having magic powers would get some prejudice, magic is treated a bit differently in the Marvel universe, from what I've seen. It's almost like "What are you fighting for?" It kinda reminds me of how Chris Claremont had Scott marry Madelaine, start a family, and wanted to retire him from the superhero business--but you don't retire from being the victim of racism. I think this is why Krakoa was so fascinating to me since it's founding was based on helping mutants escape the prejudice of regular humans.

3. Families/marriage--It's often said that couples in comic books don't last because writers don't know how to keep them together and interesting, along with the misguided belief that adding kids to the equation automatically makes you boring and retired, even though this isn't necessarily true. Plus there's also the publisher's preference to "shake things up" in order to keep people engaged, even if we were happy with what we had, meaning messy breakups, death, etc. It's all about how you write it, and relationships in comics shouldn't be treated like they're that flexible. We love consistency.

4. Stoic Batman needs to stop being the default--Most modern depictions LOVE to depict Batman (and Bruce Wayne) as emotionally distant, cold to those he cares about, and prefer to do things on his own because he believes he's the only one capable of doing so. The reasoning is often just because it's cool to be edgy (another issue I have with comics), and sometimes chalking it up to trauma, but in the world of comic books, I feel like you don't have to depict him as consistently a jerk about it. Batman's most emotional and compassionate moments are some of his best. Not saying he needs to have a bleeding heart, but having an emotional core isn't a crime.

5. No uniforms--This is just a matter of preference, but I don't like uniforms. I count uniforms of one of three things: having the same/similar colors but different styles (ie W.I.T.C.H.), having different colors but the same/similar style, or both the colors and style being the same or at least similar. I was never a fan of it, preferring individuality in appearances and personal style.

6. No major sexuality changes if you've been depicted as a certain sexuality for 15+ years--As a gay guy, this frustrates the heck out of me. Aside from drawing attention away from LGBT+ characters who debuted as such or were addressed as such early on, major characters getting sexuality retcons feels like a betrayal of character consistency (again: WE LOVE CONSISTENCY). I like to use Iceman as an example, because a lot of people say he was gay-coded when people argued against him coming out as gay. Yeah...in my opinion, he wasn't gay-coded, he just had a backstory that could be READ as gay-coded, matching his new sexuality; there's a difference between being coded and it just conveniently serving the current, unrelated narrative. And Bobby's sexuality has almost become a persoanlity trait for him like that's all he's got going. I have a similar issue with Tim Drake, who's depicted as bi now, with bisexual-debuting character Ghostmaker (a member of the Batfamily who was shown as bi shortly before Tim was), gets less attention. And given DC's mistreatment and mismanagement of Tim, them making him bi feels like they were desperately trying to find a way to market him in a way different from the other Robins when everything else was failing. Even ignoring my regular feelings about sexuality retconning (though I should note that an artist for Tim in the 2000s did try to hint at him being into guys), DC's had major issues with characterizing Tim as indecisive when they have to walk back on decisions they make because fans don't like it, ie Tim's "Drake" codename and costume. Because of that, him being bi feels like DC subtley trying to double down on him being indecisive/of two minds, which is insulting.

Sorry for the rant! But that brings me to my next point.

7. Tim Drake is continually being set up to fail--ARGUE WITH THE WALL. This topic is a bit more heated for me than others, but it's true. Tim joined Batman because he saw how he changed emotionally when Robin (Jason Todd) died, as well as having a family, a social life, and was the smartest Robin at the time, as well as becoming Robin voluntarily. However, with time, this was changed; the other Robins became more tech-savvy and Tim became and orphan and was adopted by Bruce Wayne, removing Tim's sense of identity to a significant degree. On top of this, any teams he led or friend she had were sadly underrated himself, preventing him from using any A-list connections outside his family to elevate his own position. Plus Tim has usually always been happy as Robin, but several situations have arisen where him advocating Robin as Batman's partner instead of sidekick have been undermined by others trying to tell Tim to do something else that was "his own." However, when he tries this, DC does it in a way that is uninteresting or annoying to the fans, like the aforementioned "Drake" debacle (brown as a costume choice isn't very eye-catching, and using part of your name as a codename in the modern era should be outlawed). And even when he got a comic of his own after he came out as bi, DC had the art done by Riley Rossmo, whose art style was...not great, only getting a different artist towards the end, but it was very clear that they were kinda just giving him a solo just to say they did; he didn't have an artist to actually do him right, nor a story that felt empowering to his character or unique.

8. Skintones should be more consistent--It's a personal opinion of mine (especially for POC) that a (human) character's debut skintone should be their canon skintone, no matter how light or dark it is, with little room for variation. A lot of characters end up looking WILDLY different, sometimes with even different facial features and eye colors. I feel like there should be a comic bible for this.

9. Krakoa should've lasted longer--Is this a hot take? Inn any case, it was really fun seeing some villains turn over a new leaf, familiar characters go down a new path, and new characters/underrated mutants getting attention. Definitely feel like this should've been at least 10 years long.

[bananonbinary]

even if, for the sake of argument, some people DO "deserve" to suffer, it's just not something you can make into a political policy.

1) as vaspider pointed out, it doesn't actually make things any better, and i'd much prefer making things better to getting that sort of "justice,"

and 2) you are assuming that YOU will be the one to decide who "deserves" it. "bad people deserve suffering" is literally the current policy, you just disagree with those in power about what makes someone a "bad person." this ideology affecting marginalized groups isn't even a slippery slope, we are already at the bottom of the damn hill. the only way this will work out the way you want it to is if you, personally, are dictator of earth, and no one else ever disagrees with you on who "deserves" suffering. not really an ideal situation, if you ask me.

also it makes me sad that so many supposed leftists think the answer to ‘there is an imbalance in who suffers and who doesn’t" is “redistribute the suffering to the people I don’t like”, not “try to make it so no one has to suffer”

It’s extremely punitive-justice oriented but they’d have a ragefit if you told them how carceral their logic is

[ervotica]

hehe dark!rafe fucking jj's ex bc she spiraling after the break up and using hella drugs so he's just degrading & using her however bc she's beneath him and he can't help but record it and send it to the male pouge's

warnings; DARK, smut (18+ only), drug use, dub-con (r is HEAVILY under the influence and not very aware), throat fucking, fingering, slight daddy kink, breathplay, degradation (I may have gone insane with this one I fear)

A cruel hand is splayed against the top of your spine where the base of your neck begins, subduing you enough to keep you from thrashing as Rafe curls his fingers against the spongy walls of your cunt. You're alight with pleasure, the lick of a flame igniting your every muscle as you gargle into the sheets below you; you're not entirely sure how you got here but your drug addled brain is too hazy with the white-hot euphoria he is so kindly granting you.

He groans at your blank eyes, breath hot on your skin as he licks a long line against the column of your throat and bites down, taking great enjoyment in the way you wriggle and whine.

"Please," you gasp out, that coil in your belly drawing tighter the longer he keeps his fingers nestled against that spot deep in your pussy that makes you scream.

"Please, what?"

"Please, daddy. Lemme cum."

"Attagirl." His grin is wolfish, teeth pointed and bared like a predator. "Little fuckin' whore, aren'tcha, kid? Bet Maybank never made you feel this good."

You shake your head vehemently, almost incomprehensible where you're drooling into the pillow beneath your balmy face.

He tweaks his fingers once more and suddenly the dull flame of bliss has roared to life, squeezing every one of your muscles like tendrils as you gush and your hole clenches around his thick digits.

The muted roar of white noise is all you can hear for a good while; eyes rolling, lashes fluttering, limp and spent from just one orgasm.

You don't see him next but rather you feel him. A thick mushroom head prodding against your swollen lips, the taste of bitter precum on your tongue as he feeds his cock down your spasming throat. A gag rips through you but he pushes past it, unfazed by your own discomfort as he chases the feeling of your tender gullet tightening around him.

"Yeahhh, that's good," he unabashedly moans, deep and gravelly. His cock pushes at the thin skin of your neck, flesh bulging as he settles your nose in the thatch of hair at his pubic bone, heavy sack pressing lewdly atop your gurgling mouth with every rut of his hips.

Bubbles of spit ooze from the corners of your stretched lips and then you're suddenly blinded by white light. The flash of a phone camera crowds your vision and Rafe doubles down, hips pistoning against your slack face as he groans and grunts, degrading insults pouring from his mouth.

"Dirty slut, all you're good for 's takin' dick, right? Just a filthy little hole for me to use when 'm bored."

You purl and choke around him in an effort to voice your complaints, but all it seems to do is spur him on further.

"G'na have this throat trained in no time, kid. You're my personal cocksleeve from now on."

He wrenches himself away despite being seemingly on the precipice of blowing his load; you gasp and whimper as he turns to prop the still recording phone on the dresser behind him, twisting a large handful of your mussed hair around his hand and dragging you across the expanse of the king sized bed. Your neck contorts in an odd sort of manner as he positions you with your head hanging upside-down from the side of the plush mattress. It gives him ample leverage to use you without care; he's not bothered if you pass out, he'll use you either way.

It's rough, borderline abusive, how he fucks your throat. Hard and fast and unrelenting despite your almost continuous retching and slapping feebly at his thick thighs. The bulge in the divot of the soft flesh only becomes more prominent, his spongy head pushing from the inside as though it's trying to rip through you.

His hand reaches between his own legs to plug your nostrils and a menacing chuckle hits your ears as your vision blurs and your eyes lose focus and roll to the back of your skull.

He lets up just as you're on the cusp of unconsciousness, dick never leaving your warm cavern as he reaches blindly behind him for the phone. Forearms dig cruelly into your ribcage as he props himself up and zooms the camera in on your sopping, swollen cunt, parting your petal soft lips and slipping two fingers inside to bully another orgasm from you.

"If I were you, Maybank, I'd have never given up this tight cunt," Rafe rasps. "Fucked the poor thing dumb, already. 'M keeping her."

He presses send before you can protest- not that you'll ever be able to. You'll be too cockdrunk to ever notice what he's done.

[yovrnewromantic]

CULT OF DIONYSUS

billy loomis x reader x stu macher

Let’s get mischievous and polyamorous!

Or in which Stu Macher really wants to fuck Billy Loomis’ girlfriend, and he doesn’t feel the same

warnings: talk of smut but no real smut. billy and stu lowkey hate each other.

Dipshit: guess whos alone w your gf😊

               meeee 😩🍆💦

Billy’s phone pings in his back pocket. Frustratedly, he maneuvers the bagged groceries in his hand. Reaching to grab his phone, he expects a text from you, asking him to grab something you had forgotten to put on the list or a needy i love you text.

Instead, he frowns at the message on his homescreen. The IMS shadow covers one of his faces on the stack of black and white polaroids of you and him on his wallpaper. Quickly, he slides his phone open, typing furiously. 

What the fuck do you mean

Dipshit: 🤷🏼‍♂️

Stu.

Dipshit: srry gtg busy

“Shit,” Billy hisses, forcing a hand through his hair. It was no secret that Stu wanted to fuck you. Stu had practically begged him to just let him watch him fuck you— in person or on video—and he got on his knees attempting to somehow sway Billy to let him cuck you. 

Yeah, not going to happen.

The drive to your shared apartment feels agonizingly slow, an unrelenting doom gnawing in the back of Billy's mind. His knuckles turn white from their tight hold of the steering wheel.

Tires skirt as he swerves into the parking lot, heart racing much more than he would like to admit when he takes the keys out of the admission, front wheels diagonal on the yellow lines they're meant to be inside of.

His pulse is in his ears when he reaches the door, hands clumsy for the keys before he realizes the door isn't even locked. The acknowledgment sends a new sense of dread down his spine because ever since Woodsboro, you listened to him, and you always locked the doors.

With half the mind to grab the knife that he buried it in the potted plant in the hall to castrate Stu-- if he was even there and didn't just want Billy to kill him in his sleep.

The door creaks open deathly slow. Billy's boots are loud against the wooden floors as he steps inside, listening intently. His eyes are frantic, dancing to any open space for your presence. He doesn't see you.

"Y/N?" he calls, his voice steady despite his panic.

It's quiet.

What position does he have you in now? Tied up and gagged so you can't make a sound as Stu pounds into you. Billy swallows his own bile, hardly convinced to continue his search downstairs before heading to your bedroom. If he can get to the kitchen, he can grab a butcher knife and go Michael Myers on that motherfucker.

"Boo!"

He's genuinely startled when he turns the corner into the kitchen, taking a step back and staring at your beaming form with wide eyes. Standing in front of him, perfectly clothed may he add, you cackle, your entire body shaking as you struggle to point a finger at him, too consumed with pure unaltered joy. "I--" you wheeze. "I scared you. Finally, I actually did it."

Despite the small part of him that's a teensy bit pissed (any other day he's punching a wall) that you finally got the best of him, Billy smiles, hands seizing your waist to pull you into his chest so he can hold you after the stress of a lifetime. Your fingers slide across the back of his neck, and it feels like a glimpse of heaven: having you, his girl, and his girl only in his arms, grinning ear to ear.

His fingers find your chin and he makes you look into his eyes. "You got lucky, babe."

While you divulge into another laughing feet, burying your face in his neck, Billy closes his eyes in bliss, savoring the moment as he hugs you. Your bodies fit together like perfect puzzle pieces. You're okay. You're safe. You're his. Billy opens his eyes, sighing quietly. And Stu is nowhere in sight--

What the fuck.

Elbows propped onto the granite island; Stu is smirking like a dead man.

Arms locked around you, Billy stiffens. You pull back, and to your boyfriend's displeasure, out of his arms.

The kitchen is covered in white flour like winter had come early and a blizzard swept inside your windows. Stu's sweater is coated in the flour as well and now that he thinks of it, he can see the powder on your cheek.

"We tried to make cookies," you explain joyously, taking a half-glance between him and Stu. The latter saunters towards you and Billy smugly. "Stu's not very patient."

"Not at all," he purrs, throwing an arm over your shoulder at tugging you into him. You laugh, oblivious to the heated exchange that was happening just above your head.

Billy was going to kill Stu if he kept looking at you like that, his eyes flickering between Billy and peeping down your shirt. Goodbye to their sequel.

You break him from his reverie. "Billy, baby, where's the groceries?"

"Yeah, man. Where are they?" Stu tilts his head.

"In the car," he deadpans although he forgot about them in the first place, abandoning them accidentally. He grabs your wrist, tugging you away from Stu's grip, fuming. "Let's go get them."

THIS IS SO BAD. will def rewrite but seeing this in my drafts was giving me a headache

[elsecrytt]

Your Heart is Spilling out, Babe

Pairing: Satoru Gojo/Reader

Summary: You and Satoru are friends with benefits. No feelings, that was the agreement from the start. Neither of you want anything more. Even if you did, it wouldn’t work out, anyways. Not that you care if it would.

Tags: fwb, smut, angst, YEARNING, requited unrequited feelings (or ARE they) but jk it’s totally no feelings, commitment/abandonment issues, not that it matters because you totally don’t have feelings anyways

“Mmmh… that’s it for me tonight. You can shower before you leave, if you want.”

“Oh? I can’t stay the night?” He asks, “Just gonna pump and dump me? So mean~”

A hum. “Knock yourself out. But you can’t shower in the morning, you’ll wake me up.”

“What a coincidence,” he lays down next to you, “I’m a late sleeper, too.”

You don’t say anything more, eyes already closed.

Satoru’s arm presses your form against his, just barely.

When he wakes up, you’re still laying there beside him, unmoving.

He leaves.

At first, Satoru tries to tell himself it’s a happy coincidence.

After all, isn’t it? His problem has always been the women (and men) who give him a certain kind of look before he gets up to leave.

The ones who text him back first, who read everything instantly, who always want to meet up again. The ones who always, inevitably, start to want something more.

Like him giving them the fuck of a lifetime with someone who could be a real-life supermodel and happens to be the greatest sorcerer on earth wasn’t enough. Granted, they don’t know about the sorcerer thing, but still!

It always turns out like this:

Things are good for a while. Sex is good, he gets attention when he texts them, they both understand this is totally casual, no commitment.

Sometimes he even brings up another hookup he’s going to, just to drive the point home, and he cheers them on when they’re getting some somewhere else, too.

(He’s got no reason to be insecure, after all. He would be anyone’s first choice.)

From there, he can admit some of it is his fault. It’s hard, being as irresistible as he is. Being so devastatingly good-looking and even better in bed.

Having so much humor and personality in his amazing texts (never mind that most of them just react with an emoji or a short haha or an unrelated compliment – he drinks it all up just the same).

They start to text him first, which is impressive, considering what a spammer he is. He likes to text them to fill his time, to talk to someone, have his notifications filled with messages of people who want him.

So what if it’s an ego boost? Isn’t that what they’re using him for, too?

But when they start texting him themselves, when they return his style of badgering, it’s not random and rambling. It’s affectionate, personal. They’ve gotten attached, and they want him to be, too.

It’s all nonsense like Saw this and thought of you, and You’re the most beautiful man I’ve ever met, and I want to meet up again soon.

He has to stop spamming with memes or selfies or random observations throughout his day, stop talking about shops or cafes he’d like to visit. Sometimes he has to mute their notifications, because when he spams other people, they feel comfortable spamming him.

And then it’s just a matter of how long he spends lying to himself. Because as much of an ass as he is, it’s cruel to let them get attached to him when he can’t really open up entirely. When he doesn’t want anything serious.

In fairness, he had told them from the start. He usually breaks it off only after a few days. He always sends them a message and just blocks them ��� it’s cleaner that way.

Answering any desperate Please, we can still be friends or No, let’s just hook up again, would give them hope for things he can’t give them.

But you?

You text him You’re the most annoying man I’ve ever met, and leave him on read for two days.

Satoru thinks he’s in love.

Not literally, of course, but in love with the relationship he has with you, which is perfect.

Everything about it is perfect, except for that it’s not going on all the time.

You respond to his memes with your own. Chat with him about cafes and desserts and even keep a handful at your home to treat him with. You text him cat pictures, sometimes return selfies if he’s lucky.

Usually he gets those when he sends the thirst pics, sitting there with a grin that scares Ichiji, absolutely giddy as he watches you type, stop typing – he knows you’re looking for something special to send him back.

It’s surprising, how well he just knows things about you. Maybe that was to be expected, though, with your chemistry.

Sex with you is like nothing he’s ever felt before.

You have this way of tensing up, expression shifting as you’re right about to cum – he thinks by now he’s conditioned by it, that just seeing you make that face could get him over the edge.

He’s fucked hot people before but no one like you. Seeing the same clothes from your cute little selfies slip off, it’s like unwrapping a present he can’t wait to eat up. Makes him salivate like a box of chocolates, like the one truffle package you got one time and made him eat on his knees with his head in your lap, out of your hands.

Fucking you is one of his favorite things ever, right up there with kikufuku and making fun of his coworkers (and students!). You’re a beautiful bend of reactive and pliant, so fun to tease and edge and so rewarding to please.

God, fuck, he wants you. He wants you all the time. All his other hookups are silenced in favor of you, boring conversations abandoned in favor of debating tiramisu and tres leches, and all other sorts of inane things.

What your favorite school subjects are, oddly enough (he supposes he was asking for it, telling you he taught high schoolers).

You like literature, he likes math, and when he hears you talk about it, he almost wants to read some of those novels you like so much. Non-sorcerer politics has never meant anything to him but it matters when he hears you talk about it.

It’s like hearing about a whole separate world with its own struggles. Your opinions are so well-thought out, he can tell just how much you care, and something hums along aside him as he asks questions, nods his head, really listens to what you have to say. It feels so surreal to hear someone whose goals are not so unlike his, when he thinks about it.

Maybe that’s where some of this fondness comes from. Maybe it’s humbling, thinking you want to change your world just as much as he wants to change his, and the only difference is how much people listen.

He can’t imagine not wanting to listen to you. People should listen more. You should run everything, he jokes.

(He’s joking. He’s joking. You don’t know enough to get why he says that twice.)

And then it’s not serious again – when was it ever, really? You talk about your favorite manga and anime and tease each other for your tastes. Maybe talk about episodes or movies you’ve seen together.

He’s admittedly a bit of a movie buff – it’s a real victory when he convinces you to watch one of his old favorites. When he finds out you watched it, he’s excited the whole day to hear what you thought.

You debate what animals you would be; you are definitely a cat – aloof and independent – and you’re quite insistent that he’d be a husky, energetic and annoying and – probably other words you say before he sends you a picture of his dick and you facetime him with some more interesting conversation.

Your days – weeks, months, really – they go on like that, they’re great. Everything is perfect, really.

So when he hears you casually mention you’ve got other dinner plans – when his mind instantly supplies we’re just casual, tease her and hope she gets lucky – the wretched, dark twist in his gut is wholly unexpected.

And he knows instantly. Immediately, really, because he’s just too smart not to.

He knows he doesn’t want you going out with other people. Touching them. Showing them the same faces you show him.

But if he wants you to be his, then he has to ask. And you – you make him wait to hear back.

You never reach out to him first. You open the door with a cool expression, like your heart doesn’t race at the sight of him like his does (he can see it is, he can see it, but his soul is withering at your look like you couldn’t care less).

Satoru doesn’t usually have to ask, not for anything.

People beg to be able to fuck him. They spam when he ghosts them, begging for scraps. He doesn’t have to ask for attention, people shower him in it.

Everyone wants him. They love him. They don’t abandon him along with all their morals and tell him to kill them if he doesn’t like it.

They beg him to stay, and he is the one who leaves.

He’s too much for them. Too much for anyone. You wouldn’t be able to hand him, anyways.

And he can leave any time he wants, he just… doesn’t want to.

(He never wants to leave. He wants it to stay like this, forever. But when does it ever turn out like that?)

Besides, you’re – you also want it to stay casual. Like he told you from the beginning. Probably trying to save your feelings from getting hurt – and can he blame you? Really, with his looks, anyone would be scared to lose him.

So this was just… a happy coincidence. You didn’t want it serious, he didn’t want it, either.

“Mmmh… that’s it for me tonight. You can shower before you leave, if you want.”

Satoru’s lip twitches, but it doesn’t manage a smile. It almost feels like you’re kicking him out.

But he knows you’re not, because even if you were the one person on earth who could resist his irresistible charm, he just gave you some absolutely mind-blowing sex.

“Oh? I can’t stay the night?” Satoru teases, “Just gonna pump and dump me? So mean~”

He says it playfully, casually, because it is casual. It wouldn’t bother him if you told him to fuck off right then and there. It wouldn’t.

You hum noncommittally. “Knock yourself out. But you can’t shower in the morning, you’ll wake me up.”

If he’s relieved that he can stay, it’s because he’s as exhausted as you are. Because you make him feel good, so fucking good, like he’s on top of the world. Having to leave would just be a mood killer.

“What a coincidence,” He purrs, laying next to you on the bed, “I’m a late sleeper, too.”

He is not and never has been. He sleeps three hours a night wakes up by 5am.

It’s never bothered him before. His dreams are not a place he wants to be. But they’ve never hurt him when you were there.

He wraps an arm around you, holding you against him, just barely. Not too tight.

You don’t say anything more. You lay there and let him hold you while you fall asleep.

When he wakes, you’re still laying there beside him, unmoving.

The thing is, you’re awake. He knows that. You’re a light sleeper. Always have been.

He knows you hate morning showers yourself, and always do it at night. Knows what you like for breakfast, how to make it. That you like to sleep in because you have trouble sleeping.

He knows what you think about late at night because you text him about it, because he’s always there texting you, because neither of you can sleep and someone ends up calling and whispering secret scattered thoughts in hushed tones and –

And he honestly doesn’t know, if it’s you or him that slips in the I want to touch you right now, or Want me to kiss it better. Who turns it into sex so things can’t get to be too much.

Satoru would really, really like to think that it’s him, but the truth is that he’s reaching the limit of how believable his lies are, even to himself.

He knows, he knows he knows he knows that if he stayed, you would let him –

(If he repeats it enough it will surely become true.)

– but you both agreed no feelings.

Besides, it’s not like he wants to stay, anyways.

(Why won’t you ask him to come back?)

You know what Satoru is the moment you meet him. It’s not like he’s made any secret of it, either.

A whore. A man-whore, if you will. A player. Whatever it is. He slept with people, drank in all the sex and attention and then went on his merry way.

You get it. This wasn’t the first time you’d met a pretty boy who fucked around, not by a long shot.

He says all casual, no feelings, you smile and nod, and you go back to his place fully expecting to be disappointed because pretty boys usually suck in bed.

And then he fucks you within an inch of your life.

He eats you like a man staved. Hands roving over your skin, groping and squeezing in a way that would be violating, if his beautiful eyes weren’t wild and desperate.

His body is toned and smooth and perfect, unmarred skin that he presses to yours like he’s trying to staunch the bleeding of some invisible wound.

You’ve never felt like this before. Sex has never been this amazing. He props his stupid pretty face up on his elbow and he gives you that stupid charming boyish smirk and asks you if you want to go another round, red-faced and eager. It’s overwhelming and exciting and amazing –

And it’s terrifying, because it’s always like this for him, isn’t it? He just came in and gave you the fuck of a lifetime, but this is just another lay for him.

(But he’s having fun. It’s good for him, too. So why don’t you take what you can get?)

So when he saves his number in your phone, That was awesome, babe, we should do this again sometime, you don’t put a lot of weight into his words. You roll his eyes when he blows you a kiss goodbye, but you don’t delete his number.

Even when he wakes you up with some silly cat meme (god, you hate morning people), somehow you find yourself smiling. You let him know he can get his dick sucked any time if he meows cute enough and woah, maybe you’re coming on too strong –

He sends you an attachment of himself wearing cat ears, striking an obnoxious pose, with a fake tail that he holds by the end in his mouth.

Satoru Gojo, that’s the name. And you do suck his dick, like you promised, but he comes to you determined to get in character, meowing at you, pressing his face into your hands, rubbing into your side, nuzzling your panties while he looks up into your face with a smirk.

It’s a fight to get him on his back and his legs open wide enough for you to settle in. He meows again like a kitty, and purrs like one too when you take his cock into your mouth, hands threading through your hair. Giggling at his own antics.

Your eyes water when you take him, deep, moaning and feeling him shudder at the feeling, long legs squirming on either side of you. He pulls away suddenly, with a pop, laughing when his dick hits the side of your face and you glare at him. Sticking out his tongue.

He looks so young. So heartbreakingly sweet and charming. He pulls you in to settle you on his cock, face-to-face this time, his smile melting into something soft and tacky, sticking to your lips as he kisses his precum away. Infectious delight.

Satoru holds your hands in his, palm to palm, as you ride him in his lap. Face tilted up to look at you with a blush on his cheeks. Blue eyes wide like they have to be, to take you in, as if they aren’t themselves oceans you have to stop yourself from falling into.

You can’t look into his eyes when you cum, when he cums. You’re not sure if he’s looking either.

But you feel him, oh, do you feel him – hands squeezing yours as if in warning, face buried into your neck, a moan that vibrates throughout the both of you.

When you wake up, the next morning, you don’t even mind the fact that he’s still next to you, cuddled up, right beside you. You don’t mind, until you feel him stiffen suddenly, like he’s realized you’re awake, immediately pulling away.

That’s… you’re not sure what it is, since cuddling was obviously okay, so why does he not want to do it while you’re awake? It is too close? Too intimate?

He’d held your hands while he stared deep into your eyes and rocked gently into you last night, but cuddling would be too intimate?

But he smiles that smile before he leaves, stumbling a little bit while he gets dressed, in that goofy way that lanky tall men sometimes do. You even overlook the fact that he’s renamed himself in your contacts. ~ Satoru ~ My Kitten.

Stupid. Stupid, stupid (you’re smiling already), unbearable man. You want to hit him in the face, with your face. Very hard.

Casually, of course. It’s casual between you. No feelings at all.

But then he starts texting you all the time. He double, triple, quadruple texts, with the infuriating shamelessness of someone who’s never been ignored in his life.

Like he’s never worried that the other person is losing interest. He carries himself like it, too, like he knows everyone wants him, and unfortunately, he’s right.

So you tell him he’s annoying and you don’t look at your phone again. Not until he shows up on your doorstep with that pout on his impossibly pretty face.

And you don’t turn him away. Why would you? If he’s going to offer himself on a platter, why not eat up?

You’re just being realistic here. If you fucked him once and never heard from it again, it would still hurt almost as much as it will now. You’ll just be a little lonelier without your texting partner, but you’ll get over it.

There’s other fish in the sea. Even if none of them are as pretty as him, none of them make them laugh like you do. You’re not exclusive. He can see other people, so can you. You’ve made it a point not to ask.

You don’t like what he’s doing now. How he pauses long, makes you wait before telling you to have fun on your date.

How the next time you see him there’s something strange in his eyes, something that leaves him with clawing hands, hungry mouth, eager to leave his marks all over you.

Satoru doesn’t stop texting you, doesn’t stop selfies, thirst traps, prodding little questions and jokes, doesn’t stop obnoxiously demanding (begging?) for your attention.

At first it was an ego boost. Now, it’s terrifying.

Because now he likes you, doesn’t he? He’s interested now. Having fun. Making you feel like he’s jealous, acting like he’s on withdrawal if he goes too long without you, making you feel like someone as beautiful and rich and funny as him could possibly be in love with you.

But he told you in the beginning. Something casual.

Maybe these feelings are real in the moment. But one day they’ll fade, and everything will be yanked right out from under you.

You’ll wonder why he’s getting distant these days. You’ll remember that you never made it official, and sweat over the possibility that he’s seeing someone else. At the end of the day that’s all you’ll be able to do; worry and worry while you’re too afraid to ask.

You’ll wonder what you did wrong. What you did to lose him. How you could go from someone so fascinating, someone he so thoroughly adored and fucked like he was making love, to an afterthought and a stranger, unless you did something wrong? Unless you made a mistake, somewhere along the line?

The mistake of getting attached to him in the first place.

Fuck that. Satoru can develop feelings on his own fucking time. He’ll lose them just as quickly, you can tell.

This isn’t anything more than a hookup to him. He’s an attention whore who likes to hear himself talk, and you’re dumb enough to entertain him because you’re lonely and easily amused, at least when it comes to him.

There’s nothing real here.

You still don’t know where he actually works, outside of some nebulous high school teaching situation. Where he lives. What he does most of the day, what his parents are like. Where he’s from, even. You don’t know if he’s seeing anyone else. He could be married with kids, for all you know.

Not – not that you care. Not that you give a fuck what he’s doing, who he’s fucking, where he is when he’s not with you. You don’t care about him past his dick and what it does to you.

If you did care, you’d only suffer for it. So you draw the line.

You don’t need him, and you want to keep it that way. You don’t want to get attached, and neither does he. So you try to keep him at arm’s length.

Close enough to touch but not so close that your foolish, eager heart can leap out of your chest and into his hands.

Would he still give you that boyish grin when he rejected you? Laugh and let you down gently? Would he say yes and hold your hand while you walked together to the guillotine, the painful end to a relationship that wasn’t supposed to happen anyways? Would he skip away while your heart seized and trembled on the executioner’s block?

He’d look pretty even with blood on his face, you’re sure. But you wouldn’t come out so nicely.

So you don’t ask him to stay. You don’t ask him for anything. You take what you’re given and you savor it, but you try – oh, god, do you fucking try – to find someone else, something else to occupy your time.

But he’s just too good. You want him. And you don’t get to have him if you ignore his texts and don’t answer when he’s at the door. You don’t get to fuck him if you won’t even let him see you.

So even if you look away, even if your answers are short, even if you don’t let him stay (not that he even wants to) – you have to let him in.

And unlike you, he’s got self-respect. He’s got other options. If he can’t have you, he’ll just fuck other people, so you can’t push him away too much. You have to make him want to come back. You have to make him want to give you more.

But you can’t control what Satoru wants, and that is the problem.

It’s out of your hands, locked securely in his ribcage where you can never get to it.

He doesn’t talk about his life, his history, doesn’t even complain about work during off hours.

Really, it’s already over, isn’t it? Has been, ever since the beginning. You’re just waiting for the inevitable end.

“Mmmh… that’s it for me tonight.” You say, tired. So tired, and warm. Satoru always leaves you like this; loose-limbed and floaty, high enough to feel the drop. “You can shower before you leave, if you want.”

“Oh? I can’t stay the night?” Satoru asks, teasing, “Just gonna pump and dump me? So mean~”

You close your eyes, trying not to think of what his face must look like.

“Knock yourself out. But you can’t shower in the morning, you’ll wake me up.”

“What a coincidence,” He purrs, laying next to you on the bed, “I’m a late sleeper, too.”

Satoru’s arm around your form presses you against him, just barely. Not too close. Never too close.

You don’t say anything more. You lay there and let him hold you while you fall asleep.

You can feel it when he wakes up. How his breathing changes, how he stiffens and tenses against you, you tumble out of sleep instantly, lashes fluttering.

You shut them closed again. Relax yourself. You don’t have to get up. You don’t want to get up.

Why isn’t he leaving yet? What’s taking him so long?

There’s this tension that creeps into your chest. Like you can feel each individual breath he takes. Waiting for him to say something, shake you awake – but why would he? And why would you want him to?

You know what this is. You’ve always known.

So you lay there, still, breathing calm and even, until he leaves.

(…Come back. Please come back.)

[smystermy]

𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐧

tags: geto suguru x you; gojo satoru x you; set before the star plasma vessel incident; senpai x kouhai; Pining with a capital P; Jealousy with a capital J; you've been childhood friends with satoru, but honestly, some days—read: all days—you wish you weren’t.

warnings: Love Triangle. my sincerest apologies to all the satoru lovers out there (trust me, i’m one of you, too).

word count: 2120.

oneshot, loosely related to 'peel your heart like a pomegranate'.

The mission drags on for what feels like an eternity, your muscles aching and your patience stretched thin. The cursed spirit isn’t particularly strong, but it’s maddeningly elusive, slipping through shadowed alleyways as though it knows you’re running on fumes. Each clash feels like trying to catch smoke, and by the time you finally exorcise it, exhaustion clings to you, heavy and unrelenting.

With your fellow sorcerers in tow, you trudge through the quiet streets, guided by the neon glow of a fast-food joint ahead, a beacon of greasy salvation cutting through the haze of your fatigue.

Inside, harsh fluorescent lights flood the space, washing over sticky tabletops and cracked plastic chairs. The smell of fried food hangs thick in the air, making your stomach twist painfully with hunger. Relief feels just within reach—

Until Satoru opens his mouth.

“You’re seriously just getting fries and nuggets?” he asks, leaning too close with a grin that’s both infuriating and all too familiar. His voice carries that same teasing lilt, like he’s just waiting for you to react. The lights above catch in his white hair, making it shine in a way that only amplifies his unbearable smugness.

Your grip on your wallet tightens.

“At least I’m not ordering half the menu,” you shoot back, not bothering to hide the bite in your tone. “Do you even have the stomach for all that, or is this just another excuse to show off?”

“Who says it’s all for me?” he counters with exaggerated thoughtfulness, tilting his head like he’s genuinely considering the question. Then he leans in even closer, his grin widening into something sharper, more pointed. “Not that I’d share with you, though.”

Irritation flares up inside you, tightening your jaw. “You’re impossible,” you mutter, turning back to the counter and wishing you could block him out entirely.

But his voice, his presence, the way he constantly hovers—it’s inescapable. It’s like he’s made it his personal mission to press every button you have, to keep poking at you until he gets some kind of rise.

And you’re sick of it.

This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.

You’ve known Satoru for years, practically grown up alongside him. He’s supposed to be your friend—your obnoxious, overconfident, larger-than-life friend. That’s all you want him to be. But lately, it feels like he’s forgotten that, like he’s decided he wants something else entirely. His relentless teasing—what you know is just over-the-top flirting—it’s been chipping away at your nerves for months, leaving you irritated and, more than anything, upset.

You don’t want this from him. You don’t want to be treated like some kind of game, like his favorite source of entertainment.

You just want things to go back to the way they were, back when he saw you as his equal, his teammate, his friend. But instead, he keeps pushing, keeps treating every interaction like a chance to pull your focus toward him. And it’s exhausting.

Because no matter how many times you glare, brush him off, or tell him to knock it off, he just doesn’t stop.

“Come on,” Satoru says, bumping your shoulder lightly, his grin as casual as ever. The kind that screams trouble, the kind that never fails to set your teeth on edge. “You’d miss me if I wasn’t around to annoy you.”

“No, I wouldn’t,” you snap, sharper than you mean to.

The sharpness of your voice surprises you, but the exhaustion weighing on you makes everything feel ten times more irritating. On any other day, his teasing would roll off your back, but tonight, it feels heavier, more deliberate, like a needle pressed too close to a frayed thread. You glance at him, hoping your tone will drive the point home—hoping he’ll get the hint and just drop it.

But, predictably, he doesn’t.

“Ouch,” he says, clutching his chest with dramatic flair, like you’ve mortally wounded him. “So cold, and after all we’ve been through together.”

You don’t dignify him with a response. Instead, you turn your attention to the brightly lit menu overhead, the colorful pictures of burgers and fries blurring together in your peripheral vision. The last thing you want is to encourage him, even accidentally.

But as your eyes wander, something else pulls your focus.

Someone, to be precise—Geto.

Across the room, he is sitting at the table the three of you had claimed earlier. His posture is as relaxed as ever—shoulders loose, one arm draped lazily over the back of his chair, exuding a kind of effortless composure that seems almost unfair after the night you’ve had. The warm, dim light of the restaurant softens the sharp lines of his face, highlighting the quiet elegance of his features. His dark hair is tied neatly, though a few loose strands frame his face, giving him a look that’s both casual and deliberate—

But he’s not alone.

Two girls stand near him, their voices cutting through the restaurant’s ambient hum.

One leans in slightly, her body language open and inviting, lips curved in a smile so practiced it almost feels rehearsed. She twirls a strand of hair around her finger, her movements deliberate, each one calculated to keep his attention. The other girl, clutching her bag with both hands, rocks on her heels, her face bright as she giggles at something Geto says. Both of them are entirely focused on him, their expressions alight with fascination, as if he’s the center of their world.

And Geto—he’s smiling.

It’s not the small, polite smile he reserves for strangers or fleeting interactions. It’s something warmer, something that softens the sharpness of his features and crinkles the corners of his eyes. His voice is low, steady, but whatever he says draws laughter from the girls, their bubbly amusement spilling into the air like a clamor you can’t tune out.

Something bitter and hot twists in your chest, spreading too quickly to ignore.

It’s sharp, unwelcome, coiling tight in your throat and settling like a weight in your stomach. You can’t name it, not entirely, but it grips you all the same, clawing at your composure.

“Hello? Are you even listening to me?” Satoru’s voice cuts through the haze, loud and insistent.

You don’t turn to him. You barely register him.

Your focus is locked on the scene across the room, on Geto and the strange tension building in your chest as you watch him charm the girls with that easy, disarming smile.

Geto speaks again, his voice just loud enough to carry, though the words are too muffled to make out. Whatever he says next, however, transforms the atmosphere—turning it quieter, more subdued.

The girls exchange a glance, some unspoken conversation passing between them. Their smiles falter, just barely, and with a final wave of reluctance, they turn and walk away. Their voices fade into the background noise of the restaurant, leaving only the quiet hum of fluorescent lights and the distant clatter of dishes.

But that strange weight in your chest doesn’t fade.

It eases, but only slightly.

The scene from moments ago lingers in your mind, a faint echo you can’t quite shake. What did he say to make them leave? And why does their departure feel like a rush of relief, cool and soothing, even though you hadn’t realized you were holding your breath?

“Are you zoning out?” Satoru’s voice snaps you back to the present. His hand waves obnoxiously close to your face, fingers wiggling like he’s trying to hypnotize you. You swat it away with more force than necessary, earning a chuckle that only grates on your nerves further.

“Stop being so annoying,” you mutter under your breath, the words coming out more like a grumble.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the food is ready. The sound of trays sliding onto the counter is a small mercy, breaking the tension that’s been buzzing under your skin. Geto’s tray is the first to appear, and without thinking, your hand darts out to grab it.

“I’ll take this to him,” you say quickly, the words tumbling out in a rush. You don’t wait for Satoru’s inevitable commentary, though you can feel his frown boring into your back as you step away.

Geto’s presence is grounding in a way that surprises you. He looks up as you draw near, his gaze meeting yours with a small, cordial smile. The shift in his expression is barely perceptible, but you recognize it immediately—like always, it feels like it’s meant just for you.

"Thanks," he says, his voice threaded with the kind of gentleness you’ve come to know so well.

You place the tray in front of him, but your hands hover for a moment, your thoughts already racing. And the question forms on your tongue before you can think better of it, spilling out before you have the chance to weigh it—

“What were those girls talking to you about?”

Geto’s hands pause mid-motion as he unwraps his burger. The paper crinkles loudly in the quiet space between you.

“They wanted my number,” he says, his tone so casual it almost feels dismissive, like the encounter hadn’t meant anything at all.

Your stomach sinks at his answer, twisting into a knot you can’t quite untangle. “Did you give it to them?” The words come out too quickly, too pointed. You don’t know why you ask—why you even care—but the question slips out before you can stop it.

“No,” he replies simply, resuming his task like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

The simplicity of his answer throws you off balance, leaves you grasping for footing you don’t quite have. “Why not?” you ask, the question tumbling from your lips before you have a chance to reconsider.

Geto’s movements still again, but this time he glances up at you.

His dark eyes meet yours, holding your gaze with a steadiness that feels disarming. For a moment, neither of you speaks, the space between you charged with something unspoken. He studies you, his expression unreadable yet open, as if he’s searching for the right words to bridge the silence.

And then he smiles—not the soft, warm smile he’d offered those girls earlier, the one that had been easy and charming, effortlessly pulling them in. No, this is different. It’s softer, infinitely warmer, like it holds a quiet depth meant only for you. There’s a tenderness in it that feels unshakably genuine, a kind of openness that makes the earlier smile seem almost hollow in comparison. It feels real—so real it takes your breath away.

“Guess they wouldn’t have what I’m looking for,” he says finally, his voice quiet but sure, each word landing like a gentle weight that settles in the air between you.

Your heart stumbles over itself, caught in the tangle of his words and the steady intensity of his gaze. There’s a quiet significance in the space between you, something in his tone that you can’t quite place but feel deeply. It wraps around you, intangible yet undeniable, sending a rush through your veins and a warmth blooming on your cheeks.

“And what are you—” The words falter suddenly, sticking in your throat.

You swallow, trying again, though your voice comes out weaker, almost uncertain. “What exactly are you looking—”

“Yo! What’s taking so long?”

Satoru’s voice barrels through the moment like a wrecking ball, loud and oblivious. He plops his tray onto the table with an unceremonious clatter, the sound jarring enough to make you flinch. Without a shred of awareness, he slides into the seat beside Geto, already launching into a ramble about his food choices, as if his presence is some kind of gift to everyone around him—

And, the spell shatters.

Whatever fragile, delicate thing had settled between you and Geto evaporates in an instant, snatched away by Satoru’s disruptive energy. Geto’s gaze shifts to him with an ease that feels unfair, his focus slipping from you like sand through your fingers. The warmth that had wrapped around you moments ago is gone, replaced by the sharp sting of irritation.

Your glare cuts toward Satoru, your hands curling into fists at your sides as you fight the urge to lash out. How can he be so dense, so utterly oblivious to what he just interrupted? The tightness in your chest only deepens, intensifying with every instant, fed by his infuriating ability to make everything about himself.

But just as you're about to snap, your order number is called from the counter, yanking you out of your frustration.

With a sharp exhale, you turn away, your footsteps heavy as you stomp toward the counter to grab your tray—your thoughts consumed by the fact that, in this moment, you've never hated Satoru more.

general masterlist || geto suguru masterlist || gojo satoru masterlist

[passengerprincessblog]

“Breaking Point” ~ Pt 4 Lewis Hamilton x Reader

Warning: SMUT, NSFW, angst, arguments, sleepy oral? Idk.

Summary: When Lewis shows up unannounced at Y/N’s filming location and follows her back to her LA home, unresolved tensions boil over, sparking an intense argument that exposes the growing rift between them. As they clash over misunderstandings and unspoken resentments, Y/N struggles to hold her ground, refusing to melt under Lewis’s charm, even as he tries to bridge the distance in his own stubborn, unrelenting way.

The silence in the car is suffocating, thick with all the words left unsaid between us. We’re heading back to my house in LA, and the tension stretches like an invisible line, taut and fraying. Every time I glance his way, I catch Lewis staring, his gaze heavy, filled with something that feels like disappointment or maybe just frustration.

It’s strange having him here, in my city, in my space. He’s never part of this life—my world where I’m more than his girlfriend, more than a footnote in his racing saga. Today, he got a glimpse of me with my crew, laughing, bantering, a side of myself he barely knows. A side that doesn’t revolve around him. And maybe that’s why this hurts so much. He’s so supportive of everything about me… except this. My career. The one thing that pulls me away from him.

I feel his hand settle on my thigh, his fingers warm against my skin. Instinctively, irritation flares up. I want to shove him off, to shake his hand away, but I don’t. I know it’ll only set him off, and I’m too tired for another argument. Instead, I focus on the passing streets, letting the city lights blur together, pretending not to notice his fingers tracing idle circles. He reaches over, grabbing my hand, playing with the rings on my fingers like I’m his personal stress toy. The sensation is grounding, sure, but also infuriating. Does he even realize how invasive this feels? How much he takes from me without even realizing it?

When we finally arrive at my house, I pull away the second the car stops, sliding out and thanking James, my driver, with a quick “Goodnight.” Lewis lingers, watching me with that unreadable gaze, like he’s studying me. I feel exposed, as if I’m a stranger he’s trying to understand, trying to fit into some mold that doesn’t really exist. It’s clear he’s not used to seeing me here, in LA, in the life that belongs to me.

I walk up the steps to my front door, feeling his presence right behind me. My house is beautiful—sprawling, a mix of modern LA glamour and Spanish-style architecture, spacious and luxurious. It’s mine, yet not entirely mine. After all, it’s Lewis who pays for it. I hadn’t wanted his money in the beginning, fought him on it, but he insisted, saying that rejecting his help felt like rejecting him. So here I am, living in this house he gifted me, a reminder of his presence even when he’s not here.

I unlock the door and step inside, throwing my keys on the table in the foyer. The house is decorated to my taste—soft hues, eclectic art pieces, warm textures that make it feel like home, my sanctuary. I walk into the living room, hearing his footsteps close behind me. He glances around, taking in the space, a look of faint surprise on his face.

“Wow… did you change it?” he asks, looking genuinely intrigued.

I shrug, not bothering to hide my irritation. “Not really… well, kind of.” I don’t give him much more. He hasn’t been here in nearly a year. Of course he wouldn’t remember.

He huffs, following me up the stairs, his footsteps deliberate, like he’s pushing through the tension hanging between us. I can feel the irritation rolling off him, the way he’s holding himself back, and it makes me want to push even harder.

“Are you gonna be like this all night? Y/N?” he says, his tone laced with barely restrained frustration.

I reach the top of the stairs and turn to face him, crossing my arms. “Yes.”

His jaw clenches, and he lets out a frustrated sigh. “Why can’t you have a normal conversation with me? Why is that so hard?”

I roll my eyes, throwing my hands up. “It’s not a ‘normal’ conversation, Lewis.” I can’t hold back anymore. “I can’t believe you just showed up like that,” I blurt out, the annoyance bubbling over.

His eyes narrow as I open the door to my bedroom, stepping into the softly lit space. My room is intimate, filled with small decorations and touches that feel so personal, so me. It’s like a slap in the face to him, a reminder that he doesn’t see my life like this enough, that he doesn’t really know this part of me.

“Because I love you? Because I wanted to surprise you? And support you?” he scoffs, almost as if my irritation is absurd.

I throw my bag at the end of my bed, barely glancing at him. “Okay… well, thanks. You can go now… I’m so surprised and supported. Mission accomplished.” My tone is dripping with sarcasm. “You can go back to your life.”

He stares at me, his eyes flashing with anger, a dangerous edge simmering beneath the surface. “Don’t talk to me like that. I’m trying.”

“Cool. I’m so impressed… you’re so impressive. Mr. champion, millionaire, stupid playboy. Is that what you want? Me to praise you for your attempt? You’re so fucking amazing, Lewis!” My voice rises, my irritation finally spilling out in sharp, pointed words.

He takes a step toward me, his gaze dark and intense. “You’re really pushing it. You know what I mean… I’m trying to make you feel loved. What’s wrong with you?”

“You’re what’s wrong.” I snap back, feeling the weight of my resentment boiling over. “Just leave now. I know you’re gonna leave in the morning anyway… with your stupid race on Sunday.”

He sighs, exasperated but unwilling to give up. “I don’t have to leave until Wednesday night,” he says, his tone hardening as he steps closer. “I’m staying.”

I roll my eyes, brushing past him into my bathroom. “No. Just leave.”

He follows me, his voice low and demanding as he steps into the room behind me. “I said…” he grabs my arm, pulling me toward him, his hand firm on my chin as he tilts my face to look at him. “I’m staying.”

My stomach flips, a mix of nerves and something else swirling inside me as I meet his intense gaze. His eyes are smoldering, his jaw tight, and I can feel the determination radiating off him, daring me to challenge him.

“Fine,” I say, my voice barely more than a whisper, trying to sound annoyed.

He lets go of my face, his thumb brushing over my cheek in a gentle, almost tender gesture that makes my heart ache. I can tell he wants more, that he’s craving some kind of reassurance, something from me, but I can’t bring myself to give in. Not yet.

He starts to step back, but I turn to the mirror, trying to compose myself, pretending his presence doesn’t affect me as much as it does. But he doesn’t move far; instead, he leans against the counter, his gaze fixed on me.

“Give me a kiss,” he says softly, his tone almost pleading.

I glare at him, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

“Give me a kiss…” he repeats, his voice coaxing, insistent.

I continue to glare, refusing to budge, letting the silence stretch.

“Y/N…” he murmurs, his tone dipping, a hint of something darker beneath it. “I’ll be getting a lot more than a kiss when we get to bed, so you better just give me one now.”

I furrow my brow, stubbornly refusing to indulge him. “You’re not forgiven. You don’t get a kiss… and you don’t get to stay in my room.”

He groans, rubbing his eyebrows in frustration. “Oh my god. You’re such a brat. Why are you like this? I’m trying to fix things.”

“They aren’t fixed. Leave me alone,” I mutter, turning back to the mirror, focusing on brushing my hair, anything to avoid the pull of his gaze.

He steps closer, his expression softening, and he leans down, pressing a gentle kiss to my cheek. “I love you, baby girl. Please… stop being like this.”

I narrow my eyes, knowing exactly what he’s doing. He’s trying to be all soft and sweet, pulling at my heartstrings, hoping I’ll melt and give in. But it’s not going to work. Not this time.

“Goodnight. The guest bedroom is perfect for you,” I say, flashing him a sarcastic smile.

He glares at me, his expression hardening in irritation. With a heavy sigh, he finally turns and leaves, the sound of his footsteps echoing down the hall, leaving me alone with the hollow ache that always seems to linger when he’s gone.

It’s late—sometime in the early hours, I’m sure—and I’ve barely settled into sleep when the faint sound of my bedroom door clicking shut pulls me out of my dreams. I stay still, eyes closed, hoping it’s just my imagination. But then I feel the bed shift, the mattress sinking slightly as a familiar warmth slips in beside me.

A heavy arm drapes over my waist, and I instinctively make a soft, annoyed sound, shifting away, but he just tightens his grip, pulling me back. His presence is warm, enveloping, and for a moment, I consider giving in, letting his touch soothe the tension between us. But I can’t quite shake my irritation, even through the haze of sleep.

“Baby… baby girl… shh…” His voice is soft, a gentle murmur as he leans in, pressing feather-light kisses along my neck and cheek. Each kiss is an apology, a quiet plea, and I can feel his regret seeping into each touch.

I hum in response, somewhere between annoyance and surrender, too drowsy to put up much of a fight. His hand slips under my shirt, his fingers gliding over my skin in slow, soothing circles, as if he’s trying to coax the tension out of me, to ease the edges of my frustration.

“I’m so sorry, baby girl…” he whispers, his breath warm against my skin. “I love you so much… please don’t be mad at me.”

The sincerity in his voice tugs at something deep within me, a part of me that’s been holding onto my anger, but now feels it starting to crumble. I want to hold onto it, to let him know how much he’s hurt me, but his gentle touch, the warmth of his apology, makes it hard to keep the walls up.

I sigh, barely able to form a coherent response, the words slipping out in a quiet murmur. “Lewis…”

His fingers trail lower, caressing the curve of my hip before slipping beneath the waistband of my panties. I squirm at the intimate touch, a shiver running through me despite my lingering irritation. His hand settles between my thighs, and I can't help but part them slightly, allowing him access.

"Let me make it up to you, baby girl," he murmurs, his voice low and soothing. "Let me show you how much I love you."

I'm too sleepy to protest, the warmth of his touch lulling me back towards unconsciousness. My body responds to him, a soft moan escaping my lips as his fingers begin to move, stroking me gently, coaxing me towards arousal.

"That's it, baby," he whispers encouragingly. "Just relax for me. Let me take care of you."

His words wash over me, soothing and seductive, and I feel myself melting into his touch. My hips begin to move of their own accord, squirming against his hand as he works me closer and closer to the edge.

I'm lost in a haze of pleasure, the earlier argument fading away as his skillful fingers bring me to the brink of climax. Just as I'm about to fall over the edge, he withdraws his hand, leaving me frustrated and wanting more.

"Lewis..." I whine, my voice thick with need.

He chuckles softly, the sound rumbling through his chest as he shifts position. "Not yet, baby girl. I'm not done apologizing."

With that, he moves down the bed, settling between my legs. I feel his breath ghosting over my sensitive flesh, and I can't suppress the moan that escapes my lips. He looks up at me, his eyes dark with desire, before he leans in, his tongue sliding over me in one long, slow lick.

I gasp, my fingers tangling in his hair as he begins to work me with his mouth, his tongue delving deep, stroking me in all the right places.

He continues his ministrations, his tongue swirling around my clit, sending jolts of pleasure coursing through my body. I can feel myself getting wetter.

"Fuck, Lewis," I moan, my hips squirming against his face. "Don't stop."

He obliges, doubling down on his efforts, his tongue delving deeper, his lips sucking harder. My fingers tighten in his hair, holding him in place as I grind against his mouth, chasing my release.

"You taste so fucking good, baby girl," he groans, the vibrations of his voice sending shockwaves of pleasure through me. "I could eat this pretty little pussy all night."

His words are filthy, but they only serve to turn me on more, spurring me towards my impending climax. I can feel it building, a coil of tension in my lower belly, winding tighter and tighter with each flick of his tongue.

"Lewis, I'm gonna... I'm gonna," I pant, my body tensing, my thighs quivering around his head.

He doesn't relent, his mouth working me feverishly, his tongue flicking rapidly over my clit, pushing me over the edge. I come with a cry, my back arching off the bed as waves of pleasure crash over me.

He laps it me up eagerly, prolonging my orgasm until I'm a trembling, boneless mess beneath him. Only then does he pull away, crawling back up my body to claim my lips in a deep, passionate kiss, sharing the taste of my own arousal with me.

"I love you, baby girl," he murmurs against my lips, his eyes shining with adoration.

I whimper slightly, the fleeing still lingers. I look at him as I become fully awake. Is he serious? Only Lewis would try this…

“‘Mmm…” I hum in response, not giving him the satisfaction of saying it back. He’s not forgiven, not matter how good he makes me feel.

His eyebrows furrow at me as he looks down at me. He sighs heavily, looking and sounding annoyed. He lays down next to me, cuddling close. I close my eyes… I’ll let him stay the here.

————————————-

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[atiianeishaunted]

blue writing is lance's notes fyi anyway uhh character bios below !! long ass writing warning but worth it i promise chat pspsp | no notes version AND the transparent PNGS down at the end!

character bios:

Allura [???] | A lone princess who is burnt out and stressed out her mind, her only solace/stress relief being the garden she has where she can have peace and quiet, shutting her brain off while she does the tasks of tending to her precious plants and bugs. She tries her best to remain as friendly and optimistic as possible, if not for her own sanity, however thanks to the stress and pressure put on her, she has a tendency to lose her cool and sometimes shut down entirely. She has a passion for commanding and loves honing her fighting skills as that was one of the ways she bonded with her father. She more often than not can be seen in comfortable clothes, she doesnt mind dresses and does enjoy dressing up but will only do it when shes going out the castle or theres a meeting. | this gal couldve been an burnt out autistic queen DREAMWORKS, YOU COUDLVE MADE HER ICONIC .... let her be a dorky nerd whos a hater sometimes, pretty please

Takashi Shirogane | A garrison commander (no one is really sure of his job title to be honest with you..) who's insanely passionate about his job, to the point where hes willing to sacrifice it all if the garrison wills it. Anything to serve. He tries his best to fit in and be hip with the kids, he tries to come across as the 'chill' teacher, but students of his have reported that after a few months, any amount of chillness is thrown out the window. If not that, hes often not even in class, too busy doing missions he wasnt assigned to. He's intense. Very intense. Knows his way around words though for the most part, can be very convincing and a bit maniuplative, very goal driven. He means well though? Thats what he says. He always throws a quick sorry if someone brings it up with him, so that must mean something. | sorry in advance if you follow along with Sonder's story... unrelated but dreamworks wrote a banger antagonist without even realizing!

"Keith" Kogane / "Morse" | Unknown origins. He was a talented garrison pilot who could practically fly with his eyes closed, a jack of all trades, short tempered and prone to losing it but all things considered, the perfect cadet for the garrison's goals, he came out of nowhere practically, just poofed in like a ghost and wiped the floor with everyone. He really just needed a good guiding hand. No one is quite sure what gender he is, his androgynous appearance and tendency to respond to anything besides being called a girl have people baffled to say the least. He's very clearly not all there in the head either which goes hand in hand with his odd bursts of ego and then odd bursts of whining, these bursts often include talks that could only be described as cult-ish. People have their theories. Beyond those bursts, hes mostly very deadpan and quiet. But despite his strength and that intense feeling of fear and dread people get when they're around him, he's.. popular, somehow. Admired greatly for his devilish good looks. A universal appeal if you will. He doesn't seem to notice. Or perhaps doesnt care. Either way he's far too busy following Shiro around and treating him like the second coming of god to really indulge in romance for now. Lance's self proclaimed rival, Keith is also unaware of this. | also sorry in advance for this one if you follow sonder's storyline Lance McClain | A former Garrison cargo pilot who moved up in rank when Keith got kicked out. Keith is his rival and also all that Lance can talk about, even after the guy got kicked out and left for dead (Lance overheard some things while sneaking out past the teacher's lounge). He has a very noticable personality and loves to be the center of attention, hes still finding his footing and figuring out what he wants to do with his life and who he wants to be. Despite his many claims, hes not all that popular. He can't really flirt with girls all too well. His general goal is to be so well known so he won't ever be forgotten, hence why he begged his mom to let him dye his hair and get piercings (if he used Keith as an argument, thats none of your business.) (he saw keith dying his hair once or twice and instantly wanted to copy, its a bad habit.). He loves LOVES taking care of his appearance and is fairly vain, he has extensive routines and will freak out if he can't follow them. His ego and overbearing confidence is all to drown out his deep insecurities and fears. He tries his best to come across as a suave, cool, charming, awesome, any positive adjective really, person but in all reality he's a mama's boy, a dork, a loser if you will who has a love for the retro and is a huge gamer. If he must admit, he and Keith'd get along great actually, Keith ticks alot of boxes and honestly Lance deeply admires him and wants to be like him. | dreamworks dropped that lance was a gamer and loved retro stuff and then never talked about it again. sigh. Hunk Garrett | Hunk has many passions, mainly inspired by parents, he mainly specializes in cooking and mechanics, he enjoys tinkering with things, taking them apart to see how they work and working from there to see if he can rebuild it with 0 instruction, hes gotten good at it. He's Lance's childhood best friend, they're extremely close and are often seen constantly poking fun at eachother. Its all in good fun though. Hunk struggles extremely with anxiety and has a service dog back home that he left at home when heading to the Garrison as he worried he couldn't take care of it while studying. Despite his anxiety, he quite enjoys talking to people and sharing things he enjoys with them, he often tries to get over his fears by branching out and | I looked up his name from the old show because he deserves an 'actual' name, free my boy, he was done so dirty, also i remember when we all thought hunk had two moms (or was that just me ..) and i live by it tbh, two moms and a dad whos still active in his life, 3 whole parents for the greatest fella ever

Pidge Holt | Not much can be said about Pidge, they keep to themselves and don't share much about themselves. Just like Keith, their gender is often up to debate and when asked, Pidge will never give a consistent answer. They're a major tech wiz and with their talents, they're a complete menace. Pidge is prone to being mischevious and pranking others, often taking jokes a bit too far. They're egotistical and find that robots are their preferred companions in comparison to humans. | loser chronically online 13 year old who would tell you to kys, matt probably has to take away their electronics all the time LMFAO purposely made their outfit look a bit strange bc , theyre a kid whos a NERD /aff let them dress a bit stupid and let them cringe at it 5 years later ty

No notes version and PNGS below :-)

im insane about this reboot!! please reblog and im willing to elaborate if anyone wants me to <333 hrgfhrfg i really want this to take off bwaa

[withthewindinherfootsteps]

I sometimes see the opinion that MXTX took the clichéd tropes she'd critiqued in Scum Villain, and played them straight in MDZS. But though a lot of them appear in MDZS, I'd argue that none are actually played straight at all!

The main point of MDZS's tropes is subversion. Yes, WWX has a 'tragic backstory', even an arguably overused one (orphaned by his parents at a young age, forced to live on the streets with nobody to rely on, etc) – but how things differ in how it's used. Tragic backstories are normally used to build sympathy for a character, to make us care and get invested in them. But... we're never actually shown any of those street days, we're never shown and never dwell upon how much he suffered during them. They're only really mentioned in passing and whenever dogs come up! If the goal was to make us feel bad for WWX, this would be very ineffective writing. But what's actually important here isn't that WWX went through tragedies – it's how he doesn't let the tragedies he went through define him. He doesn't dwell on them, the narrative doesn't dwell on them, it's never used to earn sympathy points... because what defines WWX is his choices and how he chooses to act, not a backstory completely out of his control. What gets us invested in him is his personality and the character writing of MXTX, not tragic events used as a substitute for identity.

And this trope treatment fits extremely well with WWX's personality itself – he's someone who 'forgets the pain as soon as the wound has healed'*, but also who actively chooses to focus on the present because you can't change the past; someone who holds the belief that 'gains and losses [should] remain uncommented on' when choosing what to do.

The use of the tragic backstory isn't the only thing that's subverted, either – the other main thing is the 'blackening' of the protagonist, and its impact on the protagonist's fall. After being thrown into the Burial Mounds, on a surface level it does seem like this blackening has occurred: the first thing we see when he returns is his gruesome torture of the Wen cultivators; he's 'forsaken' traditional cultivation in favour of an 'evil but more powerful' path; and frankly, Sunshot-era WWX is terrifying. But MDZS is not a blackening story, and so the events of the Burial Mounds aren't used as a catalyst for that purpose. Though it's true that WWX's not entirely the same person he was before (because how could be be?), underneath it all, his morals, worldview and core** stay the same. Though gruesome, his revenge is directed towards the ones who wronged him, not those past that and certainly not the entire world. His experience in the Burial Mounds doesn't lead to him being some evil, blackened overlord... like everyone says he is at the start! That's subverted, because again, WWX's values and choices are more important to the story than genre conventions.

But the most crucial thing? What leads to WWX's downfall isn't any blackening! It isn't any vengeance or morally dubious actions***– he was praised for those things during the Sunshot Campaign! No, what leads to his downfall is something completely unrelated to that, something which would've disappeared had the trope been played straight. It's him doing what's right by defending the Wens, it's him following his moral code when it opposes the world's, it's him standing up to the injustice of others – not others standing up to the injustice of him. That's the subversion here.

(Also, once again, the fall of Lotus Pier, the Burial Mound, etc, aren't used for sympathy points – and if it was relevant, they wouldn't have been used to excuse any actions, either. Using tragic events as an excuse for doing bad things is critiqued many times in MDZS, through characters like Xue Yang and Jin Guangyao. And that's not exactly a trope subversion, but it is a critique of badly handled 'excuses'.)

These are by no means all the tropes MDZS subverts – the nature of guidao vs the usual nature of modao being another very major one – but they're the main ones that feature in Scum Villain.

So, though at first glance MDZS seems to play the tropes MXTX critiqued there straighter, it's not a simple case of using them as cliches, and we see that by how they're used to impact the narrative, and how that differs from what they're traditionally used for. MDZS doesn't fall back into clichés Scum Villain satirised – it's the subversion to Scum Villain's exploration and critique.

--

*Which I know is generally used negatively, to describe someone not learning a lesson from a punishment, but it really describes WWX in general, too. He doesn't dwell on that pain, he does his best to move on from it.

**...heh

***And, because it's often debated – whatever the morality/culpability of Nightless City is doesn't even matter! The events happened at a pledge conference against him that was already taking place. WWX's actions there didn't make people want to kill him because that was explicitly happening beforehand.

[ckret2]

If Goldie was a normal human, unrelated to bill, would bill want to hit that

Well, she'd have the prettiest eyes he's ever seen on a human, she's got that going for her—right up there with some of the sexiest frogs on Earth—but aside from that, the rest of her body is just human. And unless they're fascinatingly mutated, all humans are about a 5.5/10 on looks for him. Like, the whole species. Uniformly. So her looks don't really make a difference. The frog eyes knock her up to a 6/10 but having a 0.5 point lead on the entire rest of humanity isn't really that much help.

The answer rides entirely on personality.

By "normal human" do you mean normal human? As in lives a Regular Human Life has some random generic Regular Human Personality, with normal human traits and behaviors like "participates in capitalism by having a job" and "goes on dates in the hopes of finding romance" and "remembers that Thanksgiving exists" and "thinks wearing makeup has any actual impact on her appearance even though she looks just as human with or without it" and "doesn't have any delusions of grandeur"?

If that's the case, then whether or not he'd want to hit it comes down to this: has she been recruited into one of his cults? Does she literally worship him? If the answer is yes, then yeah, he'd want to hit that, because he's got the world's most grandiose praise kink.

On the other hand, by "normal human" do you mean born and raised on earth like any other human—and yet, for whatever nature/nurture reason you want to imagine, still ended up with the exact same personality, opinions, and beliefs as Bill?

Because if you mean THAT, then Bill would go "that human's a FREAK! Down to party, up for chaos, and has all the right political opinions! How can somebody be SO social and yet SO misanthropic at the same time? I LOVE it! And talk about your secretly insecure egomaniacs, wow, this little lunatic is desperate for fame and popularity, I could get her to do anything if I promised she'd be famous for it. Most pathetically manipulable human I've ever seen, she's an even easier target than Ford. Bang her, hench her, get her to build a portal, invite her to the party, bang her again while we're both too high to feel our faces. Bam. She'll have me on earth in half a year and if I offer her a minor demigodhood I won't even need to lie to her about what it's for, she'd probably let her own dimension burn in exchange for three days of youtube viral fame"

And he would NOT have the self-awareness necessary to realize how viciously he just dragged himself

[minyard-05]

okay here's my take on the perfect court (tattoos/markings, i have a different set of thoughts about the concept as a whole)

roman numerals are cool, dgmw, but somehow they feel too cool for what the Court is. because like. riko and kevin wrote those numbers on their faces as kids, probably with sharpies, back when exy was just a game and the ravens were just a team. so to me it makes the most sense for them to be in arabic numerals (1,2) rather than roman ones because to me it feels like there's something almost inherently childlike about it? as in them literally writing the numbers on their faces, probably not too long after they learned their basic numbers, and i feel like at some point they tried making them look like their jerseys too or something.

the perfect court only exists because riko says it does, and he created it inside an echo chamber of the nest and the press that was willing to fuel his ego for a good story. riko was preparing the perfect court for people who weren't even ravens, i mean he had a number set aside for andrew even after andrew refused. he was convinced that he was able to build the Court he wanted, purely because he was king, and not only did his Court exist only inside the nest, but riko did as well. him dying after finals was truly the only way to end the story, because if none of the ravens left the nest well-adjusted, riko never would've been able to fit alongside a pro team. without his castle, his court, he's nothing.

and outside of the nest we see just how quickly it all falls apart. kevin gets his tattoo covered up. neil's is burned off by his father (semi unrelated but still relevant). the only person left with his Court tattoo is jean, which is a whole other can of worms, but the point is that the perfect court was always a child's game and nothing more. the entire existence of it centers around riko and kevin being 1 and 2 and everybody else following after, but that's never been true. riko's arrogance and his belief that through force he can shape the world into what he wants it to be is exactly what killed him, and it killed his Court too.

[commsroom]

this is a sensitive topic for me, so i really hate that i have to make this post, but unfortunately it keeps becoming relevant: stop infantilizing hera, and stop making excuses for it.

"well, she's literally four years old" she's been fully conscious with an adult mind for most of that, awake for most of that, and in multiple places at once for most of that. do you think that is comparable to a child's life experience, or is it maybe representative of something else?

i assume you understand why it would be wrong to call lovelace "literally two" because the fact that she is a clone is textually representative of the trauma she's been through. i also assume you understand why hera occasionally making flippant or frustrated comments about her own struggles living as an AI is different from the text telling you who she is or how you should regard her. it's science fiction, and it's a show that uses science fiction concepts in ways that resonate with real ones. the ultimate fact of the matter is that hera could've been in a lab for 30 years, or for 200 years, in a different setting, and be written the exact same way: as a sheltered, isolated adult woman without real life experiences.

hera is not a child or teenager in a natural stage of development. she is an adult who never went through the usual stages of development or life milestones, who has adult friendships and responsibilities, but who feels she is permanently ill-equipped to handle her life because no one ever taught her how, or gave her the space to make mistakes. if you don't understand why this distinction is important in discussing her trauma, that there are real, adult people who feel the same way, people who feel they've only been alive for four years, women who were never girls... then i really don't know what to say to you.

and i guess i have to say it: it's inherently infantilizing to say her peers see her the same way they see an actual child, or to say she needs them to be parental figures, especially eiffel of all people. "adult women have parents too" not ones that are 30 year old men! and parents have responsibilities to children, even adult children, that are different from the responsibilities two unrelated adults who care about each other have. it fundamentally reframes hera's most equal relationship in a way that diminishes her autonomy within it. (and if you're arguing it's all equal anyway, then what does it add? why don't you consider friendship as important?)

i know some people will dismiss that point because i view eiffel and hera romantically, but i've never argued you have to. if you want to go down that road, it says some pretty awful things about the couple of writers and actors who also view it romantically if you think she was meant to be viewed as a child, much less comparable to his child. you're inventing problems that don't canonically exist.

i just don't understand why you would make it about eiffel at all - and eiffel does not have the right to be a parent; the only thing that will heal his relationship with his real actual child is in relation to his real actual child - instead of discussing what a disabled, isolated, traumatized adult might be able to offer a disabled, traumatized kid. isn't the whole point of hera not being like pryce about breaking cycles? why make her a passive figure in her own story when her entire story arc is about taking control of her life?

there's no utility to this line of thought that doesn't further demean and alienate her, while implying she isn't ready to be a fully autonomous adult person. i don't think most people mean to be ableist, but hera is canonically a disabled woman, and i don't like where that line of thought leads. and yes, she's just a fictional character and can't be hurt by it, but everyone brings some real-world biases to how they engage with fiction. she's written as a marginalized adult person, and her womanhood is textually tied to defense of her personhood and autonomy (as well as a parallel to lovelace, also a marginalized woman.) to paraphrase minkowski - "you are going to show [that woman] some goddamned respect."

[ozzgin]

Pickle and Baki men reacting to pickle and his prehistoric feral daughter reader.

I like that we’ve done a proper dissection of Pickle’s potential family tree. From mate, to sister, and now daughter. Somewhere in the ancient mountains they’ll probably find a gigantic fossilized block and it’ll turn out to be Pickle’s mom of ridiculous size (like Sidon next to King Dorephan from BotW). Jokes aside, the Internet seems to agree that Pickle is in his 20s from the young facial features and general life expectancy, so his daughter would be rather young.

Baki Headcanons: Pickle’s Daughter! Reader

Featuring Pickle’s challengers and his daughter that seems to take after him in personality.

The news of a prehistoric human were too great to not make their way to all media outlets, though the scientists had managed to conceal your existence for the sake of privacy. They didn’t want a poor, confused child to be surrounded by microphones and cameras the second you landed. What the research team didn’t anticipate was that a bunch of dangerous men would sneak into Pickle’s provisional enclosure in order to measure up his strength. When Doppo broke out of the fake T.Rex and spotted the scattered toys on the floor, he could feel the bile kicking at the back of his throat. “Stop! There’s a child in here!” His voice boomed across the room and the fighters froze. Yuujirou glanced at him, incredulous, and was about to question his sanity when a small figure emerged from the carved tree trunk.

As a loving father himself, Doppo was ashamed to have potentially endangered this innocent soul. He demanded that the men exit the premises at once, and most complied without much protest. The Ogre, however, didn’t like the idea of leaving empty handed. He doesn’t care about his own damn children, why should he concern himself with an unrelated brat? He proceeded to break the security glass, ignoring the pleas of common decency. At that point Pickle was standing next to you, completely unbothered by the scene unraveling before him. He looked at you with an encouraging smile, and with the approval of your father confirmed, you didn’t waste any more time. You rushed towards the intruder and took a swing at him.

The remaining men prepared their stances, ready to shield you from Yuujirou’s anger. He observed your reaction after hitting him. His muscles were hard and the recoil shot through your entire arm. How exciting. You were gleaming with youthful enthusiasm. Yuujirou couldn’t help but laugh at the sight. Now that was a child made for battle. He lowered his large hand and ruffled your hair vigorously. You didn’t entirely understand the gesture, but you grinned at the stranger, flashing your chiseled fangs.

At least one worry has been cleared: fights leave you unfazed. They won’t have to hold back when challenging Pickle. Retsu is somewhat worried at the idea of a child whose main form of entertainment is violence. Katsumi shares a similar train of thought, although he’s quick to be charmed by your cheers and curiosity towards his martial arts. Baki finds you cute and captivating. Both him and Jack like to joke that you’re the child Yuujirou would’ve wanted. You abruptly showed up one day and potentially cleared them of the Hanma inheritance. Not that such matters interest you. You might be a fighting prodigy in the eyes of these men, but you prefer your role as Pickle’s dauntless daughter.

[roe-and-memory]

i thoroughly believe lightning has a scar from some dumb mistake he made completely unrelated to racing.

one night, doc is out late with sheriff, probably playing chess or doing some old people stuff at the town hall like they always do. lightning has to fend for himself, but hes tired and not really in the mood to make real food. he finds pasta in the cupboard and decides to make himself mac and cheese, cause really, why not? its easy, tastes good, and its probably one of the only foods he could see himself eating right about now anyways.

he puts some water on the stove to boil and, when its at the perfect temperature, he dumps in the pasta and leaves it to cook — stirring occasionally, of course — and while that cooks, he puts together a little salad for himself, gets the cheese ready, and finally, when the timer dings, pulls out a trivet and goes to pick up the pot to put on it…

he grabs the handle weird.

it twists in his hand, turning towards him, and subsequently dumps the full contents of boiling hot water and pasta all over his stomach and onto the floor.

he drops the pot back onto the stove and freezes, that quick shot of adrenaline from the fear of realizing hes fucked wears off just as quickly as it came on. suddenly, its blinding pain and he’s now leaning against the stove, trying not to let himself fall to the floor and curl into a ball because jesus christ, that hurts like a motherfucker.

lightning doesnt even realize he’s hyperventilating until he’s trying to force back tears, when the feeling of them forming in the corners of his eyes brings him back to reality and back to that godawful pain.

he cant think straight, he doesnt even think to get off his clothes — which are now pressing this scalding hot water to his skin for an even longer period of time than necessary — he just forces himself to stand up and stumble to the door, using the wall as a guide and crutch for his poor coordination brought on by the fact his entire stomach is on fire and every single step he takes is another punch to the stomach with sharp brass knuckles, or at least thats what it feels like.

he doesnt put his shoes on. he walks out of the house, slips on the porch stairs trying to keep himself steady, falling down them and finding himself on the ground at the bottom, fighting off the urge to just hug his knees to his chest and cry.. he stands up and begins his now barefoot adventure to the closest place he can think to go with people who will care for him — flos.

lightning is not a person of neediness. he doesnt like to be coddled when hes in pain — in fact, he could happily go without telling someone of an injury until they find out about it themselves — but at this very moment, he knows he cant handle this himself.

the walk to flos feels like it takes hours. in reality, a usually three minute walk turns to fifteen, and as soon as he steps into the cafe, all eyes are on him.

he barely hears flo ask if hes okay. he just walks up to the counter, shaking at this point (however, this fact is completely unbeknownst to him), and asks her for help. even his own words sound muffled to him.

flo brings him behind the counter, back into her office, away from the people out there eating and chatting, frantically asks him whats wrong, and figures out pretty quickly that its medical help he needs. lightning tells her to the best of his abilities that he spilled boiling water all over himself, and it takes her one look up and down to realize hes still wearing his soaking wet clothes. she wastes no time running out to the townsfolks usual table and asking sarge and fillmore, who are the only two still around at this hour, to go find doc and to find him another set of clothes.

for lightning, everything is moving at a snails pace. by the time flo comes back into the office, he’s sitting against the wall with his arms wrapped around his stomach, forehead on his knees, quietly praying to whatever god will listen to put him out of his misery.

to flo, this is all happening way too quick. the towns kid, basically, just walked into her café barefoot, drenched in water, and shaking, and confessed to her that he just horrifically scalded himself on boiling hot water while he was home alone and he doesnt know what to do. thankfully for her, time is moving fast enough that doc is in her office within five minutes, and sarge is right behind him with a very mismatched outfit that he very obviously pulled out of his own wardrobe.

doc doesnt bother taking lightning to the clinic at that very moment, he just tells sarge to get flos first aid kit from the kitchen and deals with it right there to just clean the burns and put a temporary stop to the pain. when thats set and done, THEN he takes his kid to the clinic to do a proper assessment.

lightning has second degree burns. they last for a month and a half until theyre “healed”, and then lightning is left with a large, “ugly”, harsh scar across his stomach and along the front of his thighs. he’s embarrassed about it, but doc saw that moment as sort of an evolution for lightning — for the first time ever, his kid asked for help when he needed it.

[hbpseverus]

For the past day somebody has been in my TikTok comments arguing about Snapes Worst Memory and the definition of SA (mind you, under a post that was entirely unrelated to the topic!) and their replies are just... insane? I'm going to block this person and I would hope they are simply quite young and very biased towards their favorite character (being James), but I thought I'd share some of my... highlights here. For amusement but also for further discussion since TikTok replies are too restrictive for proper analysis. Obvious trigger warning for discussion of SA ahead.

- Let's start with this topic of pantsing. I do not think this term is appropriate for what happens in SWM because that scene goes beyond the usual understanding of what 'pantsing' is. Severus was simultaneously being choked and magically restrained upside down in the air in a position where he could not defend himself or simply pull down his trousers/robes again. Imagine a boy and his friends restraining a girl in the schoolyard, exposing her underwear for everyone to see and collectively laughing at her. Or a stranger pulling down a womans skirt on the train, for example. Surely both of these cases would be considered SA, right? These women could undoubtedly go to the police with this. So why is it different when it happens to Severus? To me it feels like it boils down to the 'boys will be boys' mindset. When a boy does this to a girl we all agree that it's SA, but when a boy does the same thing to a fellow boy it is 'not that deep' and just a prank. And this exact mindset is a serious issue, with male victims not being taken seriously, especially by fellow men.

- Well... this last reply I thought was absolutely insane so I'll let it speak for itself lol. Fact is, whatever James' intention, the act of exposing someones underwear and especially genitals against their will is always inherently sexual. For obvious reasons, this can not be compared to a parent changing their childs diaper.

- They then dropped this definition at some point. What bothers me the most about this is especially the second part. The intent of SA, even rape, is never truly simple sexual arousal or gratification. It is first and foremost about abusing power. James saw Severus as a love rival when it came to Lily. He did not threaten to undress Severus to gain sexual satisfaction, but to humiliate him and therefore gain power over him. That does not mean it was not SA. The attackers intention matters little to the victim. There are of course also so many forms of sexual assault that do not include physical touch, it can even happen online.

- Finally they tried to argue that James did not threaten to remove Severus' underwear at all, stating that 'pants' refers to trousers, not underwear. Now I am not a native english speaker, but it should be obvious to any literate person who reads the chapter that this cannot be the case. It is described that, as Severus is lifted upside down into the air, his robes fall over his head, immediately revealing his bare legs and underwear with no mention of trousers, followed by other characters explicitly seeing and mocking his underwear. He clearly was not wearing any trousers under his robes. I also argued that it was translated into 'underwear', not 'trousers', which they did not want to hear because JKR did not translate it herself. The movies can not be used as an accurate source here. The source material are the books. The movie was not written by JKR either. The movie scene as a whole was changed drastically. The movie could also most likely not display the full original scene as it's target audience were children and it would be considered too graphic. They then used quotes about other characters wearing trousers as 'proof' that Severus also had to have worn trousers under his robes. Do with that what you want. What I will say is that this conversation often shifts towards victim blaming, i.e. 'it is Snapes fault for not wearing trousers under his robes!'. I don't need to explain how dangerous and morally horrible this is.

Well. Honestly being a Snape stan can be exhauating sometimes. I'm honestly getting real tired of having this conversation so often, but as long as I wake up to my comments blowing up with people arguing about the fucking definition of SA I will keep talking about it because this clearly goes beyond simple arguments over fictional characters.

[bloodismymedium]

My Bill Collins/Skinface Headcanons

Check out my Mona Lanius headcanons here if you haven’t! 💀 Bill Collins was always a psychopath, an undiagnosed one at that and in every waking moment of his life he had extremely violent thoughts and impulses that he struggled to keep in check on a day to day basis but he did his best to keep his demons at bay for the sake of his family and career but he would have moments where he got to “vent” his repressed thoughts such as by torturing animals whether they be stray pets or animals he would find on his frequent hunting trips. He also had a reputation of being very “overzealous” as police officer due to his constant battle with violent, intrusive thoughts, he was the kind of guy you would think of when you think of the phrase “police brutality”. It was keeping these violent desires at bay that lead him to being very depressed and shameful of himself but all that would change when he met someone very special.

💀 Mona broke into Bill’s house to murder him and his family but was ambushed by Bill, anticipating that she would come after finding her painting in home. Bill pinned Mona to the floor with his full weight on top of her emaciated form, hand wrapped around her throat and a knife pointed at her heart. Bill was literally drooling as his dilated pupils stared into Mona’s black eyes, barely able to contain his excitement as he would finally be able to live out his murderous thoughts on a real person. Mona and Bill saw themselves in each other’s eyes and for the first time in Mona’s life she felt true love. Mona gave Bill a crooked smile and said “go ahead, do it”, her voice laced with twisted arousal which Bill picked up on almost instantly. Bill’s wife than came into the room where she saw him pinning the intruder down but before she could say anything, Bill lunged at her and slit her throat, much to Mona’s surprise yet equal delight. Bill would then assist Mona in killing his own daughters and help dispose of their bodies.

💀 It was actually Bill’s idea to cut off one of his arms to add it to the blended up slurry that was now the rest of the Collins family in order to throw off investigators and lead them to believe he was dead. It was shortly after that where Mona told him to cut off his own face, acting as a symbolic gesture of letting go of the false life he lead before meeting her and embracing his true self, which he did with no questions asked. Bill was never happier, the man he pretended to be was gone and he has fully embraced what he was always meant to be, a monster. Mona found what every artist needed, a muse and Bill found what he was truly missing from life, a soulmate.

💀 Let’s get straight to the point, no bullshit. Mona and Bill are absolutely in love with each other and they actually would die for the other and they truly never felt that kind of love before in their entire lives. They inspire each other to be their worst selves and they find new things about the other that makes them love each other even more every day. Bill is the only human being Mona will ever feel something towards that isn’t unrelenting revulsion because she truly understands him and loves him for the bloodthirsty animal he is and Bill will always have unrelenting love and devotion towards Mona for finally freeing him from the “delusion” he was living. They are truly meant to be 🫀🫀🫀

💀 Bill is something of an artist as well, although his forte is in taxidermy and sculpting as he practiced both hobbies as futile attempts to keep his psychopathic desires in check. He now applies these skills in assisting Mona in their murders, the results of which inspire Mona to paint. The murders of Tom Harris and Ian Ford being examples of Bill applying his own artistic talent and it was also through these skills where Bill made his mask from the skin of his own face. Mona and Bill really do inspire one another and they view each other as phenomenal artists both in terms of killing and their actual art. It was through Bill where Mona would learn these skills as well.

💀 Bill is 6’3 and weighs just a little over three hundred pounds, being a very burly man with an even mix of muscle and fat composing his bulk, he possesses superb strength that makes him an effective killer and accomplice in Mona’s artistic endeavors. The photo of him seen in the second episode was of him before he started working out, another hobby he dabbled in to curb his repressed nature. It was also through Bill where Mona discovered she has a thing for big dudes.

💀 Cutting off his face and fashioning it into a mask came with some disadvantages, such as losing his ability to speak coherently. To make up for being unable to speak, Bill learned sign language through Mona and would also learn to communicate through sounds and vocalizations he could make without lips, such as barking and growling. Mona finds this adorable and jokingly calls him her dog”, going as far as giving him a spiked collar, which Bill unironically loves.

💀 Bill does most of the murders, acting as a muse for Mona’s paintings. Mona has the utmost love and admiration for Bill’s brutality, considering his murders to be high art all on their own. Bill meanwhile deems Mona’s methods of killing to be as beautiful as she, focused yet brutal and overflowing with originality. Overall, Bill’s murders like a wild animal, chaotic and brutal, while Mona is more focused, planned out and applies more twisted creativity when killing.

💀 Bill is a actually good cook, like REALLY good. Having learned how to cook from both his father, a line cook for the Navy and his mother, a homemaker and having a life time of experience in handling meat thanks to his hunting hobby. Mona, who was more than happy eating raw human meat and cockroaches before meeting Bill, is now addicted to his cooking and the meals he’s able to whip up with whatever organs they’ve harvested from their victims and ingredients stolen from their homes is the stuff you’d expect from a five star restaurant.

💀 Bill has a lot of kinks… like maybe too many, necrophilia, pet play, extreme sadomasochism, crossdressing, you name it. Years of repressing his urges paired with religious trauma caused him to develop a lot of fetishes that he kept behind close doors but now he embraces and lives out all of his worst, perverted fantasies in all the worst ways possible with Mona’s encouragement as she too, is a degenerate sexual deviant but it can be debated that Bill is worse.