#i can’t see it even if it’s spelled out for me

[luveline]

Hi Jade! (I’ve sent this before so ignore if you aren’t into it) just thinking about a bau!reader (maybe shy!reader??) who’s dating post-prison Spencer but didn’t know him before prison and she sees some footage of season one Spencer (maybe they need to refer to a recording of a previous case?) and she’s just dying at how cute he is 🥹

You’ve barely woken up with your face in a solid shoulder when Spencer’s turning around.

“Don’t,” he says when you whine, slipping a familiar hand over your hip. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

“Too early to make fun of me.” 

“Do you think I’m making fun of you?” 

His talking warms your nose where his head is angled down. Your skin smarts with goosebumps as he trails his hand lightly up your back, down again, the slowest, tumbling touch. You shiver, and Spencer, ever so slightly devious in love, says, “Oh, you’re cold?” with great pity as he pulls you closer. 

You rub your face against his shoulder. “Sorry.” 

“Why?”

“I smell.” 

He hums. “Sort of. Not like sweat, though. You smell like sleep.” His lips touch your cheek.

He lets you ‘warm up’ in his arms for a few minutes, then however long you doze for, lost and too comfortable to bother even trying to wake up properly. Your phone pings a couple of times after it comes out of sleep mode, a sure sign you’ve overslept, but Spencer doesn’t make you move until your stomach growls. 

“Come on,” he says, kissing your nose and slipping you back onto your side of the bed. “I’ll make breakfast.” 

“It’s nearly twelve.” 

“You just woke up, and it’s the first thing you’re gonna eat. You are breaking your fast. Breakfast.” He looks pretty even through achy, tired eyes, all the sleep crusted in your lashes no match for Spencer Reid. How you went so long without knowing him is a mystery. 

You get up only because he told you to and because he looked quite lovely when he did it, not because you want to. The bed is warm, that pit of his arms calling your name, but Spencer’s already rolling out of bed with an eager hand scratching through his hair. Sweat has made them tight and a little darker in the back. You’ll both have to shower at some point, preferably after he’s made you breakfast in bed. 

He can see your expectations on your face, and he laughs as he pulls a t-shirt on over his head. “Get up! I’m not bringing it up here, do you know how badly your sleep cycle is affected when you start doing the wrong things in bed?” 

“What counts as the wrong thing?” 

Spencer laughs again, softer now, and for a moment he traces your face with his eyes without speaking. “Fine,” he says, waving a hand at you as he makes for the bedroom door, “stay there. But only ‘cos you look so pretty!” 

“Thank you!” you call back. 

This time with Spencer isn’t enough. You need ten more years of this, thirty, fifty, you need to wake up in his arms and have him touch you and tickle your cheek with his breath. He’s too far to have him come back, so you resign to hugging him when he returns. 

Your phone pings again, drawing your attention finally. The first notification is a reminder to buy toothpaste today at the grocery store. The second is a text from a friend, the third an email. It’s one from last night that piques your interest, another friend, full capital letters: HELP. 

Her use of a laughing emoji defers any urgency. You click on the text thread and scroll up, puzzled by her previous messages, a link, and a caption: oh my god he was so dorky??? 

You open the video and feel your breath catch in surprise. 

Is that Spencer?

You're not stupid, you’ve seen photos of him and his friends together dotted around the apartment from over the years, and every time you come across that photo of him and Diana at a spelling bee with his huge black-framed glasses you have to laugh, but it’s different seeing him to hearing him. 

He’s so nervous. You can’t understand what it is he’s saying, something about mathematical components to profiling criminals. Jason Gideon stands in the background watching him closely. 

“There’s actually a good joke that–”

“Spencer,” Gideon reprimands. 

You watch in awe as Spencer stammers an apology, his cheeks a little pink. You’ve seen Spencer blush, but this feels different. He looks so young. His hair is straight as a pin. 

“Spencer, did you used to straighten your hair?” you call, hoping he can hear you over the sound of a frying pan popping in the kitchen. “Or do you have a perm now, or what?” 

“What!” 

“I’m confused on the logistics of your hair!” You feel something weird in your chest as on screen Spencer tucks a stray strand of hair behind his ear. It’s a mixture of wanting to eat him and wanting to reach through the screen to stroke his cheek with your thumb. 

Spencer treks back into the bedroom with his pink and white pinstripe apron over his shirt and sweatpants. He smells like cinnamon sugar already. “What are you talking about?” 

“My friend found a video of you and Jason at one of those lectures you did.” 

Spencer presses his lips together. For a moment, he doesn’t speak. “I didn’t do any lectures.”

“Uh, yes you did, liar, and you looked so cute.” You turn your phone to him. “So sweet.” 

He marches to the bed. Before you can stop him, he’s taking the phone from your hand, giving you the world's silliest, tiniest shove when you try to get it back. 

“Cruel,” you quip. 

Spencer stares at the phone screen, then you, “Sorry,” he says, turning pink, “I don’t know why I did that, just– I just–” He frowns deeply. “Can you stop smiling like that?” 

You climb onto your knees, a morning disaster, but when you wrap your arms around Spencer’s waist he looks at you like you’re perfect. His eyes soften, brows relaxing, his irises like dark dimes that slowly dilate as he looks you over. Your phone presses into your back, his arm wrapping around you. 

“You were adorable,” you say sincerely. 

“Not anymore?” 

You rub your cheek against his apron. “No, you still are. Let me watch the video again.” 

“Not a chance.” 

[fueioekjfisks]

Vaguely inspired by that one post where Danny gets summoned by the JL and keeps throwing his shoes and stuff at them bc HE might not be able to leave the summoning circle but his clothes sure can!

I think the twist for that was that the circle doesnt effect him at all because hes a halfa and he was just goofing with the JL.

But imagine if the summoning and containment WORKED.

Like, he gets summoned and its startling, but once he realizes hes been summoned hes mostly annoyed.

Its a school night! He has work to do! Sure he wasnt DOING it, but it was still a possibility!

And hes trying to banter with the JL. Which for him just means being vaguely-obnoxious-but-somewhat-charming.

But then he tries to leave.

Maybe hes worried about his friends reaction to seeing him disappear.

Maybe the JL are saying some anti ghost/demon/whatever they think he is nonsense.

Maybe he changed his mind about doing that homework.

But either way, it doesnt work.

He drags his hand along the edge of the spell. It doesnt give, and he realizes hes not sure what this spell is supposed to do.

Its all along the floor beneth him, he cant fly through the floor.

He tries to get away from the walls and floor, worried whatever spell makes up the container can be triggered to hurt him or brainwash him or SOMETHING.

Its not his best guest, but he has never been summoned before, at least not with this type of barrier, and he doesnt know what to expect.

He barely gets a few feet off the ground when he hits the spells invisible roof.

And he is trapped.

And now this fourteen year old child is caged in a room with clearly dangerous adult strangers.

After hes been more or less kidnapped.

He’s suddenly regretting insulting them.

And its not his first time beimg kidnapped. Or his first time being in danger in general (obviously).

but its usually some ghost! Or Vlad “Loser, I hardly know her!” Masters!

Both of whom explain literally everything they plan in long ass evil monologues! It usually takes danny five minutes tops to learn their entire life story Dr Doofenshmirtz style!

He knows most of them personally! They hang out sometimes! Heck! even the local ghost hunters are either literally related to him or someone he’s dated!

He knows their powersets, their strengths, their weaknesses.

Most importantly, he knows their goals

But now hes trapped. In a room of clearly superpowerd strangers. With magical abilities strong enough to trap him for real.

And has no idea what they want

And Danny just freezes up

This could be super angsty if the JL were told that he was evil and think his panic + young features are only done to manipulate them.

You can also add angst with a language barrier/translation issue

I imagine the JL would be trying to get information about ghosts/ are trying to get someone to fight a villain they can’t defeat

Its going to scare the shit out of Danny either way- like imagine fourteen year old you gets kidnapped by strangers and they start asking you about your weaknesses or say they will only let you out if you agree to fight this monster.

And if Danny doesnt know this villain or how tf hes going to fight them he might feel like hes being sent off to get his ass kicked.

I can just imagine Danny being told he has to fight this supervillain and being like “…if i like..die…trying to fight this guy…what are you going to do with my body? Like will you send me home? Cause my family will freak if my corpse is teleported into the living room”

JL would not be happy about any of his responses.

Im begging someone to write this please have a nice day

[mscherub]

Right, so…you’re transported to a new world, and me being the science geek I am, I can’t help but think of all the bacteria you wouldn’t be accustomed to in Twisted Wonderland…so imagine how bad flu season would be, or just the spreading of sicknesses around the school in general

You better have a good immune system cause oml would it be put into overdrive. Anyways…here’s my twist on what the Diasomnia boys would do in order to be helpful in your recovery ❤️‍🩹

Heartslabyul, Savanaclaw, Octavinelle, Scarabia, Pomefiore, Ignihyde, Diasomnia

Warnings!:

Sickness, obviously

Mentions of vomiting, snot, etc

To start us off…

It’s flu season in Twisted Wonderland, well you call it the flu, they call it something else you don’t even bother to learn. With you’re immune so shot and not used to the illnesses that spread around, getting sick more often that you honestly should, you woke up with a headache. Ok…nothing too serious, but you thought it to be a good idea to just take some ibuprofen equivalent in their world and “thug it out,” which ultimately lead to your current situation. Currently, you’re in the infirmary, having passed out from a raging fever and a disgustingly congested respiratory system during PE and you’re bed ridden back at ramshackle, at least until your fever goes down. Sevens bless Grim and the ghosts as they try and get you things to feel better, but you need some sort of intervention, and here comes you’re favorite person at the right time. How do they help you out?

Malleus 🐉:

For one, he’s surprised you called upon him of all people, but hey, he’s not complaining. He’s been training for this day somewhat because Gao-Gao Drakon-kun has taught him how to take care of things and keep them alive, though, granted it’s a lot different in this case…but he can get an A for effort, at least. The thought that counts

He’ll sit by your side and ask you what exactly are your ailments, how he can help, all just to gauge what he should do…your very different from a tamagotchi—

Pillows, blankets, anything else? He’ll magic it right your way, probably casting some spell on it, possibly a relaxation one, which would be nice for your predicament

Of course he’ll also have food covered as well, what do you want? Eat it or don’t depending on how you feel, he won’t be mad at all, he’ll just be confused as to why you won’t eat, he's pretty sure humans need to eat to get better quickly, but he won’t pry

He’ll scoff at the medicines your assigned to take and he’ll go make you ancient and passed down remedies from Briar Valley, claiming they work better…and awkwardly enough they do perform a lot better than what you were taking before, so that’s a win because maybe you’ll get better even faster

He’ll let his magic do the work for cleaning.

He’s also not afraid to get sick, he’ll sit with you, he’s more than happy to. No being grossed out here, if anything, it’s quite peculiar how differently illnesses affect humans

He’ll be smug about taking care of you. This is the first time he's done this for a friend, especially as one as good as you.

Lilia 🧚‍♀️:

Bros gonna fuck around with you as soon as he sees you, sorry. But yet again, he does have that paternal side to him, and you just look so…helpless, and he’s not cold hearted, so of course he’ll stay and take care of you

Don’t let him cook, don’t if you wanna live!

If you refuse to eat what he makes you he’ll start getting snippy and uncharacteristically strict, saying how you need to eat to keep up your energy so your body can fight away this illness. Just keep refusing his food, if you’re not hungry then that should be fine and rather easy, but if you are, have him go buy you a little snack. Better than you not eating at all he’ll finally conclude to

He’s also a little iffy with the medicines, again with the cooking, he'll try to make a medicinal item out of herbs and stuff…probably toxic instead of the intended purpose, so don’t take it, trust me. “Oh? My, my…I didn’t realize it would turn out to be a poison! Silly me. Good thing you didn’t have any beastie.” he will laugh it off.

But, he’d still give you the medicines you need, don’t worry. He’s serious when he needs to be, and you’re recovery is important to him right now

He’ll mess around with Grim and the ghosts as you lie in bed, having a little fun himself, but if you need anything, he’ll change up quick and be by your side

Blankets, water, pillows, he’s got it under cover

He’s not scared to get sick himself so he’ll stay close to your side, most likely gently cooing at you and relishing in how you’re just so cute like this

Be warned he will randomly disappear at times, but if you call him he’ll pop up in front of you, upside down as usual. But, he’ll make sure Ramshackle is quiet while you rest, don’t worry

Silver ⚔️:

He’s honored to help you out, so he’ll do so without complaint

When it comes to those he holds dear, he’ll become more protective and do what he can to help them, and you just so happen to be in that group of people, and especially with your state, you’ll be pampered. Since Silver is tasked with watching over Malleus, he’ll do the same for you

What do you need? Well, he’s already on it, actually, so don’t worry.

Food he has under control definitely, man has to save himself from Lilia’s cooking all the time and he’s learned from a young age, so whatever you want he’ll conjure up real quick. Eat it or don’t, if you’re not hungry he’ll understand and save it for later

Do be patient with him, however, he has his sleepy spells and make sure Grim is with Silver if he’s cooking at that moment, though trusting Grim to take over if Silver does fall asleep isn’t really a great option, either-

Oh! He’s awake again, ok, medications, yea, right. If he doesn’t forget to give them to you after he falls asleep, then you’ll be fine. If he does forget, remind him, he’ll apologize and be right on it

When he’s not tending to you he’ll do stuff around Ramshackle, his pet peeve is idleness, so…

He’ll clean up and make sure the rest of the inhabitants are ok

After that, he’ll go back to your room and sit in the armchair, he’s not afraid to get sick, and he’ll doze off along with you

Sebek ⚡️:

Well…he’s going to chastise you severely while he helps you. He’ll say he’s only doing it because you’re Wakasama’s good friend, and that’s the only reason why, not that he’s actually doing this because he wants to and he feels bad, no, definitely not that. “Human! I shall only provide assistance on Wakasama’s behalf!”

He’ll belittle you every time he speaks, and if you have a headache already, just get good at ignoring him yap

Again just like with Silver, his duty is to watch over Malleus, so he’ll evidently do the same with you in a sense since that’s what he’s learned. He'll wait in your room, sitting in the arm chair, most likely reading.

He’s learned to cook well enough for himself, obviously, due to Lilia’s cooking, so he’ll provide you with more nutrient dense meals if you ask him to. He won’t do it unless you ask, he doesn’t wasn’t to assume

Sebek will make sure you take your medications religiously until you're better, it’s your duty, and he always follows his duties, you should, too.

He’ll clean up here and there, make sure Grim and the ghosts are in line, and he’ll grab you anything else you could possibly want, again, not without some complaint. “Humans are weak creatures!” He doesn’t really mean it in a mean way…he’s just being honest 🤷‍♀️

He’ll try and be quiet while you sleep, but forgive him if he yells at Grim at all and wakes you up-

Afterwards he’ll probably get sick himself, feel free to make fun of him then, KARMA

IM DONEEEE! Sorry I took my sweet ass time with Diasomnia, oh lord…

Also, I realized I made each one progressively longer for each character as I progressed through the dorms, so…whoops 🧍‍♀️(I yap too fucking much-)

But hey, now I can start on a new series, just gotta come up with one- or, someone could suggest one if anyone has any ideas!

Btw, requests and asks are open!!! ପ(๑•ᴗ•๑)ଓ

Master list

Please don’t steal or copy any of my work! You may, however, reblog if you’d want to!

Pictures belong to Disney Twisted Wonderland but are edited by me :)

[a-romantics-guide-to-life]

ᯓ ᯓ kryptonite kisses ᯓ ᯓ ⋆˙ ✮

clark can't seem to take his lips off of yours for even one second aka your lips are kryptonite, weakening him (but if that what it takes for you to keep you close to him, cest la vie)

tags: fluffyyyy, kisses, you work together, established relationship

FIRST CLARK FICLET!! def not the last bc i am so weak for this man already but i hope you enjoy!

You rub your forehead, the words on the page in your hands blurring together. How is it possible for one writer to make so many mistakes? The red pen tucked on your ear was running on its last legs of ink. You were convinced that the person who wrote this sham of an article deserved to be sent back to the kindergarten. And they also definitely needed glasses because who in their right mind would ever write a sentence as atrocious as “Superman’s strengths lied in his sooper abilities of strong because his face was a zero out of ten.”

“When I catch the person who wrote this, they’ll never ever write again. I won’t let them.” You mutter, taking your red pen and scribbling furiously, nearly ripping the paper out of anger.

A resounding laugh echoed in your office all of a sudden, you looked up to meet the familiar voice's face. Beautiful blue eyes stared back at you, glasses framing his strong nose and handsome face. You smile, setting your pen down as the man walks to you, pressing a kiss to your cheek.

“What are you whispering furiously?” He smirked.

“Only this stupid article titled ‘Superman, only is he really that super?’” You sigh, lifting the paper for the tall man behind you. He lets out another chuckle, taking the papers as he starts to read the obscene article.

His deep voice starts to read the words under his breath, a few amused snorts escaping his thinned lips.

“Go back to elementary school? Such kind words darling.”

You laugh standing up and taking the papers from his hands, throwing them back to your desk. You walk up to him, your chest meeting his as you look up to gaze at the tall man.

“What would you have me say Clark? ‘You can’t write for shit, who spells super as sooper’?” He laughs, hands coming up to your arms, rubbing up and down. Your shoulders loosen under his powerful touch. 

“That’s certainly one way to communicate how whoever wrote that needs an immediate ride to the hospital because I think that they may have a severe concussion,” he hums, “Do ya think they’ll let me fly them to the hospital?”

You laugh, resting your head in the space between his shoulder and neck. You wrap your arms around his broad chest, “I don’t think that’s the best idea, Superman.” You whisper the last part.

Clark looks down at you, smiling at the very ‘secretive’ smile you give him. You made him feel as if he was the only one in the world, the way your bright eyes lit up every time you smiled. On a planet of 7 billion and a universe with who knows how many more species and people, you were the only one to make his chest swell with giddiness and elation.

He presses a kiss to your forehead, moving away from you so he could help you pack your things. You smile as you begin to plan your night in your head. Superhero movies, beer for Clark while you sipped on a nice red Clark bought you, and of course tipsy kisses which would probably lead to much more.

You mindlessly organize the articles you needed to edit on your desk, taking home a few that you could finish later. You smile, thankful it’s time to go home and spend the rest of your night with Clark.

“What are you smiling about over there? Surely the first page of the article I wrote about Superman isn’t that interesting.”

Your eyes snap to the page underneath your fingertips only to see a photo of the Man of Steel with the words “by Clark Kent” underneath the photo. 

You laugh, “sorry Clark, just excited to spend some time with you is all.” You smile, quickly packing up the rest of your things, your heels clacking on the tile floors of your office to catch up with your boyfriend. 

He smiles, taking your briefcase, which Clark noted was worn out and much cuter than the one he used, from your hands. He moves everything he’s holding to his left hand, cradling your hand in his. You smile, holding your coat in your other arm as you two walk to the elevator.

You press the button, letting your hand fall from Clark’s. He immediately pouts, much like a puppy or even Krypto, his shoulders sagging. You laugh at his antics, leaning to kiss him on the cheek. 

Clark’s heart immediately stop, the world seemingly halting as he looks at you, a gentle smile on your lips. He tilts his head to you, pressing his lips to meet yours in a soothing kiss. 

You lean in, your nose catching on his glasses. Your lips danced together, your hand going up to cradle his cheek. Your hand rubbed against his strong jaw as his lips continued to ravage yours. 

He released your lips for a second, his hand shooting up to throw his glasses into his pocket. He throws your bags and his own coat to the ground to wrap his strong arms around your waist, hoisting you up against him. Your hands immediately shoot up to his face, bringing him closer to you. 

Your breaths between kisses grew heavier and heavier, your lips tingling with passion and need as you greedily took Clark’s lips. His hands started to roam across the small of your back, your waist, your ass. His lips greedily latch onto yours, stealing ever sigh and groan escaping your messy pink lips. 

Suddenly the elevator dinged, your head shooting to the open metal door, praying that no one was inside. 

Clark laughs, noting your fear. He sets you down, kissing your nose and cheek before swiftly putting his glasses back on, patting his coat to rid it of any dirt, and grabbing your bags from the floor. You shyly do the same to your own coat, slipping your arms through the velvety sleeves as you walk to the elevator. 

You and Clark both reach to press the garage button at the same time. Your eyes lock on to each other, goofy smiles and chuckles drowning out the music playing of the crackly speakers. 

“Let me take you out on a date darling.” Clark takes your hand, kissing the ring you wore on your middle finger. 

You nod, your hand shaking away from his own. You cradle his face as the elevator continues it’s descent into the abyss of the lower floors.

You lean in once more, kissing his lips. You quickly move away from him though as the elevator doors open once more, sprinting away to your car before Clark could trap your lips once again in heaven. 

As you move hastily to your car, you hear Clark mumble “damn you and your kryptonite kisses.”

You laugh, opening the doors for Clark as he scrambled to get you inside presumably to catch your lips once again in a kiss.

[glowettee]

✧ 5 journaling prompts for clarity✧

hey lovelies! 🎀✨

journaling has this magical way of helping us untangle our thoughts and bring clarity to what’s swirling in our minds. if you’re feeling a little stuck, overwhelmed, or just in need of some dreamy self-reflection, here are 5 journaling prompts for clarity that will have you glowing from the inside out. i personally use these prompts for myself, and they really help. ✧

1. what’s been on my mind lately?

this is your chance to let it all out. what’s taking up space in your brain? maybe it’s a project you’re procrastinating, a dream you can’t stop thinking about, or even a random convo that’s stuck with you. (pro tip: don’t filter yourself, this is just for you.) writing it all down can help you figure out what’s truly important and what you’re ready to let go of.

2. what are my biggest goals right now?

your goals are like your north star, they guide you towards your dream life. write them out, even if they feel or sound a little big or scary! even if it’s acing that exam, starting a new hobby, or creating a routine that feels amazing, this is the moment to get super clear about what you want. and remember, your goals don’t have to be perfect, they just need to feel right for you.

3. what’s holding me back?

okay, time for a little tough love (but in the gentlest, coziest way). what’s standing between you and your goals? is it fear? a lack of time? self-doubt? be honest with yourself, and remember: identifying the blocks is the first step to moving past them. oh, and don’t forget to sprinkle in some compassion. everyone has things they’re working through.

4. what makes me happiest?

this one is a total vibe booster. think about the little (and big) things that light you up. could it be your morning coffee ritual? late-night convos with your bestie? the feeling of finishing a good book? write it all down, and let it remind you that joy is all around you, waiting to be noticed. ✨

5. what does my dream life look like?

now for the fun part. close your eyes and picture your ideal life. what does it feel like? what are you doing? who are you with? where are you living? let yourself dream as big as you want here. (pro tip: the more detailed, the better.) this is the blueprint for your glow-up.

bonus tips:

make your journaling session feel special: cozy blankets, soft music, and your favorite pen.

don’t stress about perfect grammar or spelling. this is just for you!

revisit your answers every so often. you’ll be amazed at how much clarity and progress you’ll see.

xoxo, mindy <3

[paradlselost]

ֹ ⑅᜔ ׄ ݊ ݂ ONE MORE NIGHT ۪ ֹ ᮫

the salesman x female reader

⎨ 𝐀𝐍 ⎬SORRY THIS ONES KINDA CRAZY 💔 i wrote this in like an hour after seeing mettatons_highheel ‘s headcanons about him on tiktok so please don’t kill me over any spelling mistakes . and yes i’m still working on national anthem ! i’m just taking a quick break from phosphorus because squid game is consuming my life . also one more night by maroon five is so great i wish adam levine wasn’t a horrible person .

⎨ 𝐂𝐖 ⎬ probably the worst smut i’ve written so far ! mentioned / described abuse , degrading kink , pet names ( puppy ) , slapping , biting ++ marking , mentioned blood , oral ( f receiving ) , overstimulation , cnc sorta ? vibrator , punishment , hate sex ! ! fingering ( f receiving ) , choking . dacryphilia , the salesman just being a fucking freak in general

“You’re a fucking psycho.”

He doesn’t reply, his hand wrapped tightly around your neck if only just to watch the tears that stream from your eyes. His head tilts to the side, mocking, condescending. That stupid smile plastered on his face as you spit in it.

“Shhh. I don’t keep you around so you can push my buttons, puppy.”

His wrists are bruised and bleeding, you scratch at his skin and tearing it up, getting him under your nails. Under you, on top of you, inside you. What’s the difference? He doesn’t flinch; doesn’t move. If anything his grip tightens as black floods the corner of your vision, cutting off your peripheral.

You’re a scared dog under him, tail tucked between your pretty legs that his knee spreads, digging between your thighs. It’s hardly the first time this has happened - you couldn’t count on one hand the amount of times you said you’d leave him. The amount of times you claimed it was the last.

But god, his knee brushing against your core felt so so good, and you’re so so weak for him.

It’s easy to tell yourself that it’s over between the two of you when he isn’t home. When he leaves you for days so the next time he opens the door you’ll crawl to him; begging for him. It’s easy to argue over the phone, but your mouth feels dry and words get stuck in your throat when he’s around.

He fucks you till you’re stupid. Brain dead and pliant for him, pressed against his sheets and inhaling his scent. You’ll babble for him, words jumbled and incoherent between wanton moans and whimpers. Sometimes, if you think hard enough with that brain he turns to mush you can manage to say his name til he shoves his fingers in your mouth.

“Oh shh, you poor baby. Don’t cry.”

You hadn’t realized tears were streaming from your eyes till he pointed them out, mocking you as he went to move the hand that wasn’t pinning you to the wall to wipe your tears. Your grip, however, kept him there; nails digging deeper into his flesh. A soft tsk falls from his lips before he simply moves to lick the salty tears from your cheeks.

Your breathing turns shallow, chest heaving as you attempt to suck in the air around you. It’s futile, his hands only tightening more. His tongue laps at your skin before his lips travel down, tracing your collarbone before biting down harshly against your shoulder.

If you had any air left in your lungs you would’ve screamed, his teeth drawing blood from your flesh as your back arches off the wall. You can’t even pretend to hate it, to hate him. He knows it, too, relishes in how you squirm and writhe under him; desperate to simply breathe again.

He’ll loosen his grip when he notices you begin to fall limp, reaching up to slap you, bruising your tear stained cheeks and causing you to jolt forward. It only serves to turn him on more, how he can play with your life in his hands. That at any moment he could snap that cord and kill you and he’d get away with it, too. His teeth graze over your neck, humming.

You suck in a few breaths, allowing air to fill your lungs once more as your feet touch the ground again. His knee presses against you more, rubbing against your clothed cunt and drinking in the way you grind back against him. A needy slut, all for him. It’s how he knows you’ll never actually leave him - who else could treat you the way you liked? Your head rests back against the wall as you hear the clinking of his belt.

Within a moment the leather is pressed between your teeth, a makeshift gag as he sinks to the floor in front of you. You can only watch, tilt your head down at him as he works your pretty skirt off your hips. His fingers trail over your panties, circling the wetness that pools against the fabric.

“Just can’t control yourself, can you puppy?” He grins, fingers hooking around your underwear and pulling it off as well. He hums in contentment, slipping them into his suit pocket. It would be almost attractive if not for the slap to your folds that followed right after.

Once more, you find your back arching off the wall - moans muffled by the leather belt gagging you. He’s not gentle in the slightest, not kind or sweet as he slips his fingers into your cunt, thrusting harsh enough to make your legs shake while his lips wrap around your needy clit.

The dark kitchen of your shared apartment is filled with gushing, wet noises that echo from you. You’d be ashamed if not from the assault he was laying on your body. His hands grip at your sides roughly, just above your hips and leaving bruising marks in their wake. You’re nothing more than a doll for him, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Please please… fuck-“

“Shut the fuck up.”

Your voice is muffled by the gag, though the words that manage to be comprehendible are cut off by his snapping. He doesn’t want to hear your voice, doesn’t want to hear you speak as he’s focused on the noises your cunt makes. Needy and gummy walls tightening around his fingers. You can feel yourself teetering on the edge, ready to spill for him.

He doesn’t miss the way your legs tremble as your cunt pulsates around his fingers into rhythm with his thrusting. His tongue laps over your swollen clit as your fingers press against his shoulders, holding yourself up as your legs fail you. He doesn’t stop even as you begin to cry once more, begging him through the belt to stop.

Your legs shake even more violently, one hand moving to trace up and down the back of them. He relishes in how you fall apart, how you go from playing tough with him to a broken doll he needs to glue back together. Your hands feebly push at his head, trying to get him off.

When he does stop, he stands in front of you and wipes his lips with the back of his hand. His fingers trailing up to your lips before slipping inside your mouth, making you taste yourself. A smug smirk plays on his face, one that reminds you that after all this he’ll be gone again and you’ll go back to hating him.

But for now, he leads you to your bedroom despite your legs that refuse to work - practically dragging you there and throwing you onto the bed. He’s quick to reach underneath the frame, pulling out a box and rummaging through it before he finds what he was looking for.

He pushes the buttons on the black vibrator he holds in his hands now, the toy drumming to life under his touch, much like you. He looms over your shaky body, grinning down at your form.

“Open your legs again, puppy.” The hand not on the toy kneads your thighs apart, humming at the slick that paints your flesh. “There we go, just like that. Because of that mouth you have on you were not going to stop til you’ve given me everything you got. Okay doll?”

[maimaus]

Fic Concept

I NEED a Superbat fic where Batman gets hit by a spell that makes him lose the ability to feel pain. At first he doesn’t even realize what the spell does and continues to patrol as normal thinking ‘Why can’t these goons hit me properly, it doesn’t even sting.’ But then he actually gets seriously hurt while protecting Robin and doesn’t notice because it doesn’t hurt. He continues to fight while his body dies around him and Robin notices that something is seriously wrong when Bruce falls unconscious and calls Superman for help.

Batman figures out what the spell did and that he can’t feel pain anymore. The League decides Supes - deeply in love, pining and - very concerned is obviously the only logical person to take care of Batman during this time cause he is the only one who can see internal bleeding and broken bones and things like that. Together an angry, reluctant Batman and a pining, loving that he can take care of Batman Supes have to find the person who put the spell on the Bat and reverse it. And then they kiss <3

This is the piece of dialogue that needs to happen:

Supes: “Batman, I can see your bones.”

Batman: “I know you have x-ray vision”

Supes: “No, I mean literally.”

[writingsoftarnishedsilver]

okay the we shouldn't turn sebastian in but it has the you don't have all the facts

i love him meme

THIS WAS REALLY HARD FOR ME BECAUSE THIS IS SUCH AN EMOTIONAL SCENE AND IM NOT SURE I DID THE BEST JOB INCORPORATING THE HUMOR OF THE MEME INTO THE WEIGHT OF THE SITUATION BUT I TRIED MY BEST ANON.

Words: ~1,100

Tags: Reader Insert, Female MC, No Y/N, Canon Event Rewrite

The Undercroft was quiet, the usual sense of sanctuary replaced by an oppressive weight neither of you dared name. Ominis paced near the table, his wand gripped so tightly his knuckles turned white. You sat perched on the edge of a crate, arms crossed, watching him with unease. His usual composure had cracked, and the pieces were sharper than you were used to.

“We need to decide what we're going to do,” Ominis said, breaking the silence at last.

You straightened, already dreading where this conversation was headed. “I figured that was why you wanted to meet here.”

He stopped pacing and turned to face you. “I don’t want to lose him,” he admitted, his voice softer than you expected. “But I don’t think we have a choice.”

“You can’t mean that.”

Ominis stopped in his tracks, his blind gaze snapping toward you. “Can’t I? Merlin, look at what he’s done! The spells he’s used. The person he—” He stopped himself, swallowing hard. “He’s crossed too many lines.”

You stood, fists clenching at your sides. “But surely he hasn’t crossed the point of no return, Ominis. Not yet. We can still help him!”

“Help him?” Ominis snapped, a rare flash of anger breaking through his calm demeanor. “He doesn’t think he needs help. He’s convinced himself that everything he’s done is justified, no matter how wrong it is.”

“He was trying to save Anne,” you argued. “You know that.”

“And where does it end?” Ominis demanded, stepping closer to you. “When does trying to save Anne stop being an excuse for using Dark magic? For killing people?”

“He didn’t mean to!” you snapped, pushing off the wall.

Ominis’s face twisted with anger. “That doesn’t matter! He cast the Killing Curse. That’s not something you do by accident.”

“He was desperate!” you argued. “Solomon was threatening him. He panicked and you know it!"

“Panicked?” Ominis repeated, his voice rising. “That’s your excuse? He used Dark magic to murder his own uncle, and you think that’s something we can just brush aside?”

“I’m not brushing it aside!” you cried, stepping closer to him. “But sending him to Azkaban isn’t the answer. You know he wouldn’t survive there.”

Ominis shook his head, frustration written across his face. “He shouldn’t have to survive there, because he shouldn’t have done it in the first place! You’re acting like we can fix this, but we can’t. He crossed a line, and now there’s no going back.”

“There’s always a way back,” you shot back. “We’ve saved him before. We can do it again.”

“This isn’t like before!” Ominis snapped, throwing his hands in the air. “This isn’t him sneaking into the Restricted Section or using a spell he didn’t fully understand. He knew exactly what he was doing when he used that bloody relic, and he knew what he was doing when he cast that curse. He made his choice.”

“He made a mistake,” you said, your voice trembling. “He’s not some monster, Ominis. He’s our friend.”

"Was our friend," Ominis said, his voice breaking slightly.

You took a shaky breath, trying to steady yourself. “So what, you’re just going to turn him in? Hand him over to the Ministry and let the Dementors destroy him?!"

Ominis flinched, his wand hand trembling. “If we don’t, and someone finds out we’ve been covering for him, they’ll come for us too,” he said, his voice quieter now but no less resolute. “It won’t just be Sebastian they punish. It’ll be all of us. You, me, even Anne. Do you want to see her dragged into this mess, after everything she’s already suffered?”

Your chest ached at the mention of Anne. You knew he was right about the risks, but the thought of turning Sebastian over to the Ministry made you feel sick. “We can’t just give up on him, Ominis. He’s not beyond saving.”

Ominis’s face twisted in anguish. “I don’t want to give up on him,” he said, his voice cracking. “But how do we save someone who doesn’t want to be saved?”

"We will find a way. We will," you said firmly, stepping closer to him again. "We'll pull him back from the edge."

“This isn’t a bloody edge,” Ominis muttered bitterly. “This is a cliff. And if he jumps again, we’re all going down with him.”

You placed a hand on his arm, your voice softening. “We haven’t lost him. Not yet. But if we send him to Azkaban, that’ll be it. There won’t be any hope left. Please, Ominis. One more chance.”

He turned his head slightly toward you, his expression filled with doubt and exhaustion. “And if he does it again? If he uses another Unforgivable or—Merlin forbid—kills someone else?”

"He won't."

Ominis stared at you, his face pale and tense, his expression hovering between disbelief and resignation. “You don’t know that,” he said quietly. “You can’t know that.”

You swallowed hard, your throat tightening. “I do.”

“How?” Ominis pressed, his voice sharper now, almost desperate. “How can you be so certain, after everything he’s done? After everything we’ve seen? He cast the bloody Cruciatus Curse on you and yet you still defend him! How can you be so bloody sure he won’t just do it again?”

"Because I know him, Ominis. And so do you! We know his heart. He’s not a monster. He’s not evil. He’s just… lost. And if we give up on him now, I don’t think he’ll ever find his way back.”

Ominis shook his head slowly, as if trying to process what you’d just said. “That’s not a fact,” he said, his voice trembling. “That’s... that’s not a reason to keep risking everything.”

“It is to me,” you said firmly. "Those are the facts. And I won't give up on him. Because I love him."

Ominis froze, his wand lowering as though the weight of your words had physically struck him. For a moment, it was as if the air had been sucked out of the Undercroft, the silence deafening.

“You…” His voice faltered, and he blinked, his pale eyes wide with shock. “You love him?”

“I do."

Ominis tilted his head back, letting out a long, slow exhale. “For Merlin's sake...” he muttered, though there was no malice in his tone. Just exhaustion. “Do you even... do you realize what you’re asking of me? All because you’re letting your feelings cloud your judgment?”

“I’m asking you to believe in him," you murmured. "Just one more time.”

He turned his head slightly toward you, his expression softening, though the pain in his eyes remained. “You really love him, don’t you?”

“I do,” you said again, the certainty in your voice unwavering. “And I think you do too. That’s why you haven’t gone to the Headmaster yet, isn’t it? He’s family to us, Ominis. And you don’t give up on family. Not when they need you most.”

For a long moment, Ominis said nothing. Then he nodded, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “Fine,” he said quietly. “One more chance."

[gullemec]

So It Goes

Golden Cage - Chapter Seven

ao3

Pairing: Billy Butcher x f!reader

Summary: A late night visitor leads to a discovery that changes everything.

Warnings: SMUT (18+ mdni), oral (f and m receiving), fingering (f receiving), unprotected piv sex, dirty talk, creampie, soft!butcher, reader Realizes Things, heavy angst, fighting (verbal), major self-doubt hours!!!

Please let me know if I missed any TWs <3

WC: 5k

You drive all the way back to your apartment with your eyes glued to the rearview mirror, your gaze never leaving the van that's shadowing you in the distance. Its headlights are a pair of tiny, glowing orbs, keeping a respectful distance behind you.

The road is quiet, save for the rhythmic hum of your tires and the soft buzz of adrenaline in your veins. Every now and then, the headlights dip below the horizon, vanishing from your line of sight, and your heart leaps into your throat. For a few moments, all you can hear is the pounding of blood in your ears, your grip tightening on the wheel. Then, just as quickly, the lights reappear, bobbing gently back into view, and you exhale in relief.

When you finally pull into the underground parking lot, you exhale as the weight of the day settles back in. You watch the van glide past you, its headlights cutting through the darkness like twin beacons. They can’t see you, not in this dim light, but you raise your hand in a small, reflexive wave anyway. It’s a gesture that feels silly, but you need it, need to acknowledge the strange comfort in knowing they’re still there, even if they don’t speak.

You sit there for a moment, engine idling, watching the van disappear down the road. The quiet stretches on, and a dull ache settles in your chest. You're thankful to be out of that room, away from those people, the oppressive tension and false smiles that weighed on you all evening. Still, the thought of returning to your apartment, of being alone yet again, feels unbearable. The silence you feel in the car now is nothing compared to the emptiness that will greet you upstairs.

You hesitate for a moment, fingers tightening around the steering wheel as you prepare to face the solitude, before forcing yourself to move.

~~~

An hour later, you’re sprawled on your couch, the last dregs of wine swirling in your glass, now a murky shade of purple. Stevie Nicks croons from your sound system, her voice washing over you like a spell, amplifying the quiet confidence that still clings to you, thanks to the dress.

You’d spent a good thirty minutes admiring yourself in the mirror when you got home, twisting, turning, watching the way the fabric hugged and draped over your body. It was empowering, intoxicating even, but fleeting. Now, as the adrenaline from the night begins to fade, the glow of self-assurance is flickering out, replaced by an empty sort of buzz.

Three heavy knocks crash against your front door, loud enough to make you jump, the wine sloshing dangerously close to the rim of your glass. Your pulse quickens, but it’s not fear—it’s something closer to anticipation. The kind that makes you reckless.

You don’t hesitate. Whether it’s the wine or the remnants of adrenaline surging through your veins, you stride to the door and yank it open without so much as a glance through the peephole.

It's Butcher. 

He stands in the doorway, his frame filling the space, eyes shadowed and face unreadable. For a moment, neither of you speaks. His gaze holds yours, intense and unwavering, like he’s waiting for something. Permission, maybe? Or an invitation? There’s a heat there, simmering just under the surface, and you feel it radiating between you like static.

You don’t say a word. Instead, you step aside, letting him in, the air shifting as he brushes past you. You’re hyperaware of the way your bare back is exposed by the low cut of your dress, of the sway in your hips as you walk ahead of him. His gaze feels tangible, like it’s tracing every curve, greedily taking you in, and the thought sends a shiver down your spine.

In the living room, you pour him a whiskey, the amber liquid catching the dim light. He accepts it with a muttered “Cheers,” his voice gravelly, and settles onto the opposite end of your sectional. The two of you sit in a quiet charged with unspoken things, sipping your drinks as you recount the events of the night.

Butcher listens in silence, the lines of his face hardening when you describe how Homelander cornered you on the terrace, his hand clamping around your wrist. He doesn’t interrupt, but you catch the way his grip tightens around the glass, the muscles in his jaw flexing.

“Fucking wanker,” he mutters when you finish, tossing back the rest of his drink in one swig. “I’m glad you got what we needed,” he adds, his voice softer now, though no less serious. “But I’m even gladder you’re still here to tell me about it. Took Hughie, Frenchie, and MM to hold me back when I heard the way he was talking to you.”

"I can take care of myself, you know."

“I know,” he replies, and there’s a sincerity in his voice that catches you off guard. “But maybe you shouldn’t have to.”

You swallow, caught off guard by his sudden display of sincerity. His words hang in the air, heavier than you expected. You start to brush them off, to change the subject, but he’s not done.

“You scare the shit outta me, you know that?” His voice is low, rough, almost reluctant, like he’s dragging the words out of himself. He runs a hand over his face, shaking his head. “Haven’t cared about anyone since Becca. You know that too. Thought I couldn’t, maybe even thought I shouldn’t.”

You blink, caught completely off guard. This isn’t the Butcher you know, the hard, cynical bastard who keeps his emotions buried six feet under.

He exhales sharply, staring into his empty glass. “But the way I feel when you’re in danger—it’s paralyzing. And when you come out the other side, when you’re still standing...” He trails off, his eyes finally meeting yours. “It’s better than any bloody drink or drug I’ve ever had.”

You move closer, closing the distance between you. You don’t speak, sensing he needs the space to get it out.

“I’ve been thinkin’ about that night at the motel,” he says, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant. His eyes flicker between your face and your lips. “Thinkin’ maybe I’ve got somethin’ to learn from you. About not running from what you want, even if it scares the shit out of you.”

Your hand finds his face, your fingers curling against the rough stubble on his jaw. He leans into your touch, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment before snapping back to yours.

“I thought about you all night,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “God, Butcher, I wished you were there with me.”

He stares up at you through hooded eyes. The tension between you is electric, pulling you closer, until there’s no space left at all.

“Help me out of this dress?” you ask, your voice soft, inviting.

He nods, the movement slow, deliberate. You take his hand, leading him toward the stairs, your fingers curling around his like they were made to fit.

He stops when you reach the top and you continue on, letting the fabric of the dress flow down your body as you stroll. You spin around to face him, desperate to gauge his reaction. 

His eyes darken, his expression twisting into something primal, something utterly sinful.

“Look,” he says, his voice thick, almost hoarse. “I know we said it was just the once, but...”

The corner of your mouth turns up in a devilish grin. You reach behind you, finding the edge of the string pulling your dress closed. You pull swiftly, the fabric loosening, falling over your soft curves before pooling around your feet. You're left standing naked before him, save for a scrap of underwear and the wire still stuck to your sternum. 

His jaw hangs open, words failing. You step toward him, agonizingly slowly, letting him take in every inch of you. Your hand falls to his chest, fingernails clawing lightly at his chest. 

"But maybe it doesn't have to be," you whisper.

You crash your body into his, mouths pressing together with urgency. You pull his jacket off frantically, fingers steadying to unbutton his shirt and rip it down his arms. You stare into his eyes sinfully as you fall to your knees before him, taking your sweet time unbuckling his belt. His body shakes with a broken sigh. 

You can't help the delirious smile that spreads across your face when you pull him out, his sheer size overwhelming you. It's just as impressive up close as it was when it was buried inside of you. You grasp a hand around it, lifting it to lick a strip from all the way from base to tip, tracing a thick vein. You pump him gently before taking him entirely into your mouth. He groans, errant hand threading through your hair as you bob back and forth. You press forward, taking him deeper, when your throat seizes up.

Goddammit.

But his other hand flies to the base of your neck, guiding you to show you exactly what he likes. You place both your hands on his thighs, gently scratching with the tips of your nails as he uses your mouth. He mutters curses under his breath like there's anyone else around who might hear. 

You're barely down there for a minute before he's pulling you off, fingers grasping your chin.

“Stand up."

You rise and he spins you around to face the bed. He bends you forward so that your forearms come to rest at the foot of the bed. The floor length mirror beside your bed beholds a vision you want seared into your memory forever; Butcher is knelt behind you, staring at you in reverence. He opens his mouth to take a soft bite of one cheek, then the other. He leans forward to kiss your pussy through your lacy underwear, your body jolting unintentionally. He chuckles to himself and he slowly guides your underwear down your legs, taking great care to toss them into your laundry hamper. Something about the way his fingertips ghost all the way down your legs has heat pooling in your core, threatening to drip down your leg. This is somehow even hotter than when he practically tore them off of you. 

He's face to face with your exposed ass facing him, legs pried apart into a wide stance. 

“I could just fuckin' eat ya,” he says, almost to himself. 

“So do it, then,” you say. 

He doesn't hesitate.

His fingers are exploratory, gathering your wetness and spreading it back and forth. He dips one, then two inside of you, your hips bucking back in response. When he withdraws a wanton moan falls from your mouth. His face dives forward, thick tongue delving deep into you. You raise your hips up as much as you can, giving him all the access he needs to continue to ravish you from behind. He keeps both of his hands on your ass cheeks, spreading them wide open and keeping you in place as he continues to lick and suck. The pressure inside of you builds.

You feel so vulnerable in this position, and yet you find no space for shame in the pleasure flowing through you. You push back against him, his face grinding into you. The tightness inside of you expands until it's pushing past your limits, like it's exploding out of you. Every bit of tension you hold from the night melts away, leaving pure stardust in its wake. You're practically buzzing. 

He doesn't stop until you're pulling away from him, knees hitting the bed. He moves his hands to your waist and you crawl forward onto the bed, arching your back. You listen as he rids himself of the pants gathered around his ankles, swaying your ass languidly from side to side, teasing him. You toss a look back at the mirror, finding him right behind you, cock in hand, lining himself up. 

“You're so fuckin’ sexy, baby,” he groans, feeding you inch by agonizing inch. He takes his slow, cruel time, making you wiggle your hips back onto him. You're desperate for more and you don't care if he knows, don't care if you're giving him another thing to gloat about. You just want more of him. 

His fingers dig into the meat of your hips as he bottoms out. Your eyes roll back into your head, involuntary whines escaping your open mouth. 

He juts forward, giving you a couple of experimental strokes, like he's trying his goddamn hardest not to come in thirty seconds. You'd rather he didn't, but then again it would give you something to gloat about.

Before that thought has a chance to germinate he's slamming into you, falling into a rhythm that has both of you moaning unabashedly. 

You are once again shocked at just how vocal, how dirty you become the second you're wrapped around his cock. Guttural sounds tear from deep inside you. You find yourself babbling words you never thought you'd utter aloud as he pushes you toward the precipice, every ounce of self-consciousness evaporating. 

“Love it when you fuck me like this,” you moan. 

“Yeah?” He answers. “You want me to keep fucking you just. Like. This?” He punctuates each word with a thrust. 

“Please, please,” you gasp out. You're so damn close. “Gonna come.”

Then you're clenching around, hands twisted in bedsheets. Your vision blurs, ears ringing, as your body falls forward, knees giving out beneath you. Butcher collapses atop you, hardly losing his rhythm before he's repositioned and fucking you senseless. 

He pounds your body into the bed, arms caging you underneath him. His body envelops yours until you feel no difference between his pleasure and yours. You feel his thrusts falter, dirty words coming out fragmented and slurred. 

“So fucking good, baby, so good, sooo—fuck.” His voice vibrates through you. 

He slams a hand into the bed beside your head as his hips stall, entire body seizing up and then relaxing as he empties inside of you. 

You both lay motionless on the bed, chests heaving, his fingers tracing patterns into your skin. 

You think this is what people are talking about when they describe bliss. 

~~~

Consciousness finds you sprawled out on your stomach, half-covered by the blanket, tangled up in the heat of Butcher's sleeping body. Your fingers rest gently in his messy hair, his arm draped lazily across your back, and your legs twisted up in the sheets together. Your fingers twitch to life as you wake, scratching lightly against his scalp. 

With this he slowly emerges from his slumber, hand quickly finding your ass and squeezing before his eyes even flutter open. You can’t help the laugh that escapes you, light and breathy, and he finally wrenches open one eye, catching your gaze with a half-sleepy, half-amused smile that sends a wave of warmth straight through you. You smile back, your stomach flipping at the sight of him, even in his groggy state.

You lean in, pressing a soft kiss to his mouth, your heart hoping desperately that he won’t pull away. You play the scenario out in your mind: him scrambling for his clothes and staggering out of the apartment like being there physically pains him to be there, to be close to you. You see weeks of awkward stakeouts and inventing reasons not to be partnered on missions, avoiding each other's touch like it might reawaken whatever demons possessed your bodies last night. But just as you're about to pull away, you feel the smile that had begun beneath his lips ignite into something deeper, something far more genuine,  banishing the cruel visions from your mind. You melt into him, feeling the heat of his body, the tenderness of the kiss.

He shifts his weight, moving so you're beneath him, his lips pressing against your neck, his hands already exploring your skin in greedy, familiar motions. “G’morning beautiful,” he rasps, voice thick with sleep, sending a pulse straight to your core. He's kissing down your throat now, hands greedily exploring your naked body. You were just hoping his fear of intimacy didn't send him running, so this feels like a luxury. He still wants you in the light of day. 

“Okay, okay, cool your jets,” you laugh. “Let me at least make us some coffee before we replay last night, hm?”

He rolls off of you, releasing you from his grasp with a theatrical groan. You can’t help but giggle at his theatrics, the sound light in the quiet room.

You strut across the room, giving him a show as you sway your hips side to side. His appreciative whistle sends a rush of warmth to your cheeks, a burst of lightness overtaking you. You haven’t felt this carefree in… Well, you can’t remember when.

You open the top drawer of your dresser, hands roaming over the bits of lace and silk stored there. You settle on a lacy little robe, the perfect barely-there material to flounce around the apartment on the morning after. You envision him coming up behind you while you stir eggs in the pan, his hands cupping your breasts as the scent of fresh coffee wafts over you. Domestic bliss. 

But as you pull the robe out, it snags on something. Furrowing your brows, you tug gently on the material. It catches again, but comes free on the third tug. You slip your fingers under the lip of the drawer to investigate, feeling for a splinter or something. You feel something hard and round affixed to the wood, digging your nails in to rip it free. 

Your stomach drops as you're met with the same small, round disk Hughie pressed into your palm a few short weeks ago. The same listening device you stuck beneath your father's desk so Butcher could listen in. 

You freeze. 

“You gettin’ us coffee, love?” he asks from the bed, one arm stretched behind his head, the picture of comfort. 

“Butcher…” You swivel around to face him, holding the bug in your hand. “What the fuck is this?” Your voice is strained, barely beneath a shout. Your heart thumps violently in your chest. 

His face says it all. His features drop, guilt written large across his face as he swallows, excuses forming and then failing on his lips.

You stand frozen, your blood running cold. The warmth of the morning, the intimacy of moments before, evaporates in an instant, leaving a sharp, biting void in its place. Your nudity suddenly transforms. Those feelings of empowerment, of being safe, of being worshipped by him—now twisted into something dark and cruel. Your fingers fly to your robe, clutching it to your body protectively, as though the fabric can shield you from what’s happening.

“Listen to me, please,” Butcher starts, his voice low, desperate. “At the beginning it was—you were… A liability. We didn't know who the hell you were or if we could trust you.”

“I was a liability so you bugged my fucking apartment?!” you snap, the anger rising like acid in your chest.

He sits there for a moment, looking at you, unable to meet your eyes. “How was I supposed to know you weren't going to flip and tell your dad? I didn't know who the hell you were other than that you were Stanley fuckin�� Morgan's daughter and the stepdaughter of a Vought exec. I couldn't risk it.”

“And after that?” you ask, your voice shaking with anger. “After I proved myself? After I risked everything for you?”

He stays silent, his jaw clenched, brows furrowed in regret. He reaches out to you, but his hand falls helplessly at his side. “I’m sorry… I’m so sorry.”

“So you heard me, then? Every night I lay in this bed crying? Every—fuck, everytime I came home goddamn alone, crying myself to sleep?” 

You think back to all the times you fell against your bedsheets in a haze of drunken lust, hands pushed between your legs, brushing over your nipples, his name softly falling from your mouth. Had the bug picked up on that, too? 

“D—did you hear me… when I said your name?” you ask, the question slipping out before you can stop it.

His lip trembles, and in that moment, the dam breaks. Hot tears spill down your cheeks as you take a step back, instinctively recoiling from him. 

He says your name, so softly, so sweetly, like it means something to him and you hate it. You reject it. 

“Please,” he begs, and for a moment, you almost relent. His sincerity pulls at something inside you, but you shut it down, harder than before. “Let me fix this,” he pleads, stepping toward you.

But you're done, you're gone. You can’t let him fix it. You can’t even look at him.

Your body is on fire with anger and shame and embarrassment, the voice inside your head screaming at you, asking how you could be so stupid as to trust a man with a kill count even he can't remember, a man who probably hasn't even fully healed from the loss of his wife. You're just a temporary replacement, a means to an end, a bit of extra fun to be had during a mission. Yet here you were, thinking you meant something to him. 

Foolish. 

“Where else?” you demand. Your hands fly through the drawers, tearing through clothes, searching for more bugs. More signs of his betrayal. His apologies flood the air, too fast, too desperate. He stumbles out of bed, pulling on his pants, still begging you to listen, to understand.

“Where, Butcher?”

He sighs heavily, avoiding your gaze. Finally, he points to your side table. “In the kitchen, too. Under the counter.”

Your heart crumples, folding in on itself, a heavy weight settling in your chest.

“I can't trust you,” you say, the words tasting like betrayal on your tongue. “I can never trust you again.” You're angry at how your voice breaks on the again and the anger makes you cry even harder. It's painfully ironic how he thought he was the one who couldn't trust you. 

You rip the bug from your side table and storm downstairs to the kitchen, finding the second one exactly where he said it was. You hurl all three bugs out the balcony door, watching them tumble into the streets below, the final vestiges of trust slipping away as they disappear into the New York traffic. You brace yourself on the railing, attempting to alleviate the heavy gulps of breath you're taking in, heat bubbling throughout your body. 

When you turn around, he’s standing in the doorway, his guilt radiating off him like a tangible thing. His silence is deafening. You feel a particular kind of ache, the kind that feels like you're being drawn toward something that will hurt you. You want him to hold you, and you want to punch him in the face at the same time. 

You stare him down until you find it in your to formulate a sentence that isn't punctuated every three words by fuck.

“I still believe in what we’re doing,” you say, your voice steady despite everything. “The Boys, I mean. I’ll do whatever I need to do to stop V2 from being released.” You swallow, the next words burning. “But after that… I’m out. After we do that, I never want you to contact me again.”

His face falls, as though you’ve just delivered a physical blow. He opens his mouth to speak, but his words stutter and die before he can form them. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, for everything, I—”

You turn away from him, cutting him off. He continues to apologize, to beg for you to look at him, but you can't.

“Go,” you say firmly. “Just go.”

He says your name. 

“Go!”

And so he does. 

The door clicks shut behind him, and your knees give out. You sink against the balcony railing, the tears coming now, unstoppable. Your heart twists thinking of all the tears he'd heard you cry, all the breakdowns he'd unknowingly been silent witness to. But now that it's his fault, now that those tears are courtesy of his coldness, he won't hear a thing. 

~~~ 

The couch is stiff beneath you when you collapse onto it, your cheek pressing into the stiff fabric, damp from the tears that won’t seem to stop. The room feels distant, blurred at the edges, like you’re watching yourself from outside your body. Inside, the void gnaws at you, a hollow, monstrous thing with claws that tear at your lungs, your ribs, your soul. The sobs come in waves, choking and violent, wracking through you like a storm. If someone were to see you now, they might think you were being exorcised. For a fleeting moment, you wonder if there are hidden cameras watching this spectacle, but the thought only fuels the next wave of guttural cries.

He never trusted you. Not from the beginning.

Eventually, after putting on a great show, the sobs finally subside, leaving your throat raw and your chest sore, you lie motionless, limp with exhaustion. Your body feels weightless, as if the grief has wrung you out and left you hollow. The room is dim, shadows stretching long across the floor as the last traces of daylight disappear. Heavy clouds hang over the city, and the rain begins to patter against the wide windows. It’s almost cinematic, you think, like the heartbreak scene in some 90s chick flick. The absurdity of it is your only small victory.

What did you think this was? Love?

The room darkens further as the storm gathers strength. The only light now comes from the faint, polluted glow of New York City beyond the windows. You consider getting up, forcing yourself to climb the stairs and collapse into bed, but the thought of what you might find up there stops you cold. Tangled bed sheets, your dress pooled on the floor, maybe even some of Butcher's things, abandoned in his hasty exit this morning. You don’t have the energy to face it. Not tonight. Not when it would only set you off again.

You fall asleep on the couch, still wearing the delicate lace robe you never bothered to change out of. Butcher’s anguished expression loops behind your closed eyelids, a cruel and relentless film reel.

You really thought this would have a happy ending?

The light of dawn pulls you from restless sleep, pale and cold against your skin. You peel yourself off the couch, the stiffness in your body a cruel reminder of where you spent the night. Without thinking, you drag yourself to the bathroom and turn the shower dial all the way to the left. The water scalds your skin, turning it blotchy and raw as you curl up on the tiled floor, knees pressed to your chest. You claw your fingers through your hair, letting the citrusy scent of shampoo fill your senses as if it might scrub the darkness off of you. For a moment, you pretend it does.

When you emerge from the bathroom, a heavy plume of steam billows behind you, dissipating as you move through the apartment like a ghost. Hours blur together. Eventually, you find yourself in your car, the engine purring beneath you, but no destination in mind. You just drive. Anywhere. Somewhere far from here.

Your eyes flick to the rearview mirror more often than they should, your fingers gripping the wheel too tightly. Each pair of yellow headlights in the distance sends your heart racing, your mind spinning through worst-case scenarios. You watch them obsessively, waiting to see if one set lingers too long, if one car hangs just far enough back to seem deliberate. But none do.

It’s only when you’re somewhere upstate, the city lights long behind you, that you let yourself relax. Twenty minutes pass without seeing another vehicle, and yet the absence of headlights brings no comfort.

You sift through every moment with Butcher and the Boys like looking for artifacts in the ashes of a house fire. You try to make sense of what you thought you knew with what you know now. What was real? Was any of it real? Had Butcher used you for your body or your proximity to Vought—or both? Had the rest of the Boys known and just played along, feigning friendship to coax you into giving them more?

You desperately search for a truth where you're not exclusively playing the fool. 

You shake your head free of the thought. Maybe Butcher was telling the truth; at the beginning they couldn't trust you. Not yet. You just needed to prove yourself. But somewhere along the way you know there was something real between you, something electric between you and Butcher. The way his touch lingered, the way his eyes softened when they met yours.  Beyond that, you know there was something between you and the rest of the group, a warmth and closeness that had grown. You saw it in Hughie's face after he heard your father berate you, in Annie quickly learning how you took your tea, in Frenchie's affectionate nickname for you. 

What if you had just been another lowly intern having a smoke in the alleyway that day, rather than a spoiled rich girl masquerading as one? Would things have gone differently? Would the Boys have let you join them properly, based upon your skills and merit alone, rather than because of who your father was?

Then again, would you really have had any desire to join a Supe-killing, vigilante group if you hadn't inherited the kind of trauma only bestowed upon the bereaved daughters of withholding, ultra-wealthy men?

It's a toss up in the end. 

The sky is starless and black by the time you turn the car around, heading back toward the city. Again, you check the rearview mirror compulsively, scanning for yellow headlights that aren’t there. The emptiness settles into your chest, heavy and familiar.

You know it’s irrational, maybe even pathetic, but some small, desperate part of you wants to see the bright yellow headlights of that all-too-familiar van trailing behind you. At least then, you wouldn’t feel so utterly alone.

Taglist:

@mystic-writings

@imherefordeanandbones

@bluemerakis

[majorgammage]

Ominous music plays.

You’ll never guess what’s coming to Piltover.

Camera pushes in slowly on a pulsating Hexgate portal.

A new direction for the cold, hard science urging our city to greater and greater peaks of achievement.

Pan up the council tower, extreme forced perspective so it grows and grows on screen.

Experience the power of Hextech…

Snap back to the hexgate, pulsing faster, glowing brighter. Ominous music swells.

…In your own backyard.

Music turns upbeat and whimsical. Cut to a tight shot of a custodian in the public gardens, bent over away from camera. She notices the camera and stands up, wiping her cheek with a glove and smudging it with dirt. She smiles.

“I use mine outdoors. It’s perfect for getting dirty in the garden with a friend.”

An assistant hustles past with an armful of papers, and the camera follows. They walk and talk.

“I keep mine in my bag. The boss really likes to ride me hard at the drop of a hat, so I try to stay prepared.”

They enter a coffeeshop as a barista exits. The camera follows while he erects a sidewalk sign - it reads “Piltover’s favorite hole-in-the-wall! Come on in.”

“I get mine out in the morning. My partner is an early riser, so we always start our day with a hot, fresh grind.”

Sunlight flares off the shop window and the shot transitions to an even brighter hexgate thrumming fast and humming in warning.

Endorsed by the Rising Stars themselves…

Slow zoom in through an open door of the lab, Viktor working at a desk facing away. He notices the crew and turns, goggles still on, perplexed.

“What is this? Who let you in here, I told them absolutely no filming in the—“

Diligently pounding away at the Next. Big. Thing.

Cut to the forge kiln blazing away around a thick rod of steel, turning white hot. Tongs pull it out a little, then back in, then full out. Sensual jazz music backs the steady hammering sound of steel on steel. Slo-mo pan over sweating abs. Flexing back. Fist gripping a thick-handled hammer. 2/3 shot of Jayce sitting, shirtless, hammer in hand, full spread, swiping sweat off his brow and neck.

“Innovation has always been a give and take. You gave me a hard thrust into the spotlight, and I took it in stride…but Hextech has always been about the people of this city first and never the glory, whole stop. My partner and I want to remind you that Hextech isn’t about us. It’s about you. And where you want it.”

Councilwoman Medarda enters from the right and tucks his hair into a more perfect swoop. She rests her arm on his shoulder and looks at the camera.

“This next push for progress is going where Hextech has never gone before. He’s got my backing. And I’ll let you in on a little secret…”

Tight push in on just her. She raises a finger to her lips in a hushing motion.

“I’m wearing mine right now.”

Smash cut to the Hexgate exploding in a burst of light as The Hexstrap™ teleports into frame, gleaming and rotating to show off its features. A moan joins the music for emphasis. It sounds like Jayce.

The people of Piltover got behind Hextech. Now let Hextech get behind you.

Introducing The Hexstrap™, Piltover’s first and only publicly-available wearable to feature revolutionary technology.

Harness the power of Hextech to deliver 6 intense power settings sure to have you - and your partner - seeing stars.

Upgrade to the Hexstrap Pro and experience military-grade efficiency. With full exoskeletal augmentation and ergonomic comfort straps, you can put Hextech where you want it with ease - blow their back out, not yours.

The Hexstrap™.

You can’t spell Progress without peg. And you can’t drive them into the future without The Hexstrap™.

Find it at your local pleasure purveyor. Hextoys LTD is a privately-owned company existing separately from any state-sponsored initiatives. Views expressed here may not reflect the opinions of any official governmental bodies or institutes. For more information, visit our Bridgeside location, or consult with our distributors in Zaun for a thorough demonstration.

[pandorascripts]

Familiar thy by side part 2!!! 🙌 🥺

a/n: welpppp i supposeeeee (this was sitting in my drafts for a while and I forgot it was done). sorry for the inconsistency everyone, I've been busy busy busy with competitions for my clubs and I my term two ended just last week. Can't promise a better upload schedule until schools out :(

pairing: agatha/rio/reader

NOTE: this is set in salem time periods, they will speak as such. too lazy to actually check for spelling errors, so apologies!

The next time you’re able to remember current events, you’re laid down on a dock, in nothing but your wet undergarments. With a loud gasp, you shoot up, chest rapidly rising and falling. Everything is overwhelming, the noise of the lake, the splashing and laughter, the bristle of trees’ leaves, the creaking of the dock — too much, everything is too much. You can’t recognize anything, your whereabouts completely unknown as the cold sinks into your achy bones and shaky fingers. 

Finally, you see someone just barely familiar. Nicholas, laughing and splashing his Mother just twenty feet off to your side in the shallow waters. With a hard breath, you look around and try to focus on regaining your senses. Previously dirty skin is shining clean again, your hands brushing over it in confusion. Agatha… had bathed you? The thought of being unconscious and vulnerable makes your spine shiver, gaze hardening at Agatha. The moment you fully look at her — really recognize her, you have such a hard time hating her. The smile plastered on her raw face, laughter so hard she’s forced to wheeze and turn her back from her boy — she looks human to you for the first time in… well, however long you’ve been with them. 

Nicky is the first to notice you, his smile still wide as he waves to you. Agatha snaps her head to your direction, icy blue eyes running along your posture for a good read. There’s a subconscious relent in Agatha when she realizes how scared you are right now. There’s so much familiarity in that showcase of fear for her, that she’s slightly taken aback by the memories of nights when she was younger and afraid. A low growl dies down into a clearing of her throat, Agatha turning away. 

“Nicholas, you’ll get frozen if we’re here any longer,” she states, but Nicky knows it’s a demand. 

He pouts but doesn’t argue with his mom, waddling out of the water that Agatha easily cruises through. Her outfit matches yours — nothing but undergarments, and it’s clear that they had been playing in the water for quite some time. A weird thought festers in your mind, happy that despite being apathetic to everything, Agatha knows that her son is but a boy and deserves to have fun. 

By the time Agatha and Nicholas are fully dressed in their slightly damp clothes — ones you haven’t seen before, so you realize they must’ve been stolen during your lights-out phase – the embarrassment settles in. You feel even more vulnerable now, the only one absolutely indecent enough for viewing. Agatha lets Nicholas head back to their makeshift camp just some odd feet out, her journey steering to open a medium-sized leather pouch, and take out some clothes. Silently, Agatha walks down the doc to toss them in your lap. 

“What did you do to me?” is the first thing that comes out of your mouth — more so questioning how she managed to subdue you so easily. 

“Bathed you. Nothing more nothing less.” 

The sharpness of her tone makes you realize she believes you to be questioning something else — a small flinch on your face. 

“Not that, that I understand well. The time — I was awake, we were fighting, and then…” 

“Then I came to the smart conclusion you were too shambled to make such a journey and made it so you did not kill Nicky, nor I,” she answers, still on the defensive. 

You don’t argue back with her. Neither do you even try to dry off with anything, immediately trying to put on your clothes. 

“Wait.”

You stop at her words, convinced it was her magick rather than your obedience. “What?” 

Agatha walks off the dock, leaving you confused on whether or not you should continue. She turns her back to you again a couple seconds later, heading down the platform before tossing you a damp rag. 

“To dry. These clothes will be yours next few days, nothing wet against your skin will be comfortable enough for our journey. We leave tonight again.” 

You wet your lips, holding the rag before looking up at Agatha. Seeing her this close, it’s no wonder she was able to lure in many with a beguiling feeling of comfort. Agatha is motherly in many of her actions, even when she’s killing witches, surprisingly enough. Motherly or not completely monstrously, you’re not sure. 

“Thank you, Agatha,” you say softly, her name foreign on your tongue. 

“Make haste, the sun will set in a few hours time.” 

A simple nod from you has Agatha walking over to her son, your hands working to dry off your body with the rag. It’s slightly rugged, a little ripped and the edges are frayed. Although, you can’t be too picky, you suppose. Agatha almost gave you nothing. You’re not sure why she didn’t, why she let you dry off. It truly wouldn’t have been that uncomfortable for you, walking all that distance would’ve heated your body up and in turn the clothes would’ve probably helped cool you down. You turn around on the dock to run the rag over your chest, Agatha’s mean eyes running along your back. 

In her own mind, Agatha is beating herself up over giving you that rag. Why did she care if you were comfortable? If anything, Agatha only wants you to be uncomfortable around her — to be scared around her. It’s much easier that way, for you to be terrorized into obedience. She’s not sure, but maybe after being in your mind during the week in Salem she saw one too many correlations between you and Her. Agatha clenches her jaw, refusing to believe that after six years clean she’s genuinely letting herself feel the things she long ago buried about Rio. The name sends shivers down her spine, eyes running to find her boy. He’s nestled against a tree, fixing his hair into a braid. The facial expression she finds on him is way too similar to Rio — mouth open in concentration, nose tilted up. Agatha comes to the realization that she can never get away from the sound of the woman that loves her, and it haunts her. Rio’s voice in the mornings, her small touch throughout the day, the sweet laugh she let out at Agatha’s off-colored jokes – everything that was and is Rio stays within Agatha. Her eyes fall down to her hands, balling them up tightly before she lets go of them with a sigh. 

You walk down the dock, fully dressed and mainly dry. Wet against your neck is your hair, but you simply scrunch it up and keep it behind your shoulders. Agatha is moving Nicky up, sitting behind him as she starts softly speaking to him and doing his hair for him. The braid wasn’t the best, so Agatha simply undoes it and starts over. He doesn’t seme to mind, lost in the conversation as he drags a stick through the dirt to spell out his name. The scene is a little too vulnerable and familial for you to want to engage in, even if you’re more calm than when you first woke. There’s some slight gratitude you feel for Agatha, considering that she didn’t completely undress you when bathing you. Despite the slight awkward dampness of the materials against your skin, it’s something to be thankful for. 

You’re too caught up in trying to figure out everything that happened – stubbornly refusing to ask Agatha – that you don’t notice her sit next to you. Of course, there’s still a couple feet of distance from the two of you, but you’re unsure why she wouldn’t sit by Nicholas. Until you realize he’s not here. 

“Where is the boy?” you ask, your body more unsettled without him. This makes no sense, and you know it, but you swear Agatha is almost human around him. Despite that she’s killed in front of the boy, openly explained that she kills witches to him, and still speaks down to you around him – it just feels safer when he’s around. 

“Off to harvest some berries past that brush,” she replies, and you’re almost surprised she actually does. 

You just stay quiet, a slight nod of your head as your eyes lock on the fire. 

“Salem was just fine, in case you were wondering,” mumbles Agatha, sniffling after as if to cover up everything she just said. 

“Have they still been killling witches?” 

There’s a small laugh from Agatha, her head shaking slightly. “Oh, please, we were much too clever to be killed during then. Those women were married to the worst of the worst, and killed simply so their husband could marry younger or justify his continuous infidelity.” 

“We?” you ask, head turning to stare at Agatha. You weren’t aware that she was living in Salem during those times, but then again, you’re not sure how old Agatha actually is. “Yes, we. Womanhood came to me after spending my youth in that town. I left soon after.” Agatha’s tone at the end, her licking her lips and turning her head too, tells you that there’s something there – a story, no doubt, but you don’t question. 

“Must have been quite fearful, I’d imagine.” 

“They couldn’t catch us, dear, only a few were ever caught.” 

The fire is crackling, your hands reaching out to warm up over the flames. Agatha watches, the way your hair falls off your shoulder and over, her eyes running along your clothes. You’re maybe in your early twenties, or older - it’s hard to tell with witches. Her body is way to relaxed with you so near, but she doesn’t know why. Maybe it’s because she’s sure you’re magic isn’t as strong or because she’s sure you’re not skilled at all. Either way, Agatha doesn’t like it. 

You don’t react to the word “dear” slipping from her mouth, certain its’ just another way to degrade you and poke fun. It doesn’t bother you. You don’t let it. 

“Man has never been smart, have they?’ you chuckle out, flashing her a small smile. 

Agatha responds with a shake of her head, pursing her lips. “Not much, no.” 

Silence absorbs the both of you for a couple minutes, up until Nicholas stumbles through the brush. He’s brushing off some burs with a distasteful look. 

“They’re so sharp,” he mumbles, very displeased with his clothes being covered in spikey balls. There’s a small smile from you, your hand lifting up to drop down. Just as the action is completed, all the burs fall from his clothes, his head snapping up to look at his mother. 

“Thank you, mama.” “Don’t look at me, boy, that had nothing to do with me,” she chuckles slightly. “Would’ve been quite entertaining watching you flounder about a bit longer.” 

Nicholas laughs slightly at his mom’s teasing, his eyes turning to you. “You then? Thank you.” 

Turning back to the fire, you remain quiet as Agatha and her son converse together, the sun starting to fall. You still aren’t clear how long had passed since you last remember anything, but you’re too nervous to talk. Wringing out your hands, glaring at the fire only to occasionally look at the duo before you, you can’t find a good enough time to interject. 

There’s a small huff from Agatha, her annoyed look turning to face you. “You’re loud.” 

“Excuse me?” you ask out, a little bewildered at her statement.

“Your mind that is, you’re insufferable. What is it you need?”

Closing your gaping mouth, you blink a bunch before relenting. “How long… was I – how long did you have control over me?” 

Agatha wets her lips, turning back to the fire. “Maybe around eight days, including a portion of today.” 

Eight days. It had been eight whole days. You swallow thickly, looking down to stare at the dirt below. She had been in your mind, controlling you, full access to everything for eight whole days. You feel perturbed at this information, wetting your lips down as you struggle to come to terms with that. What had she done in there? What had she seen? What had she messed up? What had she learned? It feels like a violation to you, your head turned away from her. 

Apathetic to your discomfort, Agatha goes back to talking with Nicky about his day and what he found in the forest. 

The next few days are spent silently for you, simply walking alongside Agatha. You wish you could’ve been behind her, away from her, but she insisted you go next to her to negate any chance of betrayal from you. Far too tired to argue and far too worried she’d overwhelm your mind again, you just gave in. During this journey, you didn’t care to ask her where you all were going, you just walked. And walked. And walked.

[aengelren]

when i tell you i genuinely don’t understand shit in the jjk manga visually..like wtf is going on? seriously

[acourtofquestions]

Dont be angry, Finnula said. Be smart.

[paterday]

👁👁

You uh getting some ideas for Aura and Omen?

Don’t look at me with those big ol eyes I’m SHY

Here’s an image of. The silly for your troubles

that being said.

[annebrontesrequiem]

.

[badolmen]

There is nothing more frustrating/amusing than watching a play through of a blorbo game and watching the gamer bumble through the plot and completed misinterpret what’s going on like my dude you just out loud read a codex entry that was straightforward exposition and somehow came out of the collectibles screen convinced it meant the opposite of what it just said.