#most of the time it's just them accidentally triggering me

[spaciebabie]

socializing w/ppl when you have bucket loads of trauma from past abuse is so hard b/c has this person accidentally triggered me unknowingly and now I feel like I'm being backed into a corner or are they actually trying ta hurt me. they both feel the same and finding the rationality ta be like, "they misspoke or used language that they didn't know would hurt me" is extremely difficult!

[liquidstar]

WOW I FINALLY FINISHED THIS SET. There were a lot of things I wanted to get right for them so I took some extra time but hopefully it was worth it! The guild for this set is Cobalt Heart- a guild with focus on maritime missions, lead by (of course) guildmaster Neptune. There was no other planet I could've picked for his namesake lol. They're the guild I jokingly call the most jockish, but some moreso than others. I really do hope I did all the characters justice, but if you wanna know more about the individual members, it's under the cut as usual!

Name: Neptune

Name Origin: The planet named for the god of the ocean

Pronouns: He/him

Age: 52

Guild rank: Guildmaster

Weapon: Trident

Ethos (Power): Ocean wave (Control over water- stronger with sea water)

Flaw power is based on: Originally based on his overly relaxed go-with-the-flow nature, but since becoming a father and guildmaster he's matured, and his power grew from simple wave control to more powerful control over the ocean's water. Waves aren't always peaceful, but he's become someone who understands their power and the responsibility needed for it.

Notes: If it's unclear, the marks on his chest are meant to be top surgery tattoos, but in cool wave shapes!

Name: Triton

Name Origin: Neptune's moon, aptly named for his son

Pronouns: He/they

Age: 24

Guild rank: 4 star

Weapon: Twin sai

Ethos (Power): Ocean breath (Underwater breathing as well as other aquatic adaptions)

Flaw power is based on: His ardent wanderlust, especially in regards to the ocean. They literally cannot leave it alone despite any possible better reasoning, which is when it becomes a problem.

Notes: Was his other parent a mermaid or did they just do the fish thing on their own? The world may never know.

Name: Otrera

Name Origin: A trojan asteroid named after the queen of the Amazons

Pronouns: She/her

Age: 32

Guild rank: 5 star

Weapon: Brass knickles

Ethos (Power): Preflexes (Hightened reflexes)

Flaw power is based on: Her overly-guarded and cagey nature.

Notes: But her brass knuckles are pink so its quirky when she knocks your teeth out.

Name: Naos

Name Origin: A star whose name means "ship"

Pronouns: He/him

Age: 21

Guild rank: 3 star

Weapon: Modified crutches

Ethos (Power): Helm (He can change the direction of inanimate objects. It's not limited to projectiles, he can change the direction of objects while they're in someone's hand too.)

Flaw power is based on: His avoidant tenancies, especially where more serious responsibility is concerned.

Notes: Honestly? Joined the guild to boost his playboy status.

Name: Aitne

Name Origin: One of Jupiter's moons, named after the personification of Mount Etna, a stratovolcano

Pronouns: They/them

Age: 27

Guild rank: 4 star

Weapon: Spiked gauntlets and armor

Ethos (Power): Molten Core (Lava manipulation)

Flaw power is based on: Their brash and destructive nature.

Notes: Likes all their food to be charred.

Name: Ariel

Name Origin: A moon or Uranus, named after an air spirit!

Pronouns: She/her

Age: 16

Guild rank: 2 star

Weapon: Baton

Ethos (Power): Harmony (Perfect balance on anything)

Flaw power is based on: Her own difficulty maintaining emotional balance under stress

Notes: She's a gymnast! And even though I didn't make the character named "Ariel" a mermaid, you can still see a scale pattern in her leotard!

Name: Maru

Name Origin: A white dwarf whose name means "Sky." It's orbited by the planet Ahra.

Pronouns: She/her

Age: 18

Guild rank: 3 star

Weapon: Claymore sword

Ethos (Power): Sky walking (She is capable of interacting with air as if it were a tangible object, creating leverage for herself to walk and balance on as if it were solid)

Flaw power is based on: Her somewhat vain tendency to place herself above others

Notes: Complete and utterly confident she's the cooler twin

Name: Ahra

Name Origin: A exoplanet whose name means "Ocean." It orbits the star Maru.

Pronouns: She/her

Age: 18

Guild rank: 3 star

Weapon: Claymore sword

Ethos (Power): Wave riding (Creation and control of tidal waves to ride on, as if she was surfing them with no board. But she does have to be on them.)

Flaw power is based on: Her arrogance and recklessness

Notes: Completely and utterly convinced she's the cooler twin.

Name: Pipoltr/Pip

Name Origin: A star named for "a bright and beautiful butterfly."

Pronouns: Whatever really?

Age: 8

Guild rank: 1 star

Weapon: Giant lollipop

Ethos (Power): None yet!

Flaw power is based on: N/A. This doesn't mean they're flawless, but until their power develops they're really just here to go on fun little adventures.

Notes: This child hangs around with sailors all day long. The words they know....

[cookinguptales]

not me having a Realization™ at 6 pm on a random-ass wednesday

[theconstellationsinyourskin]

you may have noticed i have a new fandomposting ....................

'in ⭐s and time' completely fucked me up for like two weeks straight. just straight up ripped my heart out of my chest and showed it to me like 'teehee did you know this was in here??" I DID KNOW IT WAS IN THERE AAAAAGGHHHH GIVE IT BACK i HAVE to bleed My own fucked up time loop fiction onto the page NOW. so yeah. i finished the game saturday night and then i spent sunday suicidal and writing 5000 words in a dissociative haze and then i also spent monday and today suicidal but at work so i couldnt write. but. the gaping wound in my chest is no longer actively bleeding. im good now 👍 and i've gained new OCs and world and a half-baked story out of this experience too.........i gotta keep writing 👀

15/10 game by the way probably my favorite story of all time now and i really can't think of anything that comes even close. i foresee wanting to play it every year like i get the itch to reread my Emotional Support Time Loop Fanfic every spring

[homocidalpotat]

Please do not send me asks for donations

Here's why (for if you find that statement impossible to understand):

I have NO money to give you.

I'm not popular enough that I will give you any reach.

I am a minor, and most of my followers/mutuals are too.

It makes me feel extremely guilty.

Seeing pictures of injuries or hospitals etc are triggering and/or upsetting for me. These pictures often have blood, gore, extreme medical situations, hospital environments, etc. I'm not saying I don't feel sympathy for them, I'm saying I do not want to see that.

They are always worded in a way that makes me feel like I am a murderer if I don't donate.

I said I don't want them, and my boundaries should be respected. They make me feel uncomfortable, and sometimes triggered or upset.

I can't tell what is a bot/scam and what isn't. Yes, I know most of them are not, or whatever it is you believe, but I don't have the time to do a full study of each asker.

I get a lot of spam from this. It is disappointing to see 10 new asks in my inbox just to be the same ask for donations over and over.

Please, just respect the fact that I have said this.

If you want this in your pinned post, please don't credit me. You can copy the words or take a screenshot with my username cropped out. You can reblog this but please don't go on about how awful your experiences have been. I get it, but also if you spiral two much you might end up accidentally saying something bad. This post has led to a lot of hate anons and harassment, so I would rather not have too much attention. Thanks...

I am pro Palestine and want to do everything I can to help but I'm not financially or mentally well enough to do much. I'm not in support of these people dying. Also, this post isn't just about Palestine. It's about ALL asks for donations. I'm not doing favouritism or racism. I just can't deal with it. Don't harass me for expressing boundaries. This post applies to people of all nationalities and backgrounds. Every situation- war, poverty, injury, anything. I'm not discriminating. I'm not being a zionist or a racist or an ableist. It's a boundary.

Yes, this post might seem controversial. But I did literally make this for my own personal experience and didn't expect it to get more than 12 notes or so. Don't add opposing views because quite frankly, it's none of your business. It's not my problem and I didn't mean for this post to get so many notes. Don't use the number of notes as an excuse to fight me. I just want a peaceful Tumblr experience. Also, if you are reblogging this, don't trauma dump. I keep notifications on for this post so that I can block people harassing me before shit escalates, so I can see every reblog. You can screenshot and repost if you want to talk about your problems, but honestly its no better seeing people saying "I'm bankrupt and I just got kicked out by my family. I also have a history of abuse and those images are so triggering that I want to die". That doesn't help me. Make your own post to say that. Please.

I am taking this post off private after slightly modifying it. Any conflicting arguments based on this post will result in my blocking and reporting of you. If you do not understand my point of view, make sure you fully read the post before saying this. I made this post for my blog. If you have any questions or don't understand this post, send me an ask that is composed, calm and polite, and I can talk it through with you.

Please note that by sharing this post, you are more likely to be targeted by bots and scams. You are also more likely to be harassed. Please be safe.

[cabeswaterdrowned]

not saying I will actually write this but inspired by before I fall if I did write a Gansey’s death loop fic who should be stuck in the time loop; Gansey himself, Blue, or both Blue and Adam?

(I dismissed Adam only as an option because I’ve read a fic about the same concept thought it was done beautifully don’t think I have a better take on it.)

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Predicting the present

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/12/09/radicalized/#deny-defend-depose

Back in 2018, around the time I emailed my immigration lawyer about applying for US citizenship, I started work on a short story called "Radicalized," which eventually became the title story of a collection that came out in 2019:

https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250228598/radicalized/

"Radicalized" is a story about America, and about guns, and about health care, and about violence. I live in Burbank, which is ranks second in gun-stores-per-capita in the USA, a dubious honor that represents a kind of regulatory arbitrage with our neighboring goliath, the City of Los Angeles, where gun store licensing is extremely tight. If you're an Angeleno in search of a firearm, you're almost certainly coming to Burbank to buy it.

Walking, cycling and driving past more gun stores than I'd ever seen in my Canadian life got me thinking about Americans and guns, a subject that many Canadians have passed comment upon. Americans kill each other, and especially themselves, at rates that baffle everyone else in the world, and they do it with guns. When we moved here, my UK born-and-raised daughter came home from her first elementary school lockdown drill perplexed and worried. Knowing what I did about US gun violence, I understood that while school shootings and other spree killings happened with dismal and terrifying regularity, they only accounted for a small percentage of the gun deaths here. If you die with a bullet in you, the chances are that the finger on the trigger was your own. The next most likely suspect is someone you know. After that, a cop. Getting shot by a stranger out of uniform is something of a rarity here – albeit a spectacular one that captures our imaginations in ways that deliberate or accidental self-slayings and related-party shootings do not.

So I told her, "Look, you can basically ignore everything they tell you during those lockdown drills, because they almost certainly have nothing to do with your future. But if a friend ever says to you, 'Hey, wanna see my dad's gun?' I want you to turn around and leave and get in touch with me right away, that instant."

Guns turn the murderous impulse – which, let's be honest, we've all felt at some time or another – into a murderous act. Same goes for suicide, which explains the high levels of non-accidental self-shootings in the USA: when you've got a gun, the distance between suicidal ideation and your death is the ten feet from the sofa to the gun in the closet.

Americans get angry at people and then, if they have a gun to hand, sometimes they shoot them. In a thread /r/Burbank about how people at our local cinemas are rude and use their phones in which someone posted, "Well, you should just ask them to stop." The reply: "That's a great way to get shot." No one chimed in to say, "Don't be ridiculous, no one would shoot you for asking them to put away their phone during a movie." Same goes for "road rage."

And while Americans shoot people they've only just gotten angry at, they also sometimes plan shooting sprees and kill a bunch of people because they're just generically angry. Being angry about the state of the world is a completely relatable emotion, of course, but the targets of these shootings are arbitrary. Sure sometimes these killings have clear, bigoted targets – mass shootings at Black supermarkets or mosques or synagogues or gay bars – more often the people who get sprayed with bullets (at country and western concerts or elementary schools or movie theaters) are almost certainly not the people the gunman (almost always a man) is angry at.

This line of thought kept surfacing as I went through the immigration process, but not just when I was dealing with immigration paperwork. I was also spending an incredible amount of time dealing with our health insurer, Cigna, who kept refusing treatments my pain doctor – one of the most-cited pain researchers in the country – thought I would benefit from. I've had chronic pain since I was a teenager, and it's only ever gotten worse. I've had decades of pain care in Canada and the UK, and while the treatments never worked for very long, it was never compounded by the kinds of bureaucratic stuff I went through with my US insurer.

The multi-hour phone calls with Cigna that went nowhere would often have me seeing red – literally, a red tinge closing in around my vision – and usually my hands would be shaking by the time I got off the call.

And I had it easy! I wasn't terminally ill, and I certainly wasn't calling in on behalf of a child or a spouse or parent who was seriously ill or dying, whose care was being denied by their insurer. Bernie's 2016 Medicare For All campaign promise had filled the air with statistics (Americans pay more for care and get worse outcomes than anyone else in the rich world), and stories. So many stories – stories that just tore your heart out, about parents who literally had to watch their children die because the insurance they paid for refused to treat their kids. As a dad, I literally couldn't imagine how I'd cope in that situation. Just thinking about it filled me with rage.

One day, as I was swimming in the community pool across the street – a critical part of my pain management strategy – I was struck with a thought: "Why don't these people murder health insurance executives?" Not that I wanted them to. I don't want anyone to kill anyone. But why do American men who murder their wives and the people who cut them off in traffic and random classrooms full of children leave the health insurance industry alone? This is an industry that is practically designed to fill the people who interact with it with uncontrollable rage. I mean, if you're watching your wife or your kid die before your eyes because some millionaire CEO decided to aim for a $10 billion stock buyback this year instead of his customary $9 billion target, wouldn't you feel that kind of murderous rage?

Around this time, my parents came out for a visit from Canada. It was a great trip, until one night, my mom woke me up after midnight: "We have to take your father to the ER. He's really sick." He was: shaking, nauseated, feverish. We raced down the street to the local hospital, part of a gigantic chain that has swallowed nearly all the doctors' practices, labs and hospitals within an hour's drive of here.

Dad had kidney stones, and they'd gone septic. When the ER docs removed the stones, all the septic gunk in his kidneys was flushed into his bloodstream, and he crashed. If he hadn't been in an ER recovery room at the time, he would have died. As it was, he was in a coma for three days and it was touch and go. My brother flew down from Toronto, not sure if this was his last chance to see our dad alive. The nurses and doctors took great care of my dad, though, and three days later, he emerged from his coma, and today, he's better than ever.

But on day two, when we thought he was probably at the end of his life, as my mother sat at his side, holding the hand of her husband of fifty years, someone from the hospital billing department came to her side and said, "Mrs Doctorow, I know this is a difficult time, but I'd like to discuss the matter of your husband's bill with you."

The bill was $176,000. Thankfully, the travel medical insurance plan offered by the Ontario Teachers' Union pension covered it all (I don't suppose anyone gets very angry with them).

How do people tolerate this? Again, not in the sense of "people should commit violent acts in the face of these provocations," but rather, "How is it that in a country filled with both assault rifles and unimaginable acts of murderous cruelty committed by fantastically wealthy corporations, people don't leap from their murderous impulses to their murderous weapons to commit murderous acts?

For me, writing fiction is an accretive process. I can tell that a story is brewing when thoughts start rattling around in my mind, resurfacing at odd times. I think of them as stray atoms, seeking molecules with available docking sites to glom onto. I process all my emotions – but especially my negative ones – through this process, by writing stories and novels. I could tell that something was cooking, but it was missing an ingredient.

Then I found it: an interview with the woman who coined the term "incel." It was on the Reply All podcast, and Alana, a queer Canadian woman explained that she had struggled all her life to find romantic and sexual partnership, and jokingly started referring to herself as "involuntarily celibate," and then, as an "incel":

https://gimletmedia.com/shows/reply-all/76h59o

Alana started a message board where other "incels" could offer each other support, and it was remarkably successful. The incels on Alana's message board helped each other work through the problems that stood between them and love, and when they did, they drifted away from the board to pursue a happier life.

That was the problem, Alana explained. If you're in a support group for people with a drinking problem, the group elders, the ones who've been around forever, are the people who've figured it out and gotten sober. When life seems impossible, those elders step in to tell you, I know it's terrible right now, but it'll get better. I was where you are and I got through it. You will, too. I'm here for you. We all are.

But on Alana's incel board, the old timers were the people who couldn't figure it out. They were the ones for whom mutual support and advice didn't help them figure out what they needed to do in order to find the love they sought. The longer the message board ran, the more it became dominated by people who were convinced that it was hopeless, that love was impossible for the likes of them. When newbies posted in rage and despair, these Great Old Ones were there to feed it: You're right. It will never get better. It only gets worse. There is no hope.

That was the missing piece. My short story Radicalized was born. It's a story about men on a message board called Fuck Cancer Right In the Fucking Face (FCKRFF, or "Fuckriff"), who are watching the people they love the most in the world be murdered by their insurance companies, who egg each other on to spectacular acts of mass violence against health insurance company employees, hospital billing offices, and other targets of their rage. As of today, anyone can read this story for free, courtesy of my publishers at Macmillan, who gave permission for the good folks at The American Prospect to post it:

https://prospect.org/culture/books/2024-12-09-radicalized-cory-doctorow-story-health-care/

I often hear from people about this story, even before an unknown (at the time of writing) man assassinated Brian Thompson, CEO of Unitedhealthcare, the murderous health insurance monopoly that is the largest medical insurer in the USA. Since then, hundreds of people have gotten in touch with me to ask me how I feel about this turn of events, how it feels to have "predicted" this.

I've been thinking about it for a few days now, and I gotta tell you, I have complicated feelings.

You've doubtless seen the outpourings of sarcastic graveyard humor about Thompson's murder. People hate Unitedhealthcare, for good reason, because he personally decided – or approved – countless policies that killed people by cheating them until they died.

Nurses and doctors hate Thompson and United. United kills people, for money. During the most acute phase of the pandemic, the company charged the US government $11,000 for each $8 covid test:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/09/06/137300-pct-markup/#137300-pct-markup

UHC leads the nation in claims denials, with a denial rate of 32% (!!). If you want to understand how the US can spend 20% of its GDP and get the worst health outcomes in the world, just connect the dots between those two facts: the largest health insurer in human history charges the government a 183,300% markup on covid tests and also denies a third of its claims.

UHC is a vertically integrated, murdering health profiteer. They bought Optum, the largest pharmacy benefit manager ("A spreadsheet with political power" -Matt Stoller) in the country. Then they starved Optum of IT investment in order to give more money to their shareholders. Then Optum was hacked by ransomware gang and no one could get their prescriptions for weeks. This killed people:

https://www.economicliberties.us/press-release/malicious-threat-actor-accesses-unitedhealth-groups-monopolistic-data-exchange-harming-patients-and-pharmacists/#

The irony is, Optum is terrible even when it's not hacked. The purpose of Optum is to make you pay more for pharmaceuticals. If that's more than you can afford, you die. Optum – that is, UHC – kills people:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/09/23/shield-of-boringness/#some-men-rob-you-with-a-fountain-pen

Optum isn't the only murderous UHC division. Take Navihealth, an algorithm that United uses to kick people out of their hospital beds even if they're so frail, sick or injured they can't stand or walk. Doctors and nurses routinely watch their gravely ill patients get thrown out of their hospitals. Many die. UHC kills them, for money:

https://prospect.org/health/2024-08-16-steward-bankruptcy-physicians-private-equity/

The patients murdered by Navihealth are on Medicare Advantage. Medicare is the public health care system the USA extends to old people. Medicare Advantage is a privatized system you can swap your Medicare coverage for, and UHC leads the country in Medicare Advantage, blitzing seniors with deceptive ads that trick them into signing up for UHC Medicare Advantage. Seniors who do this lose access to their doctors and specialists, have to pay hundreds or thousands of dollars for their medication, and get hit with $400 surprise bills to use the "free" ambulance service:

https://prospect.org/health/2024-12-05-manhattan-medicare-murder-mystery/

No wonder the public spends 22% more subsidizing Medicare Advantage than they spend on the care for seniors who stick with actual Medicare:

https://theconversation.com/taxpayers-spend-22-more-per-patient-to-support-medicare-advantage-the-private-alternative-to-medicare-that-promised-to-cost-less-241997

It's not just the elderly, it's also the addicted and mentally ill. UHC illegally denies coverage for mental health and substance abuse treatment. Imagine watching a family member spiral out of control, ODing, or ending up on the streets with hallucinations, and knowing that the health insurance company that takes thousands of dollars out of your paycheck refused to treat them:

https://www.startribune.com/unitedhealthcare-will-pay-15-7m-in-settlement-of-denial-of-care-charges/600087607

Unsurprising, the internal culture at UHC is callous beyond belief. How could it not be? How could you go to work at UHC and know you were killing people and not dehumanize those victims? A lawsuit by chronically ill patient whom UHC had denied care for surfaced recorded phone calls in which UHC employees laughed long and hard about the denied claims, dismissing the patient's desperate, tearful pleas as "tantrums" :

https://www.propublica.org/article/unitedhealth-healthcare-insurance-denial-ulcerative-colitis

Those UHC workers are just trying to get by, of course, and the callouses they develop so they can bear to go to work were ripped off by last week's murder. UHC's executive team knows this, and has gone on a rampage to stop employees from leaking their own horror stories, or even mentioning that the internal company announcement of Thompson's death was seen by 16,000 employees, of whom only 28 left a comment:

https://www.kenklippenstein.com/p/unitedhealthcare-tells-employees

Doctors and nurses hate UHC on behalf of their patients, but it's also personal. UHC screws doctor's practices by refusing to pay them, making them chase payments for months or even years, and then it offers them a payday lending service that helps them keep the lights on while they wait to get paid:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=frr4wuvAB6U

Is it any surprise that Reddit's nursing forums are full of nurses making grim, satisfied jokes about the assassination of the $10m/year CEO who ran the $400b/year corporation that does all this?

https://www.thedailybeast.com/leading-medical-subreddit-deletes-thread-on-unitedhealthcare-ceos-murder-after-users-slam-his-record/

We're not supposed to experience – much less express – schadenfreude when someone is murdered in the street, no matter who they are. We're meant to express horror at the idea of political violence, even when that violence only claims a single life, a fraction of the body count UCH produced under Thompson's direction. As Malcolm Harris put it, "'Every life is precious' stuff about a healthcare CEO whose company is noted for denying coverage is pretty silly":

https://twitter.com/BigMeanInternet/status/1864471932386623753

As Woody Guthrie wrote, "Some will rob you with a six-gun/And some with a fountain pen." The weapon is lethal when it's a pistol and when it's an insurance company. The insurance company merely serves as an accountability sink, a layer of indirection that lets a murder happen without any person being the technical murderer:

https://profilebooks.com/work/the-unaccountability-machine/

I don't want people to kill insurance executives, and I don't want insurance executives to kill people. But I am unsurprised that this happened. Indeed, I'm surprised that it took so long. It should not be controversial to note that if you run an institution that makes people furious, they will eventually become furious with you. This is the entire pitch of Thomas Piketty's Capital in the 21st Century: that wealth concentration leads to corruption, which is destabilizing, and in the long run it's cheaper to run a fair society than it is to pay for the guards you'll need to keep the guillotines off your lawn:

https://memex.craphound.com/2014/06/24/thomas-pikettys-capital-in-the-21st-century/

But we've spent the past 40 years running in the other direction, maximizing monopolies, inequality and corruption, and gaslighting the public when they insist that this is monstrous and unfair. Back in 2022, when UHC was buying Change Healthcare – the dominant payment network for hospitals, which would allow UHC to surveil all its competitors' payments – the DOJ sued to block the merger. The Trump-appointed judge in the case, Carl Nichols – who owned tens of thousands of dollars in UHC bonds – ruled against the DOJ, saying that it would all be fine thanks to United's "culture of trust and integrity":

https://www.thebignewsletter.com/p/the-antitrust-shooting-war-has-started

We don't know much about Thompson's killer yet, but he's already becoming a folk hero, with lookalike contests in NYC:

https://twitter.com/CollinRugg/status/1865472577478553976

And gigantic graffiti murals praising him and reproducing the words he wrote on the shell casings of the bullets he used to kill Thompson, "delay, deny, depose":

https://www.tumblr.com/radicalgraff/769193188403675136/killin-fuckin-ceos-freight-graff-in-the-bay

I get why this is distasteful. Thompson is said to have been a "family man" who loved his kids, and I have no reason to disbelieve this. I can only imagine that his wife and kids are shattered by this. Every living person is the apex of a massive project involving dozens, hundreds of people who personally worked to raise, nurture and love them. I wrote about this in my novel Walkaway, as the characters consider whether to execute a mercenary sent to kill them, whom they have taken hostage:

She had parents. People who loved her. Every human was a hyper-dense node of intense emotional and material investment. Speaking meant someone had spent thousands of hours cooing to you. Those lean muscles, the ringing tone of command — their inputs were from all over the world, carefully administered. The merc was more than a person: like a spaceship launch, her existence implied thousands of skilled people, generations of experts, wars, treaties, scholarship and supply-chain management. Every one of them was all that.

But so often, the formula for "folk hero" is "killing + time." The person who terrorizes the people who terrorize you is your hero, and eventually we sanitize the deaths, and just remember them as fighters for justice. If you doubt it, consider the legend of Robin Hood:

https://twitter.com/mcmansionhell/status/1865554985842352501

The health industry is trying to put a lid on this, palpably afraid that – as in my story "Radicalized" – this one murderer will become a folk hero who inspires others to acts of spectacular violence. They're insisting that it's unseemly to gloat about Thompson's death. They're right, but this is an obvious loser strategy. The health industry is full of people whose deaths would be deplorable, but not unsurprising. As Clarence Darrow had it:

I’ve never wished a man dead, but I have read some obituaries with great pleasure.

Murder is never the answer. Murder is not a healthy response to corruption. But it is healthy for people to fear that if they kill people for greed, they will be unsafe. On December 5 – the day after Thompson's killing – the health insurer Anthem announced that it would not pay for anesthesia for medical procedures that ran long. The next day, they retracted the policy, citing "outrage":

https://www.cnn.com/2024/12/05/health/anthem-blue-cross-blue-shield-anesthesia-claim-limits/index.html

Sure, maybe it was their fear of reputation damage that got them to decide to reverse this inhumane, disgusting, murderous policy. But maybe it was also someone in the C-suite thinking about what share of the profits from this policy would have to be spent on additional bodyguards for every Anthem exec if it went into effect, and decided that it was a money-loser after all.

Think about hospital exec Ralph de la Torre, who cheerfully testified to Congress that he'd killed patients in pursuit of profit. De la Torre clearly doesn't fear any kind of consequences for his actions. He owns hospitals that are filled with tens of thousands of bats (he stiffed the exterminators), where none of the elevators work (he stiffed the repair techs), where there's no medicine or blood (he stiffed the suppliers) and where the doctors and nurses can't make rent (he stiffed them too). De La Torre doesn't just own hospitals – he also owns a pair of superyachts:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/28/5000-bats/#charnel-house

It is a miracle that so many people have lost their mothers, sons, wives and husbands so Ralph de la Torre could buy himself another superyacht, and that those people live in a country where you can buy an assault rifle, and that Ralph de la Torre isn't forced to live in a bunker and travel in a tank.

It's a rather beautiful sort of miracle, to be honest. I like to think that it comes from a widespread belief by the people of this country I have since become a citizen of, that we should solve our problems politically, rather than with bullets.

But the assassination of Brian Thompson is a wake-up call, a warning that if we don't solve this problem politically, we may not have a choice about whether it's solved with violence. As a character in "Radicalized" says, "They say violence never solves anything, but to quote The Onion: that's only true so long as you ignore all of human history":

https://prospect.org/culture/books/2024-12-09-radicalized-cory-doctorow-story-health-care/

[acid-ixx]

Wouldn’t it be funny if Reader shows just a tiny amount of happiness to any one of the batfam, and the next thing you know they try their best to make Reader to do it again.

Example:

Dick:Makes a silly joke

Reader: Actually smiles and laughs at it

Dick: gloats about it to the fam

The BatFam: practically on all fours chasing after Reader to try and make them laugh

Don’t stress out with your writings (btw love your ‘again & again’ series❤️)

Take your time and don’t forget to drink water🫶🫶🫶

laughter is the best medicine

ft. yan! dick grayson, jason todd, and damian wayne

— masterlist !

more beneath the cut ! fluff ? with a mix of yandereness is my thing hehe. i love this ask sm <3 you guys are being fed well today !!!

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

ugh they're the definition of giving someone an inch and they'll be taking a mile. it would especially be annoying if it were dick on the receiving end of the line. but even if he'd be the one you'd take most precaution to, don't underestimate just how much your opinion holds the most value in the family. so they'll most definitely gloat about their achievement of making you smile or hell, even leaning against their shoulder willingly calls for a celebration.

trust me when i say that living in a stuffy manor already sucks, and they don't exactly like seeing you sulk and merely rot in your bed all day. so like any loving family would do, they'll try their damn best to at least see a quirk of your mouth or that faint glimmer in your that dick oh-so enchantingly talk about.

so it comes to them in the form of a surprise that one day, when your oldest brother accidentally trips over one of your expensive novelty ballpen, instead of nearly shouting at him for breaking one of your favorites, it was the "oomph!" sound his throat makes and his wide eyes when his ass directly landed on the floor that makes you crack into small giggles.

if it weren't for his enhanced hearing, dick would've crossed out your laughter as a hallucination, a product of imagination, something entirely impossible to produce, but no.

he had proven himself wrong.

once he turns back at you, he sees the crinkle of your eyes and your palm trying to cover your shit eating grin. the plump of your cheeks are so accentuated that he forgets the initial embarrassment he feels in the first place, replaced with awe at just how artfully captivating his sibling looks; sitting by

it's like a painting, he wishes it was. he wishes tim would be quick enough to capture the succession of your smiles in the live camera feed.

all because he couldn't believe it. couldn't believe that his baby bird is laughing. they're laughing and they look so mirthful and full of life when doing so.

yes, you're laughing at him, at his stupidity for being unable to detect a mere ballpen despite being trained to locate every known obstacle in a field.

but fuck, he was already raised at a circus to fulfill the role of an acrobat who entertains the crowd. what more could it be if that means he could play the role of a clown for you, his baby bird worth more than a thousand lives, whose laughter is equivalent to the immense euphoria that is filling his entire being?

give him an inch and he'll take an entire mile.

the next day, you'd be greeted with... a lot of peculiar instances within your family. all of which you would laugh at because it's not typical that your family displays mistakes, and you feel a bit better about yourself when their imperfections seem to seep out of their being— or maybe it's just your thoughts eating you up again, because is it just you or did jason, tim, and even damian, manage to at least trigger a reaction out of you?

tim would accidentally end up drinking orange juice right after brushing his teeth. his cringing expression, choked gargling and immense spitting is enough to guarantee a light chuckle from your seated form as you ate your cereal in peace, watching him as he tries to rid of the bitter taste on his tongue. although, bitter as it may, the sweetness and the aching of his tooth overpowers the regret he fills for gulping an entire bottle of orange juice down his throat.

he's so glad that he had set up multiple cameras and recorders at different angles prior to your time spent with him because he just couldn't stop watching your reaction in loop whilst he tried to continue his investigations within gotham's latest crime news. yet no matter how hard he attempts to control himself, his eyes couldn't stop looming over to your form, finding your reaction too incredibly cute to be ignored. yeah, he'll do his duties later. for now, he just needs to... screenshot every single frame of your expressions.

jason isn't much of a joker but when reading you one of your favorite stories, he had managed to mispronounce one of the words so badly that it ruined the narrative of the classical book he was voice acting for you. it was a stupid thing to laugh at, but for a guy like jason, who was an english nerd in his very prime, it would be hilarious— especially when his gothamite accent seeps into his vocabulary; which is very unbefitting for the voice of a character who was a princess that loves to wear frilly, pink dresses.

imagine a man, with a growl that vibrates through his skull, and muscles that bulge through his shirt, voices a princess of all people! his high pitched register for the character was already grating to your ears, but the sudden shift from an airy and girlish to deep and gruff with an added effect of a voice crack at the word "cake" was enough to let you burst out into laughs, your giggles echoing through the comfortable silence of the manor's library. for the first time in a while, you let jason wrap his arms around your shoulder, asking for your input about his tremendous acting skills.

jason never had many moments to cherish within the manor, preferring to stay over and outside of bruce's radar, but god does he love going through the batcave's live feed just to zoom in on your expressions, the grin on your face heavily reminds him of himself, back when he was the oblivious robin with no idea of what was coming to him. yet only now, he swears to protect your smile from never faltering.

damian takes his artistry skills seriously, constantly making a show of bragging to you whenever he has the opportunity to. but this time, he was incredibly pissed at drake for accidentally squeezing all the paint from the tube of oil paints he had stored by the drawers, and it was a shade closest to your skin tone, too; he meant to use that tube of paint for his next portrait of you. so like the petty child he is, damian sets on an hour long routine of drawing tim with monstrous features that screams the opposite of what he sports.

that means he had drawn multiple variants of tim with a hideous, actual bowl cut one. no seriously, his hair was a bowl and the strands that peeked out of it were spaghetti strands. in another drawing, his red robin outfit consists of plucked feathers and an elongated beak for its mask, what seems to be the pocket for the eyes now replaced with cat-like slits that makes the vigilantes expression looker idiotic and downright stupid. yet it felt therapeutic for damian to draw that his brother with what he felt was enough revenge to exact upon drake. that scum deserved a horrendously made portrait of him.

what he didn't expect was that you had stumbled upon his atelier, wanting to cure your boredom by painting a scenery when all of a sudden you had to drop all your equipment from your hands because... what the fuck was damian painting...? why is tim crawling across the floor in one of the portraits...? it takes a second or two for you to register the drawing's very detailed portrayal of a literal bowl cut, your laughter bursting out of the seams because no fucking way did damian actually draw something so hilarious and unserious. if you were anybody else, damian would've kicked your shins so violently you would've required a visit to the hospital. but because it's you... he chooses to sulk in the corner with puffed cheeks and burning ears as you approach the painting with said curiosity of a child and a laughter you can't stifle so easily.

at least it got you to stay in the same room as him for about an hour, with you giving your youngest brother more ideas to make the drawings even more unsettling than they already were, to which damian takes your tips to heart.

after you had eagerly (and shyly) showed the entire family you and damian's shared creation of a monstrosity, tim swears he'll never squeeze a tube of damian's paint anymore.

[yanderes-galore]

I'm requesting a Mermaid AU with Luffy accidentally courting his Darling by giving them seashells! It can be a concept or a scenario :)

Honestly, this is just an excuse for me to ramble about merman Luffy because I find Luffy adorable :(

This AU is still being tweaked. I'm not sure what characters should stay human or who should be merpeople. So since this is me just throwing around cute ideas, this may change in the future.

There's just so many thoughts... Shanks being a one armed merman... whale Kaido I want to explore... Nami and Sanji are probably sirens while Zoro is a shark or something (Swordfish...?). Then there's the ASL trio I can explore... all pretty colors (Yellow/Blue, Orange, Red) I can definitely explore this in the future >:)

Yandere! Merman! Luffy accidentally courting his obsession

Pairing: Platonic -> Romantic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Stalking, Clingy behavior, Accidental courting, Merman x Human, Mentions of 'mate', Overprotective behavior, Oblivious Luffy, Possessive/Protective behavior, Dubious relationship.

I always imagine Luffy struggles with romance.

Normal Luffy, AU Luffy, just... Luffy.

He hasn't had any experience with romantic attraction.

Even less so in this AU.

Luffy was never taught merfolk courting.

The brothers he did have left for their own pods, leaving Luffy to explore.

Granted, he eventually found his own little group after encountering Shanks at a young age.

But, again, he doesn't understand courting.

Even when he sees Sanji try to give Nami or Robin shells, or even flirt with humans...

Luffy is clueless, too focused on exploring to care.

I imagine Luffy just thinks giving shells to someone he likes is what friends would do.

He really is a platonic yandere until influenced.

So imagine if Luffy has a human obsession, who either doesn't understand courting or is just researching merfolk and sirens, and mimics what Sanji's doing.

He'd do it for a long time, too.

Luffy, being the curious merman he is, usually picks up all sorts of trinkets to give you.

Gold coins, shells, lost items, so many different items.

You find it amusing, he looks so excited when he gives you these items.

Luffy feels this is right... He feels so excited and warm when he sees you!

His group is usually on stand by, watching carefully as Luffy interacts with his 'human friend'.

It would be even more interesting if you live on a research vessel to learn more about Luffy's species.

To other merfolk, it looks like Luffy is courting you.

Sanji often grumbles about it, muttering how courting humans is what he does.

But, again, Luffy doesn't understand this.

He thinks he's just excited when he's around you.

You make him feel warm, like he wants to be closer to you.

He'd be oblivious until one of two things happens.

Sanji brings it up, accusing Luffy of courting a human...

That or you, a researcher, brings it up and asks if he's trying to court you.

Regardless of the source, Luffy is stunned by such a statement.

Courting...?

Does that mean... He wants you as a mate...?

The thought is a strange one to Luffy.

He had no idea giving you gifts means he wishes to court you.

Then again... He always looks forward to seeing you.

He gets protective about you since you can't handle yourself as much as he can...

That and he does enjoy your touch when he takes you swimming....

... is that what courting means?

He isn't familiar with mates... He knows they have a special connection but he doesn't know what they do...

Well... If being mates doesn't change his feelings for you...

Then maybe you should be mates!

I like to think he isn't that flustered when he brings it up.

He's blunt, excitedly swimming up to you with his eyes sparkling.

Only to say the strangest thing from your perspective....

"We're mates!"

To him, mates are the same as being best friends based on what he's seen.

Let's be honest, Luffy wouldn't know how to actually mate unless it was explained... Even then he may not get it.

Most of his pod, while they understand it's Luffy, are baffled that he's clueless as a mature merman.

It's an awkward conversation for you to have when you try to calm Luffy down, trying to explain to him the situation.

Mate is the same as having a lover in human culture...

It goes right over his head, the merman simply cuddling you with a wide smile.

He's going to say you're mates to just about everyone you come across.

Unlike other merfolk, he doesn't flirt.

He's clingy and affectionate but has a rather innocent view on relationships.

He just knows he wants to protect you and... sometimes gets a bit anxious when you're around other merfolk or humans....

Is that normal for mates?

Do mates want their mate all to themselves?

...

The thought is foreign yet oddly pleasant to him.

Luffy would probably learn from experience.

He'd ask Sanji, Ace, or Sabo what mates do with each other.

Eventually he'll learn about kissing, which is different from the cuddles he normally does with you....

He's curious, often staring at your lips as you talk.

I wouldn't be surprised if he just leaned closer and kissed you, thinking that's what mates do.

When you turn him down, he's confused.

You didn't like it...? That's weird, he did...

You tasted nice.

This isn't really meant to be a full Merman! Luffy Concept, yet it's an idea.

Hopefully kissing is the extent of what he learns when it comes to courting.

The last thing you need is Luffy learning something new from one of his pals...

Only to have him talking about intimacy on his next visit.

"Hey, mate... What's mating...?"

[alexanderwales]

The high-level prophecy interpreters all worked for the government or major corporations. They were the ones with the money, and the ones most likely to be the subject of a prophecy. Sometimes you'd have a multi-billionaire hire on a prophecy interpreter, but usually they just had one on retainer. The same went for celebrities who were famous enough to attract significant prophecies.

But at the lower level, there were prophecy interpreters who opened up their own firms, usually just one or two if they weren't in a major city. That was me: I had gotten in prophecy interpretation in college and ended up majoring in it after the Kepler Incident. I had my name on bus stops and billboards, and a single secretary in my employ who thankfully handled most of the phone calls.

In the field we sometimes divide the business up into three sectors based on timing. There's "prophecy impact", which is when we do a consultation right after the prophecy has been made, or at least sometime before it rears its head. Some prophecies are decades in the making, but people want to be told what to do about them. I hate that part of the job, personally, because there's not a whole lot to do, depending on the language. Plus the conversations are pretty repetitive: a guy hears a pretty clear-cut prophecy that he's going to die falling out of a plane, and he's begging for some way out, as though there's something I can do about it, as though I can tell him that prophecies are lairs sometimes. Prophecies are liars, but they're clever liars, hiding meanings inside words, only clear after they've passed. You can't escape prophecy, and at least half of "prophecy impact" clients explaining that fact to them.

The second sector is "prophetic immanence", when the client has a prophecy that they think is coming true. Sometimes this can be because there's a trigger phrase in the prophecy, a conditional that appears to have been met. One of the dirty secrets of the industry is that nine times out of the ten, people are mistaken: the nature of prophecy is such that you can't often pinpoint when the prophecy is nigh. In my opinion, you can judge a prophecy interpreter by how upfront they are about this. The weasels will milk their clients dry by pretending that every moment is a crisis moment.

It's the last sector that I find the most satisfaction from, which is why it's a disappointment that it's the least in demand. This is post facto prophecy interpretation. You're not trying to prevent anything, you're not formulating a reaction, you're just trying to figure out what happened and how it all fit together. These are clients that are in the aftermath of prophecy, or what they're pretty sure is the aftermath, and a lot of the time, they just want someone to talk to more than they want my specific expertise.

My client that day was an artist, a rising star who had a few very successful gallery showings. It had been prophesied that her older brother would accidentally kill her father, but it had been her instead. This wasn't a recent trauma, but the wound was clearly still there, so I tried to navigate it as carefully as I could.

"One of the things that makes prophecy tricky is ambiguity," I said gently. "There are some, outliers, that depend on pretty tortured readings. But in this case, I think it's just an alternate meaning. From what you gave me, the prophecy was specifically 'the child who first draws breath', and that's in reference to your career as an artist."

"That's stupid," she said. "He's two years older than me, would he really never have doodled a person drawing? Just a few lines indicating that something is coming out of their mouth?" Her hands were folded in her lap. They were curiously still, for someone who used her hands for a living, but maybe artists were like that, preserving the tools of their trade.

"It's stupid," I agreed. "But I do think it's entirely possible that his drawings didn't include anyone breathing, and that yours did."

"How can we know for sure?" she asked.

"We can't," I replied. "Though if we take for granted that the prophecy was fulfilled, and that you were the one to fulfill it, then we have to search for answers within the realm of what we know. And if you're not satisfied with that answer, then I need to spend some time searching for alternate meanings, to find some interpretation that lands better."

"I could understand it if I had some obsession with drawing breath," she said. "If I had done a series of paintings of visible breath escaping from a person's body, then that would make sense. But it's not that, it's the first to draw breath, and that's just ... I mean, doodles we did when we were children. It means nothing. We have no way to mark that. It wasn't pivotal."

I shrugged. "It is what it is." I use that phrase a lot. "There's a selection effect with prophecies. The ones we hear about are hugely ironic, they show the hand of fate, they warp and twist people. But many of them are just," I shrugged again. "Things that happened."

"My brother moved away," she said. "My father had kind of accepted it, probably from the moment we were born, or before that. He'd made peace with it, hadn't tried to fight it. But it was a hard thing to learn for my brother, and he'd just left to go to school a thousand miles away, and coming home was always stressful for him, because maybe this was when it was going to happen."

I nodded. "I can see where that would be difficult. How did he handle it?"

"Poorly," she sighed. "Dad was a good guy. My brother lost all that time, and it had always been a source of tension between them, not the death, but their perspective, you know? Dad preached acceptance, my brother wanted to avoid it, and so when my brother went out west, dad was disappointed. He said it was like losing his son, and that he'd have rather died than have that happen. So not only did my brother not have a close relationship with my dad because of the prophecy, it turns out that dad was right all along. It would have been better for everyone not to fight it."

"Maybe," I said. "In the business we don't counsel people not to fight prophecies. Sometimes it's the right thing to do."

"Well, sorry for wasting your time," she said. "Though I guess I'm paying by the hour, and I'm not going to apologize for something I paid for. So I'd like my apology back, please."

I smiled at her. "Certainly."

She stood up to go, and I marked the time so I could bill her later, but she paused for a moment. I put in the time all the same; so far as I was concerned, we were off the clock.

"Do you have any unresolved prophecies that you know of?" she asked.

"That's sort of a personal question," I said. "But I get it a lot, and if it might help you, I can share: I'm going to be eaten by an alligator."

"You're ... what?" she asked.

"An alligator?" I asked. "They live in swamps."

"And how are you going to be eaten by one?" she asked.

"Well, I don't know," I replied. "There's a chance I've dodged it already, or ... dodged it in the way that you can sometimes dodge an obvious reading." I held up my hand and showed her my pinky, or rather, my lack of pinky. "I went down to Florida, had my finger amputated, then fed it to three baby alligators under the supervision of a zoo keeper."

She stared at me. "And that works?" she finally asked.

"We'll see," I replied. "In general, yes, it's an approach with relatively good outcomes. A self-fulfilling prophecy. It's a peace of mind thing."

"But ... your finger?" she asked. She was looking at it. I sometimes thought that going with a toe would be better, or a chunk of flesh from somewhere else, but I had heard that losing a toe could interfere with balance. I had never regretted that it was a pinky finger.

"If I didn't avert the prophecy, I want to be the kind of guy who says 'oh, well that's funny'," I replied. "I think ... whatever helps you, you know? And now I don't need to stay up at night wondering how the hell it's going to happen. See, your father had it right, I think. You have to find a way to make peace with it. And this was what it took for me to make peace with mine. Though I have to admit that I'm not a fan of zoos, and I don't take vacations south of the Mason Dixon, so maybe I'm not as much at peace as I would like myself to believe."

"Huh," she said. She looked away from the missing finger and to my eyes. "Thank you for sharing that."

"It's okay if you think it's kooky," I replied.

"No," she said. "I was just ... thinking that if my brother had something like that, he might have had more time with dad before he passed."

I nodded. "You can share that story, if you think it will help. Sometimes it does."

When she left I went back to my computer, cruising the local news sites to see whether there had been any updates. I hadn't given her the best advice. My mind had been elsewhere.

A local guy had been busted for breeding reptiles without a license. I was sure it was nothing, but they hadn't said what specific reptiles it had been. It was probably nothing. I mean, a full-grown alligator escaping from custody, finding me, and managing to eat me was a little too much for me to believe.

But fate is a funny thing sometimes, and I was going to keep my eyes open.

[solxamber]

Romance Clichés With: Idia Shroud

Cliché: The Dramatic Save

Others: Leona ; Vil ; Azul ; Kalim ; Jamil ; Riddle

The thing about Idia is that he’s very used to lurking in the background. Life is much simpler that way. But ever since you’d started spending more time with him, he’d found himself in the wildest, most "otome game" situations imaginable. And today? Today topped them all.

You’d been standing together in the courtyard, him telling you about his latest game finds, hands shoved into his pockets as he tried not to fidget too much. It was rare he got to hang out with someone he, uh, actually wanted to hang out with, so his nerves were pinging off the charts.

That’s when it happened.

With zero warning, a large, heavy textbook teetered off the edge of a windowsill above and began its rapid descent towards Idia’s head. He didn’t notice; he was too busy stammering about his latest high score. But you did.

In one swift move, you threw yourself across the space between you and practically flew through the air, hands outstretched like some overdramatic action hero.

You managed to get between him and the descending missile (okay, just a textbook, but in the moment, it was deadly), and though the impact wasn’t as dramatic as you’d pictured, you still managed to shield him with your entire being, shoving him safely aside.

By the time he realized what was going on, you were already fussing over him. “Oh my gosh, are you okay?! Did it hit you anywhere?”

He blinked, processing what just happened as you started checking his head for bumps, squinting at his shocked face. “Uh… w-what?” he stammered, brain catching up about three seconds too late. “Did… did you just… jump in front of me?” The look of awe on his face was equal parts adorable and ridiculous.

“Well, obviously!” You laughed, still fussing, hands on his shoulders. “Are you alright?”

Idia’s mouth opened and closed as he tried to process the sheer amount of romance that just smacked him in the face. You, his crush, his dream come to life, had gone full protagonist, for him. It was like the best tropes had all collided in his brain at once, and it was overwhelming in the best way possible.

“N-No one’s ever done something like that… f-for me…” he mumbled, cheeks reddening as he stared at you with this helpless, smitten look.

You tilted your head, a soft smile crossing your face. “Well, I’d do it again if it meant keeping you safe, Idia.”

Somewhere in his brain, the confetti cannons were going off. The “love meter” hit max. The screen flashed “TRUE ENDING” in bold, sparkly letters. He knew it was all real, but a tiny part of him felt like he’d accidentally triggered some hidden route with a secret character, and that character was you.

And before he could stop himself, the words tumbled out of his mouth in a rush. “I think I’m in love with you. Like, maybe have been for a while. You’re like, the one or something, and—oh my god, why am I saying this out loud—”

He clamped a hand over his mouth, wide-eyed, as if he could just take it back if he tried hard enough. But instead, he saw you looking at him, your smile widening as you took his hand, gently pulling it down.

“You mean it?” you asked, a bit of awe creeping into your voice.

He couldn’t look at you, his eyes darting everywhere except your face as he mumbled, “Y-Yeah, I mean, yeah, I do. I can’t believe you’re real, honestly, this feels like a fever dream, but—”

Before he could talk himself out of it, you leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his lips, quick and sweet. It was enough to short-circuit his brain, and when you pulled back, he just blinked, stunned, frozen like his internal processing unit had just maxed out.

“Does that answer your question?” you teased, unable to hold back a little laugh at his flustered expression.

“Uh-huh,” he finally managed, a dopey smile creeping onto his face as his brain rebooted. “Y-Yeah… yes.” He cleared his throat, trying to seem cooler, but the blush on his cheeks was a dead giveaway.

And as you both stood there, your hands still linked, he felt like the luckiest player in the world—like he’d stumbled upon the rarest, sweetest route of them all, and he wasn’t letting go anytime soon.

Masterlist

[moon0shadow]

Obey Me Sheep MC Drabble/Headcannons.

The Sheep MC of Obey me being a sheep makes me think about them doing Sheep Things or getting into Sheep Shenanigans. Cuz Funny

(Use of They/Them pronouns just to be inclusive, idk if this counts as a reader-insert, this is just me spewing my silly sheep ideas, do i put trigger warnings here? Idk)

🐏🐑🐏🐑🐏🐑🐏🐑🐏🐑🐏🐑🐏🐑🐏🐑🐏

• (MC) is very small in sheep form, while they can be bipedal, the idea of them going 'f*ck it' and walking on all fours like a true sheep is funny. It's hard work trying to walk on two little legs whilst covered in poofy wool.

• Them being so small and short made them an easy target to accidentally kick like a soccer ball across the corridor so the brothers gave them a bell to wear so the brothers can hear (MC) around the corner.

• (MC) has definitely given into the Sheeply Urge of chewing or eating on things they shouldn't at least once. Perhaps they do it when hungry or bored but they have tried nibbling on the Brother's clothes or things, of course they'd never chew on something expensive or important to the Brothers [(MC) once ate a page out of one of Satan's books and he damn near almost threw them out of the window for it] but the desire to gnaw on their sleeves or even furniture is a temptation that has crossed (MC)'s mind more than once.

• (MC)'s wool grows just like a sheep's, the brothers learned that the hard way when it got harder and harder for (MC) to walk until they were practically more wool than flesh. The Brothers took a day off just to shear all that wool off, after all that, (MC) was happy trimmed, shorn and peeled sheep who could walk again. Now the only thing left to do is wonder what the hell they're going to do with all this shorn-off wool now...

• (MC) doesn't only have wool, but they have horns and hooves too. Those grow at normal rates and the brothers don't need to worry about your horns growing to be too long or too sharp, your hooves on the other hands, the brothers keep a close eye on, as they don't want your hooves to be overgrown and making it hard for you to walk so Asmodeus takes it upon himself to give them a pedicure/manicure/whatever if those hooves of theirs are getting too long. He even paints them afterwards to make (MC) feel nice and pretty.

• (MC)'s wool gets stuck on things all the time, usually stuff like briars or thorns when left outside or the unforeseen hook or the rare exposed floorboard nail. Though embarrassingly, the most common thing to get hooked up in their hair is the brothers, their jacket zippers and such can occasionally get tangled up whilst (MC) be sitting in their laps, relaxing, only to try and hop off their laps and find themselves hooked by a clingy zipper.

• (MC) definitely makes sheep noises when happy or spooked, the House of Lamentations will be totally quiet (a rare thing) only for that silence to be broken by a tiny: 'MeEeeEehh'.

[thewitchblue]

"Oh, lovely to see you Tim, here's a gift."

You smiled as you placed a small giftbox in his hand. You've been giving the Batfamily small gifts here and there every time you get a vision of their nightlife. It's always a gift of exactly what they need, and you always make sure to put it in their packs before they leave.

You never tell them why you give them gifts, and they've never noticed the pattern because they always open their gifts just before they leave.

You simply smile and give them a pat on the back before moving on to help the others with the usual outside perspective the family desperately needs.

Tim opened the gift with raised eyebrows to reveal a nail file with a hidden trigger that, when pressed, produces a serrated knife. You always were good at making gadgets with double meanings. An unassuming nail file would never be taken away from Tim on patrol, so he slipped it into his pouch without much thought.

Until he needed the nail file (which had a motorised sandpaper) specifically to saw through chains and then cut through the ropes wrapped around his wrists and ankles. That got him thinking.

You always knew exactly what he needed and exactly how to make the gadget within 24 hours. You could probably finish most of your projects within 6 hours.

You were a genius inventor and actually made a lot of the gear they use every night. Tim began to question how you knew what he needed. He's never needed this nail file before, and why did you only give it to him? He wanted answers, and he was going to get it out of you one way or another.

You were sprawled on a couch, tinkering away with a table full of nuts, screws, and, interestingly, a bandaid. What could you possibly be doing to a bandaid? He has no idea, but he knows when you get engrossed that gaining your attention would be impossible.

He approached you with a frown. The things you make seem almost magical, but you will babble on and on if they ever ask you questions about engineering and how you made your project. You always had a mischievous gleam in your eyes as you explained the newest invention.

More recently, they have been mostly traps to bamboozle crooks and for very niche and incredibly specific situations, much to his delight. The most recent was an exploding toothpick to put inside locks and break them from the inside out.

"I have a question."

Tim cut right to the point. You looked up from your torn apart bandaid and gestured for him to continue before going back to your project. He shifted in place, uncertain of how to question you now that he's in front of you. How does he phrase his question?

"How do you... know when I need something? The nail file was extremely specific for the situation I was in."

You looked up once and took note of his determined expression. He really wanted to know, and you doubt you can shake the Bat-to-be. You shrugged non-committally as your gaze returns to your bandaid dissection.

"The idea came to mind."

Not a lie. You simply reverse-engineered the situation your vision told you would happen. However, Tim needed more answers. He asked,

"Why did you only give the file to me?"

You raised your eyebrows at him. He knows something. What he knows is unclear to you. Your visions couldn't have prepared you for this awkward conversation. You explained patiently,

"I only had time for one prototype. Why do you ask?"

Tim frowned at you. You looked so relaxed when you were focused on a project. He can't tell if you are lying when you work. What doesn't he know?

You are so specific in your inventions at times. It was as if you knew he could have died if he didn't have that nail file.

You reached for something on the table. Are you putting in a needle? Who would ever need a needle in a bandaid?

Well, the small needle had anti-venom in a tiny compartment you made that he will need when he accidentally steps on a snake tomorrow night. It's a baby snake, but he'd need the anti-venom fast. Someone was breeding super venomous snakes for Joker. It's unclear why, but he'll need the anti-venom faster than the others could appear.

Tim decided to try a different approach. He said,

"You seem to always know what we need when on patrol, and I want to know how."

You tried to appear casual. You've been doing this for years. You flew under the radar for too long to let him ruin it. Bruce pays you a lot for your inventions, but he hates metas in his city.

"I always think of a new problem. What if Jason trips into a vat of acid Joker-style? Well, I can make his patrol outfit acid-proof. What if Bruce needs fast-acting waterproof glue? I can make that easily. You, evidently, needed that nail file."

You cursed as the needle fell. You cleaned it while saying slyly,

"You're welcome, by the way."

You quirked your lips into a small smile while turning your gaze to Tim with amusement dancing in your eyes. He murmurs an embarrassed "thank you."

He moved to sit next to you on the couch you were sat on, so you make room and move all your supplies. He borderline whines,

"Who would think of waterproof glue for vigilante activities?"

You raised your hands smugly but lowered it when he lightly hit your arm with a smile on his face. You loved riling him up. He was often in the cave and became your companion in the quiet darkness. He said quietly,

"Whatever you are hiding, I won't tell the others."

You sighed. You loved Tim; you don't think your heart could handle being pushed away from him and out of the city. You told him quietly,

"There's nothing to admit."

He gently took your hand in his with a softened look. He loved you, too. You frowned and lightly squeezed his callused hand. It hurts to hide from him, but you can't tell him. He might even push you away if he found out you were a meta.

"You can tell me."

He told you softly. He wanted to know you better. You were always the kooky engineer to the family — someone in the background, but Tim saw you as you. Strong, kind, intelligent you. Someone who borderline lives in the Batcave at a table near the Batcomputer and spends all night and most of the day tinkering away and muttering questions too quiet for them to make out.

You wanted to tell him, but the fear kept your mouth glued shut. The words got clogged in your throat. You sighed and looked at your conjoined hands.

"I... It's not safe, for me here."

You said cryptically. Tim is smart. He can figure out what you mean if he is so inclined to know.

Those words, however, only set off alarm bells. Did someone threaten you? Who could sneak into the Batcave? Where was Alfred at the time? You rarely leave the cave, like some trapped oracle.

You looked at him like he should know what you mean, but his alarm wasn't allowing him to think. Did the League of Assassins come by? No, they would have kidnapped you or killed you before you even noticed. You barely noticed him until he said something, and even then, you went right back to your bandaid.

"Baby, talk to me. Tell me what's wrong and I can fix it."

Tim didn't even notice the term of endearment slipped out, but you did. Your head snapped in his direction.

You set the bandaid down in disbelief. Did he call you baby? What does that mean for your relationship going forward? You questioned,

"Baby?"

Tim responded like it was normal for you to call him that in return,

"Yes? Tell me what is wrong."

You blinked at him and waited for his words to sink in. When they refused to sink in, you sighed.

"Look, sweetheart, I'm trying to do my job. You will know what I mean when you start thinking with that BatBrain of yours."

You lightly tap his head with a wrench to signify for him to think before finishing your project and starting to wrap up your little gift.

Tim will think it's a joke, but he'll humour you. He'll put the bandage on as a last laugh and then be shocked when the anti-venom enters him. He'll give a disbelieving laugh, thank you millions of times, and hobble home when Jason showed up to handle things.

The thought struck Tim just before he went to sleep. You... you're a meta. A psychic meta. Oh, he's so screwed. If Bruce ever finds out... well, he'll just have to make sure nobody finds out. You were smart enough to know not to say it directly, which he was grateful for. If he can hide your powers nearly as well as you can, he can do this. He has to have faith in your ability to hide.

He also blushed as he remembered he called you baby. That is a can of worms he will have to deal with another time.

You handed Jason a rose with a mischievous smile while rolling a wrench between your fingers like a pencil in your opposite hand. You had turned it into a fidget toy, flicking and rolling the tool with familiarity.

The rose looked normal and unassuming. It looked so real that it would likely appear as if Red Hood was going on a date, and he's running late. You could imagine all the confused goons he beat up when they got a peak at the rose safely tucked away. The thought made you smile.

"What? Does it squirt water?"

He asked flatly. What's so special about it? He knows for a fact you aren't giving him a normal rose. You muttered,

"Tough crowd. What if I wanted to ask you on a date?"

When Jason continued to simply look at you instead of figuring it out for himself, you sighed and double tapped the centre of the rose.

A vast amount of cures for various poisons were displayed before him. He read each label carefully, then organised it how he liked it, and shut the compartment. He reluctantly tucked the rose in the pocket of his leather jacket. He simply said,

"Thanks, pipsqueak."

You only nodded in response as he walked away. Cluemaster was planning a "gameshow" type of trap tonight, but rigged the game. He will "forget" one of the cures Jason needs to complete the trial. You couldn't tell what cure was missing, so you crafted a bunch of them. You frowned in thought as you saw Tim out of the corner of your eye.

You were still a bit dazed about your recent development with Tim. You know for a fact he knows now, as he's been finding more and more excuses to hang out with you. The others assume it's because Tim is going to finally make a move on you, but he just... hovered. He looked awkward. He felt awkward. He wanted to tell you his feelings and get the rejection over with, but he's scared. He's never dated someone like you before and he had no idea how to ask you or even tell you how he feels. You're in every corner of his life. You are the one constant in his life. Your quiet companionship means the world to him. What if he ruins everything?

Dick gave him a brotherly thumbs up and walked away when he tried to ask for advice. Dick knew next to nothing about you, so he had no advice to give. Tim spends basically every day with you. He should know you best. He spends all day with you in the cave, and he asks for any input when he knows he's overlooking something.

In fact, the family was surprised it took Tim this long to notice his obvious fondness for you. It makes sense. The two introverts who can sit in silence with only the sound of typing and gears turning hanging in the air. He could smile as you murmured questions to yourself. You know Tim would be useless with any gadget, so the questions remain rhetorical. He finds it cute that you prefer to vocalise your thoughts instead of keeping it all locked in. It doesn't bother him one bit.

Nobody appreciated you like Tim did, so they didn't give you a second thought. Maybe that is part of your psychic abilities as well, he wasn't sure. He wished he could ask safely. He wanted to yell at Bruce for the paranoia, but it would reveal your ability if he did so. Instead, he settled for internally screaming at him.

You leaned down to grab a gear you had dropped the other day. When you stood up again, you said,

"Okay, I'll bite first then, why are you following me?"

Tim rubbed the back of his neck nervously. Well, now is as good a time as any to admit months' worth of feelings that morphed into something far more than a companionship in the darkness of the cave, no pressure.

"I..."

You tilted your head and gave him a knowing smile. You knew. You looked into the future of Tim out of curiosity and found his confession, but you needed him to play the part. He sighed in relief. All the pressure popped like a bubble.

"I love you."

He said it so fast that you would have missed it if you hadn't slowed it down. Your powers work kind of like a youtube video: you can pause it, slow it down, fast forward, reverse it, etc.

Now you felt a bit awkward. You had no idea what to say. You had been so shocked at night that you didn't think about what to actually say in response. You smiled nervously and awkwardly said,

"I, uh, I love you too. Thanks, by the way."

You gave him a kiss before shuffling back to work. You needed to do something with your hands. It's a form of stress relief, a small comfort to ease your nerves. Some turn to cigarettes, you turn to nuts and bolts.

Tim trailed you in a bit of a daze. He sat on a nearby chair and watched your hands fly through a project you had in your subconscious mind. It's more of a fidget project with no real purpose behind it yet.

You picked up a screw and screwed it as much as your fingers allowed. You clicked your tongue in irritation when you noticed none of your nearby screwdrivers would fit the small screw.

"Babe, can you hand me that screwdriver?"

You asked him. The small screwdriver had rolled right in front of him. Your gaze landed on him when he said and did nothing. He looked stunned.

He didn't hear a word past babe. He could only stare at you in shock. You called him babe like you've done it thousands of times. The casualness felt like you just slid right into the role of his life partner as easy as sliding your hand into his own. He didn't have to ask you to be his lover or ask you on a date. You did all that for him with one word.

You noticed his checked-out gaze and grabbed the screwdriver yourself with a quick cheek kiss which he leaned into happily.

You may be the meta, but he could have sworn he saw his future with you.

A/N I wanted to make this into a 2 part story, but decided against it and smooshed them together.

[ghoulbrain]

Happiness is a Warm Gun

18+ 4.5k ghoul x f!reader. predator/prey roleplay, lite bondage lite cnc into enthusiastic consent, heavy gun kink/play, pet names, clothed/naked sex, creampie, aftercare. ends tender bc i can't help myself. gif credit. written for my darling @luckytiggertalia, who asked for excessive gun kink and captor/captive. thank you! 🖤 written as a successor to Saddle Up, Sweetheart, but can be read as a stand-alone.

Being in a relationship with the world’s most notorious bounty hunter lands you in some strange situations, but none stranger than those you concoct for yourselves. You run, and the Ghoul hunts you.

The Ghoul is one of the fiercest bounty hunters in New California, yet regardless of how terrifyingly efficient he is, everyone knows he only takes on payouts worthy of his time. With his long shadow stretching out across the west, most hunters are reluctant to take on bounties over a certain threshold, lest they accidentally come between him and his quarry.

Which, at this moment, just so happens to be you.

You’ve made it to a Red Rocket truck stop just half a mile west of Junktown. What was once a glorified gas station in a world long-gone now serves as little more than a hollowed out shell providing shade for all manner of miscreants and creatures wandering the dusty wastes, still decorated in tiny reminders of life before the war.

Crouched down behind a counter, your back pressed to the grime painted wall beneath a window, you spot a heavily aged cardboard carton labeled Grey Tortious Famous Cigarettes wedged at the very back of the second shelf behind the counter. Clicking your tongue softly, you reach for it, using the barrel of your pistol to catch the corner of the box. Carefully–and quietly–you drag it close enough to grab.

Your hopes aren’t high, but–

Jackpot.

Smiling faintly, you extract a crumpled but still half-full pack of cigarettes from the carton. You glance around, eyes wandering until you spot the decrepit remains of some poor bastard collapsed against the far wall, still garbed in their threadbare signature Red Rocket uniform. With a slight nod, you fish a single cap out of a small pouch on your belt and slide it onto the shelf.

“Pleasure doing business,” you murmur to the corpse, tucking the cigarettes carefully into the pack strapped to your thigh.

A shrill whistle, the kind you’d call a dog with, snaps your attention back to the moment. You press your back tight against the wall, sucking in a sharp breath to hold.

“Alright, darlin’, y’little goose-chase is over,” the Ghoul calls into the lot. Your heart begins to race. He sounds close. “I’m man enough to admit y’outfoxed me back at the yard, that was clever. But’cha got nowhere to slip to now,” he says, voice gradually growing louder. It’s not long before you can hear the crunch of his boots in the gravel.

You screw your eyes shut, steeling yourself with a silent breath before opening them again. He’ll have to circle the building to get where you are. The crunch of his boots is louder with each step. If he keeps yapping, it’ll be even easier to track the moment he moves out of eyesight of the window you’re hiding under, and you’ll be able to creep out to get behind him. Your grip on your pistol flexes, finger poised off the trigger.

The footsteps outside grow quiet enough that you can no longer hear them over the thundering of your heart. He hasn’t said anything, but you give it an extra few seconds to be safe, holding your breath as you gingerly lift out of your crouch, careful to keep your head beneath the window frame, eyes on the door across from you. Even if he sees you, you’ll have time enough to–

You’re jerked backwards suddenly by your jacket, a scream yanked out of you as you’re pulled against the window, knocking into it.

“There y’are,” he says through his teeth, hauling you up to your feet. Fuck, he faked you out with his steps. He holds you against the window, the edge of it biting into your back, his fist curled tightly in the collar of your jacket. “Give it up, darlin’. Y’all mine now,” he coos, his voice a sinister rasp at your ear. 

Out of desperation, you drop your pistol and throw your arms up, slipping out of your jacket and stumbling forward onto your hands and knees. Your boots skid on the floor as you scramble to your feet, launching into a run. You look over your shoulder just in time to see him vaulting in through the window, scaring you into running faster.

Where you intend to run is a problem to be solved as you go.

Unfortunately for you, the Ghoul is a step ahead. Gunfire startles you halfway out of your skin, but it’s the sign that falls in your path that stops you in your tracks. You look up and see a woven cable swaying, frayed from where the crazy son of a bitch managed to shoot it clean apart. You gear up to bolt to the left, but it’s already too late. The tell-tale hiss of a rope whipping through the air is your only warning before the lasso tightens around your arms and sternum, one sharp yank pulling you off your feet and down onto your back.

The world spins. You let out a soft groan, moving to roll onto your side, but he keeps you from it with a hardy pull, gathering the rope in his hands as he walks to you.

The Ghoul lets out a low whistle, his shadow falling over you. “Close, but no cigar, sweetheart,” he drawls, crouching over you. 

Disoriented, you stare at his upside down face. He’s got his head tilted, lips parted in a crooked sneer of a smile. His eyes are dark enough that you can see yourself in them, glinting with predatory glee. You can’t hide the trill of excitement that runs through you over being looked at like that. He clicks his tongue.  

“N’aw, don’t you look plumb tuckered,” he says, voice laced with condescending sweetness. “No rest for the wicked, m’afraid,” he says, slipping his hands under your arms and hauling you up to your feet.

“You could’ve killed me,” you rasp, throat scorched by the dry desert air.

“Don’t be dramatic,” he deflects, amused. “Y’all in one piece, ‘ain’t’cha?” His breath is a warm tickle on your neck. With the rope tight across your sternum, arms pinned to your sides, he slides his gloved hand up your thigh, over your hip. His fingers tap along as he does, tickling your ribs, cupping your breast before sliding all the way up to your throat. 

The barest hint of his lips brushes the spot just behind your ear, the feeling so faint you could have made it up entirely. You shiver, pulling sharply away, but he pulls you right back in, the worn leather of his glove soft around your neck, his grip firm. 

“Mmhm, seem perfectly intact t’me,” he says, giving your throat a steadying squeeze. “No need t’put up a fight, angel. Y’comin’ with me either way.”

This time he presses his scarred lips properly to your skin, the feel of them warm and wet. Wanting. You swallow the lump in your throat, clench your thighs against the heat building between them. 

“Let go of me,” you say, fighting to put conviction in it. 

“No can do,” he says, his breath prickling goosebumps from your scalp to your thighs. “I’ve struck the motherlode with you.”

 The rope is tied low and tight enough that you can’t elbow him or shoulder your way free. Impulsively, you move to kick at his leg, but he outmaneuvers you, catching your kick with his boot and spinning you around so suddenly you gasp.

“Oohh, y’ve got fire,” he says, lips pulled thin in a devilish smile. “I’m gonna enjoy breakin’ you.” Something hard presses into your rib, and you don’t need to look down to know it’s the muzzle of his revolver. He draws the hammer back into place with a distinctive click. 

“Why don’t you be a good li’l captive and mosey on ahead?” He says, turning you until the gun is pressed into your lower back. You suppress a shudder. That’s when the world suddenly goes black, the press of the gun briefly vanishing while fabric is pulled tight over your eyes.

Wherever he’s taking you, he wants it to be a surprise.

The Ghoul walks you at gunpoint. He keeps the rope between you taut, the barrel of his gun pressed firmly to your back. The venture there is quiet, your gait tense with anticipation. A sick little thrill runs through you every time he yanks the rope or gives you a deep jab with his gun. There’s pleasure in his voice when he tells you, “Mind your step, sweetness.”

He knows precisely the effect he has on you, even if it took him time and a half to believe it.

His knuckles dig into your back as his fingers hook over the rope, holding it like a harness as you descend a flight of stairs. He catches you when you stumble on the last step, but it still startles you.

“A warning would have been nice,” you say, turning your head blindly, angling to try and get any glimpse of your surroundings from beneath the blindfold.

“Apologies,” he drawls, not sounding very sorry at all. He nudges you forward with his gun. “I like watchin’ you struggle.”

“Yeah, you make that very–” A hard tug on the rope cuts you off and stops you in your tracks. The rope comes loose after that, full circulation returning to your hands in a rush that makes them tingle. The Ghoul’s steps resonate in the room–it sounds large, mostly empty–as he walks away from you. You stay still for a hesitant moment, head jerking at the sound of something scraping across the floor towards you.

“Awwh, ain’t you sweet, waitin’ for permission,” he says, making you flush. You quickly reach up and pull the blindfold from your eyes, blinking to adjust to the dimly lit room. 

It looks like a cleared out storage facility of some kind, with cement support beams lined up in a row down the center of the room, the walls lined with ransacked steel shelving. There’s a wire frame bed braced against one of the beams, heaped haphazardly with some pillows and blankets. 

The Ghoul sits on a rusty wrought iron chair in front of you, staring up from beneath the wide brim of his hat. From his thigh, he has his revolver fixed on you. 

“Atta girl,” he says as the blindfold hits the ground. “Now take off the rest.”

The low resonance of his voice easily commands the room. You swallow the lump in your throat, glancing down the dark barrel of his gun. Biting your tongue to keep yourself from showing too much excitement, you hurriedly reach for your–

The gunshot is deafening in the echoing expanse of the room, drowning out your scream. Already high on your own anticipation, the shot of adrenaline that goes through you with the startle nearly knocks you off your feet. 

His gun smokes in the wake of the shot that narrowly missed your reaching hand.

“Slow,” he tells you, cocking the hammer once again with his thumb.

The pound of your heart is rivaled only by the aching throb between your thighs. Breathing shallowly, you keep your eyes trained on him as you–slowly, this time–reach for your belt, pouches shifting as you unbuckle it. You lay it carefully on the ground, mindful of the treasures you acquired at the gas station, before you kick off each boot.

His gaze is heavy on you all the while, eyes dark and attentive to your every move. Your focus is on the tip of his gun, how it subtly follows along with your hands. You peel each layer off without taking your eyes from him, a shiver moving through you once your hands touch bare skin, purposefully sliding them down your hips, your legs, and then moving them slowly back up as you stand back up, stepping out of the garments pooled on the floor.

He tilts his gun sideways and beckons you forward with it, tipping his head back, dark eyes tracking your every move as you approach him. One at a time, he spreads his legs. “On y’knees, darlin’.” You obey, sinking down–slowly, he told you slow–onto your knees between his legs, bringing yourself to eye level with his gun. The cement floor feels harsh against your bare skin.

“Y’got my gun dirty runnin’ me out into the wastes like that,” he chides, leaning forward, pressing his gun to your sternum. With agonizing slowness, he drags the muzzle up through the valley between your breasts, to the notch beneath your throat, pressing into it briefly. He continues up, the metal cool against your burning skin, though not by much. He hooks the barrel under your chin and tips your head back.

“Clean it for me,” he says, pushing it between your lips.

While you open your mouth too readily for the game at hand, he doesn’t protest. The taste of the gun is bitter and metallic, but what strikes you most is the black powder residue. It’s charred with a sharp tang. A moan escapes you for the way he pushes it deeper, forcing your lips wider apart.

“Don’t be shy. Give ‘er a good spit shine, sweetheart,” he encourages, pulling the gun back only to push it deeper yet. You comply, welcoming the slide of it deeper, pressing your tongue into the grooves on the underside, your eyes half-lidded and glazed with desire. “Good,” he says, voice rough with the effect you’re having on him.

Hands braced on your own bare thighs, your nails bite dull little crescents into your skin. The rock of your body is entirely subconscious, your eyelids fluttering. It’s easy to lose yourself to the work at hand, to luxuriate in the weight of his gaze on you while he uses you, fucking your mouth with the full barrel of his gun. He’s so committed to the fantasy, you can’t help but buy into it wholly.

By the time he pulls the gun away your chin is spit slick and your tongue is tingling where you’d been pressing it to the barrel. He gives an appreciative whistle while inspecting the wet shine of his gun. “That’s better,” he says, gaze sliding to you. He stands, grabbing a thick handful of your hair to haul you up to your feet with him. The noise you make is humiliating. Needy. His answering grin is wicked.

“Time t’oil it,” he says, voice frayed at the edges. He doesn’t let that trace of impatience impact his movements any. He walks you to the bed with that same loose devil-may-care swagger, assured that he has all the time in the world to take you apart piece by piece. 

The mattress’ metal coils groan with your weight as he tosses you onto the bed, standing at the edge of it. The bed stands taller than most, bringing your pelvis parallel to his when you’re on your knees. He grabs your thigh and yanks your ass up into the air, smoothing his hand over the swell of it. He gives a sharp little slap to your rear that wrings a gasp out of you. The way he smooths his leather clad hand over the smarting spot afterwards almost feels like an apology, even if he’s really just admiring his handiwork.

“Spread,” he orders simply. You do so eagerly, widening the splay of your knees, folding your arms to rest your head on. “Look at you,” he breathes with genuine wonder, gripping your ass cheek and holding it firm while he inspects you. You can already feel what he’s looking at, how wet you are from his teasing. “Y’fuckin’ drippin’ for me.”

A shiver rolls through your whole body at the feel of his gun against your inner thigh sliding slowly upwards. Your hips give a reflexive little buck at the first touch of that warm barrel against your soaked cunt, your clit throbbing so hard it aches. “Don’t move,” he tells you. He sounds wrecked. He moves it back and forth, teasing your clit with just the muzzle of it before drawing back, and your thighs tremble with the effort to keep yourself still when all you want is to chase that precious relief.

The hiss of his zipper is the most thrilling noise you’ve ever heard. The gun disappears from between your thighs.

“Up,” he tells you, taking a rough hold of your shoulder and yanking you upright before you have the chance to comply. He holds you still while he lines himself up, the familiar thick head of his cock grinding through the wet slide of you, the length of him rubbing from taint to clit. “Y’made this big mess just from suckin’ down my gun? Christ alive, darlin’. You’re somethin’ else,” he says through his teeth. The ruin in his voice makes it feel like praise, and that feels good.

Almost as good as the slow burn of his cock pushing into you, the sound of it obscenely loud and wet. You tip your head back against his shoulder and reach back over your own, grabbing at his coat, holding onto him for dear life while he sinks deeper and deeper, pulling you back until your bare ass falls flush against him. Feeling his clothing against your bare body intensifies that intoxicating feeling of vulnerability. Never in your life has the thrill of danger been safe to explore.

Not until him.

He gives you no time to adjust, thrusting almost as soon as he’s bottomed out. 

“Fffuck,” you exhale, eyes screwed tightly shut. You start to lean forward, but he catches you by the throat, pinning you back against his chest at the same time he fires his gun, shocking your eyes wide open. Your body goes rigid, cunt seizing up so tightly around him he hisses out a breath.

“C’mon, little bunny,” he whispers in a vicious grit, pressing the still-warm muzzle firmly against your temple. “Bounce for me.” He cocks the hammer back, the smell of black powder filling your senses. 

You nod fervently, lifting up on your knees and using the mattress to bounce yourself on his cock, gravity bringing you down into every one of his hard thrusts. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, sighing his pleasure in strained little sounds. His hand slides down your throat to your chest, cupping your breast and squeezing, thumbing your nipple until you shudder.

“Close,” you moan, fist twisting in the fabric of his coat, your other hand clutching the wrist of the hand he’s fondling you with. “Please.”

His only response is to slide his hand down further, fingers slipping between your thighs. His middle finger finds your clit first, the friction making your hips jerk out of rhythm. He persists, fingering your clit in smooth circles while he fucks you hard.

“Atta girl,” he murmurs, his breath hot and wet on your neck. “All that fight’s gone now, ain’t it? Just a needy li’l thing beggin’ t’cum.” You’re so close you’re starting to shake, breath caught in your throat. “Go on, angel. Lemme hear how pretty you can beg.”

His fingers slow enough that your ascension falters. “Please!” You rasp immediately, squeezing his wrist, begging in every way you know how to. “Please, m’so close, please make me cum, please,” you plead, voice pitchy, your thoughts empty of everything but pleasure. He’s fucking you hard, chasing his own release just as fervently.  

Just like that his touch returns to full force, deftly working your clit until your pleasure crests and your pleas turn to cries. Your orgasm hits like an earthquake, a sudden eruption that renders you silent, your lips falling open on a noiseless scream. Your body locks up like a vice, euphoria turning your vision white and emptying your mind of all thought while pleasure cascades through you in hot liquid waves.

He doesn’t stop, though his thrusts slow. He fucks you deeply through your orgasm, savoring every quiver around his cock while he uses you. You don’t hear him come, but you feel it, the deep rush of heat that he empties into the core of you, his body going still against yours. Your whole body shudders and you exhale a broken little noise, dizzy from the magnitude of it all. Everything around you feels bleary, your vision fading in and out. For a moment, you feel as though you might float away from your body entirely, your consciousness barely holding on, but the feeling of him pressed against your back, holding you to him, grounds you.

He moves the gun from your temple and holsters it, adjusting his grip so that he can ease you down onto your stomach, slipping from between your legs. You pant hot puffs of air into the bedding, your vision blurry at the edges.

“Coop,” you call, signifying the end of your little game of pretend.

“M’right here,” he soothes, his bare hands upon you not a moment later. There’s a marked difference in the way he touches you now, a subtle tenderness that he’d forced out of his touch for the sake of play. You hadn’t realized how much you missed it until now, feeling it as if for the first time. 

He slides into bed next to you, having shed his gloves, coat and bandolier. You find the strength to slip an arm around him, clinging despite the tremble in your limbs. The next several seconds–moments, maybe hours, you can’t be sure–pass by in a haze of touch.

He kisses your forehead, your nose, your lips. He makes you aware of your entire body, grounding you with sweeping touches to every part of your body. It’s an intoxicating intimacy that leaves you feeling warm and drunk, still hungry for more.

 At some point Cooper gets the blanket over you, skirting his scarred fingers up and down your arm beneath it. The adrenaline crash that follows your orgasm is unlike anything you’ve experienced before, leaving you exhausted on a level beyond physical.

“Still with me?” Cooper asks after a time, fingertips tapping idle patterns on your skin as if to call you back to your body. “Mhm… Intense,” you say, the lone word slurred by your lazy tongue.

“Warned you,” he gives back, sounding nearly as ruined. His voice is deeper than usual, thoroughly frayed at the edges. It’s true, he had warned you that you were playing with fire. It’s unclear how much of that had been play, and how much was just him. Still, it had been… thrilling. Amazing. Everything you’d hoped it would be. 

“How ‘bout it, darlin’, do I scare you yet?” He asks, making it sound like an inevitability. He must believe it is.

You sigh a low hum, pretending to give the matter great thought. “Mmm… Mm-mm. Not one little bit,” you say, the words hardly legible.

“Shucks,” he says simply, feigning something like disappointment.

“Why’re you so determined to scare me off?” You ask, adjusting where your head lay on his shoulder so that you can look up at him. You’ve grown accustomed to his unique silhouette, but more than that, you’ve started to figure out what it is that makes him handsome. He’s got a wide chin and a fine jawline, and on the rare occasions you see it, a charming smile.

Much of it is in his eyes. They never fail to make your heart stutter.

“A saner question would be why you’re so determined t’stay,” he counters, those very eyes dropping to meet yours. You can’t help but smile, which–as per usual–catches him just a touch off guard.

“I got a thing for pretty men,” you say, caught up in your own musings.

His expression flattens. “Very funny,” he says, and you realize he thinks you’re mocking him.

“Hey, I mean it. I was just thinking about how handsome you are,” you say, reaching up to touch his jaw.

“There’s a specific kind’a philia for finding corpses handsome, y’know,” he says, though in his afterglow the words lack their usual sharp cynicism. They come to him more like habit than anything else.

“You’re not a corpse, Cooper,” you tell him firmly, cupping his cheek in your palm. “You don’t need to keep living like one.”

He considers you in silence for a long moment. With the back of his knuckles, he brushes your cheek. There it is again; that deep sadness that sometimes appears in his eyes when he looks at you. As if he’s mourning something.

“What?” You whisper. “Why do you–”

He kisses you, swallowing the words clean off your lips. He takes your face between his hands and kisses you, kisses you, kisses you through your meager protests until your lips move with his and you sink back down into the warmth of it. He grows progressively more relentless with it, stealing your breath until you’re forced to break away, turning your head for air.

“You can’t kiss your way out of every–”

“I know,” he interrupts you, lifting his head to level you with a hard stare. “I know, alright? But it’ll come on my terms, in my time, yeah?”

You stare, pinned by the weight in his expression. After a beat, you nod, feeling dazed by both the onslaught and his words. It’s the only time he’s acknowledged that there is something, which you suppose is progress. “Okay,” you say softly, and then again more firmly, “Okay.”

His expression softens, taking in the look of you before he kisses you again. You reciprocate, pressing into his lips with the weight of your conviction, willing him to feel how much you really do mean it. 

“Thank you for today,” you murmur, settling back down against him. “I never thought that I’d be able to… do something like that. And live,” you say, adding the last bit with a rueful smile. “I feel safe with you.”

You wait for some kind of dismissive or self-deprecating remark from him, or even a sly jab at you and your sanity, but neither come. You glance up and find him staring at you, thoughtful and–if your eyes don’t deceive you–a little sentimental.

“I don’t make promises,” he tells you, sounding resigned. “But for what it’s worth, I’d never want t’do somethin’ I thought might hurt you.”

“You’re sweet,” you say, that same sentimentality slipping into your own voice. If not a bit ominous.

“Not really,” he replies, adjusting against the bedding, his eyes falling shut. “Y’standards are just too low.”

You sigh, closing your eyes with an incredulous little smile. “Shut up.”

The two of you drift into comfortable silence, his fingers idly traipsing the contours of your body. It’s like he’s memorizing the feel of you, hyper-aware that these intimate moments together are stolen. You reciprocate, seeking out what bare skin you can with gentle brushes of your fingers. He’s never admitted as much, but you’ve long suspected he struggles with pain. He’s rarely ever unclothed, and sometimes you see him wince when he goes too long between hits of those vials.

Cooper started living on borrowed time long before he met you, but it doesn’t stop you from hoping that he might someday see something more permanent in you. With you.

In the meantime, you’ll make the most of every second.

[vigilante-3073]

Harm

Edward Cullen x Female Reader (Platonic)

Summary: Y/N has always had issues with physical contact and Edward never understood why until an accidental touch brings up unpleasant memories for her.

TW: Mentions of sexual assault, death and molestation, angst.

*Contains mature themes that could be triggering*

Y/N had always had an issue when it came to physical contact, she would shift away like any kind of unexpected touch made her squeamish. Edward had never questioned it, simply assuming that it had been a matter of personal preference. Physical contact had never been a big factor in their friendship and Edward found it easy to respect her boundaries.

Most people were willing to accept her dislike of physical touch, but there would always be people who didn't understand or respect her wishes.

They were walking down the hallway talking about their biology assignment when Emmett ran up behind Y/N and grabbed her waist. She let out a panicked scream as memories began to race through her mind. The memories were so powerful that Edward couldn't keep himself from hearing them.

"Here, munchkin, I got you a toy, but you can only have it if you promise not to tell anyone about our little game," The man said to a 5-year-old Y/N.

The sound of a belt buckle clinking and a sudden unyielding feeling of fear overcame everything.

"Such a good little girl," The man said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear before leaving her bedroom.

The memories continued to fly by, each one more unpleasant than the last. It was years of torture, fear and abuse. Her emotions were overwhelming as the memories began to resurface, like a festering wound that never healed.

Emmett set her down on her feet and she immediately broke free of his hold, running down the hallway and into the girl's bathroom.

"The hell was that about?" Emmett asked.

Edward shook his head before quickly following after her. He pushed aside his discomfort and made his way into the women's restroom. Edward moved over to the stall where Y/N had fallen to her knees, coughing and retching as she threw up.

Edward held her hair back, providing silent comfort as she continued to get sick. The memories obviously weighed heavily enough on her to produce such a visceral response.

She finished getting sick before slowly shifting onto her butt, leaning back against the wall of the bathroom stall. Tears rolled down her cheeks as Edward reached past her and flushed the toilet. He stepped away and wet some paper towel for her before returning to her side.

He held out the paper towel to her and she took it silently, wiping her mouth. Edward watched her, listening to her erratic heartbeat as it began to return to normal.

"Who was it?" Edward asked, she gulped, "My uncle," Y/N admitted softly.

"How long?" Edward asked.

"Until I was twelve," She stated.

"Where is he now?" Edward questioned.

Y/N shrugged, "I don't know," She said, toying with the paper towel in her hands.

"Did you ever tell anyone?" Edward asked.

She shook her head, "No, I was-I was scared and I just- I felt like it was my fault," Y/N said shakily, more tears gathering in her eyes.

"You were a child," Edward said, kneeling down beside her.

Y/N scoffed, "I could have said something but I didn't... I thought that no one would believe me," Y/N said, wiping the tears from her cheeks.

"I'm sorry that you felt like you were alone in that, Y/N. No one should have to go through that," Edward said.

Touch had become an evil thing for her. That man, that family member, had taken her choice away and robbed her of her innocence. Y/N was just a child when he took advantage of her and it went on for years before she was able to escape him.

Y/N was abused and manipulated into thinking that no one would believe her. She endured years of pain and lived in a state of constant fear of this man who was supposed to be someone she could rely on.

He was family.

...

Edward took some time away from school after that day. He told Y/N that he was going to see his cousins, but he wasn't going to Alaska. Edward went to Y/N's hometown and found her uncle stumbling drunkenly out of a bar.

The stench of alcohol permeated the man's entire being as he staggered over to his truck. He fumbled for his keys in his pocket, dropping them down onto the pavement with a mumbled curse. The man bent down to pick them up and Edward had appeared in front of him when he straightened up.

"The hell do you want, kid?" The man asked.

"I'm a friend of Y/N's," Edward said.

"Oh, wow, I haven't seen her in years," The man chuckled.

"You mean that you haven't assaulted her in years?" Edward questioned, eerily calm.

The man scoffed, "Now, I don't know what she told you-," He started.

Edward didn't allow him to finish, grabbing onto his throat and slamming him back against the side of his vehicle. The metal caved in from the force, knocking the wind out of the man.

"I know all about what you did to her and you deserve to endure a lifetime of suffering for it," Edward growled, leaning closer to him and tightening his hold around the man's neck.

He sputtered, hands shoving desperately at Edward's chest to try and push him away.

Edward felt like an avenging angel in this moment, choking the life out of such a vile man. It brought him comfort to know that he would be removing a very evil person from the world.

Edward leaned in and bit into the side of the man's neck, shredding the arteries and spilling his blood in the parking lot brutally.

He pulled away, watching the life drain from the man's face, "You will never hurt her or anyone else ever again," Edward said before letting him go.

He watched the man's body slide down to the ground, gasping and gurgling on his own blood as he died. This man was a predator and he finally knew what it felt like to become the prey.

...

Edward returned to Forks a day later with red eyes, Carlisle knew what he had left to accomplish and chose not to acknowledge it. Even Carlisle had to allow him leniency in this case, violence was never the answer until it was the only answer available.

That man was sick and he deserved to suffer for what he had done to such a kind person, a child nonetheless. He could not be saved or changed and the world would be a better place without him in it.

Edward never told Y/N about what he had done that day, but he would never forget the day her mother had told her the news. They thought it was an animal attack, her mother called it 'gruesome' and 'awful.' She had said that the animal responsible hadn't been located, but assured Y/N that they were searching for it.

Edward watched the look of recognition cross Y/N's face before her glossy eyes slowly came to focus on him. She hung up the phone, dropping it down on her bed.

"What happened?" Edward asked.

"My uncle is dead... They said it was an animal attack," Y/N said.

"Seems to be happening a lot lately," Edward stated.

Y/N stepped over to him, sliding her arms around him and pressing herself against his chest. Edward slowly wrapped his arms around her, holding her gently.

"Thank you," She mumbled, a few warm tears soaking into his shirt.

"You're welcome," Edward said.

She let out a soft breath before her body began to shake with sobs. Y/N cried until she had nothing left in her, standing silently with her head on his chest and her arms wrapped tightly around him.

His shirt had been saturated with her tears and he could feel her beginning to shiver from the ice cold temperature of his body. Edward wanted to get her a blanket or a warm cup of tea, but he knew that she needed this. She needed to hold onto him and feel safe.

Edward had protected her more than anyone else had and Y/N finally allowed herself to enjoy the touch of another person. Y/N would never have to live in fear of that man again and maybe she would eventually be able to tell her family about what he did to her. And if she didn't, her secret would rot in the ground with her abuser.

[soapsbaby]

Silly Spicy Call of Duty headcanons

Characters: Simon "Ghost" Riley, Johnny "Soap" MacTavish, König, Kyle "Gaz" Garrick, Alejandro Vargas, Rodolfo "Rudy" Parra, John Price, Valeria Garza, all x reader Rating: 18+ (Minors DNI) Themes: All NSFW but very lighthearted, nothing particularly triggering but ask to tag! Word count: 750ish

These are just silly little headcanons about them, PLEASE if you have any like these send them to me i had such a blast writing them lol!!

Ghost

Sometimes his mask slips a little and he looks goofy as hell, you have to do your best to not laugh into his face because you know he won’t let that slide.

Uses British lingo sometimes. Has called your pussy a “fanny” before. Got mad when that made you giggle.

Once got so frustrated with trying to figure out how to operate one of your vibrators that he broke it. Was very apologetic and immediately ordered you another one afterwards.

Soap

He is clumsy as hell. Every time you have tried to fuck in a position that is anywhere near athletic, something goes wrong. It’s a miracle neither of you have broken your necks trying to get it on in the shower. He will always take the fall though, protecting you with everything he has and curling himself around you even if it means he will end up bruised or bleeding.

Makes a lot of typos when sexting, never notices. Called you “baby gorilla” once (you will never let him live that down).

Gets offended when you call him “Soap” in the bedroom. You know my name, what are you calling me that for? Dummy.

König

He doesn’t usually wear his balaclava under his mask when you have sex since it gets too sweaty but since his mask is pretty loose he will sometimes have to pft-ppf-tpftt when it gets stuck in his mouth. Has almost choked on his mask before.

Gets so flustered that he will just start sputtering nonsense. Has on several occasions been so out of it that he has messed up the nicknames you use for each other. “yes show me that I am your little babygirl, wait- no, you are… I am your boy… you’re… Wait, I’m sorry”. Not a gender or kink thing, which would of course be alright with you, just him being a dummy.

Is a bit of a crier and drooler sometimes which wouldn't be a problem except for the fact that he will sometimes accidentally waterboard himself in his mask and not tell you.

Gaz

Has called you mommy once and was mortified. Neither of you have really spoken about it but sometimes you will drop little hints around him to get him flustered.

Likes when you suck him off while he is playing video games but then gets too into the game and genuinely can’t help but get annoyed when he loses because you distract him.

Cpt Price

Is oblivious to any signs that you want him. Will go into Dad story telling mode and completely ignore the effect he is having on you until you grab him by the shirt and just tell him to fuck you.

Has a sex playlist called "sensual" with just the most cliché sex songs on it possible. Can unironically have sex to "Careless Whisper" and “Let’s get it on”.

Has given you rug burn with his beard before. 0/10 very unpleasant experience (you’d do it again, though).

Alejandro

Will say things that could be interpreted as sexist in the moment and then immediately get apologetic. Who’s my good slut? I mean… If you want to be. I’m sorry, I don’t mean to… Are you okay with that? Okay. Cool.

Will fuck you in uniform because he knows you’re into that and then get distracted by things he finds in his pockets like shopping receipts. 

Doesn’t care whether or not you understand him, he will speak Spanish to you.

Rudy

Gets tormented by you with new pet names every day. mí amor, I don't know what a Zaddy is. I don’t even know if that’s a good thing.

In the beginning of your relationship he was completely oblivious to most kinks. If you ever expressed anything out of the ordinary to you, he’d raise his eyebrows in confusion and say something like “what? why would anyone want that?” but was always open to trying anything. Now he is probably even more of a deviant than you are.

Valeria

Has this roleplay thing going on where you are a traitor to her cause and she discovers it and gets to “punish” you. You find it a little silly but it gets her super riled up so you play along.

Secretly loves to bottom and to be taken care of by you but would never tell you (you know anyway). Thinks she is being very good at hiding it (she is not).