#so i wrote it instead

[barblaz-arts]

Does Wednesday or Enid have feelings for each other before the creation of their daughter in your new witch au? Also why did Enid let Wednesday use her blood? And why did Wednesday want Enid’s blood? Did she just not trust anyone else to help her create her daughter?

I made a one-shot that can probably answer all these questions

[quilveor]

Stress-strumming

He stood in front of a makeshift scene, surrounded by three of his friends. To be honest, he was panicking, but tried his best to act normal. Nodded, smiled weakly at reassurances, "everything will be fine"s, "don't worry"s. He heard that so many times, but having to actually step up… It was hard. Nobody knew him, but he also knew nobody, what if they would judge? When doors to the bar opened, at first the kobold felt happy at few seconds of everyone being distracted. Then he felt dread at who was actually in the door. Tall, black coat, hood over the face. Two curved horns bringing an image of a black dragon, and a face that… It was a face of someone who would definitely judge him, harshly, just because he can. That dragonborn was terrifying. He moved slowly, but with clear purpose, towards the bartender. He did take off his hood though, revealing his pale scales and a sickly complexion. Was he a vampire, too? He definitely did not look healthy. And his voice was deep, demanding respect. Trouble, there's going to be trouble, and he knew it, grabbing his instrument tighter in stress. And it really seemed like a nice inn, with kobolds working there on equal with others. The bartender was a kobold, even! He ordered something, and another kobold ran from him upstairs for some reason… Did something move under his coat? Is he‒‒

‒ Gwynddu! A higher pitched voice resounded from the stairs soon after, interrupting the thoughts of the panicked kobold. A green bird ‒ aarakocra ‒ was standing there, spreading his arms in a smile. Who did he spoke to? And what about‒‒ the bird came up to the dragonborn, hugging him. They seemed like friends, but… The kobold saw his own friend jump up and run towards them. What was happening? Did Ninix knew that bird? Two more kobolds joined the bird and draconid, one holding an instrument, the other was definitely smaller than pretty much anyone here. The one with instrument had a tail tied in a knot, which immediately stood out. He still clutched his own lute tight, noticing that his friend pointed towards them, and the weird group looked at him. That's it. He was dead. Surely. When he opened his eyes again, he saw the dragonborn waving for him to come over. He listened, didn't even know why, but he came up and just looked up. ‒ Strum, was it? ‒ The white‒scaled reptile spoke purposefully, asking in draconic. The kobold just nodded. ‒ And your compatriots? ‒ I am titled Arioth. ‒ …Zojik. ‒ Nice to meet Ninix's friends! ‒ the bird picked up, smiling, sitting on the ground to be more on height. He also spoke fluent draconic. ‒ I'm Quick! That's Gwynddu, Korek and Duke. ‒ He nodded at each reptile. ‒ We were thinking, maybe you would like to play with us, Strum? …with them?

‒ Pfff, man first needs to relax himself. You're holding that guitar too tight. Breathe. ‒ The smaller kobold chimed in. Only now he noticed that he had a collar on, although he also had this weird confidence about him. ‒ It's clearly a lute. ‒ Lute, guitar, ukulele, who cares. ‒ Ignoring dragonborn's comment, the smallest kobold smirked. ‒ You a bard, Strum? ‒ Y‒yeah? ‒ Afraid about the crowd? ‒ Uhh… ‒ Yeah, thought so. I'd say you could imagine them all to be naked but… ‒ That'd probably work only for you, Duke. ‒ Quick laughed, getting a "yeah" from his friend. ‒ A‒anyway, I hope we're not asking for a lot but we would decidedly be happy to have you play alongside us! We promised the owner a show, and Ninix mentioned you're really good! We could even start off, so you could just join in. Something in the coat moved again. Gwynddu undid it a bit, revealing a small pseudodragon who trilled and landed on his head. ‒ Well, Strum, it is up to you. We'll be preparing. With your permission, sir? The dragonborn turned to the bartender, before getting up and going towards a corner. His friends all looked at eachother. He did feel a bit stupid for judging the dragonborn so harshly, but… He saw the tied‒tail kobold with his violin step up onto the scene, followed by the bird wielding a flute. Soon enough they started playing, and quickly enough were joined by the dragonborn ‒ cloak down, revealing very high quality, outright noble outfit ‒ playing on a piano. Even Ninix seemed having fun, his panflute sounding well enough. Strum jumped up in surprise, feeling a tap from behind, but it was only Duke smirking. ‒ I don't play anything, but you better start playing. And so he did, stepping up, looking at the smiling bird and focused kobold, and started playing as well, joining them in one complete melody. His worries disappeared pretty quickly as he was leading the song, tapping out a rhythm. They played with him, even the weird kobold who seemed to take the second leading position. He heard Zojik shout in excitement.

And afterwards, there were only compliments and praise. Maybe even a bit too much but… but he was happy.

[biggest-gaudiest-patronuses]

the fact that shakespeare was a playwright is sometimes so funny to me. just the concept of the "greatest writer of the English language" being a random 450-year-old entertainer, a 16th cent pop cultural sensation (thanks in large part to puns & dirty jokes & verbiage & a long-running appeal to commoners). and his work was made to be watched not read, but in the classroom teachers just hand us his scripts and say "that's literature"

just...imagine it's 2450 A.D. and English Lit students are regularly going into 100k debt writing postdoc theses on The Simpsons screenplays. the original animation hasn't even been preserved, it's literally just scripts and the occasional SDH subtitles.txt. they've been republished more times than the Bible

[gatoburr0]

The divine, one of a kind bride and the ugly ass groom.

[lazylittledragon]

'i'll just do a couple of doodles of mombin™/platonic stobin parents' nevermind, borderline graphic novel

[kmesons]

the tgwdlm soundtrack: a visual summary

[flwrkid14]

Tim Drake Accidentally Takes Over the World (and Didn’t Think to Mention It)

So, Janet somehow spent decades climbing her way into every government worth a damn, ruling the entire world from behind the scenes. And then, because the universe is apparently wild, she left it all to Tim.

Cut to Tim Drake, the brand-new, completely reluctant secret ruler of the entire planet. And he just… never really thought it was worth mentioning?

The Batfam finds out when Bruce stumbles across an encrypted memo traced to a mysterious Gotham office with Tim’s name on it.

Bruce, holding up the memo: “Tim. Want to explain why this document about, oh, international finance reforms is signed with your encryption key?”

Tim, not even looking up from his laptop: “Oh, yeah. That. Janet left me her ‘global influence portfolio’ or whatever. Mostly paperwork.”

The Batfam stares in total shock.

Dick sputters nearly dropping his coffee: "Wait—you’ve been managing world policies?!”

Tim, shrugging, barely paying attention as he emails the president of Germany: “Well, yeah. I figured someone had to keep things running. It's not that big a deal. I mostly just redirect some policies. You know, keep things running smoothly.”

Jason, absolutely cackling: “Are you telling me that little Replacement here is the reason for half the ‘global cooperation’ headlines?”

Tim, scrolling through emails: “They send me reports; I send suggestions. And honestly, they make it way more dramatic than it is. It's not that hard."

Barbara stares at him, half horrified, half impressed. “How did we not notice this?”

Tim blinks. “I mean, it’s not like I was actively hiding it. I assumed you guys knew I was… kind of managing these things?”

Cue utter disbelief.

Stephanie, laughing too hard to breathe: “Tim, do you have world leaders on speed dial?”

Tim, completely unfazed: “Only the important ones. They text, mostly. Oh—by the way, I might’ve influenced a minor arms control thing last week. Don’t worry; it’s all sorted.”

Bruce, looking like he’s two seconds from fainting: “Sorted? Tim, we're talking about you having global authority here. People notice these things."

Tim shrugs again as his phone buzzes with notifications. “Sure, but it’s not like they’re going to do anything too crazy. I just suggest stuff, and they listen. Honestly, it’s like herding really powerful, really overdramatic cats.”

Damian, scandalized: “You mean to tell me, Drake, that you’re manipulating world politics like it’s a game of checkers?”

Tim, still casual: “Manipulating’s a strong word. Like I said, it’s more just nudging things along.” His phone buzzes again. “Oh, hang on. France is panicking about their energy policy again.”

The Batfam tries to process the fact that Tim—Tim, who routinely forgets what day it is—is now, somehow, running the world.

And then his phone buzzes with a message from the UN Security Council.

Tim sighs, glancing down. “Oh, great. Looks like they’re debating nuclear arms again. Be right back.”

Meanwhile, the Batfam is left absolutely speechless, processing the fact that their Tim—scrawny, coffee-fueled Tim—is apparently one of the most powerful people on the planet. And to him its just another tuesday.

[confessedlyfannish]

DP x DC Writing Prompt #5

Damian does not glance back at Bruce when he knocks on the door. Instead they both wait in silence.

After a moment, the door opens.

"Hello," Jasmine, Jazz, Fenton greets politely, unsurprised to find the Waynes on her doorstep. Damian's expression grows ever darker at this revelation.

"Hello Ms. Fenton, are your parents home?" Bruce asks, placing a firm hand on Damian's shoulder, to ground as much as to restrain. To his credit he does not shake it off.

"No, they're out of town for a conference," the eighteen year-old says, opening the door wider. "But I think you'd better come in."

Bruce would normally decline, but Ms. Fenton is a legal adult and he has already, even unknowingly, waited 16 years. Damian makes the choice for him, striding past the threshold.

"Please take a seat," Jazz says as she leads them to the living room. She ignores Damian's swinging head as he takes in the home. It is deceptively large, a 90s style house filled with modern furniture. The walls are bright, with purple and green accents that would normally feel garish but somehow work. The stairs leading to the second floor are lined with family photos that Bruce yearns to take a closer look at. "Can I get you anything? Coffee? Water?"

"No, that's alright, thank you," Bruce says, taking a seat on the long plush couch. A men's windbreaker lies haphazardly thrown across one of the arms. A closed container of Oreo cookies sit on the coffee table next to a physics textbook open to chapter 16, half covered in highlighter and filled with sticky notes. There's a child's painting framed next to the tv, a handprint made to look like a thanksgiving turkey in bright blue.

For the home of experimental scientists, it is cozy and well lived-in.

Damian repeatedly glances at the stairs through the doorway.

Bruce clears his throat. "We were hoping to--"

"I've texted--oh, I'm sorry," Jazz says, having spoken at the same time. Bruce gestures for her to go on.

"I've contacted Danny, he should be here soon. He was out with some friends." Jazz explains. As she hadn't pulled out a phone in their presence, Bruce can only deduce they have some sort of camera at their front door. This also explains Ms. Fenton's complete lack of surprise at their appearance.

"So you know who we are." Damian says, the first words he's spoken since they arrived at the house and the longest sentence he's spoken since they arrived in Amity Park.

"I do," Jazz says, calm in the face of Damian's clearly simmering anger. Bruce trusts him not to attack Ms. Fenton, but he still watches him carefully.

"He told you about me," Damian says. It is the same question, but it is also not.

"He did," Jazz says.

Damian swallows. "I see," he grits out.

Jazz's neutrality slips and her face softens in sympathy. "Damian," she starts hesitantly, but before she can say anything else the front door opens.

A moment later Bruce's son walks through the doorway, and Damian is on him.

This is what Bruce hoped to prevent, but despite his numerous checks of Damian's luggage his son has still managed to smuggle a small dagger, which he now produces and swings in a calculated arc at Daniel Fenton's jugular.

Danny dodges cleanly, and dodges every swipe thereafter in a manner that speaks to continued practice long after his time at the League. Damian is a perfect product of his training, but it is up against Danny his flaws come to light. He is just as good as he always was, but Danny is better.

In a matter of seconds Damian grows frustrated and sloppy in his attacks, completely atypical for him. Danny takes Damian out at the knees and pins him down with one arm, pressing his face into the carpet.

"Calm down," he orders. His voice is deeper than Damian's at sixteen to his twelve, the accent that still traces Damian's words completely gone from his speech. Damian growls and thrusts his head back into Danny's face, meeting it with a sharp thunk. He rolls up as Danny recoils, putting distance between them. Danny glares at him from several steps away, hand to his forehead. Damian tosses the dagger into his other hand as he charges, and to Bruce's surprise Danny does nothing more than turn his face to the side, allowing Damian to draw a sharp line down his cheek.

Damian stops dead in his tracks.

"Are you done?" Danny asks, blood beginning to pool at the seam of the cut.

Damian's expression is stricken, eyes stuck on the blood starting to drip down his brother's face.

"I said, are you done, Damian?" Danny asks. His voice is cold.

Damian hears him this time, and he flushes red. "I--you--"

Danny sighs. He looks at Jazz, whose expression is back to carefully controlled.

"Are you alright?" he asks her. She nods.

"You left me," Damian accuses, standing there holding his bloody dagger limply.

Danny turns back to him, raising an eyebrow.

"You left me," Damian repeats louder, rapidly blinking.

"Yes. I did." Danny provides no excuse nor any explanation. His stance is unyielding.

Damian's eyes bounce wildly, shifting to Jazz and Danny slides smoothly in front of her, protectively. He looks at Damian warily, not as if he is his brother, but as if he is a danger. Damian flinches.

Hope is the last to die, Bruce thinks, watching as that last bit of hope Damian had is extinguished, the knowledge working its way through every inch of his body like ice in his veins. His eyes darken. He turns and runs from the room, the front door slamming shut not a moment later.

Jazz stands up, pulling a few tissues from the box on the coffee table. She presses them to Danny's face, cupping his cheek until he holds it himself. "I'm going to go get the first aid kit," she says gently. It is a thinly veiled excuse to leave them alone, and Bruce is grateful for it as she heads for the stairs.

They both wait until her footsteps have faded, taking each other in. Bruce looks at his mother's eyes and the sharp turn of Talia's nose. Damian's everything, four years older.

"You shouldn't have come here," Danny says, throwing himself on the armchair Jazz has just vacated.

"You know who I am," Bruce says carefully.

Danny glares. "I've kept your secret. She nor my parents know."

"I know," Bruce says. "That's not what I meant. You know who I am. And who I pretend to be. So you know I am familiar with masks."

"And?" Danny asks, looking vaguely bored.

"And so I can recognize when someone is wearing one. Damian will too, once he's calmed down."

Danny's expression sharpens. "No, he won't. Because you are going to go to back to whatever bed and breakfast you're staying in, pack up, hop in your private jet and fly him back to Gotham immediately before the League realizes you've gone. If they haven't already," he mutters.

"This is about the League then," Bruce says. "Do you not believe I can protect you?"

"I don't need your protection," Danny snaps, and watches Bruce actively extrapolate with a dawning resignation. "So this is the World's Greatest Detective at work," he says, slumping bonelessly into his chair, the first teenager-y thing he's done.

"Damian's in danger from the League," Bruce says. Danny glares from his slump. It's almost cute. "And as long as the League doesn't know about you, he's safe."

"Draw your own conclusions," Danny says, baring his teeth. Damian often makes the same face. "As long as you leave."

"I can protect him. I can protect you both," Bruce says. "Let me help you."

Danny closes his eyes. He centers his breathing in an exercise someone has clearly walked him through in the past. Bruce would bet money on the adoptive sister waiting patiently upstairs.

"Mr. Wayne. You are not my father," he says. "My trust in you extends to the point that I left Damian in your care, but that is where it ends. And that was when it was sanctioned by the League. By coming here you have endangered those sanctions."

Bruce disregards the sting, doubling down on his analysis. Talia had left Damian with Bruce well after Danny had left the League. But Danny speaks as if the decision had been his.

Or perhaps, Bruce realizes, it is not that Danny decided upon it, but that Danny allowed it to continue.

Bruce takes a second to review what Oracle had gone over with him before they left for Amity. Daniel Fenton had by all accounts, since leaving the League, lived a fairly normal life. His adoptive parents were eccentric scientists dabbling in the occult but their findings that bordered pseudoscience circulated a very niche community of like-minded eccentrics. The bulk of their income came from alternative energy, a more viable source of study that they'd veered harder into in the past year or so, a government contract with the EPA currently in the works. This had in part funded a vacation to an all-inclusive resort the family had taken that past summer.

Danny received average grades in school, above average in science and mathematics, declining sharply in his freshman year and sophomore year before evening out around the second semester. He had gotten into fights repeatedly with one student in particular, suspended for two weeks following an incident that resulted in a the student receiving a black eye. Teachers reported him to be highly intelligent but distracted and removed. They had recommended he be evaluated for an attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder. He had no social media. He had missed multiple picture days. The ones he had attended he was sneezing, or a blur of movement, even going so far as to fall off his stool, legs flailing. Bruce had drank up every last one as Barbara had waited patiently.

A normal life. A family vacation to Bermuda. Average grades.

His freshman year, distracted and removed. The same year Damian had arrived at Bruce's home. Masks upon masks.

"You have informants within the League," Bruce says. Danny, to his credit, has no discernible tell. But there is no other explanation. "What will you do, if they find out you are alive?"

"That is none of your concern," Danny says, but he might as well be saying whatever I have to.

He never stopped practicing, after all.

"If they go after Damian, it is my concern."

"And that is why you need to take Damian back to Gotham before they do." Danny says. "I will take care of it."

Damian had barely spoken since he had realized Danyal was alive. But Bruce had seen the reverence in his eyes as he looked at the file.

"الوريث الصحيح" he had murmured. The rightful heir.

"You are proposing going after the entirety of the League with no backup," Bruce says. "Even if you think they won't kill you, you won't win either."

"Maybe they will," Danny says lightly. "Kill me. That would also work."

Bruce inhales sharply. "Danny," he starts.

"Go home, Mr. Wayne," Danny says, pushing himself up with one hand. The other still clutches the wad of tissue to his cheek, partially soaked with blood. "Go take care of your son."

"I'll go," Bruce says, "I'll take him to the Watchtower. And then I'll come back."

"Mr. Wayne-"

"I should've come for you," Bruce interrupts. "Sixteen years ago. I should've come for you."

Danny's brow furrows. "You had no idea I existed."

"But if I had. I would've come. I never would've left you there. And now that I know, I am not leaving you now."

For the first time Bruce watches Danny be completely caught off guard. He openly gapes at Bruce.

"You would've died," Danny lands on, voice thin. "They would've killed you."

"Unlike you, I would've brought backup." Bruce says, mimicking Danny's lightness.

He's lying. Sixteen years ago he would've thrown himself at the League to save his newborn son without a plan, without a thought beyond rescuing his baby.

Danny barks out a laugh. "You would've laid siege to Nanda Parbat with The Big Blue Boy Scout?" he looks wistful. "That would've been rad."

Bruce sees his opening. "Danny," he stands, eye to eye with his son. "Let me help you."

Danny evaluates him. "The Batman," he says softly. "I didn't want you to come, then. I didn't need one more person I had to prove myself to. All I wanted was to live amongst the stars, in the quiet of the cosmos."

"You want to be an astronaut," Bruce says. At Danny's cocked head, he says without shame, "I read your essay on personal heroes. You wrote about Edward White. Ad Astra Per Aspera."

Danny smiles slightly, sadly. "It is a rough road."

"You can be whatever you want to be," Bruce says. "I won't stand in your way."

"Even if I want to be Danny Fenton?" he asks.

"Even then."

Danny sighs. "I don't need your help Bruce," he says. "No," he says as Bruce opens his mouth. He pulls the wad of tissues away from his cheek. Underneath the splotches of dried blood the gash in his face has cleanly knit itself together, a faint white line now all that remains.

"I don't need your help," he says clearly. He holds a palm forward, and a green fire grows from its center, until the flames are licking delicately up his fingers.

"I know The Batman does not kill. But I am not a Robin. I am something else entirely," Danny says, his eyes reflecting the green of the flames. Or not, as he looks up at Bruce, his eyes green all on their own. They are sad. This is why he stayed away, Bruce realizes. Not out of fear. Danny is not afraid. Danny is tired.

But for his brother, Danny will wake up.

"And If the League takes one step towards Damian, I will raze them to the ground."

[yeyinde]

Ghost has a thing for fucking you when you're asleep—

(—and maybe one day he'll get around to telling you about it, too.)

noncon/dubcon somnophilia. spit kink. brief anal.

He likes you like this. When you're soft, pliant. A malleable little doll under his hands that he can shape to his will. Bend.

You're so small compared to him. Tiny. The difference unmoors the chains keeping his vile, nasty urges at bay, until they spool—horrific and depraved—around him. Unleashes the need in the back of his head that screams, howls, and tells him to own, possess. Claim.

Ruin you—

And you belong to him. Everything. Every part of you is his, down to your goddamn marrow. Your bones are marked with his name, false starts carved into milky bones.

he doesn't really see the problem with taking what is his.

—and so, he does.

His sweet, sweet girl who can barely take his cock when you're awake—too much, too fat—and so he makes do with slaking his hideous, bestial need on your body when you're asleep. When he can fold your knees up to your ears, and fuck you as deep, as hard, as he wants without worrying about you seeing the want rotting in his eyes, and run—

The stretch, you whine. He's too much for you. The biggest you've ever had. It isn't meant to stroke his ego, he knows this, but still. He preens when you add, liquid and pained, by a considerable margin, Simon—

Like this, asleep, you're relaxed. Liquid. 

And with the sleeping pills crushed into your bedtime tea you always (always) take an hour before bed, he can do whatever he wants to do. However he wants. 

Splits you open with his tongue, fucking into you until you're sloppy and wet. Spitting on your cunt and pushing the foamy glob into your tight hole at his own leisure without having a rain of indignant fists come down across his shoulders, disgusted by the degrading action. Don't spit on me, Simon, that's gross—

(but you swallow it like a good girl when he grabs you by the neck, thumb digging into the dent of your larynx until you open nice and wide for him, tongue sliding out like you're begging for it—)

His little hellion awake. But asleep? 

He gets your pussy messy with his spit, fucking it into you with two fingers—another benefit to fucking you asleep is that he doesn't have to bother with building up, can stretch you out on two fingers without those breathy little mewls spilling out, telling him it's too much. Then three with his mouth glued to your clit, feeling your cunt clench down on him as he bullies it with his tongue. The pressure is too much, too intense. You'd be howling if you were awake, but—

You're not. 

The only sound is the lews squelch of him fucking you open with three fingers, sucking noisily at your pebbled clit. 

Music to his ears. 

And if he's in a hurry. Well. Skipping foreplay all together is fine. Just has to spit on his palm, coat it over his shaft, and make you open up for him. Splitting you open on just his cock. All tight—agonizingly so—around him. 

You can take it. 

He knows you can. You take everything he throws at you—knees pushed to your ears, cock bulging out from your belly. Head buried in a pillow as he flattens his body over yours, and ruts into your cunt while he smothers you under his bulk. Indescribably tight like this with your thighs squeezed together between his own. On your side with your leg thrown over his hip, or held high in the air. 

He likes it best when you're on your back, though. Soft and sweet. Little hiccups leaving your slack lips as he forces you to take every inch he has to offer. Bullying his fat cock into your pussy. Over and over again—

Quenching his unbearable lust on you until it's slated on your flesh, cunt stuffed full of his cum.

Or your ass. 

You're wary about him burying his fat length into your ass. It'll hurt, is the biggest excuse you like to give, hands tucked against the swell of your bottom as if that would be enough to keep him away. You've never done that before and taking him in your pussy was already a lot, you couldn't imagine taking him there, too—

It's a problem. Too bad for you, he has always been task oriented. Someone who likes the squash issues under his thumb. 

And that's exactly what he does. 

Starts with his thumb shoved inside your hole when he's fucking your pussy. Then a finger. Two. Likes to lick at your cunt before shoving your knees to your chest, lifting your ass in the air, and devouring it with the same rapacious appetite. Tongue fucking into you, getting you all sloppy and wet, stretching you open so he can seat you down on his cock. All the way to the base. Stretching your rim wide around his girth. Pounding your tight little ass until he cums inside of you. Filling you over and over again until it leaks out, soaking into the sheets below. 

His pretty little doll. All fucked out and messy. 

With you asleep, Simon can take from you—as much as he needs to fill this greedy, gaping maw inside of himself—without burdening you. Scaring you away. 

And he'd rather not have to chase you down like a dog—

It's the perfect arrangement that lets him exorcise himself of the horrible, awful, things he wants to do to you. Quench the bloodlust, the violence, that drums up in the back of his head, ugly and noxious, that leaks poison into his blood. Makes him see you torn to pieces by his enemies, wrenched away by the people who think they know what's best for you. Taken. The urge to claim you is animalistic. Primal. 

This—

This is bloodletting. It's spilling the rot from inside himself so it doesn't fester. Turn septic. Gangrenous. Eating at his tissue until his hands no longer belong to himself, but to the mercy of his monstrous need. 

It lets him ruin you, tear into you like a beast, without worrying about you running from him. Fleeing from this rapacious green he holds deep in the fibrils of his chest. Hewed into his essence, subsumed into his marrow. 

Simply put: he needs this. Just like you need him. Simon. Need him like the air you breathe—

(And sometimes, sometimes, you get this peculiar look on your face before bed. A frisson. Unease, pensive. It splits over your brows, an evanescent tremor. He thinks you might be more aware than you let on. That you know about this hideousness inside him, this putrid greed that sloshes around the edges of his eyes sometimes, trying to bleed in, trickling down over his periphery before he can stop it. 

But it dissolves into complacency before he can chisel into it, leaving nothing behind but a faint stink of stale smoke. Acrid—like doused embers. Burning his nose, his lungs—)

And when he's had his fill—stuffed that chasm inside his belly with your flesh—he cleans you up, and pulls you tight to his chest. Satiated for the time being. Falling asleep with the taste of you on his tongue, locked tight in his embrace. Tenders to your aches the next morning, as soft and supple as he can ever allow himself to be. 

There’s a place for him, he’s sure, when he lies to you, and says that you must have slept the wrong way. That maybe he was a little too hard on you the night before. And maybe if he were a better person, a better man, he might have felt some sense of guilt for it. Shame.

But instead, he coos at you and says:

It’s his fault, pet, but don’t worry he’ll take such good care of you. Licking your sore cunt all day until you grab him by the scruff of his neck, and tell him no more, please, Simon, stop, stop—it doesn’t hurt anymore, please—

He relents an hour before bed and takes you to the kitchen where you sit and drink the tea he made without a word.

Like a good girl—

And then you slip into bed in nothing but his old shirt, curling up against his chest, and whispering—soft and sweet—into his ear, "good night, Simon."

(his sweet, sweet girl.

like you're fucking begging him for it—)

[xnyu09]

die your daughter.

[cowardlykrow]

Don't even look at each other before marriage

[megumismyhusband]

rin itoshi acts stoic, pretending your affection doesn’t faze him, but his body betrays him. His ears turn red when you kiss his cheek, and his lips quirk into a faint smile when you hug him. If you skip a hug or kiss one day, he’ll brood about it, replaying every moment to figure out if he upset you.

rin who secretly adores seeing you in his clothes. he'll sneaks extra jerseys and hoodies into your wardrobe, pretending they "must've ended up there by accident." he can’t help but smile when he sees you wearing them.

rin sucks at cooking but will attempt to learn how to make your favorite dishes so he could cook them for you whenever you'd like.

the keychain you gave rin? It’s clipped securely to his bag or shoved deep in his pocket when he’s on the field. He touches it before every game for luck, and if he ever loses it, he’ll go into full panic mode.

wanna do his makeup? deal. wanna paint his nails? go ahead. feel the need to put your pretty boyfriend in a dress? he'll let you. but only as long as you agree not to show anyone his baby pictures.

pda isn't rin's style, but in private? he’s all in. he’ll pull you close, tuck your head under his chin, and let you trace random patterns on his chest while you talk about your day.

rin might not always say, "i love you," but his actions speak volumes. from memorizing your coffee order to holding your hand in a crowded room, every little thing he does screams devotion.

[uhhh-ghouls007]

Something I always thought was cool about the Frankenstein story is the details of Victor creating the creature, like he’s doing it just to prove he can- haphazardly stitching and stapling limbs of strangers together to create a bastardized monster. In every movie the creature is so gnarly because he’s not meant to loved, even by his creator, and he has scars and bolts stuck in his neck (sometimes) to show it

AND something I really love in Lisa Frankenstein is that while Lisa didn’t physically bring the creature to life she dedicates all of hers to protect and nurture him back to humanity. She loves him. And she’s a professional seamstresses so when she replaces his body parts—with those of people who have hurt her, ending their lives to further resurrect the creature so he can become the partner she longs for— it’s done delicately and purposefully and intimately and lovingly. Oh my god. In this essay I will

[cubbihue]

Peri was very upset about a lot of things that happened. Within a span of a week, he felt like his entire life has changed for the worst!! He had a dumb bulb on his wand, Timmy was still moving away, and he had to go to a school far from everyone he knew!!!

Of course, the cause and trigger of those emotions was Timmy. But Peri can’t blame his older brother for any of that. So the next logical conclusion for a small child to reach was to blame his parents instead!!! And boy did he blame a lot on his parents.

Many of Peri’s actions in his childhood stems from misplaced grief and anger. By the time he was old enough to know better, Peri got a mixture of stubbornness and a bruised ego to admit he was wrong for how he reacted.

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[poorlydrawninstarsandtime]

the humble conkroch

[id in alt]

[bonus-links]

RUINS, pt. 14

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