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19catsncounting · 2 months ago

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I Got Really Into Anti/Proship Discourse And Read +30 Academic Studies - My Findings

(It’s a Yapfest but the whole post is a very long essay and study on morality and fiction and children’s safety and rape culture with a fuckton of freely accessible academic articles and resources on the subject, and I want to talk to other people about it. For a shorter abstract with all the articles and more easily ignored yapping, see my shiny new Carrd:)

It’s been a little shocking lately to have certain discussions with some parts of fandom. I spoke about shipping/harassment and how that contributes to the death of fandom on TikTok assuming that younger folks are just really, really intense about preventing sexual violence, but the more I saw the words “morally wrong” and “disgusting” and “addiction,” the more I thought about this guy-

That’s Jerry Falwell, and I fucking hate this dead guy. You see, Jerry Falwell was a preacher who hated porn, feminism, and homosexuality. And I'm seeing his rhetoric and reworked quotes a lot.

Jerry would say stuff like:

“Pornography hurts anyone who reads it - garbage in, garbage out.”

“Someone must not be afraid to say ‘moral perversion is wrong.’ If we do not act now, homosexuals will ‘own’ America!”

Jerry wanted people to believe that it’s possible to see so much sexual content that it warps your sexuality, because he was gay and wanted to think that was due to thinking about gay sex too much. Jerry did not have a lot of evidence to prove that homosexuality was harmful, so he relied heavily on how “morally distasteful” it seemed to be to suburban Americans.

I spent the majority of my teen years arguing against Jerry’s rhetoric for the right to live as a lesbian online, and I never thought I’d see morality rhetoric in people I’m otherwise very politically aligned with. And I definitely never thought fandom of all things, in all its beautiful subversive glory, would seriously start advocating for censorship, anti-porn, and to consume fanwork with moral purity.

So, I’d like to have a deeper discussion on it, both here on Tumblr and on TikTok, but that does mean checking a few things at the door:

Personal feelings decide your personal life. What you feel is valid for you, not anyone else.

In general, things that do not cause direct and undeniable harm should not be broadly prohibited just because they’re weird or distasteful to the majority of folks. Ex. Loitering does not cause harm and is a tool of systemic oppression.

The discussion of “fictional CSEM” is the most inflammatory fork of this and it is often used to derail these kinds of conversations. This is all I will say on it - the legal status of explicit visual depictions of minors is muddy. In the US, there is just one dude in Utah who pled guilty for possessing explicit lolicon he bought by mail order without also possessing CSEM with real children, and explicit writing about fictional minors has been settled as protected free speech. Dedicated organizations from the NCMEC to Chris Hansen have asked that fictional content is not reported as CSAM as it is not actionable and clogs up finite resources. 90% of NCMEC reports were not actionable last year. There are studies suggesting that virtual CSEM or other non-victim alternatives could reduce actual child harm, but there is need for further research.

We’re all in agreement that untagged NSFW is not cool, and kids deserve kid-only sections of the internet. People who are triggered by or dislike problematic content deserve to be able to not see it. 👍

(I’ve seen the argument that blocking tags/people should not be required - sorry, PTSD still requires that you manage your triggers, up to and including swearing off platforms just as I have sworn off bars/soap brands/etc to avoid my triggers.)

I have found a lot of accessible and free articles and studies that I will link throughout so that we can discuss the fact-based reasoning, in an effort to have a civil conversation.

(Also because we are not flat earthers, we are Fandom, and if we’re going to be annoying little shitheels in an “Um Actually” contest, we’re going to have the sources to back it up.)

Minors and Explicit Material

I’m not supporting minors engaging with explicit material. I have such little interest in the subject that I’m not even going to bring in articles, but you can feel free to. I personally engaged with explicit material as a preteen of my own free will and did not find it to be harmful, and the majority of people throughout human history have been exposed to explicit material at an early age with varying degrees of harm. There are undeniable legal and harm-driven differences between a 12 year old girl looking at Hustler on her own, a 14 year old boy being sent nudes from a grown woman, and a 6 year old viewing PornHub. (And I think the guardians of that 6 year old should be charged with grooming just like the woman, tbh.)

Personal Disclaimer

I’m an adult survivor of CSA and incest. I’m a happily married adult. I don’t personally like lolicon/shotacon/kodocon. I don’t like kids. I don’t like teens. I’m personally not attracted to underage fictional characters. I have family, the idea of fucking any of them makes me want to throw up and die, so I don’t write or read RPF of my family.

I am really, really fucking intense about preventing sexual violence, supporting survivors, and fandom, which is where this all comes from.

I read and love problematic fiction - my favorites are ASOIAF, Lolita, and VC Andrews. The most “problematic” thing I’ve personally written are Lucifer/Michael fics from Supernatural back in 2012. They are “brothers” in CW Christ, not blood. They do not have any blood.

Gen Z and Online Grooming

In 2002, a survey of 1500 minors from 10-17 found that 4% had been solicited for sexual purposes by an adult online.

In 2023, that number increased to 20%.

While the linked 2023 Thorn report suggests that the vast majority of these inappropriate interactions happened on platforms that allow for interpersonal communication, which by and large minors were greatly discouraged from and had less access to in the early 2000’s, a trauma-informed approach does not allow for blame to fall on the children. The guardians of those children have monumentally failed to restrict and educate before giving children the means to access those platforms.

It is my uncited but personal opinion that the increased rate of grooming, as well as an increased interest in combating rape culture, has led to well-intentioned individuals to become digital vigilantes attacking those who they hold responsible for their traumatic experiences in a search for catharsis and justice denied for themselves as well as a desire to make the internet safer for other children, whom they are increasingly aware are entering online spaces unsupervised at distressingly young ages.

Is harassment and bullying bad for perpetrators of it?

Before we get into how ship-related hate campaigns do not affect predation or combat rape culture, we should acknowledge that it’s actually pretty harmful for the people who cyberbully. Not just in the legal/social consequences, but people who participate in cyberbullying and cyberhate campaigns have higher rates of depression, estrangement from their parents, self-effacing habits, social anxiety, lower empathy, and so forth.

One study suggests that the treatment and prohibitive for cyberbullying, which contributes to a culture of cyberhate and a lower likelihood to report or confront other incidents of harassment or toxicity online, can be combatted with media competency to increase empathy along with other important life skills.

Some Common Pro-Censorship Myths

“Pornography is Addictive/Consumption of Pornography Leads to Increasingly Hardcore Imagery And Ultimately Real-World Violence” - The American Psychological Association does not recognize Porn Addiction as real and the DSM-5 does not classify it as an addiction. Additionally, many methods used in articles claiming that porn is addictive or causes users to seek out more hardcore material were flawed or biased. There is actually some evidence that compulsive porn use, the closest you can get to a porn addiction diagnosis, is associated with shame and the user’s belief that pornography is morally wrong, which sex-negative attitudes encourage.

“Jaws caused shark culling” - That's unfortunately a simplification that ignores a LOT of surrounding context. WW2’s modern naval battles with an increase of ship sinkings and thus contact with sharks prompted the invention and use of shark repellant by aviators and sailors in the 1940’s. The most deadly and famous shark attack of all time was the USS Indianapolis sinking in 1945, which led to 12-150 deaths. The 1974 book Jaws by Peter Benchley, which was the entire basis of the movie, was inspired by One Fucking Dude who started shark hunting tours and overall seemed to have a really immaculate vibe. The interstate highways that finished in the 1950’s increased beach tourism in the 60’s and onwards, inspiring the American surf culture, further increasing the cultural desire to purge sharks for the new swath of beachgoers and their fondness for using surfboards which make them look like seals to sharks. Additionally, 1975’s Jaws inspired a huge desire for education about sharks, and the relationship between problematic media and education will be the core of this yapperoni pizza.

“The Slendermen Killings/Other Fiction Inspired Crimes” - The ACLU states that “There is no evidence that fiction has ever driven a sane person to violence.” Inspired crimes are indeed no less tragic, and thankfully rare, but people who suffer from inability to discern reality and fiction do not necessarily need fiction to commit violence. The “Son of Sam” murder spree was not inspired by a book or movie, but instead Berkowitz’ auditory hallucinations.

“Violent videogames DO cause violence” - After a great deal of funding and study, the American Psychological Association has concluded that teens and younger may have increased feelings of aggression and not necessarily physically violent outbursts as a direct effect, but older teens and young adults do not encounter statistically meaningful rates of aggression.

“Your brain can’t tell the difference between fiction and reality” - Factually incorrect. Children as young as 5 years old can tell the difference, and they can even be more suspicious about “facts” that come from sources they know also host fiction, such as TV shows.

“This stuff shouldn’t be online because it can be used to groom a child” - While I could not find specific statistics on how often pornography is used to desensitize child victims, nor how often that is specifically used in online grooming, and especially not how much of that pornography is made from fictional characters - out of a mixed group of convicted offenders with adult and child victims, 55% of offenders used pornography to manipulate their victim. I would never refute that explicit fanart or fanfic could be used to desensitize a child, but that is by far not the only tool (asking about sexual experiences/identity, making jokes, etc is extremely common grooming behavior), and there is no evidence to suggest that it is used to a statistically significant degree. In my own anecdotal experience, normal vanilla legal pornography is used with far greater prevalence, and there isn’t a similar movement to shame its production for that possibility. Nor should the creators of any material, pornographic or otherwise, share blame in the actions of a predator.

The Fiction Affects Reality Carrd

(No hate to the person who made it, in fact I give props to them for trying to find unbiased sources, I just want to point out that their interpretations of their articles are kinda flawed and one of their studies is a kind of a perfect example on small and culturally biased samples.)

Reading Fiction Impacts Aggressive Behavior - (I cannot access the full study but this article is the primary source used in the Carrd and it goes into detail) - A study showed that 67 university students were more annoyed with a loud buzzer after reading a short story about a physical fight between roommates compared to a story with nonviolent revenge. However, this study was conducted at Brigham Young University, the same campus where we got a whole video series of hot ethical takes like “I’d rather shoot a kitten than drink coffee,” so uh. Yeah. Kind of a prime example on why it’s important to have large and culturally varied sampling. (Another BYU study with 137 BYU students being odd about moral ambiguity in fiction, just because I’m starting to add Dr. Sarah M. Coyne to my list of “Sarah’s That I Dislike.”)

Your Brain on Fiction - a NYT article that describes Theory of the Mind and how fMRIs captured how readers’ minds would light up centers of muscle control when reading sentences like “Peter kicked.” The quote “The brain, it seems, does not make much of a distinction between reading about an experience and encountering it in real life; in each case, the same neurological regions are stimulated” is speaking of motor functions. Emotional centers of the brain were not included in the study.

How Fiction Changes Your World - a Boston Globe article that actually describes how people who read more fiction are more empathetic and tend to believe in a just world. It does not state that the empathy a reader feels for fictional characters extends to corrupting their moral compass. In fact, there’s such a thing as a “fictive license” to explore taboo themes more thoroughly because it is not real - 123 participants were interviewed after watching two actors play the part of detective and murderer being interviewed, and participants who were told it was fake had more varied and inquisitive responses.

The Social Impact of Books - Actually reuses the previous study about the just world, so point remains. Empathy is understanding, not mirroring.

Is Problematic Fiction Good for Survivors of Trauma?

It absolutely depends on the individual.

Writing expressively about traumatic experiences has been shown to be effective to reduce depression, or more effective in reducing dysphoria and anxiety than talking to fellow survivors, and Written Exposure Therapy is broadly prescribed to survivors of trauma, with one study centering on car crash survivors finding that WET resolved their PTSD symptoms and continued to be effective after a year.

In this study, which sadly is not available online but it is too important to leave out completely, survivors of CSA were given fictional novels about CSA and in closely reading and analyzing those stories, were able to understand their own experiences and were indeed drawn to write about their own experiences as well.

Engaging in problematic fiction, like all fiction, allows for consent as well as control. If at any point a survivor does not feel in control or wishes to stop, they can at that instant. They can even rewrite their narratives and take control of their story in fictionalizing and changing the account. They can even try to understand what their abuser felt through fiction, which is helpful considering that the vast majority of survivors had a relationship that had been positive and even loving with their abusers at times.

Is Problematic Fiction Good for Everyone Else?

It again depends on the individual.

Antis might be a little right that most people don't want to read problematic stories. In a study exploring whether fiction can corrode morals, 83% of study participants stated that they would prefer not to read a short story justifying baby murder if they had the choice, even if that exploration isn’t inherently harmful.

This very small sample study of 13 participants discussed how young women interpreted sexual themes in writing, including explicit fanfiction, and how that was beneficial and informative to explore sexual desire and examine healthy and unhealthy relationships in a safe and controlled environment.

This meta-analysis further discusses how problematic and sexual themes in YA literature are useful to illustrate what sexual violence looks like, and begin educational conversations through those depictions to break down harmful myths such as “if she didn’t scream, she wanted it.”

Empowered by the “Fictive License” previously cited, problematic fiction can be beneficial for anyone who desires and is capable of consuming and analyzing it.

This study analyzing abusive aspects of three films - Beauty and the Beast, Twilight, and 50 Shades of Gray - concluded that these abusive themes should be discussed to increase recognition and awareness, not censored based on those problematic themes.

This study of 53 women were asked to read different versions of fictional intimate partner violence flags, or “toxic behavior” like surveillance, control, etc. In every version of the story, whether the female or male had those behaviors either courting or committed, the women recognized the behavior as wrong.

Another study that reading allows for the moral laboratory to explore morality in fiction without decisive impact to corroding moral permissibility.

Is There Ever Any Point Where Fictional Interests Definitively Speak On Someone’s Morality?

In short - not really. Loving Jason Vorhees does not put you at risk of murdering campers as long as you know he’s not real. Writing Wincest does not mean you look forward to family reunions, as long as you know incest isn’t okay in the real world. The real world, where real people are harmed, is where you find the measure of someone’s character.

This Psychology Today article is the best source I could find for quotes from a fantastic book ‘Who's Been Sleeping in Your Head? The Secret World of Sexual Fantasies’ by Brett Kahr regarding taboo sexual fantasies and how they are not only common, but not inherently harmful.

There are people who enjoy problematic media in an entirely nonsexual sense, of course. I myself don’t get off on problematic media - I think it’s just interesting to explore different experiences, and I think that can be revolutionary.

Additionally, fantasies in general have almost always been in the vein of “things you don’t want to really happen in reality.” In a study of 351 asexuals, more than half reported that they fantasize about having sex, but that doesn’t mean that they actually want to. You can fantasize about dating Billie Eilish - it doesn’t mean that you’d be happy dealing with celebrity culture.

(I personally fantasize about the internet being just for adults, but in practice I think that would be incredibly harmful and isolating for at-risk youth and LGBTQ teens) Fantasies always pluck out only the bits of reality that you want to engage with.

If You Get Off On Fictional Kids, You’re Attracted to Something About Them Being Kids

Not inherently, surprisingly. Wearing a schoolgirl uniform is a pretty common roleplay, and it’s not meant to “fool” the participants into thinking they’re indulging in pedophilia. There’s a wealth of emotional and sexual nuance in that specific kink - innocence and virginity play, tilted power dynamics in ‘scolding’ the uniform wearer for dress code violations, even the concept of a sexually provocative “teenager” can be played with without shame, because the world of fetish and fantasy is separated from condonable actions for the vast, vast majority of adults. (The only study I could find on this is this small study of 100 white guys found on Facebook, which itself states it is not definitive, found that while there might be correlation between attraction to children and interest in schoolgirl uniforms, there is no proof of causation. AKA, the rectangular pedophile might indeed like square schoolgirl uniforms, but not everyone - in fact, the majority at nearly 60% in this very survey - that likes square schoolgirl uniforms is a rectangular pedophile.)

Even sexual age play between adults is not indicative of pedophilia because it exists in a setting between two adults who fully understand that the mechanics are completely fake, allowing the power dynamics that would be abusive between an adult and child to be ethically explored.

I don’t have an official-looking study to cite, but I have asked people who like content about underage fictional characters why they do so. Overwhelmingly, a lot of the ones who like underage age gaps like the fantasy of an older and more experienced character taking a younger one under their wing, to have the opportunity to commit violent and blatantly objectifying harm and yet try to create what inevitably does not truly pass as consent, but seems near enough to the characters. Some think that the characters themselves have an interesting chemistry. Some read underage fic and still imagine the characters as adults. Some like to explore the feelings of shame that the older character must feel and how they mentally compartmentalize to go forward with the relationship, and how the younger character found themself in that vulnerable position - which is exploring a harmful situation through fiction to understand how it could play out in real life.

People who like fictional incest like exploring the shameful components of that taboo relationship - and I have seen a lot of works that compare how bad incest could be to other harms, like the Gravecest route in a game with parental cannibalism. And then there are folks who like analyzing the codependency of having one person fulfill every social need - family, friend, lover, AKA Wincest.

What makes a predator if it’s not just sexual attraction?

90% of CSA survivors know their abuser, discrediting the still-entirely-too-popular Stranger Danger myth. And shockingly, only 50% of abusers are pedophiles.

That means 50% of child molesters do not have sexual interest in children because they are children, but they victimized children because they are more accessible in lieu of adult partners, with increased rates of incest.

While I could not find a specific study on the relation between dehumanization/objectification of child victims and child molesters (and if you find one, please send it to me!), this study speaks on dehumanization as a precursor to adult sexual violence.

This study, conducted on convicted child molesters in prison, showed that child molesters tend to fantasize about children while in a negative mood, further contributing to the theory that child victims are dehumanized prior to abuse.

This very small sample study found that in a mixed sample of internet only/contact crime/mixed offenders, offenders who had contact with children had lower rates of fantasizing about children.

In short, half the time a child predator is someone who wants to offend against a child regardless of attraction to the fact they are a child.

Resources To Recognize Grooming/Abuse Victims/Predators

I would absolutely be remiss to not share my collection of resources to help detect signs of abuse/grooming as well as warning signs of a predator who may be targeting elders/women/teens/children:

Darkness 2 Light is a fantastic resource overall, this page details stages and signs of grooming.

RAINN personally helped me through my PTSD journey, and this article detailing the signs of sexual trauma in teenagers is thorough and non-judgemental

Signs of abuse as well as warning signs of predation that does not use gendered language nor play into the Stranger Danger myth.

Education, not Censorship

I think a lot of the energy against taboo content among young people still has a lot to do with the desire to end rape culture. The tools that we Millennial Tumblrinas gave you Gen Z kids were snatches of leftist theory, deplatforming, and voting with your dollar, so it’s reasonable to think that removing taboo content like pedophilia, incest, rape fights rape culture.

It doesn’t.

Rape culture is fought by education. Comprehensive sex education, education about consent. Talking about what consent looks like, what sex can look like, what rape can look like.

There should be more taboo content to talk about these things, to show all the shades it can look like. From a violent noncon to fics that aren’t even tagged as dubcon yet still are in shades that are hard to suss out, we should talk about it.

A Non-Empirical Example Of Good Media Analysis and Education to Combat Rape Culture

Let’s use the example of Daemon and Rhaenyra Targaryen’s relationship in House of the Dragon. Canonically, in both the book and the show, they have a romantic relationship that appears for the most part to be positive (the show being more contentious but I dedicated an aside to Sarah Hess and our beef at the bottom of my Carrd, but feel free to ask how I feel about writing producers with any variation of the name ‘Sarah’) despite an age gap, a sexual relationship that began while Rhaenyra was a minor, and incest - the problematic hat trick if you will.

I have seen anti-Daemyra shippers condemn Daemyra shippers for “Condoning grooming, age gaps, pedophilia, and incest.” Which is not just a broad, inaccurate, and harmful statement, it’s not at all constructive or educational analysis.

It would actually be beneficial to say “Daemon is grooming Rhaenyra as a teenager with gifts, devoted attention that takes advantage of her isolation and vulnerability, frequent nonsexual touches, the extreme desensitization to sexuality in the brothel visit,” etc etc. And even so, it is not useful to say that people cannot still ship the relationship and acknowledge those aspects. They might want to further explore the issues of consent in their dynamic in fiction, they may want to strip away some of them with narrative reimagining. Some might want to ignore the taboos completely and indulge in the fantasy entirely, and some might find the actors hot as hell - AKA, anyone who watches the show.

It’s honestly a little similar to me in how Jerry Falwell would tell his followers not to watch or read or take in any media that dealt with homosexuality unless it was condemning it - even Will & Grace was on Jerry’s shitlist. And so, Jerry’s followers missed out on a lot of media that could have educated them about queerness, could have humanized queer people for them - and that did not make queers go away. Just like ignoring or shutting out media about incest, rape, and other forms of sexual violence doesn’t make those things go away - it just tends to make you less informed, and little less capable of empathy towards people affected by those subjects.

So let’s stop shaming those that ship a complicated dynamic - you get less fanworks exploring those taboos, and less of a discussion overall. You shut down the morality lab of fiction, and to be honest, it’s wet sock behavior.

Some FanFiction Specific Studies

How dubcon fanfiction can flesh out the intricacies and messiness of realistic consent

A review of darkfic written about Harry Potter in 2005 (which, I will personally attest has never been outdone in how profoundly taboo those works were)

Interviews with 11 Self Insert writers who wrote on themes of rape, abuse, control, yandere, etc, and how that was beneficial to some who had experienced sexual violence themselves

Conclusion:

H…holy shit, you actually read all of that?? Congrats dude! That is a lot of time and brain power to dedicate to any one thing!

By the way, I am not really gifted at writing articles or any of that junk, and I tried to make my hyperlexic ass a little more accessible instead of bringing out all the $5 words. I am literally just an autistic who took a couple technical writing classes over a decade ago and really wanted to sort out my thoughts and try to have a platform for discussion. Also, I am really fucking bad at math. I failed two different college level statistics classes twice each. Gun to my head, I could not tell you what a standard deviation is, which is why I worked entirely with the percentages.

And I do want to have a discussion! I would in fact like to not report anyone for sending me gore or death threats or any of that stuff! I don’t think everyone will agree with me, in fact I’m certain that you could find studies that contradict some of mine, and I’d love to discuss them!

I’m sure it will still be tempting to throw around accusations of pedophilia because sometimes, confronting your previously held beliefs is incredibly uncomfortable. If you could not do that, that would be great? I don’t like being compared to someone who profoundly abused me just because I have a different opinion on how to combat rape culture and empower survivors. If you can do that, I’ll do my absolute best to be cheerful and welcoming and respectful as well. 😁

PS - I’m also not really going to be phased if you call me weird or cringe - I am. Always have been. Cringe, weirdness, and autism have made me do and capable of doing some fantastically neat and impressive stuff. But if you try to say something like “proshippers are too yucky and weird to be in fandom” - I’m going to have to refer you to your similarity to Kate Sanders of Lizzy McGuire fame, you “prEpz >:(“ - [My Immortal, legendary author unknown]

#disc horse #fandom discourse #fandom problems #fandom culture #proshipping #anti censorship #anti anti

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fairy-writes · 5 months ago

Note

Hi hi! I see you just opened your Kaiju no. 8 requests and I’m head over heels for our boy Kafka! I’m not sure WHERE to take this but like him having saved you in a similar fashion as Kikoru (so you know he’s part kaiju now) and months later after A LOT of flirting Reno finally blurts out “JUST GET TOGETHER ALREADY JEEZ!!” or something🤣

If you’re not a fan you can take this however you want or ignore it lol thanks for indulging me lovey! *screams please & thank you <3

HE LISTENS

Reblogs and Comments are greatly appreciated!!

__________________________________________________________________________

Fandom(s): Kaiju No. 8

Pairing(s): Hibino Kafka x Reader

Word Count: 2.7k

Genre(s)/Tag(s): Gender Neutral!Reader, Civilian!Reader, Kafka and Reader are the same age, Reader is implied to be shorter than Kafka

Notes: I absolutely adore Kafka! He looks like he’d give the BEST hugs!

The reader is written with fem!reader in mind, but no pronouns are used!

CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR THE MANGA

__________________________________________________________________________

You knew you should’ve evacuated at the first siren.

But noooooo! You just had to go back to your apartment for your laptop! But hey! Your dissertation for your doctorate was saved on there, and there was no way you were losing it when you were this close to finishing and graduating!

You ducked under another swipe of a Yoju. It’s some spindly long thing with too many eyes and a mouth full of too many teeth. It takes another swipe at you, and you duck, narrowly avoiding dropping your laptop bag as you trip over some stray rubble. Your right arm shoots out to catch your fall while the left cradles your precious dissertation and homework.

Pain jolts up your right elbow, and you’re pretty sure you have road rash all up and down your fingers and your palm. You look up and see the Yoju opening its maw to swallow you whole and only think of one thing.

You knew you should’ve evacuated at the first siren.

You close your eyes, accepting your fate but curling into a tighter ball in a sorry attempt to make it harder to eat you. (What kind of logic was that?)

But nothing happens.

What?

You peek open an eye and see something that has your jaw dropping open in shock.

Scales as black as pitch and outlined in azure light. A demonic-looking skull and a pronounced spinal cord with spikes lining the length of it.

Another Kaiju?

But that wouldn’t make any sense, seeing as it was holding the mouth of the Yoju open to keep it from eating you. The humanoid Kaiju effectively stood between you and the monster… Was it… Protecting you?

The creature turned its head slightly to look at you and winked. It winked!

“You might wanna get outta here, sweetheart, I’ll deal with this one.” Its voice was vaguely male-sounding yet demonic at the same time.

It could talk?!

That snapped you out of your shock, and you scrambled to your feet, holding your laptop bag to your chest as you sprinted around a corner just as the Kaiju readied a fist. You peeked back around the corner as the punch landed and quite literally exploded the Yoju on contact. You flinch back as organs and blood go everywhere. But it’s so quick that some of it gets on your sweater, effectively ruining it, as well as your slacks and shoes.

The blood begins to burn, but you pay little attention to it as a young man—no older than eighteen—with silvery white hair rounds a corner. His uniform exposes him as a member of the Defense Force. He holds the long rifle-like gun that all Defense Force members have. The man skids to a stop before the Kaiju but doesn’t shoot it.

“Senpai!” He chirps, and you watch as the Kaiju begins to change.

It shrinks in size, scales retracting into skin, and horns retreating into a head of spiky brown hair. Soon enough, a man stands before you in the same uniform, back to you.

“Yo! Ichikawa!” The man greets him in return

What.

The.

Hell?!

“Ichikawa” seems to hear something and turns to see you. His face drops in shock and surprise before darkening in anger. Though it wasn’t at you, it was at his “senpai.” The Kaiju-man-hybrid-thing notices the anger and turns around, spotting you. But he doesn’t seem angry. Instead, you watch his face light up in pure panic.

“I thought I told you to run!” He squawks awkwardly, and you stand on shaky legs, jabbing a finger at them.

“You never said how far! I thought around the corner was good enough!” You retort, though your knees shaking betray just how scared you are.

Would you be killed? This was clearly a closely guarded secret between the two of them.

Did the Defense Force know they had a Kaiju on their side?

Did anyone else know?

Ichikawa digs his foot into the man’s side in a ferocious kick and sends him stumbling.

“I thought I told you to make sure the area was clear of civilians before transforming!” He shouts, and you flinch at the vicious tone. Though the other man was clearly older than Ichikawa, he seemed to be in charge.

“But if I had to check the area every time I had to punch somethin’, nothing would ever get done!” The man whines, and Ichikawa simply sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Um…” The two men look at you, and you flinch again, your grip tightening on the laptop bag. “I won’t say anything, I promise. You don’t have to worry about me!” You manage to squeak out, and the older man looks at Ichikawa with bright eyes. You could practically see a puppy tail wagging behind him excitedly.

“See! We don’t have to worry about anything!” He exclaims, but Ichikawa isn’t convinced.

“How do I know we can trust you?” He says, eyes narrowed and brows pulled together in skepticism. You swallow thickly,

“Well… He saved my life. I’m indebted to him, and the least I can do is keep a secret.” You say, and Ichikawa stares, mildly surprised but relenting.

“Fine!” He says, turning on his heel to glare at his friend. The man spews apologies for revealing his identity to a civilian, but the duo doesn’t seem too upset about it.

You hiss in pain as adrenaline wears off, and you’re left in bloodstained clothes that are currently melting off your body. You high tail it to a nearby shelter where they provide a spare change of clothes. While you change and shower, you can’t help but think of the odd duo you met today.

You’d likely never see them again.

Right?

You stare at yourself in the mirror, adjusting your blazer for the millionth time, making sure your button-down is tucked into your slacks and scuffing your feet along the floor.

It was almost time.

It had been nearly six months since your interaction with Ichikawa and his friend (whose name you still didn’t know). You hadn’t seen them since then, but your life had changed drastically as a result.

You successfully graduated after defending your dissertation. Your research was making waves in the Defense Force and Kaiju-enthusiast community in general. So, you were summoned by the Defense Force to give a presentation to the officers about the importance of it. And today the presentation was to be given to the entire Defense Force.

You were only a little nervous. (You were bullshitting yourself, you felt like you were going to pass out.)

There is a knock on the office you had been stationed in, and you jump about a foot in the air.

“Yes?” Your voice is much more level than you expected. At least that was good. An officer peeks her head in,

“The Defense Force has been organized. They’re ready for you,” She says kindly. You swallow once, nod, and scoop up your laptop (which wasn’t damaged in the Yoju attack, thank the heavens) to follow her out.

The massive lecture hall reminds you of the enormous rooms professors would give lectures in back in graduate school and college. In fact, you wouldn’t be surprised if they were modeled after one another. Officers in their uniforms line the seats, most on their phones, but some chatted with one another. You even spotted the infamous Narumi Gen on some sort of gaming device.

Silence fell over the crowd as you were handed a microphone and tapped it a few times, making sure it worked, before introducing yourself. You heard a strangled noise come from the audience, but the lights facing you kept you from seeing who it was. You could see vague shapes of people, but that was it.

So, you don’t pay it any mind and start into your spiel that you had prepared. You introduce what the lecture will be about, your contact information (mainly email) if there are questions, and promptly launch into said lecture.

“And that concludes the lecture. Thank you, everyone, for your questions and for listening. I’ll be around the next couple of days gathering samples for research, so feel free to reach out and ask any other lingering questions!” You say and switch off the microphone, setting it down on the podium as well as the laser pointer. Most of the officers trickled out, with only a few staying behind to ask clarifying questions.

It wasn’t until you were shutting down your laptop and packing up your notes that the final people in the audience approached you. Everyone was long gone by now, save for…

“You!” You gape at the sight of the man and Ichikawa approaching you. They freeze midway up the steps to the stage. Ichikawa takes the initiative.

“I’m glad to see you’re doing well.” He says as he bows. You rub the back of your neck awkwardly and bow your head in return.

“Only thanks to you two. I’m sorry, I didn’t get either of your names.” You say hesitantly, and both of them look at each other before introducing themselves.

“Ichikawa Reno.”

“Hibino Kafka!”

You can’t help but smile at Hibino’s enthusiasm and extend a hand for them to shake. Ichikawa shakes it first, his hold light but not wimpy by any means. In contrast, Hibino’s is firm and sturdy.

“Now, how can I help you both?” You ask, and Hibino looks somewhat embarrassed.

“We were just wondering if you told anyone…?” He trails off, but you know what he’s talking about.

“No. I kept my promise. No one knows save for whoever you’ve told.” You say quickly, eyes unconsciously looking around the room for any spare stragglers who might be listening in.

Luckily, no one is.

“So… You never really went into it in your lecture… But what did you major in in college?” Ichikawa asks as the three of you walk back to your office. Hibino thankfully badges you in, seeing as all the keys are electronic keycards, and you never received one. You set your bag down and sigh in relief. It was finally over and not as scary as you thought it would be.

“I graduated with a PhD in biomedical engineering with a specialty in Kaiju biology studies.” You explain as you slump into your office chair and tilt your head back. But not before you watch their faces pale at the idea of all the studying you had to do.

Which was a lot.

You laugh at their expressions and offer them a smile,

“It was a lot of work, but if I can help people, then it was worth it.”

Ichikawa Reno and Hibino Kafka become a staple in your life after that.

Even when your research into how Kaiju biology could help amputees and transplant recipients took off, they were there every step of the way.

Especially Hibino.

He was there at every lecture, asking questions and stimulating conversations amongst your peers. He allowed you to study him in his Kaiju form as his identity as Kaiju No. 8 was revealed to the rest of the Defense Force. No needles, of course. That was his only stipulation. (Who knew a man as powerful as him would be scared to death of needles?)

So, you settled for CT scans, MRIs, and other ways of study.

Hibino also took you out for meals when you were both on break at least twice a week. Ichikawa often tagged along, but more often than not, it was you and Hibino alone.

Today was a day that Ichikawa tagged along.

It was one of the rare days that he was able to come to visit from the Fourth Division while you and Hibino were stationed at the First Division. You weren’t employed by the Defense Force persay; you were actually employed by Izumo Tech while you furthered your research. But with Hibino stationed at the First Division, that was where you were allowed to go.

The diner was filled with American-style food. It was one of Hibino’s favorites in the area, so you usually indulged him when he allowed you to pay. (Which wasn’t often)

The waitress brought over your drinks just as Ichikawa arrived and sat down. You had taken the liberty of ordering him a drink that you hoped he’d like. This place was renowned for its smoothies, so he got a strawberry banana smoothie. Hibino ordered an alcoholic beverage of some kind, and you stuck with water.

“How’s research been going?” Ichikawa asks as the waitress brings over your food, and you all promptly dig in. The food was greasy but delicious. You hum through your mouthful, chew, and swallow before answering.

“Slowly, we’ve made some breakthroughs, but nothing special has come of it yet.” You say cryptically. You weren’t allowed to really disclose anything before it was published, so dancing around the topic was the best you could do.

Hibino didn’t really get the memo.

“We almost—” You lunged across the table. You shoved a hand over Hibino’s mouth before he could spill any critical information. If it got out that he said something, you could be fired, and your career would be ruined. Hibino was still talking, his beard scratching your hand as he tried to explain himself. You yank your hand back like you had been burned but silence him with a glare.

“You know you aren’t supposed to say anything!” You hiss, and he rubs the back of his neck with a chuckle.

“Sorry, I just get really excited hearing you talk about your work.” He mumbles.

That gets your blood boiling.

But not in anger.

In excitement.

No one liked hearing you talk about your work! Hell, even your parents' eyes would glaze over when you started talking about Kaiju biology and how it could help hundreds of people! But as you thought back on it… Hibino would be an active listener, sometimes even taking notes for you to clarify at a later date.

He listened to you.

Your face was burning, steam practically coming out of your ears in embarrassment. Hibino’s face mimicked yours as what he said caught up with him.

Ichikawa wasn’t impressed.

“Just kiss and get a room already!” He complains and gets up, tossing some paper bills down to cover his part of the meal, and goes to get a take-out box. He was clearly done with your antics.

Your face felt like a volcano erupting. But you couldn’t do much else other than look down at your lap.

“Y’know…” You look up as Hibino rubs the bottom half of his face, his voice barely above a mumble. As your rampant emotions cool off, you answer him.

“What?” Hibino’s face flushes even more red, and it isn’t the alcohol in his system.

“He isn’t exactly wrong… I mean… I’ve been wanting to take you out for a while… And not just to lunch!” He stammers through his sentence until you get a vague idea of what he’s asking.

“Hibino Kafka, are you asking me on a date?” You tease, mostly to hide your thundering heart. Hibino swallows thickly and nods,

“If you’ll date someone like me, that is…” A grin splits your face until your cheeks hurt, and you reach across to grab his hand.

“I’d like that. I’d like that a lot.” You say, and he stares for a few seconds before whooping in excitement.

“Hell yeah!” He shouts, and you duck your head in embarrassment.

“Oh! And you don’t have to call me Hibino anymore, y’know?” He cradles your hand in his larger one and swings it back and forth as you leave the diner. Ichikawa left a while ago, claiming you two were an embarrassment to be around. You can’t bring yourself to care.

Squeezing his hand in return, you lean your head on his arm and smile.

“Kafka it is, then.” You say, and he just grins.

#kafka hibino x reader #hibino kafka x reader #kn8 x reader #kaiju no. 8 x reader #kaiju no 8 x reader #kafka x reader #kafka x you #kaiju no 8 #kn8 #kaiju no. 8 #kafka hibino #hibino kafka #fairy writes

320 notes · View notes

lifeafterartsch00l · 2 months ago

Text

My fav sns smut

or some of it anyway

If Naruto x Sasuke fking nasty is your ☕️

I tried to find all these beloved authors to tag them, but I couldn’t find them all, if you know who they are, plz tag them! Let’s share the ❤️

In no particular order

Healing the Broken by KizuKatana

When people tell me about smut they read in printed books I’m like

Because it’s fics like these that amaze me with their ingenuity, creativity, originality, and boldness 🔥🔥🔥

AKA

This fic isn’t just PWP (although that’s fine too in my book), it’s so well written with character development, action & romance ❤️‍🔥 Predators by the same author is also excellent 👌🏽

Thx u @kizukatana 😊

“Chapters: 23/23

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Underage

Relationships: Uchiha Sasuke/Uzumaki Naruto

Characters: Uzumaki Naruto, Uchiha Sasuke

Additional Tags: Angst, SPOILERS MANGA CHAPTER 693, Drug Use, sex during drug use, Canon-Typical Violence, canon!sasuke, canon!naruto, Addiction, Slash, narusasunaru, Fix-It, my version of how it should have ended, Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, NSFW, Smut

Series: Part 1 of HTB universe

Summary: The war is over, and Sasuke is brought back to the village after his defeat by Naruto. But he is struggling to re-assimilate into the village. As his mental stability continues to erode, Tsunade and Kakashi ask Naruto to try a different treatment method. Naruto x Sasuke (slash - boy x boy). Post manga chapter 693.

Warning: Hard Yaoi (Boy x Boy) language, angst, mental illness, substance abuse, masturbation, eventual sex. Not appropriate for young readers. 18+

Disclaimer - As with everything I write on this site, I don't own the characters (Kishimoto does), and I make no money. My only payment is in reviews.

Spanish Translation by Linme (thank you!) “

[doujinshi] My Lost Himawari by SouthNorthSound

Me, to the artist (and English translator) of this visually stunning and well written doujinshi -

Seriously. It’s amazing. The visual metaphors. The angst. The way the artist can simply draw a single panel of a close-up Uchiha eye that is so outrageously sultry and sexy I don’t understand 🥵 one of the extra chapters unlocked something in me (the dream one). Bonus that it’s also really funny & has a lot of respect/empathy for its women characters too! If anyone knows who this artist plz let me know I would like to follow them until the end of the world ❤️ the ending healed me 💔

EDIT HOLY S*** GUYS I FOUND THE TRANSLATOR & ARTIST ON TUMBLR

Thx u @southnorthsound 😭❤️🫡🙇🏻‍♀️

Thx u @gigihorseinthehouse 😭 I love you I low key think you’re a genius ok sorry bye 👉🏽👈🏽

"https://archiveofourown.org/works/36581581

[doujinshi] My Lost Himawari by SouthNorthSound

Chapters: 60/60

Fandom: Naruto, Boruto: Naruto Next Generations

Rating: Mature

Relationships: Uchiha Sasuke/Uzumaki Naruto

Characters: Uchiha Sasuke, Uzumaki Naruto, Haruno Sakura, Hyuuga Hinata, Uchiha Sarada, Uzumaki Boruto, Uzumaki Himawari, Hatake Kakashi, Nara Shikamaru, Temari (Naruto), Nara Shikadai, Akimichi Chouchou, Gaara (Naruto)

Additional Tags: Fanart, Fan Comics, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, SasuNaru - Freeform, NaruSasu - Freeform, Translation, Doujinshi, Fix-It, how it should have ended, Angst, If you don’t understand how they ended up like that in Boruto READ THIS, Poetic, comedic, Loyal to canon, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, NSFW Art, Sex

Summary: A love story consists of different perspectives and different memories. It’s about saudade / realization / entanglement / out of control / hope / restart

Chapter700 background

Warning: adult content in extra chapters

Fan comics, doujinshi. It's highly recommended to read it on big screens such as iPad or PC. So you can see details about their facial expressions

One of the best Naruto fanart I’ve ever seen. So I translated it ❤”

Inevitablity by Sanauria_Maldhun

If the answer is

A) Yes

B) Kinda

C) Mind your own business rando internet pervert

Congrats all answers are correct = GO READ IT PLZ

Possessive & desperate 🥵 super gay, delicious angst, really hot 🔥 very enjoyable - fun tropes, everything hits just right, utter perfection ❤️ I’m not saying a lot because I don’t want to give away spoilers 😍

I couldn’t find this author on tumblr, plz tag in the comments if you know who they are!

“Chapters: 4/4

Rating: Explicit

Relationships: Uchiha Sasuke/Uzumaki Naruto, Haruno Sakura/Yamanaka Ino

Characters: Uzumaki Naruto, Uchiha Sasuke, Yamanaka Ino, Haruno Sakura

Additional Tags: Fake/Pretend Relationship, (between Ino and Naruto), Mutual Pining, Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Banter, Domesticity, Pining, Naruto is so in love, and doesn't know how to handle his Feelings, Jealousy, Jealous Sasuke, Jealous Sakura, Post-Chapter 699 (Naruto), Explicit Sexual Content, Anal Sex, Gay Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn, Bottom Uzumaki Naruto, Top Uchiha Sasuke

Summary: Naruto's stressed and pining after a man who views him only as a friend. Deciding to get married to Ino isn't the best decision he's made (ever), given that they had been absolutely drunk while making such a declaration, but it's... a decision. Besides, what does he have to lose?”

You’ve gotten into my bloodstream (a bite of his heart) by lovenmaze

Nom nom nom 😉 kidding! Not literal cannibalism, it’s a metaphor for love, and this fic is beautiful 😍 poetic & sexy. One shot. Love how Naruto talks to Sasuke in this one (and makes him talk, too, hehe…) 🥵 delicious, please go tuck into this feast ❤️ author made an excellent fic playlist too!

Thx u @lovenmaze 😊

“https://archiveofourown.org/works/56430019

Chapters: 1/1

Rating: Not Rated

Relationships: Uchiha Sasuke/Uzumaki Naruto

Characters: Uchiha Sasuke, Uzumaki Naruto

Additional Tags: Cannibalistic Thoughts, Cannibalism imagery, First Time, Top Uzumaki Naruto, Bottom Uchiha Sasuke, Tender Sex, Blank Period (Naruto), Confessions, Idiots in Love, Not Beta Read, Anal Sex, Anal Fingering, Oral Sex, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Emotional Sex, Eventual Fluff, Fluff and Smut, they’re both crazy about each other but thats not new, Poetic, Italicized Oh Moment, cannibalism as a metaphor for love, trust me it works and its SO good, consent is sexy !!!, lowkey vampire sasuke vibes

Summary: Sasuke tries to bite softly, he’s not going to eat him, maybe get a taste. Perhaps it’s stupid, but he wants to make sure, so he does. He opens his mouth, tongue touching the skin. His body shudders, and Naruto tastes warm, like skin or flesh; he tastes alive.

“A kiss is the beginning of cannibalism.”

AKA, The tender, fluffy, first-time, cannibalism (imagery), smut NaruSasu AU. [EDITED.]”

❤️Thx all u amazing authors u make me feel like this❤️

#naruto #naruto fic rec #naruto fic #sns #narusasu #sasunaru #sasunaru fic #a03 author #a03 writer #a03 fanfic #a03 link #a03 fic #read on a03 #smut #narusasu smut #my fic recs #lifeafterartsch00l fic recs

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handwrittenhello · 2 years ago

Note

i think its kind of ridiculous to think that homestucks are seriously using bots in this poll because why the hell would they bot this poll instead of the tumblrwoman poll which was the poll EVERYBODY in the hs fandom was actually making a big deal out of . also because im going to be real but i dont think anyone cares about polls enough to rig one? even the bayonetta/miku poll turned out to actually not be vriska voter fraud (most people in the homestuck fandom voted miku anyway) i think people are just unable to comprehend that a lot of people are still dormantly into homestuck & probably just saw vriska serket at the front of the trending disco elysium tag and thought it was funny. like oh my godddd no one cares enough about the outcome of this poll to bot it . somebody with a lot of followers probably just posted about it on twitter or something mundane like that its not that deep . a lot of people on tumblr have read homestuck its not extraordinary that a lot of vriska voters exist. disco elysium fans im sorry your blorbo is losing you’ll probably be back in the lead in a couple hours anyway all of you need to chill out‼️‼️‼️

answering only this ask about the cheating/botting, and no others, because i'm getting a lot of asks about it. congratulations, this contest has officially had all the fun sucked out of it.

here's data i've been collecting for every poll i've run. it's organized by votes the character received per round, then the total number of votes on that poll, for all five rounds. then there are two columns for totals.

the next five columns, Notes 1-5, are the number of notes on each poll. i've highlighted two posts that were circulated with a greater-than-average frequency even after the poll ended (the loki/JC one because people were memeing on JC, and then HDB/Howl one because it gained popularity following a popular blogger reblogging it.)

V/N is the votes to notes ratio for each poll. it was taken by dividing the number of votes when the poll ended by the number of notes on each post. one limitation is that this was not taken at the same time each day, and so older posts will have slightly higher notes. however, i believe this uncertainty isn't enough to discount the conclusions i'll come to.

i've highlighted vriska's V:N ratio in red at the top. as you can see, round vriska's V:N ratio wasn't even the highest; she beat kaeya alberich easily, and the comments in the notes reflected that.

in round 2, things started to get interesting. this is where i and other people noticed a sudden flip, but i didn't think much of it. she was up against izzy hands. izzy was leading all day, and when i queued the next day's poll and went to bed, izzy was leading by 60%. when i woke up, it had flipped to 53/47 in vriska's favor. it's not a HUGEamount, but it is a NOTICEABLE amount.

keep in mind that every single day, there have been other, closer polls, that hovered around 49-50-51 all day, and which also flipped at the end of the day, or remained 50/50 and could only be determined by tumblr. in these cases, the notes also reflect the split. these polls also never swayed more than one or two percent.

in round 3, when vriska faced zuko, there was a clear and immediate lead for zuko, with him leading by 80%. keep in mind that by this point, all 28 other polls i ran, besides vriska's the day before, never swayed more than 1 or 2% once a clear lead had been established.

this poll went from 80/20 zuko to 59/41 vriska. that's RIDICULOUS. the only way that's possible is if an OVERWHELMING amount of people voted vriska and NO people voted zuko. for such a thing to happen, this post would need to spread really rapidly, right? surely this post had tens of thousands of notes and comments!

the V:N ratio for round 3 is TWENTY-SEVEN to one. that's the most out of any poll. the standard deviation for the round 3 polls is 9.0, compared to 4.8 and 4.9 the days before. not to mention reading those notes also does not get us an overwhelming amount of comments rooting for vriska.

today has also been highly suspicious. it started out with an 85/15 lead for harry. i wouldn't necessarily expect it to hold exactly at that percentage, but the flip was immediate and drastic. you can see the trend being tracked on this post. not at all suspicious, right? also note that the comments all day have been 95% rooting for harry and maybe 5% for vriska.

please also look at the GRAND TOTAL column, which has reliably predicted the winners of future polls each day. vriska has received 49,064 votes over the course of the whole contest. harry has received 64,644. that's 24% more votes. and yet the poll is locked at 50/50?

and if this isn't enough evidence for you, then remember the tumblr sexywoman poll. it is a FLAT FUCKING FACT that those polls were spammed by bots. out of respect for their privacy i won't go into detail, but they outright admitted it.

TO CONCLUDE,

it's pretty fucking obvious that something is up, and although i admit that there's simply no concrete way of proving it, there would have to be a really standout explanation for this.

and besides this being super lame, it's also removed all the fun from this contest. it's a stupid tumblr poll that wins literally nothing, congratulations!

also, to everyone making death threats in the notes, BOTH SIDES, you've failed my secret challenge of not being rude which means i'm judging you personally. be fucking nice.

#tumblr's plmm contest #to people campaigning lightheartedly: this post isn't about you you're great and fun #to people actually fighting and taking this way too seriously: what positive impact did you have?#and to people spamming bot votes: get fucked and get a life you're not funny #director's commentary #anon #yeah now i'm fucking mad #long post

1K notes · View notes

thatneoncrisis · 4 months ago

Note

It’s coming of less like “lol you poked the bear” and more like “people are questioning if you’re transphobic or not” especially since a lot of the fics you were trying to satire are by openly trans people who are active in the community.

I saw your explanation in the notes of the fic but there’s quite a few people who hit the back button asap right when they read that scene of harrow expressing horror after undoing Gideon’s pants. I can see why for some it felt like, “lol how dare trans butches write escapist fantasies about their experiences with desire I can’t believe you thought this was for you!” combined with your admitted inability to understand how anyone can enjoy porn that’s ooc, execution fell rather flat for some. And I’m sorry, while I read the note and understand your intent, pulling a move like that and going “it’s satire it’s satire!” Really comes off a certain way

i see. like i assumed this is, in part a major misunderstanding

i dont know if any of them are ever going to see this but if they do on the record- the problem was not gideon having a penis. the problem will never be gideon having a penis. it was about the specific way it looked, an organ that was over a foot long with a circumference bigger than her wrist. I under trans women have written fics with gideon having a huge crazy style dick. i also have spoken to many trans women in the fandom, and they arent a monolith. a lot of them hate it and it makes them dysphoric and cannot read any fics tagged wit trans women as the majority of them skew thag way. a lot of trans women in fandom are written as cis women with big cocks. theres no talk about how estrogen would affect them physically or sexually, ad it alienates a large portion of fans. THAT is the point i was trying to make

in the fic itself, harrow and gideon are both trans women. its just more obvious with gideon because it reflects a wider trend of people defaulting her, the butch brown jock girl, to not only being trans, but having a massive cock about it. its rarely like, an actual element of her character, its just kind of a dildo thats attached to her

and its not that i dont understand HOW those things can be appealing to people who arent me. the issue arises when this is about 80% of the tag. i have to dig and dig for something that doesn't feel like a caricature. i dont know most of the authors on ao3, and i particularly don't feel like googling each one of them to see if theyre transfem or not to see if that makes content any less off putting

as a final note, i have admitted that the fic does function more as a vent than satire. i hope this is clear

#asks #Anonymous

81 notes · View notes

i-dont-talk-for-days-on-end · 8 months ago

Text

I think of myself as a practical woman. I am proud to say that I have always been able to manage my household in the most efficient manner, purchasing only what is of good quality without requiring any unnecessary expenses. I have one possession, however, that is an exception to that rule. This is the story of how not only one but two of my tenants returned to Baker Street, and how I came to own one of London’s finest tea services as a result.

Mr Holmes returns. Dr Watson leaves. Mrs Hudson realises that London’s greatest detective might require a little assistance with winning the good doctor back.

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: Gen; M/M

Fandoms: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle; Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms; Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV)

Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & Mrs. Hudson; Mrs. Hudson & John Watson; Sherlock Holmes & John Watson; Sherlock Holmes/John Watson

Characters: Mrs. Hudson (Sherlock Holmes); Sherlock Holmes; John Watson

Additional Tags: POV Mrs. Hudson; Story: The Adventure of the Empty House; Post-Story: The Adventure of the Empty House; Emotional Hurt/Comfort; Angst and Hurt/Comfort; Angst and Humor; this really isn't too dark I promise; Happy Ending; Arguing; Making Up; Drunk Shenanigans; Cuddling & Snuggling; light allusion to sexual themes; Period-Typical Homophobia; Period-Typical Sexism; (I'm so sorry); Mrs. Hudson knows; Mrs. Hudson is an ally; Holmes is a silly young man to her but she loves him dearly; Holmes is oblivious that Mrs Hudson has adopted him; Holmes is a drama queen; Watson is a reasonable man who stands up for himself

I'm allowing myself to tag a few people who might be interested by going through my notes, so don't be confused if I randomly tagged you! :D

@amypihcs @tyrannosaurusnacks @friday411 @keirgreeneyes @crowleyholmes @sirensongster @rainbow-person @yamy-brett @itsnotlupus @its-notlupus @angryducktimemachine @anmaje @emmahasadhd @sarahthecoat @geeoharee @theantichris @hell-and-pepsi @neverquiteeden @rudbeckiasunflower @weast-of-eden @ohgodwhatwasthat @the-doggo-of-baskervilles @benrybenrybenry-chr @fuckyeahfreeimmortal @loki-lock @holmes-ness @louieclamlent @bestnoncannonship @forever-1895 @loreleilee @somethingintheforest

Whew! Okay, maybe I overdid it :D

#literally spent the whole weekend writing this instead of preparing for my first presentation i will give in front of an academic audience #sherlock holmes #dr watson #holmes/watson #fanfic #sherlock holmes fanfic #mrs hudson #the empty house #acd canon #granada holmes

133 notes · View notes

whiskeyghoul · 2 months ago

Text

Reprimand || [Secondo/Papa Emeritus II X F!Reader]

A/N: Hello friends. Different from my previous criminal minds fics I decided to dip my toes in writing Ghost fics. Since I watched rite here rite now the flames of this fandom have been awakened once more. I am literally going insane. This fic got a bit out of hand. Like… I am not sorry but yeah it is long.

Credits: Divider by @wrathofrats

WC: 6,1K

Tags: p with plot, ghost, ghost band, secondo, punishment, purely self indulgent.

Warnings: 18+, MDNI, unprotected, p in v, spanking, abuse of power if you squint, just all of them…

3 times. 3 separate times you have managed to embarrass yourself in front of the head of your satanic church. Papa Emeritus the second was not known to be one of the more forgiving papas. In all fairness he scared you a little, he was cold, intimidating. Every time you ran into him he made you tremble, perhaps that is why you embarrassed yourself so many times. Though something about his imposing presence filled you with a conflicting feeling. Along with feeling intimidated, a little scared to anger him, you felt a certain attraction.

The first time you embarrassed yourself, well, it was a doozy. You had joined the satanic church not too long ago. Settling in as a sister of sin quite well. The role assigned to you was mostly library duty, having a great insight in organization and keeping an inventory of texts, scripts and tomes along with other satanic literature. You were standing on a step stool, rearranging a shelf of books to make space for a new addition to the library. Softly humming to yourself, lost in thought as you pulled one of the larger books from the shelf. The biblichor filling your nose was wonderfully sweet and dusty. Giving it a thorough wipe with a dusting cloth. The gold embellishments shone on the leather as you tilted it side to side.

You were pulled from your thoughts as a smooth voice cleared its throat next to you. “Hand me that book on the top shelf. If you could.” You turned awfully fast, the book slipping from your hands in surprise. A squeak passed your lips as you felt your heartbeat pick up. A pained groan leaving the man before you as you just realized you dropped one of the heavier texts on the feet of Papa Emeritus the second. “Sorella.” His voice was low, his eyes dark and brows furrowed. Nose flaring as he took a deep breath. A scrutinizing gaze that made your hands tremble, your knees weak. “Papa! I am terribly sorry! Oh Sathanas, please forgive me.” You rambled an apology, trying to step down quickly from the step stool to go fetch something, anything, to lessen the blow of the book. Instead, in all your nerves and bumbling about, you nearly planted your face first into the ground. That would be if he hadn't reached out, grabbing your arm in a strong grip to keep you from falling face first. You found your footing, feeling your face flare bright red at the foolish display you had just made of yourself. His hand left your arm, and with it it's surprising warmth. “Once again, I apologize, Papa.” A stammering message you were, trying to beg for forgiveness from the figure you had only envisioned as intimidating. Only ever having spoken in passing, literally, a simple exchange when you walked past. Or watched him sermon, powerfully, passionately. Those sermons left you wondering at times, what he would be like to speak to.

You were waiting for him to scold you. Your eyes cast downward to your neatly polished black heels, suddenly every speck of dust on them was interesting to you. Remembering the book at his feet you quickly knelt down, picking it up and clutching it to your chest. Your heartbeat hammering against the leather bound book. “I asked for the book on the top shelf.” He stated it simply but firmly, not the scolding you expected. Maybe, he was giving you some reprieve for being new. “Ofcourse, I'm sorry.” You quickly stepped on the step stool, carefully this time. Placing the book in your hands back on its respective shelf. Reaching up to the book that laid horizontally on the top shelf. Your hands were trembling as you picked it up. Habit feeling too tight, too short, as you brought down the book. Looking down ever so slightly as you handed the book to Secondo. Whose eyes flicked up to your face from somewhere lower. “Thank you, sorella, now. Do not let it happen again. These are priceless after all. You shall be off with a warning. Only one.” His mismatched eyes bore into yours as he spoke. You swallowed thickly, eyes wide, nodding your head. “Ofcourse, thank you, Papa.” words all falling from your mouth without thinking. “Continue your work then.” He turned, his robes moving elegantly as he walked out of the library. Leaving you to wallow in self pity at the fool you made of yourself.

The second time, a ghoul came with the message that Secondo had instructed you to gather papers and texts from the library to bring to his quarters. He even sent a list. Eager to please after the previous embarrassment, you agreed in a heartbeat. When you had found everything you made your way towards the wing of his room, arms filled with old tomes and yellowed paper. Sore from the weight of it. You didn't understand why he would need all of these, but it must have been for some important research. Most of the texts in your arms were old, rare, and barely anyone picked them up in the library. Yet he had asked for them specifically. Heels clicking on the tile as you made way down the hallways to his quarters, reaching the door you realized there was no way for you to knock. You furrowed your brows, deciding to twist so your elbow hit the door twice. As close to a knock as you could get. “Enter.” Secondo's voice sounded from the other side of the wooden door. Staring at the door knob you had to think of something. You knocked again with a sigh. “Enter.” His voice sounded annoyed, clearly he was busy. Or perhaps having a bad day. “I- I brought the books.” You spoke loudly, hoping he'd be able to hear you. There was a muttered word you couldn't quite make out before he spoke again. “I expected that. I said, enter.” He sounded ticked off now, voice laced with the barest hint of anger.

You sighed, furrowing your brows as you tried to maneuver your elbow and hip just so that you could turn the doorknob. Pushing against it to make it easier to open. With a click, the door swung open, leaving you unbalanced and falling through the open space. The books and texts falling to the floor. Sprawling out onto the wood and carpet. “Cazzo!” Secondo cursed as he stood up. You scrambled onto your knees, gathering the papers closest to you as you repeated continued apologies. Forgetting the pain in your nose and elbows from where you fell. Not even feeling the warm drip that slowly slid down to your lips. Eyes glued to the books and papers on the floor. “Those are priceless artifacts. Idiotta. How are you even considered to handle these when you are so incompetent. Dropping books here and there.” His footsteps came close, coming to a halt right in your field of vision. Still, you didn't dare to look. “I am so sorry, Papa, you are right. I should be more careful.” Your hands never stilled their work, piling up the books in front of you. “Look at me when I am talking” His voice commanded. Your head snapped up, swallowing thickly as you caught his mismatched eyes again. The blood from your nose dripping on your habit. “You are like a bumble bee. Flying into everything, causing chaos in our system. We do not need a bumbling idiota to ruin our priceless artifacts.” He was right. In his presence you were terribly clumsy. He made you nervous. Your heart beat faster. Hands feeling uncharacteristically clammy all of a sudden. And your face once again heating with a fierce embarrassed blush.

“Now, corporal punishment seems redundant.” His eyes flicked down, where the blood dripped down to your habit, landing just on the swell of your breast. A harsh exhale sounded through his nose. “Fix your habit, sorella. I expect everyone to be in pristine condition. Even the bumble bees.” His remark was snide. You could imagine what you looked like to him. On your knees, blood dripping down your nose and mouth, reaching your chin to drip down further onto your habit and grucifix. Eyes wide, hands placed on your thighs, trembling ever so slightly. You licked your lips, tasting the metallic of your blood and embarrassment. You must have looked like a mess. Scrambling to your feet you wiped at your nose, finally daring to move with his permission. The blood staining the white cuff around your wrist. “I'm sorry again, Papa.” You repeated an apology before heading out the door and to your own quarters to change. Terribly disappointed in yourself you decided in that moment things needed to change.

So now you were here. The third time you were walking down towards the chapel with another sister of sin, you had been asked to bring the unholy communion to prepare for the mass that night. Being on your best behavior since the previous incidents. Your workload seemingly increasing, your proximity to secondo growing closer with each task he bestowed upon you. No more books dropped, no more stumbles, you did everything to behave and paid close attention to any movement you made. The efforts were working, Secondo had even so much as complimented you for it after you had helped prepare the altar for a ritual. In his own way. “Sorella, I've noticed a lack of bumble bees around. Your efforts don't go unnoticed. Well done.” hearing those two last words made your heart flutter. Perhaps it was due to finally receiving praise, or it was specifically receiving praise from him. Every look from him made your heart beat faster. Every chaste, accidental touch made you wonder what his hands would feel like on your body. Your thoughts wandering back to that second time, when he had mentioned corporal punishment. What that could mean, what he could do in that office of his. Especially after hearing a few of the sisters speak about singular thrysts they had had with him.

The pitcher of wine was surprisingly heavy in your hands. The fragrant wine was a deep, blood red. As you walked down the hallways you took careful steps, trying not to let the wine slosh over the side of the pitchers. “I don’t understand why we can not keep it in the bottles.” You sighed as you almost spilt a drop of wine. “Honestly it is probably just rituals left over from years ago. I'm almost certain they did an unholy prayer over them.” The sister, Elaine, answered in turn. You rolled your eyes at that, never understanding why traditions couldn’t be changed. “It feels almost like it is inevitable to spill it though.” You spoke, trying to keep up with Elaine. “Perhaps that is why you were asked to help.” She returned, a small smirk as she walked so effortlessly with the pitcher in hand. “What do you mean?” You hoped tales of your clumsiness hadn't yet spread all throughout the church. It was likely though. People talked, gossip was a given. “You don't know what they have been saying?” Elaine turned her face towards you with furrowed brows. A curious expression on your face. You shook your head no, truly not an idea of what she could be talking about. “Well, you have been given a lot of tasks by Secondo, have you not?” She questioned. “Yes, I thought he did so with most siblings.” you answered, honestly. Elaine shook her head no, a smirk playing at her perfectly painted lips. “Oh no, he's been testing you. Seeing if you will trip up again. He needs a reason you see.” Her voice lowered to a whisper as you walked. “A reason for what?” You asked, no longer paying attention to what was ahead of you. Fully invested in the information divulged. You rounded a corner together. “A reason to punish.” She smirked. The way she said it implied less than conventional punishment.

As you did you hadn't noticed the man you were just speaking about, a mere two steps away. “Sorella.” His voice was low and you jumped. Like you were caught red handed, gossiping about your papa. The pitcher of wine sloshed, the dark red liquid spilling out and down the front of your habit. the sound of it hitting the floor was incredibly loud in your ears. Watching as drops smattered outward and staining your shoes and stockings. Along with the hem of Secondos's papal robes. You had been doing so well. All efforts ruined by a simple muttering. By not paying attention to where you were going. Your eyes flickered to Elaine whose expression was a mix of amusement and horrified. Then, they landed on the stern expression of Secondo. His nostrils flared as he eyed your drenched habit. “Sec- Papa, I'm sorry, you frightened me. I- I should go get this cleaned up. I apologize.” The words fell from your lips in rapid succession, feeling the tension in your shoulders as you held on to the, now empty, pitcher like it was your life line. “No.” That one single word shut you up. Quickly shutting your mouth as you felt a shiver run down your spine. Maybe it was the wine, wetting your habit and making it cold and clingy. Or maybe it was the effect Secondo had on you. “Get a ghoul to clean this.” He turned his head to Elaine who nodded quickly, “ofcourse, Papa.” She spoke before leaving. Her heels clicking against the floor, trailing off and away.

“You are coming with me. Punishment seems only fair.” His hand wrapped around your upper arm, harshly pulling you along to where you knew his quarters to be. “I truly apologize. I've been trying my hardest. Please, Papa, forgive me.” He didn't listen to your begging. It didn't matter to him what you said in that moment. He seemed enraged. “You beg for forgiveness when you just blamed me for your incompetence?” He nearly hissed the words as he opened the door to his quarters. Pulling you inside and leaving you at the entrance. “I didn't- no! That's not what I meant! I'm sorry!” You tried to scramble, take back the words you had said. It wasn't your point to blame him at all. “Strip.” He commanded. Mismatched eyes trained on you as he took a step away. Discarding his robe to reveal a sinfully tight button down tucked into slacks. Delicate embroidered grucifixes on the collar. Combined with the papal painted, it was a sight to behold. You froze. Jaw slack. Mind going a hundred miles an hour, not comprehending his words and his actions together. “What?” You were like a deer in the headlights. “You are dripping red wine. We can't have you spoil the carpet in my office, can we? So, strip.” His voice did something to you, the firmness left no room for questioning. “Of-ofcourse.” You spoke with trembling hands reaching up to take off the white collar, its pristine condition forever marred with deep purple red blotches. “Leave it at your feet. The wood can be cleaned.” Secondos voice commanded and you nodded your head ever so slightly. Dropping the piece of cloth down to the floor.

Then, your hands moved to the back of your dress. Slipping down the zipper with practiced ease. you could hear your own heartbeat, feel it pulsing under your skin, each of your nerves on end as Secondo scrutinized every move. Slipping your arms from the garment, it fell to the floor in a pile at your feet. You felt naked. Every hair standing on end as the cool air hits your skin. The cool metal of your grucifix resting right in the middle of your sternum, falling between your breasts. You crossed your arms, trying to hide away from his burning eyes. “Feeling shy, sorella?” There was a hint of amusement in his voice, as if he enjoyed seeing you uncomfortable. “Well, I have a lot more planned to put you in your place. Maybe you will learn.” He added before walking over to the large, wooden desk that stood near the end of the room. Picking up a glass along with a crystal carafe, amber liquid sloshing around the bottom. He poured a glass, taking a sip and looking rather satisfied before topping it off. “This.” He said as he walked back over, “This is a whiskey, gifted to me when I became Papa. 25 years old, single malt, a bottle costs over 500 euros. You are to not spill a single drop from this glass. Easy enough, no?” He stared deep into your eyes, holding out the glass.

"Yes, Papa.” You said, as you reached out. It should be easy enough. Though the glass was shallow, and filled much higher than it should be. But standing there and holding a glass, even with your current trembling hands you could do that. He quickly moved it back ever so slightly out of reach. “Not like this, that would be too easy. Come.” He moved to the left, where a leather couch stood, a coffee table to the side. You watched as he sat down, patting his lap with his free hand. A wicked smirk taunting you as you realized what was going to happen. “Naughty girls like you deserve a spanking. Don't you think?” He tilted his head in your direction. His eyes traveling down your body with a hint of hunger. Dropping your hands to your sides, clenching them in small nervous fists. “You're right, ofcourse.” There was no reason to argue. You could feel a knot tighten in your stomach, as you clenched your thighs together for a mere second. Hoping that the sudden onset of arousal was just an illusion. You took the few steps to close the distance, standing in front of Secondo who tilted his head up to look at you. “Don't make me wait too long, bumble bee. Or should I extend the punishment already for your insubordination?” He patted his lap again, gloved hand on thick, sturdy thighs. “no, of course not.” You spoke softly as you were driven to action. Bracing a hand on one of his thighs as you laid yourself onto his lap. Your knees are unable to hit the ground, trying to find stability before you take a deep breath and remove your hands from the ground. Accepting the cold glass into your hands like an offering. “Here you go. Remember, not a drop gets wasted.” You nodded your head as he spoke. “Yes, I remember.” You said. “Good, I think ten will be fitting, yes?” It wasn't a question but still you agreed.

You thought you were ready, taking in a deep breath through your nose. When that first spank didn't come you were a little confused. Tilting your head to have a look at Secondo, but as soon as you tilted your head the first spank came. Jolting forward at the sudden, sharp impact on the left side. The feel of the leather glove on your exposed behind stung. The size of his palm branding in your skin. You gasped, looking back towards the cup, realizing that if you spilled but a single drop you would only get yourself in more trouble. “Count them out, sorella.” He said as his hand rubbed gently at the skin for a second. The leather was somewhat cool now against the reddening skin. “One.” You spoke, voice teetering on quivering. Your eyes stayed glued on the cup this time, as you felt his hand leave your skin. It came down again with force, pushing the wind out of your lungs with a strangled groan. “Two.” You said, counting out like he had told you to. His hand once again rubbing at the supple skin of your ass.

Again. "Three." Each time he switched sides. Around the fifth spank you had to bite your tongue. His hand lingered longer than before, squeezing. Just inches away from where you could feel a wetness start to form between the folds of your pussy. Praying to Satan that he wouldn't notice. “How many was that, sorella?” You could feel him lean in closer, his weight shifting as he nearly whispered wanting your answer. His breath hitting the shell of your ear. "F-Five." “Half way, you are doing very well.” He praised. Those simple words, the way he was touching you enough to get you hot and heavy. You moved your hips involuntarily, trying to get some form of relief. A low chuckle escaped him, “Something wrong, little bee?” He asked and you shook your head no. “No, Papa, please, continue.” Your voice was whinier than you expected, high pitched and a little breathless. His hand left your ass, your eyes flicked up to see him remove his leather glove with his teeth putting it to the side before he spoke. “So eager to get reprimanded, I might get used to it.” He spoke and before you could comprehend it he spanked you two times in quick succession. The stinging a mix of pain and pleasure. “Seven!” You exclaimed as you held your hands steady. Trying to focus on the amber liquid rather than the feeling of large hands inching ever closer to your trembling pussy. Or the swelling you could start to feel press against your side.

“Eight!” “Nine!” Only one more, and you hadn't spilled a drop. Even though your legs were trembling, your arms felt a little sore from holding the cup, ass incredibly sore from the spanking, and not even to speak of the state of your panties. But you were doing good. Great even. “Last one, little bee, do well and I'll be able to give you something you might enjoy.” His breath hit the shell of your ear, feeling hot and intimate in a way. His words do nothing to help the state of your arousal. Only worsening as thoughts began to run through your mind. Pictures of what he might do flashing into your subconscious. When that final spank came you were shocked, jolting forward as his hand hit lower than you were expecting. Directly hitting your wet cunt. You couldn't help the strangled moan that tumbled from your lips. A rush of pain and pleasure flowing through your body. “You did so well, sorella.” His fingers languidly trailed up and down your clothed pussy, the wet fabric was sticky and clinging to every curve and fold. His fingers felt large, thick, through the cloth. “Though… It seems you have been enjoying this punishment more than anything.” A chuckle sounded out above you as his free hand picked up the glass from your hands. Taking a deep sip and letting out an appreciative sigh. “Is that why you are so clumsy, little bee? Have you been distracted by your papa?” His voice was taunting, as his hand continued his ministrations on your weeping cunt. “I-i have been doing my best.” You answered. Refusing to confess to what you both knew to be the truth. "Yes, you have.” his fingers left your cunt. A whimper escaping you at the loss.

It didn't last long though. The glass of whiskey was placed off on the coffee table before Secondo easily maneuvered you from his lap. Onto your knees in front of him. You could see the outline of his dick, straining against the black pants. Mouth watering at the sight of it. “You've been doing so well, wanting compliments no? Wanting to be seen, to be rewarded for your efforts?” He asked, his hand cradling your face almost tenderly. Like he hadn't just used it to spank you sore, to tease you over your clothes. You nodded your head yes, not trusting yourself to answer verbally. “I'll give you what you want.” His words were short before his tender touch turned to a grip. Pulling you up, as he stood smoothly. You nearly tripped but kept standing, your face in his strong grip as he led you to his desk. Turning so you were with your back towards it, he lifted you, forcing you to sit on the edge. The cool, polished wood smooth against your raw ass cheeks. When you looked up at him, you saw hunger in those mismatched eyes. A sight you had only fantasized about up till now. Licking your lips quickly, wetting them just before his lips crashed against yours.

A mix of harsh kisses, biting teeth as Secondo guided you to lay back against the desk. The kiss tasted of caramel whiskey, smooth, bitter and still sweet. His hands roaming over your hips, your waist, squeezing over your bra before they moved down. Eliciting moans and gasps from you that were swallowed up into the kiss. You couldn't wait any longer though, needing more from him than he was giving. Legs wrapping around his waist, a silent plea for him to be closer. Your hand wandered down on its own. Cupping the bulge straining in his pants. His groan didn't go unnoticed, low in his chest as your fingers applied pressure. “Such a tease, sorella.” He pulled away from the kiss. Unbuttoning his shirt as he spoke. The paint around his mouth is already starting to smudge by the sloppiness of the kiss. “I'm not a tease Papa, I want it.” You panted out, licking your lips as you watched him. The trail of hair down his chest being revealed inch by inch. The way it thickened towards the edge of his pants. How solid his torso looked. “Not just now, ever since the library.” His words came out strained, as he worked to undo his belt. The clinking of it signaled its removal, before the zipper sounded. “I didn't tease, I was surprised.” You countered, sitting up to help him but Secondo quickly pushed you back down on the desk. “You have no clue. Clueless little bee. In that habit, with those doe eyes, with that voice, in this lingerie. You. You are a tease.” His hand wrapped into the thin fabric of your panties. bundling it up between the puffy lips of your pussy. Giving it a harsh tug causing you to moan at the friction against your clit. That seemed to be the catalyst, he ripped the panties down, letting them fall to the ground at his feet. His left hand pulled his erection from the confines of those sinful pants, apparently having gone commando. A deep groan escaped him as he gave himself a few tugs. You watched, in awe at the size of it. The length was impressive, sure, but the girth was what really made you shiver with anticipation.

“Seeing you, on your knees in front of me, I barely kept my composure.” Secondo slipped the head of his cock between your folds. Coating it with the slick and rubbing the tip against your clit teasingly. Biting your lip, you looked up, his words a confession. He wanted control, wanted tidiness and regulations. Yet he also seemed to get irrevocably turned on by your disruption of it all. You were, in his eyes, a perfect disruption. A groan escaped his mouth as the head of his cock bumped against your clit. “Please.” You begged, voice high pitched as you moved your hips slightly, creating more friction for yourself. “Such an eager thing. All wet from getting punished, pleading for your papa. Begging so nicely I might just give you what you want.” He said lowly. Using one of his large hands to splay across your lower abdomen, keeping you in place with a simple pin of his hand. The right one grabbing the base of his dick to line the tip up with your entrance. Pushing inside, the head slipped in with a delicious stretch, your eyes closing on their own. Teeth sinking into your bottom lip as he pushed in deeper. It was slow, you could feel every inch stretching you further with restraint. He was holding back, you could feel it, making sure you felt him completely. When his hips met yours and he was fully inside, Secondo groaned from the back of his throat. You could feel the fabric from his pants against your ass, the zipper a stark, cold contrast to the softness of them. “Look at me, Sorella.” He commanded, your eyes snapping open to meet his. His pupils were blown wide, the blue-ish gray and white almost completely absorbed by the black. His right hand, moving to grab your thigh, as he gave an experimental thrust. “Such a good sister. Doing exactly as her papa asks.” He said as a moan tumbled from your lips at the friction. The praise went straight to your core, feeling your walls clamp around his thickness.

“You like that huh, like to get praised?” He almost chuckled as he pulled his hips back. “Just your praise.” You managed to utter a little breathless as you felt him pulling out until the head of his dick was just inside of you. His right hand traveled down your leg, reaching your knee he pulled it away from his waist. Lifting it up to rest your leg against his shoulder. “I shall give you just that then.” he said, pressing a kiss to your calf before he plunged back inside of you with a force you hadn’t expected. A strangled moan escaped you as the air left your lungs. It was the start of a grueling pace. His thrust hitting deep, each one punctuated by a moan or a whine tumbling from your lips. His left hand pressed down on your lower abdomen. “I can feel myself inside you like this.” He groaned, leaning forward ever so slightly, “So tight. You are welcoming me so well. Like you were made for me.” He praised breathlessly. You clamped down at his words, earning you another moan from him. Leaning down further he captured your lips in a hungry kiss. Your hands reaching out, right arm wrapping around his shoulder as your tongues slid against each other in synchronicity. Left hand on his cheek, holding his face close. Your left knee was pressed up to your chest, the new position felt like he got even deeper, hitting that spongy area inside of you that caused white spots to infiltrate your vision. An incredibly wanton moan bubbled past your lips, being swallowed up by him.

The only sound that filled the office was that of his hips meeting yours, sloppy and wet from your pussy. Paired with the moans and groans you shared in the kiss. Teeth clashing together every so often. It was electrifying. When he pulled away from the kiss he moved down, licking, kissing and biting his way down to your neck before moving away. You thought he never looked hotter. Completely undone, licking his shining lips. His papal paints now completely smudged away from his lips, black and white mixing around to create a darker gray. His breath comes out in pants and grunts with each thrust. Fanning against your lips and sending a shiver down your spine. His right hand moved up your side, reaching your flimsy bralette and fingers pushing underneath. Squeezing at the soft flesh, massaging your breast in his hand. Fingers reach to tweak at your nipple, causing another surge of pleasure through your body.

You dropped your left hand, finding his hand perched on your lower abdomen. The familiar knot growing inside of you, tightening with each thrust, each meeting of your hips to his. “Papa, I- fuck- touch me- more- please-” You beg, sentences cut short but it was clear what you wanted. A smirk graced his stoic features, his hand slid down and towards your weeping cunt, “look at me when you cum. I want to see how good your papa makes you feel.” His voice is strained, low and deep in his chest. When his pointer and middle finger started to strum slowly at your clit you could feel you were done for. Pussy started to clench around his dick that kept on hitting that spot perfectly. It was almost too much, almost. You had to force yourself to keep your eyes open.

Secondo continued to apply pressure to your sensitive clit, moving his fingers in tight circles as he watched your every reaction. A string of curse words fell from your lips as that knot tightened, clamping down as he never seemed to falter in his pace. The muscles in your thighs twitched as you felt it snap inside you. Jaw slack as you moaned, vision blurry with pleasure. Waves of it rushing through you like white hot lava under your skin. Your walls spasmed around him as he fucked you through the orgasm. When you came down, however, he didn’t let up. His fingers continued to work, as his pace picked up, nearing painful. Though the pain was mixed with undeniable pleasure. Not giving a moment of respite, you could feel the second orgasm building quickly.

“I am going to fill you up.” Secondo groaned through gritted teeth. “And you will keep it inside you until after mass.” his pace faltered, becoming less controlled, more wild. “And if you spill a single drop. You will be punished again.” The idea of this not being a one time thing made you excited. “Yes, yes, please give it to me.” You spoke as you nodded your head. He picked up speed, you could feel his dick twitch inside of your sensitive pussy. Hips meeting yours, his fingers never faltered as he tried to push you over the edge of orgasming again. Still sensitive you could feel it all, this time you couldn’t even bring out a sound as it washed over you. Splotches entering your field of vision as white hot pleasure ran through you again. When your pussy clamped around Secondo’s dick you felt him reach his peak. Hot cum filling you up in spurts and twitches with a loud groan of your name. His hips stilled, slow thrusts as he emptied himself inside of you. His breathing was ragged as he stood up straighter, moving your left leg off of his shoulder gently. Still, with his softening dick inside of you. You watched his chest rise and fall, trying to match your own unruly breathing to his to calm down. Feeling tired and completely fucked out. There was a moment of serenity in the quiet, matched breathing. A peaceful moment as you kept his gaze.

A few seconds of pure devotion.

Secondo was the first to move again, slowly pulling out you hissed. Feeling empty and sensitive. You clamped around nothing. trying to keep his seed from spilling out of you. “You should get ready for mass.” Secondo said though his eyes were trained on your clenching pussy. “I don’t have a clean habit, or my panties.” you whispered, still trying to catch your breath. “A ghoul will get them.” Secondo spoke as his left hand reached out. His fingers find your entrance easily, dipping his middle and pointer inside causing a pained whimper from you. Giving a few lazy thrusts with his fingers he smirked as you squirmed away. “Not a drop. Remember?” He said before pulling his fingers out again. “Does that count as a spilled drop?” You asked as you could see the mixed fluids on those thick, long fingers. “Not if you don’t waste it.” He held them up and moved them to your lips. You opened your mouth wordlessly, welcoming those fingers and cleaning them off. Tongue moving over his fingers, in between and taking every drop of what he would give you. A strange combination of his and your arousal. His eyes darkened with lust as he watched you work his fingers like it could have been his dick. When he took them from your mouth he seemed a little torn.

“I will see you at mass.” He spoke as he started to button his shirt. You watched him get dressed before he disappeared into a different room. A ghoul entered the office with your clothes a few moments later. You covered yourself, a little embarrassed at your near nudity. Though the ghoul didn’t seem to mind, a knowing smile on his face. So, you got dressed after he left, getting ready to go to mass as you did everything you could to not spill a drop of Secondo’s cum. Sitting in the front pew at mass with the left leg crossed over the right, listening to him preaching about the dark lord. Squirming in your seat as you tried to keep everything inside. Switching to cross your right over your left you felt it. The slow drip of liquid pooling in your panties. Your breathing hitched, and your eyes met Secondo, a wicked glint in his eyes as he knew.

It was going to be a long mass.

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mal3vol3nt · 2 months ago

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https://www.tumblr.com/longing-for-rain/755847912227028992/here-we-observe-the-aang-boymom-in-its-natural?source=share

Hi! I'm curious on your thoughts of this meta.

hi anon! so sorry for keeping you waiting with this response, i know it’s been months. unfortunately this probably isn’t gonna be the response you wanted to hear—me breaking down this zk brainrot rant and subverting their claims with canon content. please allow me to explain though (this is gonna be long sorry):

the reasons i’ve been slow to answer this ask and others that have sent me zk rants are:

since joining atla twitter (@arrsapphics if you’re cool) i’ve been exposed to a lot more zk coke-fueled rants and just do not have the energy to torture myself by willingly reading their shit

a lot of these zutara stans on tumblr are a lot more deranged and genuinely horrible people now that i’ve been exposed to the twitter zks. of course, zks are stupid and ship-obsessed on every platform and some of them (one in particular comes to mind—if you’re on twitter then you know) are genuinely just as bad, but i feel the ones on here have a special type of hatred considering they can tag their posts to ensure their hate stays within the echo chamber

CONTENT WARNING: RAP3

the second reason is the biggest part of why i will no longer entertain posts from longing-for-rain. i have recently found out via twitter that they write rape fanfiction of katara. being a chronically online shipper is one thing but to write fanfic of katara being raped so that zuko can save her is truly where i have to disengage. they have also posted rants of them analyzing katara’s body in the show, measuring the size of her breasts and hips to support the delusions in their head about this 14 year old girl. i truly cannot engage with this person’s rants as if they’re just regular shipping war bullshit. this person is a sick individual who not only projects onto a 14 year old brown indigenous character but also sexualizes and adultifies her

for these reasons, i refuse to read a rant posted by her and other big zk blogs on this app. people who take their obvious fetishes and racism and project them onto underaged asian and indigenous characters have gained too much attention from me on this blog. i can’t continue reading rants from these people and analyzing them because i know these people are not treating this show and its characters under an appropriate lens and arguing with their points will do absolutely nothing but enrage me, other people in the ka fandom, and fuel their delusions with our anger as “proof” their arguments hold any weight. on twitter, i’ll continue interacting with what comes up on my tl from my atla moots and if that includes shitting on a deranged zk then fine. but on tumblr i refuse to engage, especially since this app has a tagging system that i use religiously

and i would like to encourage anyone who reads this to also refuse to take this person’s rants seriously and look at them as nothing more than cope-hatred by a sick individual with sick fantasies and thoughts about these minor characters. of course, if you choose to still engage then i won’t stop you and will probably like and reblog your posts 😭

i will just no longer willingly click on links to their rants and subject myself to their bullshit. however, if you’d like for me to argue against zk claims then you are more than welcome to send me a summary of what they’ve said and i’ll do my best to organize a response! i absolutely do not want to discourage anyone from sending me asks because i truly do enjoy answering yalls questions and i love knowing that people like hearing what i have to say on these things lol. please, send me asks about anything and everything! just please understand that i won’t be clicking any links to their posts and blogs or be entertaining anything that comes from the three main delusional zk blogs 🙏

i hope this has made sense and again, i’m sorry anon for taking so long to answer this ask and for not giving the expected response 🫶

#cw rap3 #atla #avatar the last airbender #anti zutara stans #anti zutara #aang #avatar aang #katara #atla aang #katara atla #kataang

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rearranged-fanfic · 3 months ago

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New Story Out!

*Waves* Hello! It's been a while since I interacted with the fandom. The AO3 curse got me bad. Sorry, guys!

Anyway, I'm back for the moment. And I bring you a smutty two-shot of Merman!Satoru in apology. Hopefully, I'll be releasing Part Two by this Friday. REARRANGED is still taking a bit because Nanamin is decidedly hard to write, especially because I've been in a slump.

Anyway, it's super late where I am. I'll respond to all the messages and comments on here that I've been neglecting tomorrow morning! Sorry for ghosting you all! I missed you 🥰

In other news, I now have 84 messages on AO3 that I also need to respond to. Oops.

:.:

New Story

Seaside

Rating: E, Very E

Warnings: None

Summary: Will you let me keep you forever? When Reader-chan returns to her seaside hometown for the summer, she catches the eye of a mysterious suitor. Of course, she's not aware that she even has a suitor, let alone one as unusual as this.

Tags: Alternate Universe - Merpeople, Merman Gojo Satoru, Human Reader, Mystery, Horror Lite, Romance, Interspecies Romance, Human/Monster Romance, Courting Rituals, Misunderstandings, Explicit Sexual Content, Nonhuman Genitalia, Cervical Penetration, Happy Ending

*Excerpts from the story (Spoilers, duh)*

Excerpt 1:

The long reach of the dock is less intimidating than it’d been when I was a child. It’d once felt like it stretched a mile into the sea. Now, it’s just a short walk until I reach the end. Shuffling off my sandals and rubbing my sore heels, I plonk down at the very edge. The coolness of the water caresses the red-hot soles of my feet. My sterling silver ankle bracelets reflect the light of the sun like fish scales. It’d been a bad idea to wear new shoes, I admonish myself. I kick out absentmindedly, sending ripples of water out to sea. The ocean is calm right now, but I know that it can get rough. I sigh and tilt my head back, basking in the midday sun. I’d jump in to cool off, if I didn’t know any better. The water around the village isn’t good for swimming. The surf and spray are rough at the best of time. It’s good for sports and the like, but human bodies are too likely to get tossed around or pulled out to sea in a riptide. The cove that my little home rests on is one of the more dangerous areas, with the tidal pools that have formed here creating all manner of crazy currents when the tide changes. I’d been scared away from taking a dip here time and time again when I was just a kid. Now, I know better. Only my feet in the water, or Dad will claw himself out of his grave just to berate me. It’s so quiet out here, with only the waves to keep me company. I let out a low hum—a song from very, very far in the past. It’s what Mom used to sing to my sister and I when we were small. I only remember parts of the words now, but the tune is forever ingrained into my soul. Then another sound joins my lament: a low, haunting wail. “A dolphin?” I ask under my breath. Whatever it is, it sounds close. Or it’s very, very loud. And as its beautiful cry dies off, I sing back to it a little louder.

Excerpt 2:

It feels hazy—like experiencing everything through a gaussian blur. I can’t quite focus on any one thing. It’s too hard to lift my heavy body. Sleep paralysis, I think. This must be a dream. It has to be. Then there’s a smooth voice murmuring into my ear. The vibrations almost tingle. I feel it down to the tips of my toes. It’s a man, I think. One that I’ve never heard before—that’s a voice I’d recognize no matter what. It’s so incredibly beautiful. “You didn’t come when I called. I was worried,” the presence seems to almost be scolding me. I’d laugh at this weird dream manifestation if I could move. There’s a beat. “You shouldn’t sleep like this, you know; you could drown. You humans are terrifyingly fragile.” A chuckle follows the statement, trails off and fades into the sounds of the waves from below. A dream. Just a dream. I sigh, leaning into the sweet touch. My dreamlike phantom nuzzles at the place where my shoulder and neck meet. The soft tickling comes again. It lingers against my chin, leaving moisture in its wake. Hair, I think. Wet. Cold. It’s such a contrast from the heat of my bath that I shiver.

#fanfiction #ao3 fanfic #gojo x oc #gojo x reader #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #Merman Gojo #i have returned #with smut

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pnutbutter-n-j-elyy · 5 months ago

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UPDATE

Heyyyy my sunshines!!!

I hope you guys liked the Pt3 I put out for the Maknaeline Clinginess Angst!! If you haven't read it yet check it out ;)!!! I JUST updated my Masterlist post-You'll notice there are a lot more things added onto it that I have not released yet. To keep myself more organized with requests and manage my posting more efficiently (my schedule still won't be completely set because unfortunately I'm a mood writer regardless of whether or not I have time 🥲🥲🥲) - I've decided I will start posting my TBR's. Meaning you guys will be able to see what I will be releasing - which will help me manage tags better as well. And will help those of you who like my page; who are not on my permanent taglist and want to know when I post. IF you would like to be tagged message me WHICH post you would like to be tagged on and I will be tagging the first 10 tag requests + those who are on my permanent taglist as of today- June 28th, 2024. FOR REQUESTS I will tag the person who requested the fic. The one catch is I can only really tag if you don't request anonymously. I am a judgement free zone and I want you guys to all feel safe and comfortable on my page and with me as both author and friend. So if you do have a request and you want to be tagged with your request feel free to request freely. I will NO LONGER be sharing the FIC requests via POST rather I will note the title and genre of the fic in the masterlist to - - A. Keep you anonymous EVEN IF you decide to not remain anonymous when you send the message -B. Declutter my page by minimizing posts Me not sharing requests does NOT mean I won't share any of the messages you guys send. A lot of you send me encouragement and compliments via my inbox so I will occasionally share those messages since they make me smile :) Despite me not sharing request answers and just putting them straight on the master list you can STILL choose to be anonymous when requesting. I just want to make sure you all know that you don't have to feel afraid of me judging a request or anything of that nature if you DO decide you would like me to know your user so you are automatically put on the tag list for that fic before the 10 spots are filled. It will be first come first serve for all of them so I do apologize if you don't make it onto the taglist for that fic, but I trust you'll find it at some point after its release. My masterlist post will be updated EVERY SUNDAY; so you guys can start the week with knowing what's up 🙌🙌🙌! Okay sorry for that long informational rant but here's another shorter one.

I will be dropping an Enhypen masterlist. The same rules stated above go for the Enhypen list once it is up and running. But since it isn't I will be taking 2 requests for each member and 1 request for OT7. Again- it is first come first serve so I'm sorry if I don't get to your request 😓😓😓 I WILL BE TAKING REQUESTS UNTIL JULY 2nd (sorry for the short notice 😓) FOR ENHA. Once the Enha masterlist is up and running - which will be by July 3rd my pinned post will be

THE MASTERLIST MASTERLIST (read this is Lord Garmadon's or President Business's voice idk why but it just sounds right) - this will be the masterlist to all my masterlists - which will soon be expanded out into different kpop/misc fandoms/ misc works in the future (ig; TXT, BND, ZB1, ATEEZ, potentially some anime fandoms, snippets from novels I have started to write).

BUT ANYWAYS AS ALWAYS-

Stay SAFE. Stay SANE. And most importantly-

Stay SLAYING. 💅 Love you all ☀️☀️☀️

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blancheludis · 15 days ago

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Whumptober 2024, Day 28: CCTV

Prequel to "All the Ways We Rust"

Fandom: Batman Characters: Tim Drake, Jason Todd, Bruce Wayne Tags: Child Abuse, Dark Bruce Wayne, Hurt Tim, Hurt Jason, Family, Protective Tim, Protective Jason, Isolation Chamber

Summary:

Fear spreads through Jason's insides, sickly cold, familiar in all its ugliness. Still, he says, "I need you to not kill Tim."

And the isolation chamber is slowly killing Tim. Jason is not at all sure how much of Tim will get back out of that dark hole if they keep going like this. Bruce smiles, and that hits harder than the backhand before. "I won't," he says. Not in a don't worry way. More in a I have no intention to give up my newest plaything so quickly way. "Now eat, or he'll stay in there for another day."

---

All throughout his childhood, Tim thought Batman was a hero. He followed him around, both through the news and later with a camera, and thought himself lucky to catch even a glimpse. When Robin - Robin! - tells him to stay away, he takes it as a challenge. Back then, he did not know what desperation looked like on Jason's face. It is one of the first things he learns.

---

Tim never met Alfred, but his ghost lingers everywhere in Wayne Manor.

After Bruce hits Tim for the first time, his cheek burning with shock more than the impact itself, Tim locks himself up in his room, wondering what he did wrong, how he can be better.

That night, Jason sneaks into his room, face white and voice breaking more than it holds steady.

"It's not your fault," he tells Tim solemnly. "It's mine. I killed Alfred."

He did not. It was an accident. But Bruce does not believe in accidents. He believes in guilt and how to punish it.

"I'm sorry," Jason says. "I'll try to protect you, but -"

But.

Alfred left an entire life worth of hollow spaces behind. It is not just that he cooked and cleaned and made sure that the Manor's inhabitants were comfortable and looked after. He also seemed to be the only person still tying Bruce to this pesky little thing called morality, to conscience. With Alfred gone, there is no one to keep Bruce in check anymore.

---

The next morning, Bruce sits Tim down at the breakfast table.

"Let's talk about chores, Timothy." His eyes linger on the faint bruise he left on Tim's cheek. There is no regret, just a mild interest that immediately crushes all of Tim's appetite.

"Yes, sir," he says nonetheless, voice even the way his parents taught him. Manners are important and he can be good.

"Jason grew up basically on the streets. He does not know how certain things are done." The way Bruce does not even look at Jason is more disparaging than his tone itself. "But you do, don't you, Timothy? Your parents must have taught you what is important in a place like this. We have certain standards to uphold."

Tim has grown up with a number of tutors. Languages, music, math. He has been taught how to run a business, how to talk people into doing what he wants from them. He has no idea how to run a household. That, his parents liked to say, is what servants are for, even though they left him without most of the time.

"I will show you," Bruce concludes and manages to make it sound like he is doing Tim a favour.

There is only one answer Tim can give. "Thank you, sir."

He does not yet know Bruce, but he knows these kinds of games. His parents did not physically hurt him, but their expectations were also a noose around his neck.

For a long moment, Bruce watches Tim, dissecting him like a colourful bug. Tim knows better than to hold his gaze, so he drops his eyes and searches for flaws in his body language. When his parents were away on their trips, Tim could do with his life what he wanted. These times, he realizes, are over.

"See," Bruce then calls out to Jason, who is frozen in his seat. "He already knows how to be polite, at least. You should follow his example."

Tim's breath catches at the implied threat, but he does not move. This entire morning is a trap and Tim can do nothing against the way it pulls close around him.

---

The first time Bruce has Tim use the iron cast skillet, he can barely pick it up and keep it even with just one hand.

"You need to hold it steady," Bruce says, looming over Tim from his side, too close, and not in a helpful way.

"I'm trying."

Bruce frowns at him, never happy when Tim dares to talk back. But then his expression smooths over and that is worse. "Here," he says, voice dropping lower. "Steady it with your other arm."

He circles Tim's wrist with his hand, holding it tight enough to be uncomfortable. And then he presses the bare skin of Tim's lower arm against the hot skillet.

Immediate agony shoots through Tim, white hot pain stretching out from that small point of contact. His other hand lets the skillet go instinctively. It clatters to the kitchen counter, sauce flying everywhere.

Bruce, still holding Tim's wrist, pulls the arm closer to himself and inspects the burn. "How clumsy," he muses, pressing a thumb against the aching skin, and then again when Tim instinctively flinches.

Finally, he lets Tim go, leaving behind a faint, red imprint of fingers, which fades while the ugly mark next to it just goes darker.

"Pick up your mess."

---

Tim does not believe in coincidences anymore. Not in this house. Not with someone as pedantic and prepared as Bruce.

So, when Bruce appears silently in the kitchen and then calls out, "Tim," his voice ringing sharply in the empty space, Tim has no doubt that he timed it exactly for the moment Tim was getting the casserole out of the oven. It happens so quickly; one moment he worries about the colour of his dish but decides to take it out anyway, the next he flinches at Bruce's tone and the casserole falls, glass breaking on the kitchen floor, food spilling on the ground.

He does not look up, does not want to see Bruce's face. It does not matter whether he is angry or smug or any of the dozens of other things that spell disaster for Tim.

"How disappointing." Bruce sighs. He sounds quiet, contemplating, as if he has not thought of any way this situation could play out before he ever stepped into the room. "Robin really shouldn't be so clumsy."

That is enough to make the muscles in Tim's back go tense to the point of pain. The days Bruce is in the mood for mind games are always the worst.

"I'm sorry, sir," Tim says, more because it is expected of him, not because he thinks it will actually do something.

He stares at the mess on the floor, feels a sad kind of kinship with the ruined food.

Bruce moves forward until just the tips of his shoes appear at the edge of Tim's vision.

"Well," he orders, expectant, "Pick it up."

Tim nods and turns to get a rag and dustpan when Bruce clicks his tongue. It stops him immediately, like a well-trained dog. Now, he does look up, expecting a blow coming towards him. Jason always takes them head-on, and Tim has not yet decided whether it makes the pain better or worse to see the hit coming.

"You have two working hands, don't you?" Bruce asks, deceptively gentle. His lips curl up just slightly. On someone else, that might be mistaken for a smile. "And do take care to pick out all the glass. Jason is a growing boy and eats everything, but maybe glass shards are a bit too far."

Nothing seems like it goes too far in this house. But Tim wisely does not say anything. He kneels down to look at the ruined food, locates the biggest pieces of glass still intact. Somehow, he doubts he will be allowed to use a sieve, even for the sauce.

"Mitts," Bruce points out, the first hint of impatience creeping into his voice.

Tim breathes, his face carefully lowered, so that Bruce cannot add disrespect to his list of things Tim did wrong today. Then he pulls off the oven mitts, slowly to stall for a bit more time. Not too slow, of course, because Bruce's wrath is infinitely worse than getting a few burns from the still hot glass dish. It might have been out of the oven long enough that he should be able to handle it if he moves quickly. Either way, he is no stranger to burns anymore.

Leaning against the kitchen counter, Bruce watches, his eyes almost hotter on Tim than the broken glass. Knowing him, he takes note of every wince, every sign of discomfort, every red spot blossoming on Tim's skin.

Working slowly is usually not a good idea in this house, but Tim still meticulously searches through every spoonful of food to not leave any piece of glass in. Perhaps he would, if he knew there was even the slightest chance Bruce would eat any of this. Not with Jason in danger, though. Never that.

He is done, finally, and removes the pile of glass pieces without looking at the sorry remains of their meal. His hands are burning, his fingertips are red, some already forming blisters.

"Sir?" he asks, quietly. Because this is not it. It is never that easy.

"I still need dinner. Something simpler, perhaps," Bruce drawls with the lazy, mocking tone of the unrepentantly guilty. "We can call in Jason for his food when you're done with mine."

The implication that Tim will not get any food, ruined or not, hangs heavy in the air, but Tim does not react to it. This is not the first time he has missed a meal. Will not be the last either. He is more concerned with cooking with burned fingers. He hopes that this, at least, will all the punishment for the day.

---

Bruce keeps Jason busy all day, loading him down with new reports to write or cases to go through every time Jason comes up from the cave. Not once does he see any trace of Tim. Not since dinner the night before, which had consisted of a cold mess of slightly mashed vegetables and halfway congealed sauce for Jason while Bruce had salad and steak. Tim had to stand back to watch them eat and clean the kitchen afterward. His hands were red and blistered, but of course Jason was not allowed to help.

That is the last he has seen of Tim. Several times this day, he has contemplated to go looking for Tim, consequences be damned. It is never just him who would feel those consequences, however, and Tim is more important than him. So, Jason keeps working and pretends his attention is not on the stretched-out silence clogging up the halls, making it impossible to breathe normally.

At dinnertime, there are, once again, only two plates on the table, and only Bruce is waiting for him.

Doing his best to appear unhurried, Jason sits down in his seat. "Where is Tim?" he asks, although he knows better.

Bruce watches him for a long moment. "He needed a break."

Only practice allows Jason to swallow down the immediate panic. The cabinet Bruce uses to lock Tim up in is cramped and dark and soundproofed. It messes Tim up more than a beating. Shut away with nothing but his own thoughts and his nightmares rising out of the darkness.

"It's been an entire day," he points out and cannot quite keep his voice from breaking.

The backhand comes out of nowhere. It is not unexpected, of course, because Bruce is a master of nonchalant violence. But there is no buildup, not a hint in his expression. No, Bruce's hand connects with Jason's jaw and Bruce does not even look when Jason has to grip the edge of the table to remain in his seat, when a soft sound escapes him as if this is the first time he ever took a hit. Keeping his eyes down, Jason rolls his jaw several times, testing the pain.

Then, stubbornly, he raises his chin. "You need to let him out."

It is never a good idea to demand anything of Bruce. They are utterly dependent on him, and Bruce has made it abundantly clear that their well-being is not much of a concern. They serve a specific purpose here and what they want or need has no impact on that at all.

The corners of Bruce's eyes crinkle the tiniest bit, which is the only sign of his displeasure. "Do you really want to argue with me right now?"

Every last bit of instinct screams at Jason to back down. This is not about him, though.

"He needs food and water," he insists, knowing better than to plead. They have to count themselves lucky that Bruce Wayne is still a public figure and that someone would notice if two of his adopted children simply disappeared. Or starved to death. Jason just has to remind Bruce of this, that he has to be pragmatic about abusing them.

"He has water," Bruce says, void of all empathy. With a raised eyebrow, he adds, "And he would have food if he had not wasted it."

Tim is a meticulous learner. He has taken to cooking like he does to anything else: with relentless discipline and ingrained perfectionism. Most of that, he learned from his parents, but Bruce naturally does his best to push things farther. Jason does not know what happened the day before, but would bet anything that Tim did not mess up dinner on his own.

"Bruce -"

"Do you need my attention, Jason." It is not even a question. Bruce has stopped wrapping his threats up in pretence. Why would he waste energy on that? It is only them in this house, only Bruce's word that counts for anything.

Fear spreads through Jason's insides, sickly cold, familiar in all its ugliness. Still, he says, "I need you to not kill Tim."

Bruce smiles, and that hits harder than the backhand. "I won't," he says. Not in a don't worry way. More in a I have no intention to give up my newest plaything so quickly way. "Now eat, or he'll stay in there for another day."

Jason's hands are moving before the words fully register in his brain.

---

Tim's hands keep trembling until well into the night. The window is wide open, letting in an icy breeze, but Tim relishes the sensation on his skin, desperate for anything after too many hours of nothing. Jason simply puts on another sweater and bullies Tim to put on warmer socks after he bandaged up the bloody scratches Tim left on his own arms, as if breaking himself is a viable alternative to breaking the dark box Bruce likes to lock him up in. Since then, Jason has been reading The Hobbit, his quiet voice a soothing reminder that Tim is out and still alive and not trapped in his own head. He does not hear any of the words, but neither of them minds.

"I'm sorry," Tim says, cutting Jason off abruptly. "We should sleep."

They have school in the morning, and he should really put some effort into pulling himself together if he wants to be able to pretend he feels like a normal person and not like a ghost.

Jason looks up at him, the book open on his knees. He is going to reassure Tim. He is going to pull Tim onto his bed and wrap him up in a hug, the only touch Tim can still tolerate, the only touch that still makes him feel safe.

Instead, Jason says, "We could just leave."

People have told Tim that he is smart and quick all his life. These words, however, bounce in his mind, making no sense, until the implication hits like a punch.

"Do you have a fever?" he asks, getting up quickly.

Perhaps he missed some glass shards in Jason's food. Perhaps he perforated his oesophagus or stomach and is now slipping into sepsis and Tim will have killed his brother and there is truly no more saving either of them.

"I'm serious," Jason says, too steadfast for someone who might be dying. He leans forward, waves Tim closer. And, after a moment of hesitation, Tim does. When it comes down to it, he will always follow Jason.

He sits down gingerly on Jason's bed, lets Jason pick up his hand and hold on for dear life.

"We're vigilantes. We're trained," Jason says as if that means anything is a world that is controlled by people like Bruce Wayne. "We can go wherever we want."

Tim shakes his head, half in denial, half to not let the words settle inside him. They cannot think about such stupid ideas.

"B has all the resources to find us anywhere," he points out with desperation. "He's not going to let us go."

But Jason is not talking about asking for permission. "There's enough places in this world where there's not a camera every few feet," he says, full of the same stubbornness that lets him get up from the ground time and again, no matter that Bruce will only send him back down.

Pressure builds at the back of Tim's throat. He does not know whether it heralds laughter or tears, but he does not plan on finding out. Concentrating on keeping his breathing even, he asks, "And how do you propose we get there?" He does not manage to sound as dismissive as he was going for.

Jason's mouth curves into a smile that is sharp enough to cut. "Quickly."

"Funny." It gets harder to breathe, the walls closing in around Tim like he is back in the cabinet.

"I'm serious." Jason's hand tightens around Tim's, grounding him in the present. "If he finishes that thing -"

"It can't be that much worse than the cabinet," Tim lies and chokes on it, on the memory of being in the dark, even the sound of his own breathing muffled, unable to get out.

Bruce keeps talking about the isolation chamber he is building and Tim is suffocating at the mere idea of it. Even with the soundproofing, the cabinet is not cutting him off completely. Certainly, Bruce will correct that oversight with how much planning he is putting into this project.

From a distance, he hears Jason talking, hears him dragging the memories closer and closer to the surface. "It's not just dark and small, Tim, it's -"

"I know, Jason," Tim snaps, just barely piercing the suffocating weight settling on his skin. "Believe me. I don't -" He draws in a shuddering breath, keeps his eyes on the warm nightlight so he does not drown in darkness. "I don't ever want to go in there, but we don't really have that many options."

"I'm telling you, we can -"

"Jason." Tim does not manage more than a whisper, but Jason stops himself immediately anyway.

"I'm sorry," Jason says, eyes wide as he takes in Tim. "I don't mean to make things worse. But I can't help you when he puts you in there."

"You're helping." And he does. Without Jason, Tim might have lost himself ages ago. His mind is not the kindest place. Locked in the cabinet, however, he does not have anywhere else to go. After, Jason always helps to draw him back out.

"Not enough," Jason insists, because he has not yet learned that he cannot save everyone, cannot even save the ones closest to him.

Tim would love to offer him reassurances, but he is too worn out for that. Instead, he settles against Jason's side, tugging at the blanket to be let in. Then he asks, "Keep reading?"

And Jason pulls him close and fills the silence once again, taking them far away to a place where monsters can be fought against and defeated.

---

When the sensory deprivation chamber is finished, Bruce makes an entire thing out of it. He has Tim cook a three-course-meal - even without supervising and correcting and accidentally burning Tim - and, after, summons them up to the attic. He looks, Tim thinks, nausea already roiling in his stomach, like a child on Christmas morning, giddy in his excitement for the presents under the tree. Worse, even, he looks like he wants to talk.

"This one is special, boys," he says as he ushers them through the door. "It can also be filled with water, but we'll see how practical that is. We'll test it without for now." Then he shifts, allowing Tim the first glance at his newest prison

It does not look small, at least from the outside, just an unassuming box of sleek wood, strangely fitting in with the rest of the stashed, forgotten things in the attic. It would be tacky if the cage for one of his wards would look out of place amongst his family's keepsakes, after all.

Tim is rooted in place. He knew this was coming. Bruce had certainly kept them updated enough and shared his data, because I know you like your research, Tim.

"Tim," Bruce orders and sounds happy about it.

Next to him, Jason is trembling. Neither of them has ever dealt well with watching the other get hurt. And this is Tim's nightmare. This is being left in an empty house for months at a time or getting accidentally locked in the car and forgotten about - but so much worse. This is specifically created to shut Tim away from the world.

Impatience taking over, Bruce taps his foot. "You're wasting time."

With a shuddering inhale, Tim steps forward. He is not getting out of this. That is one of the first things he learned in this house. Bruce gets what he wants. There is no arguing, no bargaining. There is not even a guarantee that certain behaviour will get specific results. Bruce is clinical and methodical, but he is also hit with strange whims at times, and he is in a position to follow through on them, no questions asked.

The inside of the box is dark. Of course, it is. But even from the outside, there is no telling what is waiting for him. He is not sure what is worse, knowing or not. In the end, it does not matter. He will go in either way.

"Hands," Bruce orders, almost brimming with excitement.

Mechanically, Tim holds out his hands. The mitts are familiar. The first time Bruce left him in the cabinet overnight, Tim scratched up his face and throat and arms, caught in a never-ending panic attack, driven by desperation to just get out, unable to differentiate whether that meant out of the dark or out of his body. After, Bruce fretted over him like he actually cared for the damage, like his eyes were not alit with satisfaction. The next time, he had presented Tim with the mitts. Just a precaution to make sure you don't hurt yourself. No, that is Bruce's prerogative.

A hand presses into the place between his shoulder blades, which is a threat all on its own. He steps forward, unable to look away from that dark hole awaiting him. There is a small noise, almost a sob, and he is not sure whether that came from him or from Jason, but it does not matter. Now that he is moving, Bruce will not let him stop again.

Darkness greets him as he steps through the door. He stops, one foot still outside, bracing himself against the frame. He barely manages to take one more, shaking breath, before Bruce pushes him the rest of the way in.

He falls to his knees, barely feels an impact. The door closes behind him with a quiet hiss.

And then, nothing.

Tim is aware he is breathing heavily but he can barely hear it. Everything is muffled, like wool has been pushed into his ears. Even his heartbeat, erratic and too fast, sounds wrong. The air is thick, filling his lungs only sluggishly. Briefly, he wonders whether fresh oxygen can come in from somewhere or whether Bruce intends for him to suffocate slowly. He pushes the thought down, hard.

Slowly, he situates himself. The ground is made of something almost soft. It does not really give way underneath him, does not shape into him, but it also does not press back. It is almost like he is touching nothing at all, like he is not getting any proper sensory feedback. Which is the point, obviously.

Carefully, he reaches out, tests the boundaries of this new cage in the complete darkness. He cannot stand, cannot stretch out on the ground. He can, however, curl into himself and try to keep the panic at bay for as long as he can manage.

It is a battle he will lose.

---

For long minutes, Bruce simply stands in front of the locked box, almost as if he is waiting for something.

Abruptly, he turns towards Jason. "Do you want to take a look?" he asks and does not wait for an answer.

Bruce leads Jason to his office, lets him stand behind the chair. On the right-hand monitor is a window already open, which punches all the air out of Jason's chest.

Of course, there is a camera. It is not enough for Bruce to know Tim is losing his mind in the dark. No, he would want to watch.

The quality is not good, but it is enough to see Tim curled up on the ground, face buried between his arms, knees pulled into his chest. His body is fluttering with uneven, too shallow breaths.

A high-pitched, desperate whine claws its way up Jason's throat and he does not manage to swallow it. Usually, Bruce would pounce on such an obvious show of weakness. Now, however, it is like he does not even notice it. His eyes are transfixed on the screen, on Tim. His expression is bright with wonder, almost happy.

Jason's stomach heaves and he barely manages to pull out the bin before he is vomiting out the entire cursed three-course-meal. Bruce does not even react to it.

---

Jason has been sitting outside of the attic for hours when Bruce finally comes.

"Eager?" he asks and sounds excited himself, although for entirely different, entirely wrong reasons. At least he does not send Jason away. At least he did not find something better to occupy Jason's time with instead of waiting around uselessly.

Bruce walks with a spring in his step while Jason can barely keep his knees from shaking enough to get up from the ground. He wants to blame it on fury, but the truth is that this sheer helplessness is hollowing him out.

Without further fanfare, Bruce unlocks the panel set inside the wall of the chamber - this thing seems to be locked up tighter than the entrance to the cave - and then the door finally hisses open.

Nothing happens. No sound makes it out, no movement.

Jason stumbles forward, but Bruce stops him with an arm across his chest. So, he is allowed to watch but not to help.

It takes so long that Jason is ready to throw all caution in the wind - surely, no beating can be worse than being forced to wait, now - when there is finally some movement.

"Tim," Jason calls out. Immediately, Bruce's hand grips Jason's upper arm, tight enough to bruise. A warning.

It was enough, however. Tim uncurls on the ground of the chamber, his breathing becoming more erratic but at least deeper. Almost like sob, but Jason cannot think about that now. He can help to pick up Tim's pieces as soon as they are alone. Because, if he thinks about it right now, he will do something stupid, like hit Bruce. He would not mind the pain that would follow for him, but he has the terrible suspicion that Bruce would simply lock this door again and leave Tim in there until he is done dealing with Jason. Pain is nothing. Sometimes, the pain is even welcome, better than the mind games Bruce plays. But he needs to get Tim out of there as quickly as possible.

In the darkness, Tim raises his head, blinks against the sudden, violent light filtering in. And then he is moving.

The door is not tall enough for him to come out at his full height, but he does not look like his legs are working properly, anyway. Instead, he is crawling more than climbing through the opening, gasping in air like these are the first true breaths he could take in hours. He collapses right outside the box, eyes unseeing.

The hand around Jason's arm tightens, keeping him in place. So, for another, unbearable moment, Jason has to watch. Bruce watches, too, his lips pulled up into some caricature of a smile, drinking in the sight as if there has never been anything more beautiful. It makes Jason sick, bile rising in his already raw throat.

Finally, he cannot take it anymore. He rips himself free from Bruce's hold and steps forward, crouches down by Tim's side.

"You're out," he says, quietly enough that he hopes it will not jar Tim's no doubt strained senses. "I've got you. I've got you."

Bruce does not move as Jason gets the cursed mitts off Tim's hands and gently tries to coax him to his feet, only to realize it will not work and picks him up to carry him instead. No, Bruce does not move, does not stop them. But he watches.

---

That night, Tim alternates between hiding himself away in Jason's hold and pushing Jason away in mad, panicked scrambles. It earns Jason a number of bruises because the switches happen so quickly. He does not mind, of course, but knows he will have to hide them in the morning. On top of everything else, Tim does not need to feel guilty, too. Jason is doing that enough for the both of them. Because he could not protect Tim. Because he cannot truly make things better now.

All throughout the night, he makes sure there are things for Tim to see and smell and hear. He burns some incense he found in a closet down the hall from the kitchen. He holds Tim close or draws circles on his back or runs a hand through his hair. He reads or hums or promises Tim that he is there, that he is not going anywhere.

Somehow, they make it through the night. If only daylight were any safer.

---

"How long?" Tims asks in the morning, looking small and fragile. His skin is glowing red from where he must have scrubbed it raw under the shower.

Jason hesitates, knows the truth will not make anything better, but he owes it to Tim nonetheless. "Four hours."

Tim closes his eyes briefly as he takes a moment to breathe.

It will not stay at four hours, they know. Things always get worse.

---

"We could steal a car," Tim says, completely out of the blue one night, as if he had not shot down Jason's vague thoughts about running away before.

The chamber changes things, however. He feels like he is barely anchored in his own body anymore. He is terrified of losing himself, of leaving Jason behind on his own. There is not much they can do to actually help each other, but they are together, at least.

Jason turns towards him. He looks too grim to have been on his way to falling asleep. Of course, neither of them sleeps well. Sharing a room has made that better, but it does not actually make them safer.

"Do you really want Bruce to bail us out of jail and keep here on house arrest?" Jason asks, not accusatory but simply pointing out a real danger. "Now he has to at least keep us functioning for school."

Sometimes, Tim wonders whether that is actually a good thing. School is just another place draining their energy. Pretending to be all right, pretending that their family is completely normal, is often an enormous task. Both of them are good liars, but nothing is without cost.

"We could steal one of his cars," Tim insists. There is an entire garage of them right underneath the house.

Jason barely takes any time to contemplate that before pointing out, "He's got too much security."

Most of that is to keep people out, though, so Tim says, "I could get around that, probably."

Looking at him, Jason sits up, pulling the blanket around his shoulders. "And then?"

Reading The Hobbit has filled Tim's subconscious with a number of fantastic ideas. Of simply walking wherever the wind carries them. Of adventure. Of braving mountains and armies and anything getting in their way.

"Well, we'd either have to get somewhere specific fast, or get lost somewhere," he says, unable to meet Jason's eyes. Sometimes, Tim thinks they are already lost. Drowning in this place with its empty halls and rooms, drowning in Bruce's grief-turned-cruelty.

Gentle, despite the clear worry underneath his voice, Jason argues, "It'll get worse when he catches us."

"We can't let him catch us, then." Normally, Tim is more realistic than this. Something is going to give, however, and he desperately does not want it to be either of them.

"Tim." Jason is utterly still, like he is undecided whether to lean in or away and decided to freeze instead. "You were the one who said it won't work."

"So, what? We just let him do whatever he damn pleases?" Tim snaps, although he is not angry at Jason. "We can't - I'm not sure I can keep going like this. I can't keep going back into -"

The box. The cage. The lockable chamber of nothing, specifically designed to hollow him out and drive him insane. It is already working.

Too quickly, Jason says, "All right."

"What?"

Tim knows what Jason is doing, of course. The same thing he always does, getting up and in front of Tim, drawing Bruce's attention, offering the other cheek. He has no sense of self-preservation. Tim loves and hates him for that in equal measure.

"We'll think of something," Jason promises, his face settling in the kind of determined expression that has Tim's stomach fluttering.

"No, Jason," he tries to argue, even knowing this is his fault and there is no going back now. "Don't do anything stupid."

Flashing him a grin, Jason shrugs. "Don't worry about me."

Funny. All they do is worry about each other. Tim sits back and watches Jason with growing worry weighing him down. He has a very bad feeling that he just pushed Jason into doing something reckless, into paying for Tim's cowardice with his own pain. That is not at all what he wanted.

"Jason," he warns, not sure how to stop him now, but Jason shakes his head.

"You think about which car would be best," he says as if this is already a done deal, as if all they have to do is pack their bags and step out the door. "We can't take anything too flashy."

Tim leans forward, holding Jason's gaze. "Promise me."

But Jason does not. Instead, he winks at Tim and lies back down, pulling his blanket up to his ears, pretending he is ready for sleep. Nausea rises in Tim that, for once, has nothing to do with the fact he has not gotten dinner, again. Neiter of them will rest easy this night.

---

Bruce comes to dinner in a suit. It fits him like a second skin. Not a fold out of place, not a wrinkle to be seen. It has taken Tim a while to learn how to iron Bruce's clothes to Alfred's exacting standards. It did not help that Bruce cannot seem to pass by any chance of pressing any burning hot thing he can find against Tim's skin.

Beyond his impeccable clothing, however, Bruce looks winded. He sits down at the table and when he picks up the napkin, Tim catches a glance of his knuckles. They are coloured an angry red and rubbed raw in places.

"Will Jason be joining us, sir?" Tim asks, biting the inside of his cheek to remain calm. Despite everything, Bruce values politeness.

"Training ran long," Bruce responds dismissively, not caring for the picture he paints when he studies his knuckles in clear view of Tim. "You can serve."

The rule is, when Jason is not at the table when food is served, he does not eat. Often, on days Bruce knows Jason will not be on time, when he makes sure of it, he specifies exactly what he wants to eat, measures out exactly what ingredients Tim has to use. He knows Tim sneaks food out whenever he can. He knows how to make it harder for them. Food, after all, is a privilege they have to earn.

---

Bruce takes his time, inspecting each course when Tim brings them out, chewing each bite thoroughly, asking for a second serving. All the while, his knuckles are in plain sight, a mockery and a warning both.

When he is finally done, Tim clears the table in record time, surprised that Bruce is letting him go. This is a lesson, then.

Jason is in their room, lying on one side, curled up but gingerly so. He is breathing and awake, which is enough for fury to win out over worry in Tim. At least for the moment.

"You said you wouldn't do anything stupid," Tim hisses as he steps up to Jason, eyes running over him to find any wounds he has to take care of immediately. His face is clear. Of course, it is. Bruce knows better than to leave marks where everybody might see them.

"Don't flatter yourself, Tim. He's simply neglected me while building that hellhole for you," Jason replies with the kind of bitter cheer that just makes it sound like he is barely hanging on. "This has been long overdue."

It probably has, because Bruce is normally better at keeping his attention equally divided between them. It would not do for either of them to get ideas.

"And you didn't provoke him? You didn't make things worse just to draw his attention?" Tim asks sharply, not at all satisfied when Jason will not meet his eyes.

"I don't regret it."

And why would he? They are both trying to mitigate whatever damage is coming for the other. Locking Tim up at least does not leave any physical marks, however. It does leave him bleeding through his bedsheets.

"Jason, you can't -"Tim cuts himself off, bites his cheek hard enough to taste iron. "How bad is it?"

Now, Jason looks at him, at once sheepish and dismissive. He shifts a little, testing his own body. "Nothing broken. Nothing's bleeding anymore either," he decrees and has the gall to sound relieved about it.

Tim closes his eyes, wills his lungs to keep breathing even while the rest of his body feels ready to fall apart.

Jason's hand finds his, pats him twice before falling back to the bed. "It's all right, Tim."

"It's not," Tim shoots back with a vehemence that only hollows him out more. "One of these days he'll do permanent damage."

They both know that is unlikely. Bruce does not hurt them in fits of rage. He always remains cold, collected, clinical. He knows exactly how hard he can push them, has never gone too far before. There is still the possibility that he might not want to hold himself back anymore, that he decides to get rid of them.

"I can take it," Jason vows. His eyes burn into Tim, but now it is Tim's turn to avoid him.

"You shouldn't have to," he says, stubbornly.

It is entirely expected, when Jason replies, without hesitation, "Neither do you."

This has nothing to do with what they can take. Probably also not with what they deserve, although Jason's opinion on that changes depending on how much pain he is in, no matter how often Tim tells him that Alfred's death and, more so, Bruce's descent into cruelty are not his fault. They are not asking to be hurt, to be dismantled slowly. All of that is on Bruce and Bruce alone.

Swallowing a sigh, Tim walks around, further into the room. Like the stupid, self-sacrificing idiot Jason is, he has put the bed they dragged in for him closer to the door. As if that would actually make Tim safer. As if it actually makes Tim feel better to watch Jason get hurt in his stead.

As he is getting their cobbled-together first-aid kit out from under his bed, Tim says, aiming for nonchalance, "I've chosen a car."

Immediately, Jason shoots up, unable to hide his grimace as he pulls at bruises and, probably, worse. "What? No, Tim. That was a stupid idea. We can't steal a car from Bruce." He keeps his voice low, but the words tumble all over each other in his hurry to get them out.

Tim looks up at him with a calm he does not feel. "We can't stay here either."

He brings the kit to Jason's bed but does not open it yet, keeps looking at his hands, at the fading burns all over them.

"Where would we even go?" Jason asks, smaller than he should ever sound.

Somehow, Tim finds the energy to smile at him. "You said we could go anywhere we want."

But Jason shakes his head. "You know it's not that easy."

Easy was never what Tim was going for. Nothing in either of their lives has ever been easy, and it is steadily becoming less so with every passing day.

"It's an option," Tim says and leaves it at that.

He tugs at Jason's shirt, revealing the mess underneath, and gets to work.

---

"Are you done with your homework?"

Jason glares up at Bruce, takes in the nonchalance, the perfect three-piece suit. His back is throbbing, raw with pain. But, of course, he is caught up with schoolwork.

"Yes, sir," he bites out, not caring that he cannot keep up even a facade of politeness. Right after a beating, Bruce is often a bit more lenient with Jason's temper.

"Good. I'll be going out," Bruce says, fiddling his cufflinks into place. "The Foundation Gala is tonight and I'll have some things to take care off before then."

"You're -" Jason breathes, listens for the silence in the house. "Where's Tim?"

Bruce watches him, zeroing in on every twitch, every tense muscle, every weakness. Entirely too calm, he answers, "You know where he is."

Of course, Jason does. It takes everything he has not to jump up, not to throw himself at Bruce. "You have to let him out." Just barely, he manages to make that into a plea.

The Gala will run long and the sun is not even dipping right now. That is too many hours. If Bruce even remembers to let Tim out after. The chamber is worse than the cabinet ever was, and Jason is not at all sure how much of Tim will get back out of that dark hole if they keep going like this.

"Do I, now?" Bruce asks, slightly bemused even as his face hardens. "It seems rather that you need another reminder of where you place is in this house."

At the very bottom, Jason is aware. He is feeling the echoes of that lesson with every breath he takes, etched into his very skin.

Out of breath, he says, "It's too long."

"We'll see," Bruce says simply. As if this is an experiment. As if he can push and push and push without consequences. As if Tim is not Jason's little brother. As if that thing does not leave Tim close to breaking every time. "Do not wait up."

And then Bruce is gone, out of their room and down the hall, walking with measured steps as if everything is just how it is supposed to be.

Jason cannot breathe. He sits frozen at his desk, mind racing. This is too much. He cannot let this happen. He has to help Tim.

As quietly as he can, he walks down the hall to the grand staircase leading down. He folds himself into the shadows and watches Bruce leave, watches as he gets into the car waiting for him outside, watches as it is driving out of sight. Then, just to be sure, he waits half an hour more.

He has no idea how to get Tim out of the chamber. It has to work, but he knows any manipulation of the system will send an alert directly to Bruce. Once he starts, everything has to go quickly.

Jason goes back to their room and gets out two bags, throwing in things haphazardly. Tim would be better at this. He knows better how to remain calm. But Tim is not here yet, so Jason has to do this by himself.

He gets their bags and fills another with food from the pantry and gets it all down to the garage. He can hotwire a car, at least, if it comes to that. Then he goes back up to Bruce's office. This is risky, he knows. There are cameras everywhere, but especially in this room. It does not matter, though. There is no going back now.

Jason checks the footage from Tim's chamber, swallowing down his nausea when he sees Tim's curled up form. He minimizes the window and then goes through Bruce's drawers, looking for anything useful. Money, their passports, car keys. His hands are shaking but he pushes on. He finds an itinerary and knows exactly when Bruce will get on stage tonight. There, he has their window of opportunity. The too small amount of time in which Bruce will be occupied, no matter if he gets an alert that they are breaking out.

Hours crawl by, driving Jason nearly insane. But then, the old grandfather clock strikes six. Jason has never run so quickly.

Everything is a blur. Getting up to the attic. Getting the chamber open. Helping Tim out and carrying his shaking form downstairs, putting him in the car. He puts the key in the ignition and cannot believe it when the engine actually comes to life. Then, Jason shuts down his brain and just drives.

#whumptober2024 #no.28 #cctv #batman #fic #child abuse #physical abuse #tim drake #jason todd #bruce wayne #family #my writing

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autisticcyno · 6 days ago

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Pls kudos my fix and leave comments I swear I write good :(((((((

<a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/60374005">I Think My Ways Are Wearing Me Down.</a> (6464 words) by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brainfullofstatic">Brainfullofstatic</a> Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/tags/Mouthwashing%20(Video%20Game)">Mouthwashing (Video Game)</a> Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Anya & Curly (Mouthwashing), Anya & Daisuke (Mouthwashing), Curly & Daisuke (Mouthwashing) Characters: Anya (Mouthwashing), Curly (Mouthwashing), Daisuke (Mouthwashing) Additional Tags: Mentioned Jimmy (Mouthwashing), I'm Sorry, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Whump, Mental Health Issues, Mental Breakdown, Dissociation, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, gyaru daisuke, I will make that a tag, Ambiguous/Open Ending, for now, Anya Needs a Hug (Mouthwashing), Curly Needs a Hug (Mouthwashing), yay its a tag now, Implied/Referenced Abortion, Past Abortion, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Past Rape/Non-con, Title from a Mitski Song, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Codependency Series: Part 2 of <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/series/4465828">Mouthwashing Healing AU</a> Summary: Half the time, he was barely lucid, and those were only the times that Anya saw him, when she wasn’t working or studying in her room. Though she’d hated Jimmy before, there was something about seeing the effect he’d had on someone else, especially someone like Curly, that he awakened her to how truly terrible he was. Anya had dreams to fulfil, a reason to keep going in spite of the nightmares and flashbacks, young enough to have her whole life ahead of her. Curly had rushed ahead, determined to reach the top and meet his goals. He’d given up everything and found no obstacles in his path, letting him sail ahead while others (like Jimmy) lingered behind. Losing his career, the one he’d worked so hard for, and coming back to truly having nothing was something Anya couldn’t imagine.

#daisuke mouthwashing #curly mouthwashing #anya mouthwashing #mouthwashing #mouthwashing game

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alemonyoyo · 9 months ago

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No Country for Young Humans - Chapter 8.5

I am officially back at school, attending my final year of high school! I will be busy, chapters will come out very infrequently!

To tide you over, since I am exhausted, have this short little bit of actual PLOT!!! (IK not just North Star fluff, dw, that will come soon).

Also, I'm drifting a little from the UTY fandom (yeah, uh oh) but I definitely DON'T wanna abandon this fic!

Worse comes to worse, I'll finish it swiftly, and do my best to still make that entertaining. This is the longest fic I think I've ever wrote, most of my other stuff is oneshots!

Sorry about all that, hopefully you can enjoy this very short snippet of what's to come (maybe heh).

Missed the previous chapters? Check out the Masterlist!

Words: 552

Tags: GN Reader, Jealousy, Plot?

Summary: We shift to a new perspective as things unfold behind the scene.

Chapter 8.5 - A New Perspective:

There was a piercing sound in the air. It was faint, but persistent. Her ears, sharp as a dagger, picked up its sound all too well. As she fumbled with the equipment splayed out on the desk beneath her, she found her patience waning thin, the sound piercing into her skull, stabbing like the thick spears of the Royal Guard.

How could she let it get this far? How could she have been so stupid? She should have killed them right then and there when they walked into the Wild East, yet the look on his face; it healed all of her wounds, though only for a moment. She entertained this idea only to keep him happy, but it had been too long now to turn back.

Ceroba walked over to the vials of serum, each a pungent blue in colour, painfully standing out amongst the backdrop of muted greys. She had to do this. For Kanako. It was the only way to keep her alive.

Going through with this though, she thought, would ruin everything for him.

She had never felt so happy for him, the moment they admitted their feelings for him. That flustered look on their face, all bashful yet trusting in her company. They *trusted* her. Star trusted her. And she was going to throw that all away.

Finally, Starlo was going to feel the love she had always wanted him to experience, taken away from the years of torment she knew she put him through. She was happy then, and he was miserable. Now it was like night and day as she wallowed in a sea of misery. But he would be happy. He would finally be happy.

Ceroba clenched her fists tightly, walking over to the large, old TV. No- She can’t let this sway her. Surely Star would be happier knowing her child was safe and out of harm's way. Surely Star would be happier knowing she was happy? Surely she meant more to him? She pressed the small round button on the TV, knowing the tape was already loaded in the slot when she had last watched it. A sobering reminder of why she had to do this.

It wasn’t just for Kanako. It wasn’t just for Chujin. But for the fate of the world.

Well, that is what she told herself as she waited for the video to play, though she was only met with static. Ceroba smacked a pawed hand on the TV, growing impatient and frustrated as she sobbed out. This was too much! Too hard of a choice! Why was this her choice to make? Why couldn’t she have both? Why did they have to be human?

She ceased her abuse of the TV, instead pressing the eject button, waiting for the tape to shift out of the slot. She waited, the still ringing sound of the machines around her whirring in an annoying fashion. She heard the mechanics in the TV shift, the slot opening and pushing out the thick, heavy air. There was no tape, nothing at all.

She felt the hair on the back of her neck stand on end, reaching panicked hands into the slot, trying to slip down into the small slit. Empty.

Someone had taken Chujins tape which could only mean-

Someone knew.

***

“母？”

#undertale #uty #undertale yellow #uty north star #uty starlo #north star uty #starlo uty #starlo #north star #undertale yellow north star #undertale yellow starlo #starlo undertale yellow #north star undertale yellow #fanfiction #north star x reader #starlo x reader #north star uty x reader #starlo uty x reader #no country for young humans

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she-posts-nerdy-stuff · 2 months ago

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Somehow, Through the Storm

Summary:

Living in the slums of the Warehouse District, Kaz and Inej are struggling to cling on to life through a seemingly unending winter. Wrapped up in a stranger's overcomplicated marriage contract that he is convinced is key to solving the merciless weather, Kaz remains busy and distracted for days on end, putting everything else at risk. So when a storm ravages the city and sweeps Inej into danger, the offer of safety, food, and a place to stay is an overwhelming one - no matter the cost. Terrified of mounting threats, Inej signs a contract - not knowing she would land herself trapped at the Menagerie. Kaz signs a contract that states if he can walk all the way through the city and back to the Warehouse District with Inej behind him, never looking back at her, they will both go free. But this is the Barrel, the darkest part of the city where the rules of physics can change with the stroke of a pen; the journey back will not be the same as journey there…

This is a Hadestown-inspired reimagining of the tale of Orpheus and Eurydice, casting Kaz and Inej as our main characters and heavily featuring our beloved Crows, set in an alternate version of the Grishaverse with a different magic system based entirely on contracts.

Tags: @lunarthecorvus @marielaure @multi-fandom-bi @igotthisaccountunderduress @thelibraryofalexandriastillburns @devoted-people-hater @spraypaintstainonawhitewall

If anyone else would like to be added to the tag list let me know <3

Warnings for this chapter: ptsd references, alcoholism, homelessness references, implied violence, threats, trafficking references, death references, murder references, description of scars

Note: Sorry for the delay, but here we go!

AO3 link:

Chapter 2 - Kaz

If you ain’t six feet underground, you’re living it up on top

-Livin’ It Up On Top, Hadestown

Kaz had spent the better part of his day patching yet another set of new leaks in his roof, and by the time he was heading downstairs to meet Inej his hands were cold and nervous. It had taken him months to scrounge together the cash that it had taken to procure a pair of black, sheepskin leather gloves, the most comfortable pair he’d ever owned, and not matter how many times the glover had assured him they ought to be water resistant he still wasn’t going to risk them quite so recklessly; he fixed the leaks bare-handed, and bullied himself into believing he didn’t care even as his skin shivered beneath the drips. He flexed his fingers, now safely hidden in their cave of leather, and tightened his grip on the crow-headed handle of his cane as he reached for his pocket watch and studied the hands beneath the scratched face.

Inej wasn’t late, but Kaz had been standing at the front of the Slat for a few minutes now. He didn’t particularly want to stay inside whilst the old man was doing his rounds; Kaz left his money on the table and stayed out of the way. As long as Kaz knew that anything he cared about was safely hidden beneath the loose floorboard below his mattress, Haskell could rifle through anything his drink-addled brain decided that it wanted to.

There’s a storm coming.

Kaz glanced back up at the house and its roughly patched roof, the boards hammered over the broken windows, the crooked front panels that made it look like it was leaning on its neighbours for support, and hoped that weather prediction was not at the forefront of his latest hire’s particular skill set. The Slat was, he knew, a rundown mess of a house, definitely being rented out illegally and possibly never Haskell’s own property in the first place. It was ugly and full of filth, priced so low only so as many desperate bodies could be shoved inside as possible, only existent to fund the drinking habit of an impatient old man - well, that and whatever the most recent scheme Haskell thought he’d so cleverly constructed happened to be, which would inevitably end in fury and him marching back to the Slat to drink and find something to throw his fists at. The Slat was an ugly, sometimes dangerous, spiky mess of a place, but it was still the closest that anything had come to being a home to Kaz since he crawled out of a cold harbour with revenge burning a hole in his heart. It may have been a cruel house of cards, but he still wasn’t looking forward to the gust of wind that finally knocked it over.

When Kaz had first arrived at the Slat, twelve years old and already with a growing reputation on the darker streets of the district, Haskell had been running a much smaller operation. There had been someone in every room of the Slat, most of them barely older than he was, all of them wrapped up in some job or other - running, mostly, to move jurda and more exciting packages between the old man and his clients, but a few other roles when they came up - but nothing more than that. Now there were more than three people behind every door, sometimes as many as eight squashed together along the floor, and Kaz could only think that - no matter how distasteful he found Haskell - he was lucky the man had seemed to take a liking to him. If Kaz had to live in such tight quarters as that, he would’ve taken himself back to the streets by now.

It was Dirtyhands that saved him, of course. How could Haskell possibly run the risk of losing the best thing that had ever happened to his business? In return for expanding Haskell’s profits, Kaz paid as little rent on the attic space as was feasible; in return for Kaz taking the entire attic and preventing other tenants from joining the house, Haskell got a percentage cut of Kaz’s jobs. It was, in Kaz’s opinion, a rather unfairly weighted system, but for as long as it worked smoothly he was going to keep his mouth shut and his excess money hidden. Eventually he’d be able to separate from the Slat, possibly take up to half the tenants with him, and start his own operation - a real one, not a piss-poor scheme with a leaky roof. And then? Then Kaz would be able to start putting proper plans into motion; get Jordie his vengeance at last.

With a little luck, this job might even be the start of that. As long as these newcomers both pulled through.

As though she’d been waiting to time herself with this very thought, Kaz became aware of Inej’s presence as she slid down a wall on the other side of the street. He waited a beat before he turned to see her, and his lips quirked at the brief shock on her face before she schooled her features back into submission. Her dark, endless eyes still told the story; she wasn’t expecting to be noticed.

“Kaz,” she nodded, before pulling down her hood.

Her long braid fell out of the tight coil she’d wound it into at the back of her head as she did so, and Inej glared down at it as though she intended to reprimand it for disobedience. Kaz returned the nod.

“Stay out of sight,” he told her, “I’ll walk into a building across town; come in through a different entrance and meet me on the second floor landing,”

She smiled when she said:

“Are you testing me?”

“Yes. I’ve warned a friend of mine that someone might try to follow me to Bloemstraat, and told him to watch out. If he sees you, I can’t promise that he won’t shoot first and ask questions later,”

Inej paused, just for a moment.

“He won’t see me,”

Kaz shrugged.

“Let’s hope so,”

The walk to Bloemstraat shouldn’t have been a long one, but Kaz took a somewhat unnecessarily convoluted route. He could tell that Inej was with him the whole way and hadn’t particularly doubted that she’d follow, but he chose to wind through the back streets instead of following the flow of the nearest canal for ten minutes and then making a few turns because it created far more opportunity for her to be noticed. No-one did, though. Not once.

Kaz’s leg was radiating the same dull ache as it always did, but by the time he’d reached the cafe on Bloemstraat at the end of his overcomplicated, half hour journey, the pain had sharpened to an acute, impatient stabbing somewhere deep inside his knee. He shifted his weight heavily against his cane as he slipped through the front door, giving a short nod to the woman behind the counter, Lexi, as he walked past her and into the back of the building.

Kaz had set up a secret little side business of unravelling contracts when he first moved into the Slat to discover that Haskell’s comments about keeping a Grisha close by weren’t unfounded nonsense, and he’d met Lexi Parzer almost three years later when she came to him with a tattoo around her neck and a collection of papers bundled in her arms. Fifteen pages, to be exact, with two names at the bottom of the final sheet in looping Kerch script: Alexandra Parzer and Naten Boreg.

“I didn’t sign it,” she’d told him, when she was still yet to hand the papers over, “I didn’t,”

“We both know you did, Alexandra, don’t waste my time,”

“I didn’t… I mean, I-”

“You know, I don’t really care,” Kaz leaned back in his chair, “I don’t care why you signed it, I don’t care if you wanted to, and I don’t care if you didn’t. Whatever happened, the end result is the same: your name is on that piece of paper, and whatever shit you agreed to is binding,”

“I know how a contract works,” she snapped, “I didn’t come here to be lectured by a little boy,”

“But you did come here. I don’t care why you signed. I don’t care if you never wanted to or if you agreed and then changed your mind, I don’t care if you did it of your own free will or if someone else’s hand was wrapped around yours to move the pen, the point is that if you don’t want that contract anymore then you shouldn’t have to keep it,” Kaz nodded at the pages she was holding tight against her chest, like she was afraid they might blow away in the wind to remain lost and unsolvable forever, “So if you want to nullify that nonsense, Alexandra, you’re in the right place. Otherwise, you can move right along,”

There was a brief pause.

“Call me Lexi,”

Kaz smiled.

“Alright then,” he held out a hand and Lexi passed him the contract, “What are we working with?”

Kaz glanced down at the signatures and raised an eyebrow.

“Boreg?” he’d asked, and when she didn’t reply insisted more firmly, “Naten Boreg of the Merchant Council?”

Lexi only shrugged. Kaz could hardly believe that she was still alive.

It had taken Kaz a good couple of weeks’ work to find the loophole that got Lexi her freedom and him enough money to see him through a month or so. Since finding herself this job she’d quickly ended up managing the cafe, and since she lived in the flat on the third floor it was relatively easy for her to let Kaz come and go from the building, turning a blind eye to what he might be doing so long as it wasn’t going to get her in trouble. Haskell didn’t know about Kaz’s side business with the contracts, so he’d begun to do a lot of the work from the storage rooms on the second floor here. Not tonight, though. Tonight called for a different cause.

He made his way through the door behind the counter and up the stairs, listening to the soft hum of the cafe’s last few patrons behind him - it would be closing any minute now. Which way would Inej have come in? There were a few different windows she might have used down the side of the building, or an attic window that would lead her through Lexi’s apartment and down. There was also the side door to the back room of the cafe, where waste could be taken out without customer attention and where Kaz had more than once entered when the building’s clients weren’t all strangers to him, but he didn’t think she’d enter at ground level. Kaz glanced down again at his scratched up pocket watch. Eight bells.

Kaz had been in his office not long after finishing a patch job on the first leak he’d fixed today, hands barely back in the safety of his gloves after being tightly wrapped in a towel, when a knock sounded on the door. He knew from the knock that it was Jesper Fahey on the other side, and distractedly bid him entry without looking up from the papers on his desk. He listened to Jesper’s footsteps cross the beaten up floor, the loose edge of a boot sole flapping between wood and leather, without turning away from his papers; he would wait until Jesper spoke, because he knew that Jesper wouldn’t want to speak until he’d been acknowledged and Kaz was curious how long he’d stand to wait. Apparently, not long.

“I found him,” he’d begun, with only a touch of hesitation, “wasn’t too difficult,”

Kaz finally looked up.

“And?”

Jesper’s hand drifted to his gun belt. Whenever he felt on edge he always liked to lay hands on his revolvers, like a child seeking the comfort of a favoured doll. They were almost definitely the most expensive thing that he owned, brought along with him when he moved from Novyi Zem to Kerch, and despite their prominent placement and menacing shine were somehow lost within Jesper’s eclectic outfit. As he’d continued to speak, one hand drifted from the guns to fidget with a button on his slightly faded green waistcoat. The button was barely hanging on by a thread as it was, and Kaz wouldn’t have been surprised if the thing fell off between his fingers during the span of this conversation. Jesper was good enough with a needle to get back on good and tight, as Kaz was observant enough to pick up on around the neat stitches where Jes had fixed the fraying hem of his jacket and the carefully placed patches on the knees of his trousers that could have just about passed for fashion if you didn’t look too close, but he’d probably distractedly break the threads again about a week later.

“He said he’d come,” Jesper had shrugged, adding with a touch of impatience: “but he doesn’t know the city; I’ll have to meet him there and walk him in,”

Kaz nodded.

“Meet us just after eight bells; I’ll bring the plans,”

There was a beat before Jesper ventured:

“And the girl?”

“Inej,” Kaz nodded, “As long as she shows, we should be fine,”

Jesper raised an eyebrow as he pulled his arms into a casual knot over his chest, watching Kaz for a moment.

“You aren’t one to pick random strays off the street and announce they’ll save us all, Kaz,”

“No,” Kaz reached for his cane as he stood, nodding for Jesper to follow him towards the door, “I’m not. So when I say that I’ve found two of them, you should know I’ve put enough thought in to be right,”

He didn’t hear Inej approach but he knew she was behind him, and a moment later she crossed in front of him on the landing.

“Well,” she tilted her chin up at him, and something of the moon and stars peering through the window became trapped in a prison of shimmers in the corner of her eye, “do I pass?”

Kaz only nodded towards the door at the end of the hallway, and made his way towards it with Inej a pace behind. Jesper was supposed to get here in a few minutes, but that could mean any time from now to half an hour so Kaz took a seat and gestured for Inej to do the same. She tucked her feet beneath her to sit cross-legged, one hand clinging tight to her boots, and Kaz had to marvel at how she moved so quietly on such clunky-soled shoes.

“Are you going to tell me what we’re doing here, then?” she asked, after a minute had gone by.

Kaz glanced over at her. She was wearing a different shirt than the previous day, though this one was no less creased and the crushed collar made him guess it had been recently pulled out of the satchel he’d seen slung over her slim frame, but the same dark trousers. Her braid was much tighter and she must have recoiled it during the journey because it was now pinned firmly at the nape of her neck - when had she found time to do that? - but there were free pieces of hair at the front of her face that had a slightly frazzled appearance, floating out of control and slightly marring the otherwise more put together image she was clearly trying to project.

“For now,” Kaz shrugged, stretching his bad leg out in front of him, “not much. We’re waiting on another party for the job, it should only be a few minutes,”

Inej nodded, twisting the cuff of her sleeve between her fingers. Kaz let his eyes slide over her, scanning the folds of her outfit in search of a weapon. He came up empty.

“Have you ever killed someone, Inej?”

She looked up so sharply that it seemed as though a string running down her spine had been given a harsh tug.

“No,”

Kaz paused for a moment, watching her, trying to read the part of her expression she was hiding behind her eyes, but before he could open his mouth again two sets of footsteps sounded down the hall and the door behind him swung open. He knew that it would only be Jesper - could only be Jesper, in fact, because if a stranger tried to get past Lexi they’d regret it pretty quickly - but Kaz still tensed as he stood and turned to the door, laying a hand on the pistol inside his coat all in one smooth motion. In the corner of his eye, Inej twitched to attention and sprung quickly to her feet. Her movements were fluid, like she were molten glass and the world was made of smoke, but there was a sharp edge to everything as well, a dark undercurrent that she both did and did not control.

Jesper smiled as he came in, nodding at both Kaz and Inej before beckoning in the small, confused looking figure of a boy hovering in the doorway behind him.

“Kaz Brekker, meet Wylan Hendriks. Wylan, this is Kaz,”

Wylan glanced uncertainly between Kaz and Jesper, then over to Inej and back again. Jesper looked at Inej, then at Kaz.

“Are you going to introduce us?”

Kaz sighed.

“Jesper, Inej. Inej, Jesper,”

“Charmed,” Jesper smiled at her, and was almost definitely - because it was always the way - about to keep talking before Kaz interrupted:

“If you don’t mind, we have work to do,”

He motioned for them all to take a seat as he crossed the room to the small desk and sat down behind it. He liked this desk. It was from this storage room come makeshift office that he usually dealt with contracts, and so he’d had to make the decision to leave this desk and its lockable drawers here instead of using it as replacement to his questionable setup at the Slat; he enjoyed taking the opportunity to use it when he could.

Kaz settled in his chair, leaning his cane against the desk and stretching his bad leg, which was still complaining about the elongated journey here, out beneath it, and surveyed the faces opposite him. Jesper appeared as he always did; a show of cavalier attitude with a thrum of nervous energy, fidgeting with revolvers or his hem or the buttons on his jacket. He leaned back in his chair like he was considering lifting his boots up onto the desk, which Kaz would not have appreciated, but he also couldn’t stop his eyes from flitting through the room as though he could swallow it in one go and instead needed to deconstruct it into bite size pieces. Inej appeared calm, though he thought she was less comfortable than she’d been when they were alone; she now kept her feet firmly planted on the ground, hands tucked beneath her, watching him across the table.

And then there was Wylan, of course. Wylan just looked nervous. His round cheeks, soft curls, and near flawless skin made him appear younger than Kaz knew he was, but what really drew the eye in was the scar. It would probably be fair to call the mark extensive; a thick, raised ring of flesh, white with reddened and raw edges, sketching a ring around his neck like a neatly tightened noose. Kaz couldn’t be sure what manner of weapon might have caused it.

“I’ve been told you’re good with chemicals,”

The boy nodded.

“I need to buy some flash bombs, and maybe something with a little more kick. If I-”

“Bombs?” Wylan actually pushed his chair backwards as he said that, moving to stand, “I didn’t-”

“What did you think you were here for?” Kaz asked, glancing briefly at Jesper. He was supposed to have told Wylan it was a demo job.

“Not this,” Wylan shook his head, “I can’t help you,”

Jesper tried to stop him but Wylan was already halfway out the room; Kaz just leaned back in his chair and watched him go.

“Well, great,” Jesper sighed, flopping back into his seat, “So much for that plan,”

A moment passed before Inej ventured dejectedly:

“No job, then?”

“That wasn’t the job. Not your one, anyway,” Kaz looked up at her, nodding vaguely towards the door that Wylan had vanished through, “Follow him home. Find out anything and everything you can, and report back to me by tomorrow,”

Inej leant back, folding her arms across her chest and lifting her chin.

“How much?”

“He’s leaving-”

“Then negotiate quickly,”

Jesper did a poor job of stifling a laugh, and Kaz glared at him.

“Twenty kruge,”

“Fourty,” Inej countered, instantly.

“Thirty,”

“Done,”

Kaz nodded.

“The deal is the deal,”

Inej had disappeared through the window before anyone had time to blink.

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