#sweet as cyanide

[tekidoll]

Can you draw Christopher x Cakey, Or as I call it

SweetCyanide?

yes 😈😈😈😈

i did this on roblox free draw because i only wanna draw on roblox free draw right now

[hearts4golbach]

help this took so long (tagsss)

[trashcanwithsprinkles]

Did you or will you ever make merch for your fanfics? Like keychain/prints/printed version of these most amazing works?

(I would love to parade with my little Morax and Ajax keychain form cyanide narwhal >:D)

genuinely how would that be different of regular genshin merch. i mean i can think of some ways it could be, but still

also quite frankly it would be such a hassle. like i appreciate the thought but setting up a whole-ass online store??? my guy (gn), that's way too much work. i would be far more inclined to do mockup designs and then y'all can DIY the merch LMAO

[daddy-ul]

heya, i'm jinn, i am a basic and i miss atlas rise! live.

[shooshopath]

11pm saltposting I still cannot fucking believe a man who has a PhD and makes way more money than me mixed together Trizol and bleach then tried to act like it wasn’t a big deal when IM the one who fucking inhaled most of it. How do you not know basic undergrad level chemical safety and then try to make ME second guess myself

[loseyoursouls]

@h3artrot asked : " do you remember your nightmares ? "

remi takes a breath, swirling around the ice in the glass of amber liquid she'd acquired a few moments prior. the question was a loaded one, making her recall certain things about herself that she would rather let slip away into the night sky and forget existed.

but that's the thing - remi remembered.

she remembered everything. from what it felt like to take her last breath, the searing pain of a knife piercing her throat, the sensation of drowning in her own blood as she lay on the floor of that hotel suite. forgetting would be nice, but that doesn't seem to be something that she's been offered.

a breath, slow inhale and exhale, before she responds.

"i don't sleep often," she says, taking a second to sip at the liquid in her glass, trying to ground herself in the moment. "but when i do, all i have are nightmares. sometimes they come during my waking moments as well. images that sear themselves against my eyelids."

she shifts her head slightly to glance over at clara.

"i don't have the privilege of forgetting."

[king-crane]

[INJURY]

[INJURY]: after having been badly wounded themselves, the sender tries to reassure the frantic receiver by cupping their face and comforting them.

No. No, no, no, fuck-

She's on the edge, and he barely manages to catch her, and to pick her up in his arms. No doubt she would hate this, but he had no choice. "Is there a reason you always do this, you detestable parasite on my heart?" His head snaps on a swivel as he looks for the closest building. Their plan had been airtight, an operation that nobody should have been able to anticipate.

Well. That had failed, and now his dearest friend was losing far too much blood.

Her hands on his face were so cold.

"Stay awake, or I will kill you myself." Lies, still spat with venom. "Mary, you need to conserve your energy. Why are you concerned with me when you're the one bleeding?"

He tears off his sleeve and wraps it around her wound before grabbing a canteen from his jacket and forcing her to drink. Call it the mother in him that refused to sit idly by when a friend was hurt.

"Come now, Mary. You're a strong woman. You'll be okay. You have to be."

[oopsieissmimie]

s w e e t e r 🍭🍬✨

[dogbites-puppylove]

Apple seed cyanide

TW: description of yandere mentalities and actions (obsession, possessive tendencies, stalking, etc)

Tags: Yandere! Joker x reader, Yandere! Harley x reader (platonic)

If you want the honest to god truth, Harley knew that the Joker was spewing saccharine filth from the start when he reached out with promises of a sweet little life, one with a darling family of their own. She knew because, after years of watching him pant after the trials of Batman, she saw he had no room other than his obsession left in his heart. But like a moth to firelight, she flutters dutifully back into his arms attracted by promises already broken

Imagine her surprise when shes greeted at the door with a bright smile, almost sane enough to trick her. He ushers her in with a sweet note in the air and a “surprise waiting for her” in the living room. Bound and gagged a couple is crying out on the floor, shaking their hands in a pathetic plea, and attempting to crawl away, and usually, Harley would be all for making a joke or two, but instead, all she can see is you. Your little presence floods all of her senses, sitting perfectly pacified on the floor. Behind her, she's aware of her partner's sick laughter, but she can't shake off the trance she's in.

You couldn't be older than 3, still without proper motor skills and a morbid curiosity stopping any critical preservation instincts that might have had you crying. This becomes more evident when instead of screaming, you giggle as the clown prince of crime crouches down to haul you up into an embrace, even bouncing you up into the air a few times to pry out more laughter. She can barely hear the shrieks of your old parents as the Joker finally deposits you safely into her arms, and as she cradles you close to her chest that aches for you. It's a physical hurt that almost overwhelmed her, the need to crawl inside you and live there, or for you to do the same, and it is in a stranger's house that Harley falls in love again.

“Sweet as honey ain't they?” the Joker coos and cackles at you, waggling a few fingers in front of your face, grinning even wider as you grab at them. “Full of curiosity that one is, a real riot!” but Harley can barely hear him much less acknowledge him past the roaring of blood in her ears. Her heart beating out of her chest she thinks it might just spill open to accommodate the organ trying to crawl closer to her darling. For the second and last time in her life, Harley is chained and leashed to another's will, a fate of coming to their beck and call, your will, her darling wrapped perfectly in her arms.

To the Joker's credit he does love you, or as close to love as he can get. He hushes your cries, indulges you in sweets behind Harley's back, and she's even caught him humming silly little tunes as he dances with you wrapped up in his arms. You bring clarity to him, a surety in his life that he doesn't feel unless pulling Bats along in another joke. You were going to be his perfect legacy, proof that he cannot truly die, you're a part of him in this way. Of course, you’d need a quick little dip into a vat of toxins to truly make a perfect legacy but you needn’t worry, he still loves you. You just need a little preparation first.

Every week he takes you on little daddy-darling outings, he tells Harley your going around to sightsee, and he lets you play a lot of fun games until the sun sets. And he's truthful because his warehouses are far and in between, and every mutilation he leads you so lovingly through is a fun little joke. His little comedian, hell coo as he leads your hand tightly clasping a knife against the throat of one of his own boys who had tried to run. Isn't this fun sweetheart?

He underestimates, however, just how devoted Harley is because while she was fully delusional when they had first gotten into a relationship Harley cannot spare you as collateral damage to her own fantasies. She is painfully grounded as she takes in everything about you 24/7, your expressions, words, actions anything she can she takes to covet away in her mind forever. As much as she is a monster she is your mother and she loves you, you are anything she's ever had and everything she'll ever have. He doesn't realize that she obsessively checks over you, even spotting the smallest flecks of blood, how when she kisses you goodnight she can see the thin sheen of apathy take hold of your gaze.

The final straw comes in the form of a huge argument, she comes home early from work eager to see her little baby, when she finds the Joker cooing into your ear, goading you into doing your best as your hands wrap around a familiar gun. Like the devil on her shoulder, she can't even scream as you pull the trigger, eyes momentarily twitching but no other expression as your former parent's brains paint the windows. And she realizes as you turn around to smile at her sweetly with blood on your teeth and tears that seem so foreign streaming down your face that you need to leave, she has to get you away.

That night she takes you, just 9 years old, and runs. She has no real destination, just a desperate notion to get away, to save you from all that she knows the joker is trying to make you. She can't, she can't let you go through what she knows will force you into the type of person you never wanted to become. Because she can see herself in the mirror and can mourn normal happiness and stability, and she has watched the joker bleed himself dry until he has nothing to himself but an old laugh track repeating over and over again. It's a life of agony and you don't deserve that, not you, never you.

Of course, her body ends up leading her to Ivy’s place, and the woman can only stare in shock as her best friend who had gone radio silent all those years back collapses at her door holding a kid so close she might be trying to meld into one. “Please, please not my baby” Harley begs and any anger that Ivy could have had melts.

For a while it's paradise, the Gotham sirens all corralling once again in their glory, and with their very own new member, you. Selina takes to you quickly, cooing about how her kitten is just the most clever thing in the world as you quickly work through her little trips. (Privately she will worry to Harley about the lack of awareness you have for your own health, the way your eyes glaze over when a plan takes place, and the brutality you exhibit.) Ivy also takes to you quickly, teasing you with little nicknames (how can you be a sapling when you're a human?) and she teaches you how to nurture, how to care for plants and love them as they deserve. (And she will confide to Harley how you seem to take to poisons particularly well, how you are able to craft things more disastrous than she can dream, how your curiosity always leans to the morbid.)

Harley herself takes great energy and care into trying to undo what the Joker has done, it's laughable how Gotham's greatest villains all sit in a circle every week and preach about morals and empathy. But to their credit, it works, and though you may not be able to feel the full existence of motion, though you can't seem to feel it as deeply as others your heart still throbs with what must make you human. You learn consequences and cling with desperation to these little lessons that prove you aren't your mentor. (not father, not anymore)

And yet Harley can still see how your apathy takes hold in the face of curiosity, how you prefer crowbars over teddy bears, and how despite your hardest efforts empathy is always a little too easy to push away in favor of hard-earned apathy. (and she knows, she knows that as long as that bastard is still out there doggedly searching the ground for you, you won't ever truly be safe) so she makes a deal.

The phone rings and Bruce can only raise an eyebrow at the untitled phone number, he doesn't make a habit of giving out his number so uselessly so after the third ring he picks up.

“Hello? This is Bruce Way-”

“Hey Bats.” Alarm shoots through the roof at a voice he hasn't heard in years, and yet still so closely relates to his arch-nemesis.

“Harley? How did you get this-”

“Listen, listen I know it's gonna sound real bad but I- I need you to hear me out. A favor, I need a favor. I'll go back to Arkham, stay there for the rest of my days but, I” she breathes and it's far too shaky for the woman he knows her to be. “My baby” she sobs “You gotta keep my baby safe, he's out there Bats and he won't leave em alone as long as their alive.”

Through his confusion, Bruce manages to calm her down, and wrangles a short story out of her, how she and Joker had played family until she couldn't bear to see you break anymore and how she knew that she alone couldn't keep her darling safe. And maybe it's the boy staring at the corpse of his family in Crime Alley that speaks instead of himself but he finds himself reaching out to help. (he can't let another family split, not when he can help it). As long as Harley doesn't kill, no more lethal tactics, and as long as she reports everything she knows about joker, and works with him against him, she can stay outside of Arkham walls. And as for you?

Your tenth birthday hits and Bruce Wayne steps into your living room with a strangely calculating gaze and a warm smile.

“You must be Y/N? Ah, nice to meet you officially, my name is Bruce Wayne, and ill be your foster family.”

Author's Note: Another reupload. ALSO! I HAVE GOTTEN THE ANON ASKS!! I AM JUST A SLOW WRITER I’LL GET TO EM I PROMISE!!

[bitterrfruit]

houndtooth [1]

[masterlist]

Ghost x f!Reader - tags: slow burn, enemies to lovers, abduction, bodyguard, forced cooperation, smut 18+ mdni - cw: below the cut - 2.2k words

you're the pampered wife of a russian warlord. ghost hunts you down and finds a use for you.

Hello loves, a brief intermission from me (quick I promise) - I thought it would be fun to cross-post my Ao3 fic Houndtooth on tumblr. It is still in progress!

Needless to say, this fic comes with some content warnings: implied SA (not by Ghost), drug addiction, waterboarding, and heavy physical violence.

Reader insert goes by her alias, Mia, a name she invented to protect herself in her previous profession.

​If I cannot be feared, I must be loved.

There’s something special about you. 

Something sickly. 

Your body, your lips, your eyes. Bait like dripping entrails in a loose twine net; dragging bloody along the wooded, overgrown path of your life, and luring ravenous carnivores to your trail around every bend. 

It’s something you’ve grown accustomed to, expectant of – that lecherous scrutiny, from any man you have ever met, or ever might. Used to the huffing snouts that suck in the vapour of your beguiling skin, tonguing it like they might ever get to take a bite. 

Offering mouthfuls of yourself is the only way you have been able to keep them at bay. Appeasing when necessary. Rebuffing only when you can be certain that your extermination will not be the consequence. 

Sometimes they gnaw at you anyway. Sometimes their canines sink rapaciously into your soft flesh, popping through your skin like it’s the velvety hide of a peach. They drink the sweet pink syrup until you’re bled dry, careful to spit out the cyanide core once they've finished. 

Until that poisonous pit, coated in the stringy viscera that those teeth had missed, was all that was left of you. 

So, when your husband found you, dressed as the hound-bait character you played along the redlight strip, you were allured by the promise that he might plant you again. Maybe, with his exorbitant riches and clandestine occupation, he might water you and fertilise your soil, he might let your pit sprout into a sapling. Maybe, your branches might blossom again. 

When he expatriated you to Russia, his snow-blown motherland, you imagined yourself a Tsarina; jejunely clinging to his arm like you might fly away with him, carried to an undefiled paradise as though he were your archangel and you his rapture. 

That was the last time you loved him. 

One step off that jet, the first leap with your exuberant paw; there was no paradise, no utopia waiting for you. Landing hard on icy cement, your husband was quick to stifle your lament. Offered you oxycodone like pebbles of dogfood in the palm of his hand, swearing you an unending supply – his remuneration for your services, whose nature you were not yet privy to. 

But those opioids were your wage. 

They were your shackles, too. 

Even if you managed to outrun your paralysing addiction to them, it didn’t take you long to be tackled and smothered by your intemperate dependence on your husband himself. 

On his status, on his money, on his reputation. 

Without, you would have been long used and discarded, tossed hollow and floppy like freshly flayed doeskin; exsanguinated by the very men he colludes with, the very creatures that slither into your home, that sit at your table and speak puzzles in their Cyrillic tongues. 

The very beasts who your husband endeavours to entertain and indulge with your presence at his side – a glittering trophy, or a ripe fruit, juicy and plump. He holds you in greedy hands and brandishes the shine of your skin, he polishes you with a firm palm on your ass, he boasts his possession of you with a hot tongue on your cheek. 

The prize they can never win, that’s what you are. The meal they can never devour. Only his teeth have the privilege of gorging on your supple flesh. 

With your English passport long stolen from you, you are left with no option but to be grateful for that fact – that your husband does not whore you out to his compatriots, does not sell your body for some other man to graze on or to pick at, like you used to do yourself. 

That is one of the few reprieves he offers you. 

Protection. 

Maybe, if you had never met him, you would have eventually crawled out of the chasm that your previous life had sunk to. If you had never met him, you might have found a way to break free from your dependence on those poppies. If you had never met him, you might have found worth for yourself beyond the coins hungry men would offer you in exchange for a taste of you. 

But any hope you may have had in those days is a distant, futile memory. A bittersweet daydream you sometimes venture to. 

Frozen in your sordid reality, you’ve no option but to indulge him. 

To oblige him, whatever he wants from you, you play the role he carved out just for you to fill. You massage his neck after a long day. You listen to his broken English as he does his best to explain what had happened at work, in as little detail as possible, in an effort to shield you from the truth of his profession. You swallow his cock when he asks you to. You pretend to let him satiate you all the same, a professional actor you are – you sing those moans for him, when he licks you, when he fucks you, when he pledges to impregnate you. 

He doesn’t know you’ve got a copper coil in your womb. You tell him there’s something wrong with his come, he doesn’t believe you. He sends you a doctor, and with his money, you pay them to lie. 

That’s the other perquisite, one you can’t belittle. 

His money. 

His mountains, mountains, mountains of money. 

None of it tangible, no real cash, no paper stacks tucked away in places any brave burglars might be able to find it. All of it digital, little numbers, binary code hidden behind so many layers of encryption it’s a wonder it can be counted at all. 

But there’s never a need to count it. All you know is that it is unending. 

He lets you spend it how you like, and there’s no amount of expenditure that could ever put a dent in his wealth large enough for him to notice. 

Still, the prince, he imprisons you in his castle. You can throw invisible money at whatever your bored and inebriated heart might desire, any priceless art, any extortionate car, any lavish designer shoes – and it means nothing. It fills no void. There’s nobody to show it off to. 

It appeased you, at first, after your stint of homelessness, then your weeks living in a dim red brothel, until he found you. When he offered you such a nauseating amount of money as payment for your salacious dance, that you felt your knees buckle beneath you at the sight of it. When he took you shopping and bought new lingerie to decorate you with, when he carted you giddy to his private jet. 

All too good to be true. 

And it was. 

Too late now, anyway. This is the hand you’ve been dealt; you play your cards as best you can. Close to your chest. Who knows when you’ll fold. 

You lean over the marble vanity, the harsh, downward lighting of the gaudy ensuite carves out the divots and lumps of your face that are typically imperceptible. 

You used to think you were beautiful. That’s what everyone told you. 

But watching your husband’s cold semen trickle down your décolletage, saturating and staining the invaluable lace and silk chiffon of your rosy babydoll, drying flaky on your skin – you can only see lipstick on a pig. An ugly little creature, destined for the slaughter. Your belly waiting to be made into crackling, your ass into bacon. It won’t be long now. 

You sense that you are beginning to overstay your welcome. What had once been pliancy had now turned stiff and sharp. Any sweetness you once felt for the man who swept you off your feet has since coagulated into bitter milk, too lumpy to swallow, so instead, you spit. 

The contempt inside your husband has been bubbling, fermenting. You can see it, and feel it, and taste it. He made it known to you especially tonight, fucking you with the brutality of a rabid animal, clutching and clawing, tugging and throwing, biting and beating. Painting you with his come to humiliate you, to degrade you, to remind you what you are, and always will be. He got some of it in your eye. 

There’s a bruise on your collarbone. It’s not the first he’s given you. It won’t be the last. 

You wipe away the crusting fluid with an opulent towel, dampened with warm water; lush white cotton turning creamy and black as it cleans away the come and mascara. You use it to dab clean your negligee. It’s your favourite one.  

Clink.

Your ears perk. 

Clash. 

Frozen on your feet, your head darts to face the door to the ensuite - heavy and ornate, it sits ajar. Last you checked, your husband was asleep, snoring like a fucking engine. The silence that follows the peculiar noise is what unsettles you most. 

Maybe it was him reaching for the pills on his nightstand, or readjusting the eiderdown duvet he sleeps under. But you’d expect a grunt, at least, some huffs of complaint as he was forced to do something for himself for once. 

Instead, quiet. 

You know that your husband keeps guns around the estate. Both figuratively, in the forms of armed and well-paid sentries that roam the grounds and stand guard by the doors. And, literally. A pistol in the kitchen, a shotgun in his cupboard, an assault rifle under the coffee table. 

And, you remember, a Beretta under the sink. 

With quivering and cautious fingers, you reach for the brass handle of the drawer. 

“Милый?” Sweetie?

You utter it softly, hesitantly, sweetly. He once told you your accent sounds native when you pamper him with pet names. English is your first language, Russian now your second. He doesn’t know how much of it you can understand. More than he believes. 

But there is no answer from him. Not a word, nor a groan, nor a snore. 

“Все ли в порядке?” Is everything alright?

Your careful fingertips dive into the drawer, momentarily peeking down to find the black metal. A pant of relief jumps from your throat when your fingers find it, that cold handle; you take it in the palm of your hand, it moulds to your grip like it was made for you. 

He showed you once how to load it. 

You remember. 

You clutch the slide with a harsh grip, tugging it back, click-snap. 

The safety is off. You’re not that stupid. 

“Дорогой?” Sweetheart?

Calls turn to pleas. 

You know vaguely the line of work in which your husband is a kingpin. You know it most likely involves bloodshed. 

And, so, you guess it involves fucking people over. That it incites vengeance. That it creates martyrs. 

Normally, the guards help you sleep, their thudding boots and murmuring chatter keeping the retribution at bay. 

Why is it so quiet? 

Thud.

Creak.

Now you resent yourself for calling for him. You’ve made your position obvious. You’ve handed yourself on a platter. 

Perhaps you can sneak to the hallway. 

Or, perhaps you can simply check to see if it’s your husband, skulking around your bedroom and choosing to silently ignore you out of spite. 

So on your bare toes, you glide along the glossy tiled floor, pit pat, pit pat. Feline fingers clutch the edge of the door. You gently draw it open, ever so slowly, the golden hinges moaning quietly at their awakening. 

You hold your weapon by your side. You keep your finger off the trigger. God knows what you’d do if you shot your husband by accident. You might be better off just turning the gun on yourself, in that case, rather than be left to the dogs. You know what their teeth would do to you. 

The bedroom is dark. 

The silvery glow of the moon is the only source of light, bar the dim orange now emerging from the open ensuite door. Your kittenish shadow stretches out before you onto the velvety carpeted floor, your shape carved out even through the sheer fabric of your negligée. 

“Не двигайся, черт возьми.” Don’t fucking move.

Your breath lodges in your throat, wedged in your trachea like you had swallowed a jagged rock. 

Not your husband. 

No, that voice is far too deep, too grumbling, too threatening. 

So who? 

“Кто ты, черт возьми?” Who the fuck are you?

You hiss it, a growl, though only the kind a snarling little chihuahua might spit out when touched by an overbearing hand. 

Hidden from the moonlight, the figure prowls through the shadow. Towering, imperious, that silhouette renders you frigid - you swallow as much oxygen as your stiff diaphragm will allow you. Not much. 

Four red beads of light stretch in a line where his eyes should be, reminiscent of a hunting spider; high enough off the ground that it might be crawling up the walls, hanging from its silk, ready to ensnare you. No, that’s just how tall the beast is as it stalks you. 

The glint of the moon reflects off the glistening barrel of his gun. Gun feels like an understatement. It’s immense, black. Machine more fitting. Pointed at you. Coaxing. Warning. He gives it a shake. 

“Брось этот крошечный пистолет, шлюха.” Drop that little gun of yours, slut.

The more he talks, the more you doubt. His accent is weak. Not a Russian. 

“Чего ты хочешь, мудак? Деньги?” What do you want, asshole? Money?

He scoffs. Arrogant. Scornful. 

“I don’t want your fuckin’ blood money, you evil little bitch.” 

English. 

Explains the accent. 

But, you’re left with more questions. One, what the fuck? 

“Drop the gun. Or I might get your blood on that pretty dress.” 

You hesitate. He pounces. 

“Сейчас!” Now!

[emmyrosee]

“I need you to know how unbelievably pissed I am at you.”

You interrupt the peaceful folding and stocking of your clothes at your in-laws house with your threat. Immediately, Shoyo tenses up and whips his head to look at you, eyes wide and dancing over your face, waiting for you to continue your rant and fury.

When you don’t, merely continuing to glare at him, he gives a frantic, “what did I do!”

“Lower. Your damn. Voice,” you grit, and his hands clap over his mouth childishly. You take a deep inhale to calm down, “you told, your sweet and old parents…”

He looks at you expectantly again. You flare your nostrils and hike up your voice in an obnoxious nasal:

“We’re huuuuungry!”

Instantly, at your mocking tone, he breaks down into laughter, trying to stifle them to keep your anger at bay.

“So embarrassing!” You snip.

“Baby, we were! They don’t mind, you know that-“

“THEY STARTED COOKING! FOR US!”

“You know they’d rather eat with us than have us go out to eat!”

“Shoyo,” you snarl, rising to your feet and approaching him; with nervous laughter, he shrinks back. “It is eigHT IN THE EVENING, AND YOUR MOTHER IS MAKING NIKUJAGA!” You grab a pillow and start whacking him with it, ignoring his pleas and sheltering arms. “For the love of the gods, she should be relaxing!”

“She’s fine!”

You stop swinging and look down at him in shock. He makes a grab for the pillow and you whip it away, and he whines around some giggles.

“You do not make that decision for her,” you growl, throwing the pillow to the side and shoving him on his back before quickly crawling on top of him. “I would rather us both starve and rot away, before I tell your sweet, old parents that we’re hungry. ESPECIALLY at 20:14.”

“Baby, it’s fine,” he giggles, his hands settling on your hips. “They’re totally fine; you know my mom lives to make you happy!” You cross your arms over your chest, and he snickers as he raises up on his elbows, “just a quick bite to eat, a few laughs, then we can all go to bed, right?”

You exhale through your nose, and he tucks his lips in nervously.

“You know what?” You begin, relaxing your shoulders.

“What?”

“You’re right. You’re right! They’re just cooking. It’s fine.”

“Exactly! They’re fine.”

With that, you swing your legs off of your husband and scurry to the closet, and before he can ask, you grab a random stack of blankets to throw at his head. He screams at the sudden impact.

“Since they can whip up dinner, you can whip me up a bed on the couch. Since APPARENTLY you are just so okay with spontaneous forces of labor.”

He cackles some more as you mimic his “we’re hungry!” at random volumes, putting your clothes away in the drawers until his sweet old mother calls you both to the kitchen to eat, not too dissimilar from how she did when you were younger.

“I’m going to bury you alive,” you snarl at him, leaning into the arm tossed around your shoulders as you make your way down the hall to eat. “Watch your damn back. I’ll put cyanide in your food tomorrow, try me bitch.”

He merely snickers as you threaten him with the most bizarre forms of torture you can conjure, all while the smell of a hot supper fills the air around the house.

based on this video bc I love Lori and Noah 🥺🩷

[brucewaynehater101]

Have a Good(?) Mom Janet AU.

There is a cookbook in Drake Manor that no one but Tim and Janet are allowed to touch. There is also a shelf full of Spices that only they are allowed to touch. Every time Janet comes home, they both cook each other meals with the book and the spices. Tim makes himself food using the spices while she is gone. Janet makes sure to come home at least once a month so that they can cook together.

This cookbook has been passed down in Tim's family for many, many generations. To be taught from it and eventually gifted the book to add your own recipes to is seen as a sign of love and adoration. If a family has more than one child, a copy of the book is made so each child can have one, and if someone dies without any children to pass the book along to, their will always states for the book to be returned to a Drake. Sometimes branches of the family will get together to trade recipes that the later generations have come up with that aren't in their own books. It has been this way for well over 10 generations.

See, the special thing about this cook book? It doesn't have anything like Chili or Pasta or Candy or Cake or anything like that. No, this is a cookbook detailing things like how to brew a lovely tea made from Nightshade and Foxglove, how to milk a snake and then reduce it's venom down and which Spices to add in so that it can be used to coat a blade, and how to disguise the taste of bitter poison in sweet and savory foods.

It's a Cook Book of Poisons. Just like the shelf is full of things like arsenic, cyanide, dried poison dart frogs, hemlock, and so, so much more. If you can think of a poison, it's on the hidden shelf.

Tim is taught by his mother how to dose those he loves to over time make them immune to things, how to kill someone without leaving a trace, and how to tell poisons apart by taste, smell, and touch. Janet does this because she loves her son, just as Janet's mother did this for her because she loved Janet and on and on back in the family tree. She wants him to be safe and they are very rich and well known. She knows that this attracts Assassins. She can not protect him from Knives or bombs or guns, but she can protect him from this one thing. She will protect him because she loves him dearly.

Tim knows his mother loves him, why else would she always poison him? She explained to him when he was very little what she was doing and why and he believed her. He still does. Frankly, the partial immunity to basically all toxins has been really helpful as Robin. Plus he can use this to help the Bats! He can start micro dosing Bruce and Alfred and Dick right away by baking them cookies with poison! If they detect anything wrong, just tell them it's ok if they don't like the cookies he made while looking sad. They will cave instantly and eat anything he gives them, brushing Tim off as not a very good cook.

Tim also comes clean to his Mother (only her, not Jack. They don't have a bond like he and Janet do) about being Robin and honestly? She sags in relief and says she is so glad that someone is protecting him from the things she can not and teaching him how to defend against what nether can stop. There is a lot of crying and then Janet being Horrified when she finds out that Batman and Nightwing only have Average Gothemite Poison Resistance?? No special training??? Seems very, *very* stupid in their lie of work.

With this AU, Janet would be fine (or at least not dead) when she drinks the water. Jack may or may not have been fine as well (depends on if Janet was also microdosing Jack as well).

So, Tim's parents either die another way or just don't die. Maybe Jack still ends up dead (Boomerang and whatnot), but Janet lives.

Ooh! Feel free to contest, but this would also pave the way for some excellent Talia/Janet interactions (it could start out as enemies to lovers due to two of Talia's sons attacking Janet's son. Yet, Talia can't help but be intrigued by the Drake practice of poisons/venoms/resistance/immunity).

Anyways, Tim and Janet showing their love through cooking is precious. It'd also be hilarious if Janet, insulted by the Bats not being immune, tries to help Tim as well. She just constantly checks up with Tim's progress and offers any advice she needs to.

Damian and Jason probably have some resistance/immunity bulit up, but probably not to the extent the Drakes do in this AU. Cass is aware of what's going on and happily takes Tim's food every time (she can practically feel the love radiating off of the food).

[akindplace]

Hi, Brazilian blogger here. One of my favorite things about Brazilian food is how much variety there is but also the fact that some of the things we eat have to be done so carefully because it could hurt you. Or, at least, they look very odd.

It’s very common in my home state to eat pequi. It’s a small, yellow fruit, it is very, very sweet.

The problem is… that brown thing around the white seed? Thorns. Biting into one might mean you get it stuck in your tongue. But people still eat it, so it became known as the fruit of the state. And people put it in rice and... I’m not a big fan, I would rather not eat it because it is extremely sweet.

Maniçoba is famous in the North of Brazil, it has its origins in the culture of indigenous populations. It’s made from leaves, and it needs to be cooked for 7 (yes, seven) days as to reduce risks of poisoning, the plant is toxic because of the cyanide in it.

After it’s cooked, pork meat is usually added.

Last but not least, there is a plant called guaraná, and it looks like dozens of eyes staring at you. It’s not dangerous to eat. It has a lot of caffeine in it, so it’s used in energy drinks as a stimulant, and in a fizzy drink with the same name. I really like the way it seems to stare at your soul.

[shiro-00s]

heaven on earth ✭ ˎˊ-

ft. social media au ⸝⸝ idol!xiao x fem!reader

synopsis ; — in which you befriend your next door neighbour who, unbeknownst to you, was apart of a soon-to-be one of the most popular bands throughout liyue. you're unable to tell if cupid was helping you or not when things with xiao keept going up and down. will he continue to keep his secret from yours truly?

genre — 5wirl band au, next door neighbour (apartment but same thing), slow-burn, fluff, crack, angst (at some point yea), modern au, flirty x shy trope, sfw, includes writing ✰

status — discontinued

PROFILES — sleep deprived workaholics / an(emo) qties

table of contents !

00. prologue .. once upon a time ✮

01. cupid meter !

02. information acquired !

03. gift from stranger !

04. communication is key ✮

05. gift for stranger !

06. pride or nice !

07. unwinding !

08. a new number !

09. out of character !

10. unfamiliar warmth ✮

11. yet !

12. surely a dinner !

13. who he really is !

14. free tickets !

15. hint of the past !

16. arrivals !

17. face-to-face ✮

18. stupid scandal !

19. knock knock !

20. drastic measures !

21. mission accomplished !

22. war is over !

23. second date !

24. picture perfect ✮

25. enlighten us !

26. father-son bond !

27. maternal instinct !

28. family business !

29. a routine !

30. suffocating room !

31. oh no !

32. battlefield !

33. unwanted encounters ✮

34. at fault !

35. exciting news !

36. welcome back !

37. no denial !

38. square one !

39. oblivious !

40. a dumbass !

41. one step closer !

42. hand in marriage !

43. code red !

TAGLIST [OPEN] — @mikctp @ghostlysyntaxed @kazemiya @nnasv @gojoandelsalovechilde @candy-purple-cyanide @kissingkzuha @zyilas @lunaavity @luminescent-light @mave-in @rizakari @riikyu @kokoscutie @starsxnight @sketcheeee @softlie @izakyun @xiaxilia @the-sweet-madame

(ask to be added or removed)

[lorelaiblair]

Birthdays were always hard for Enid Sinclair.

Around the age of seven they stopped being days about celebrating her, and became an entire day full of ridicule and insults.

Why had she not wolfed out yet? her eldest brother had done it when he was 5.

It only got worse as she got older.

They never made it a point to talk about her while she wasn’t in the room.

She always heard it.

Maybe that’s why she always tried her hardest to give her friends good birthdays.

Why she threw a party that she honestly should have known that Wednesday wouldn’t have liked.

She wasn’t really all that mad at Wednesday, as much as she was realizing that nobody in her life loved her like she loved them. Wednesday couldn’t even act interested, her family couldn’t ever act like they cared about her past her ability to turn into a ‘real’ werewolf.

Enid tried and tried and tried, her entire life she fought to be worthy of love.

Wasn’t this proof? All over again, that no matter how hard she tried it wouldn’t matter?

No

It wasn’t

It didn’t take long for Enid and Wednesday to learn each other. it didn’t take long for them to start seeing what each other needed.

Now Enid wakes up on her birthday in a small house she and her girlfriend had turned into a home together. There is a pretty girl sitting next to her in bed, and a tray of all her favorite breakfast food’s in said girl’s hands.

“Happy birthday, mon amour” Wednesday says softly, before pressing her lips to Enid’s forehead.

They have breakfast in bed, and Enid can tell that Wednesday made the muffins from scratch by the hint of cinnamon that the goth girl claims tastes like cyanide.

Enid braid’s Wednesday’s hair, Wednesday helps Enid with her lipstick. They end up getting it everywhere. Wednesday has to wash her face a third time.

Wednesday takes her shopping, a true feat for the girl who hates color and other people. She only complains twice. She buys Enid everything she wants. It’s the only time a year that Enid lets her get away with that.

They have lunch at the mall food court, not without Wednesday’s insistence that Enid deserves more than gross mall food.

They have an early dinner at a fancy restaurant, one Enid had been talking about trying for months now.

They arrive home to a full house. Banners hung on walls and pastel balloons covering the floor. Friends and family jump out from behind walls and furniture to shout surprise, but they’ve done this for the past five years, it’s not much of a surprise anymore. That doesn’t make it any less sweet.

Enid squeezes Wednesday’s hand, a thank you. As the rest of the Addamses, who had loved Enid from the moment they met her, pull her into bone crushing hugs.

Her friends are next, Yoko ruffling her hair and Divina fixing it for her. Bianca kisses her cheek and Eugene holds her nearly as tight as the Addamses had. She and Ajax preform their ‘secret’ handshake and Enid feels celebrated.

She has it now. Everything that she has ever wanted.

A family.

[katz-chow]

deranged!reader & her task force (katz's version)

me & ur mother @moongreenlight are genuinely insane. this is basically us if it even care 😞

a/n: fem!reader all military names fake, processes fake; mostly it'd be classified, not just not done...well we wouldn't know for sure. medical shit also real. i’m in both of those fields irl. no i am not a swifty

clinically insane reader doesn’t rampage kill. art has many mediums; regular people choose acrylics, watercolor, culinary, pottery…reader chooses murder. it’s a meticulous process that depends on the person, it’s slow, drawn out. which makes her a great torturer. thing is, she was part of SEAL team tango-8 but focused more on SARC stuff (search and rescue). she knows her way around a suture kit—and, fortunately, surgical instruments.

laswell knew reader for two reasons: odd separation orders and her confirmed kill count. there was barely anything documented about her medical discharge which was weird because 98% of the military is just paperwork (a fucking pain btw). only thing noted was “medically discharged” and “0% disability”. her confirmed kill count? 43. happy to be back in uniform, she skips around the hallways to price, giving him a giant hug and a kiss on the cheek, whispering threats in his ear. “if you ever discharge me, i’ll dip you in concrete to be my custom statue.” a sickeningly sweet smile follows. as he furrows his brows in confusion and bit of horror.

soap tries really hard to like her and he really does. she's so sweet and always tries to include him in things and bakes him cakes and always somehow includes almonds, joking how it's actually just cyanide. soap laughs until he sees her have actual cyanide in the kitchen, carefully dropping it into the batter with an eyedropper. then a tsp of almond extract. it wasn't enough to hurt or kill anyone, but it scared him

he told ghost and ghost goes and investigates. then he sees reader one night, cleaning her instruments, different mallets, scissors, blades and knife handles etc. and they are pristine...not surgically pristine but definitely floor grade. he continues to watch her at 2100, without fail, and cleans her surgical instruments. until he sees her missing from her barracks from her open curtains. he goes and finds her carefully dressing a man like a buck. she sees him and smiles at him beckoning him closer. after he puts an end to that, with cuts and bruises, he goes and tattles to price. reader crying in the prison about how much she'll "miss her uniform" price and laswell speak about it and they finally know what the fuck us going on. they send her out on the field.

its just gaz, a few recruits, and reader in a safehouse. they've captured one prisoner, a soldier of the pmc against them. he's tied to a chair and after gaz runs over his psychological warfare in him. gaz fails and tiredly beckons for reader to come in. he finds her staring dead straight ahead, looking like she was falling asleep with her eyes wide open. he slowly calls out her name, no response. he calls again, same outcome. he taps her on her shoulder and her eyes fall into a "normal" state and smiles brightly at him, "my turns?!" gaz films it, the blood, the slow agony-per laswell and price's request reader starts to skin the soldier. starting with just a silly little joke about cuticles and then it goes higher and higher, the piece of skin never tearing. it's superficial, it barely draws blood. "does that hurt? don't worry, i'll help!" she blows cold air onto the exposed skin, drying out his flesh slowly while the blood keeps it from fully drying. gaz gulps, the camcorder on a tripod next to him. "it's okay, you're not going to die. and if you do...i'll make use of you, no waste! promise! gaz, can you pass me the kerrison rongeur, please?" gaz scrambles around in her kit, metal and metal clinking together in the heavy duty box. "the fucking hole puncher, gaz." she screams at him, causing him to jump. he finds the long, gun-like instrument, its blade pokes and punches together. he hands it to her, the work end first. she yanks it from him, nails scratching his hand in frustration, but that same smile on her face. she takes small chunks of flesh from the man, blood gushing and pools. she digs dipper until she hits an artery, blood splattering over them all. "the mosquito! give the fucking mosquito." she screams as the man in front of them bleeds out. she launches for it in her box and clamps down. the man half awake. gaz's chest heaves up and down, his face in shock and fearful freeze. reader storms out, face falls flat, no more smile, no brows furrowed, just a dead stare in front of her. "pieces of shit, human bodies are."

laswell pulls out any psych eval documents she can find. she finds exactly one set of documents: your medical discharge. price shows ghost and they stare at the replaying video on his monitor. the image of a wide, blank-eyed reader, hair and face dripping with crimson blood, a small clamp clicked to close an artery. they keep her. soap is the one who finds your bloody kit left in your barracks. chunks of flesh, blood, bone... and other bioburden seemingly never there at all. the shiny chromium finish looking as if they were never used at all. reader who failed out of medical school because of the lack of moral and ethics her professors and physcians saw in her. they banned her from residency.

"can i...have him..? please?" "why would you want an execution order? aren't you an interrogator?" "i want to see the peristalsis!" "the fucking what?" "how his intestines move in his body and squirm around like snakes!!!" she dissects the man in a way only a careful surgeon could. doyen clamps closed off certain sections as she sits and animates the movement on her ipad. the man inhales and exhales evenly, a bandage over his throat, eyes wide and dry from the lack of tears.

soap, as empathetic as he is, sees reader in chow, sitting by herself as she stares dead ahead, mind clouded in thoughts. her arms moves a bit, twiddling her thumbs under the table. he sits down across from her, her gaze staring pass him, face unreadable and almost bored looking. "you alright bonnie?" reader's face smiles, her eyes still dead and still as they lag behind the smile she puts on. her eyes squint. "yeah! why?" "twiddling your thumbs there, anxious about your second mission?" she puts her cupped together hands onto the tabletop. her hands unclasp. she twirls the severed thumbs around. "just a lot on my mind, yeah..."

"can i have it?" reader asks when she sees gaz's shiny teeth.

reader takes interrogations very seriously, taking souvenirs for herself. a finger carefully dried out, teeth, an ear, hair, vital organs in formaldehyde, eyes into earrings, tendons as rings and bracelets.

she gave price a birthday present which included a human heart, dried and shrunk in a glass displayed case. "made it myself", she says. "...on your own time, my love?" "yes, never company time!" his birthday is not public imformation.

ghost was missing a pow. he asks reader. "where is he?" "who?" "the prisoner..." "i let him go." "why the fuck would you do that?" "i'm going hunting, do you want to join? we can dress him in the field!"

"i got you flowers, ghost, for your mother's grave." "how the fuck do you know about that?" "you told me!" "i fucking didn't! now tell me who the fuck told you that shit?!" "you did, don't be silly. you told me over a glass of scotch...or many glasses actually!" she giggles as he slams her against the wall.

price wakes up one night, the spine-chilling feeling of a pair of eyes stalking him. he picks up the gun from his nightstand, clicking off the safety. he blinks a bit, vision clearing and seeing a figure in the shadowy corner. "go back to sle-" her body is slammed against the wall, gun to her head. "go to bed, price." "what...are you doing here?" price breathes out, trying to steady his racing heart, popping the gun back to safety. "wanted a piece of your hair."

gaz finds reader in his room after work one day, reader sweeping his house. he changed the locks within a week, locking all external doors and windows. reader leaves him breakfast every morning still. he trashes it after the cyanide incident. he wakes up to reader with a plate of eggs and toast over his bed. "please eat it and don't waste food :("

the task force lives their day to day lives with the feeling of impending doom, paranoia, and a feeling of dread washing over them all at once whenever they catch a glimpse of you. they beg price to remove you, but price would rather not be covered in cement while still alive.