#that this is still a pale imitation of what war looks like

[magnoliasandarson]

ice and stone, deadweight redux

In an odd sort of self-punishing way, Jason Todd liked to visit his own grave.

When he first "came back" he had half-crawled back to the unforgiving stone and thrown up, hysterically panicking when his mind told him it was dirt leaving his lips. He had wept and screamed until his voice gave out, trapped in a hellish loop of warring phantom sensations. One second, he was burning alive- the next, suffocating on icy mud.

But that was then, and this is now.

Now, he had once again been unable to keep his cool at a Wayne family function. Now, he had shattered an expensive-looking crystal glass in his fist and stormed out of the formal dining room. Now, he was a monster to them again. Merry-fuckin-Christmas.

So, here he sat, perched six feet over where his corpse once lay, and mourned the boy that should exist instead of him.

It was oddly festive in the cemetery. Blood-red poinsettias and fragrant garlands adorned every other monument, with little LED candles glimmering here and there. The rubble of Sheila Haywood's marble gravestone sparkled in the reflection of bright city lights—like twinkling stars shining accusingly over at him. Sue him, but Jason had taken a crowbar to her marker almost immediately after arriving in Gotham.

He stared at the epitaph: Rest in Peace. There was crystal from his glass still embedded in his hand, glittering like diamonds amidst the rivulets of blood leaving his palm. His eyes followed the journey of the shimmering scarlet over his thigh and down to the powdery snow under him.

He didn't really remember crawling out. The pits had taken away the brunt of the scars, but there were still white lines traced into the tan skin of his hands. He didn't care to think about how deep the scarring must have been for it to stay.

Jason found himself trapped, staring at the red flowers blooming beneath him. Some part of him wondered if the blood would find its way to the wreckage of his casket, to the gore he'd left in his wake so long ago. Logically, he figured Dick would wander over soon, once he got done yelling at Bruce and arguing with Damian.

He never guessed it would be Tim.

"Hey," Jason would never in a million years admit it, but he was privately a little pleased that Tim had come looking for him. He had fucked up so spectacularly with his brother, had given him every reason to despise him- to want him dead, and yet, here Tim was. Awkwardly standing just on the other side of Jason's headstone, face pinched like he'd eaten an especially sour lemon.

Jason tilted his head up, something in his neck cracking as his chin left his sternum, "Sup, Timbit."

Tim looked genuinely pained as he stepped around the grave and lowered himself to sit a few feet away on the snow, "Y'know, just seeing the sights, festive lights, my brother bleeding out in snow- the holiday favorites."

Jason barked a laugh as something in his shoulders loosened, the kid was a bit of a bastard but he was funny, "You get forced to check on the charity case?"

"Drew the short straw, yeah," Tim's face was pale, save for the red coloring his nose, "do you need a med kit?"

Jason Peter Todd; Beloved Son and Friend. Jason's lips half formed the words as he read them over again; when the blood started roaring in his ears, he clenched his fist around the shards- the fresh wave of pain grounding him, "This won't kill me."

"That's not what I asked," the vehemence in Tim's words snapped Jason out of his half-daze, electric teal eyes landing on furrowed eyebrows and a stormy gaze, "Jason, are you okay?"

Jason huffed a weak imitation of a laugh, "Is anyone in this family?"

"This isn't about them," Tim immediately countered, a line on his forehead forming. Jason hated himself for it, for making Tim look like that. This was his little brother, a kid, really, and he looked twice his age because he was forced to babysit the family basketcase.

Jason used his non-gory hand to reach into his jacket pocket and take out a cigarette. "Just tired, Tim," he tucked the unlit cigarette between his lips, lighting it up as he muttered, "That's all—just tired."

Tim's face blurred behind a cloud of smoke, for a moment erasing the unlived age from his features, "You should get more sleep."

"Hypocrite," Jason snapped back with no real heat. It was true; he should have been the one telling Tim to sleep.

The smoke cleared between them as Jason took a long, deep drag. Tim looked half apologetic as he almost whispered, "This family's specialty."

Jason scoffed, unable to stop himself from nearly shouting, "You don't need to tell me that," he pointed his cigarette to the ice-glazed stone before them, "I'm not even a Wayne, Mr. CEO Drake-Wayne." It was cruel, it was mean, but Jason couldn't force himself to care.

Tim's face contorted again, coloring up to his ears with old anger and bitterness. Some cruel part of Jason's mind cheered. Finally, the kid was going to be honest. Go on, yell at the boogeyman who hurt you, tell him to go to Hell. Really end the holiday with a bang. The kid took a long, controlled breath, and evenly asked, "Are you okay, Jason?"

Jason grimaced at the bullshit question, pressing his bloody palm into the scarlet snow as he stood, flicking his spent cigarette at Sheila, "Just dead weight, Tim,"

He turned his back to the boy shivering on the snow, "That's all I ever was."

[musee-de-muse]

Never Again

DWC November 2024

Day 5: Captive/Skill

OC: Rashka Bloodrinker, Orc, Warsong Clan

@daily-writing-challenge

Artist/Source; and some mood music, if you're into that!

The recent 'scuffle' in the Highlands had put her hackles up – because if this seasoned soldier knew anything, it was that humans would always find another reason to fight... and there were more than enough old Orcs with the fires of enmity burning hot in their hearts, as well.

And she was one of them.

But she was no fool, either – she respected the Warchief... and the Council that had sprung up, in the place of one. Peace meant a future where no one that looked like her ever had to pick up an axe, and die before they ever got to live... but she was a realist – and an old one, in a world where not many Orcs ever got the chance to get old.

It was a simple fact - war never changes. Rashka still carried with her the fact that her entire childhood had been stolen by humans - a whole generation of Orcs had lost that time. Her parents had managed to keep her safe from the warlocks, and get through the portal... only to face war on one side, and soldiers on their own furious that children had been brought through the portal -refusing to allow them to stay.

Out of the fire, and into the frying pan.

She'd been forced to watch as a young girl, as her grandmother faded away under the cruel boot of human oppression; she'd had to watch, as her parents couldn't bring themselves to mourn, even, when the elderly woman had simply stopped moving one day. The life had gone out of all of the Orcs, as they drifted listlessly about their enclosures. Even now, at her advanced age, it made the war scout's blood boil – no child should have to see those things... the desecration of her culture, of her elders - of their fierce, and proud spirits. She had been young, in the beginning - understanding... without understanding.

But she had become a woman under the watchful eye of Lordaeron – a woman denied a life, a proper family, knowledge of her culture... no Om'gora – the list of what they had stolen from the Orcs went on. The humans hadn't just won, they had spent years grinding their former enemies into pale, pathetic imitations of “Orcs.”

So it was, when Thrall came, that she had been ready – even if it might have taken a bit longer for those more senior than her to be stirred... she was a young woman in her prime, then. A young woman hungry to take back from those soft, pink hands of her captors what they had stolen from her: life.

In the here and now, Rashka set aside the arrow shaft she'd been working on, satisfied that she could move on to fletching, next, and sighed to herself – she'd been stalking the wilds of Azeroth since she was a child, and the old Orc had learned that more than half the hunt was simply... lying in wait. So she would do what she had always done: prepare. There was plenty of work to be done in Dornogal and its hidden depths, as it stood – and those Arathi rats they'd found scrabbling underground? The ones that made her fingers twitch, and creep for her bow, or her axe... they would be a problem, one day, as well – their “sincerity” lost on her, though she could see how the fanatics had begun to endear themselves to many others.

Thankfully, it had been far too long since Arathi blood had painted her face – so when they looked up from their holy crystal one day, and turned their blades on their former allies? She would be ready – there, again, to defend the Horde from the kingdoms of man until battle finally saw fit to claim her.

[sashi-ya]

𝐓𝐎𝐗𝐈𝐂//𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐋𝐘 Jugram x Arrancar! F! Reader x Virgin! Adult! Uryu. [+18]

⋆ au: some years after the war, where the Quincy have won. Uryu is +20 y/o ⋆ tw: mdni. threesome. virgin Uryu gets a lesson from Jugram. oral. cum swallowing. humilliation. cream pie. fingering. ⋆ taglist: @hohoooowhy @cyberdazetragedy @stygianoir @tsuukichan

“Haschwalt, Uryuu… when will you two cooperate to make me a little bit happier?” “ Your majesty, I am always open to do so”

White capes blowing against the sordid winds of the Silbern. Purest black strands and blonde ones, imitating the motions. Your image reflected on those glasses, and the shine of a sword that seems to balance the weight of the world on its edge.

The hollow in your chest, so dark as the void you feel in what once represented your heart. Who are these people? Why are they here? Why did they do the things they do to your people? What do they want from such arid lands, where the sun is never up and a moon shines eternally on a dry sky?

“What is this woman doing here?” the glasses wearing man asks. Your muffled gasp still audible gets to his ears.

That young adult has eyes as blue as a deep sea, and the finest face expressions you ever seen.

“Your Majesty has brought her to you as a gift, appreciate it. A true King needs to have fun sometimes too” the blonde one says, his face is barely visible underneath the Sternritter hat and the long strands popping.  

“Is not just for Uryu, Haschwalt. Share her, get along. I need you two cooperating for the greater good of the new world” the man that has brought only pain and destruction to your endless lands of sand says. And those words make you shiver, the way the blonde man gasps and how he takes off his hat… showing underneath a beautiful masculine depiction of perfection.

It won’t be admitted, until that king looking man leaves, that none of the guys standing in front of you wanna hurt you. However, you can see it in their eyes.

But your work there was, in order to have your fracciones and your life forgiven, to please the Quincy…

And just about two or three seconds after the maroon caped old man flew out of the place, both men came closer to you.

“Don’t worry, we don’t need you to do anything” the one, apparently named Uryuu, says. He assures you, in all honesty that nothing will happen to you as long as you keep it quiet.

However, the blonde one, refuses to follow Uryuu’s sayings.

“Your Majesty said we have to use her” he categorically says, so impassively it’s almost scary.

“Use her? What do you think she is, Jugram?” the dark-haired youngster says, almost bumping heads with the blonde one.

Jugram’s turquoise eyes fix on the deep blue ones that so morally are judging him, and sighs.

“You are gonna be the king, aren’t you? Why are you afraid, Ishida Uryu? Do you regret taking our Majesty’s blood? Are you sure you are on this side?”

The hate in between both men grows stronger every second it passes, and it feels like your knees will collapse soon. You need to stop them, but most importantly, make sure you will do your work… if not, there is a lot involved that you might lose.

“Jugram-sama! Uryu-sama! I’m here, willingly offering my body for you both to take as many bites as you desire from it!”

Silence takes over, their noses almost touching and their frowning so very serious now takes a glimpse of your subduing posture on the ground.

On your knees, covered by white clothes that you slowly unzip to reveal the purest form of your Arrancar body.

“Please, use me. I wanna please you both” you purr, in hopes of luring them into your trap of honey and lust.

Uryu swallows; pale cheeks blushed, sprinkled with reddish shame. Jugram tilts his head, slowly to the right. His blonde bangs softly caress the bridge of his straight nose, and an almost visible smirk garnishes his lips.

“Go ahead, future King… dig in” he murmurs, pushing Uryuu to be the one to take the first taste. Out of pure courtesy, perhaps. Or who knows why.

You nod, fixing into the deep blue eyes of the future ruler of the Quincies. “Come… sir, please” you whisper, stretching your right hand to him.

Wary steps are taken towards your submissive persona; is not that Uryuu isn’t interested in the bouncing motion of your breasts, or the fresh flesh displayed for his only enjoyment, but right now? This way? He is already an adult, but he has never… not after winning the war.

“May I ask, future King… you wish to be guided?” Jugram asks, as keen as always, when noticing Uryuu’s doubts come from inexperience.

The dark-haired man isn’t able to look you nor him in the eyes, but rather to the side. His lips semi open, the accelerated breathing, the warmth on his lips and in between his legs… a body so desperate, a mind so confused, a soul so naïve.

“Yes…” he sighs.

“Very well, then. Should I show you how to please a woman?” Jugram asks, lifting you in one swift swing up from your hand.

Uryuu fixes his glasses, using his left index to move the frame upwards. “Hnn…” he nods, this time adopting a position of a younger brother. What it takes for him to finally be taught something so basic, instead of being required to rule a new world with the blood of his friends still dripping all around.

Jugram takes a good look at your body proportions with squinting eyes. He is probably calculating where and how to touch for his motions to be the most effective. He still needs to show the future king the perfect way this is done.

When he finally positions himself behind you, a shiver runs through your back. You were there because of different reasons, but you couldn’t blame yourself for experiencing real desire for those two men. The experienced teacher, and the virginal pupil, both about to enjoy a new lesson based in your body…

When the cold hand of the blonde comes from behind, and places it over your breast, you squirm a little.

“Stay still, we are here to show our future king how to please a piece of meat like you” he murmurs, right in your ear. It makes you bite your lip; it makes you moan when he finally pulls from your hardened nipple.

Jugram shows his pupil how rock and erect your pleasure points are in between his slender delicate fingers. You look to the side, but still, you are able to see how Uryuu fixes his eyes into the turgor of your chest.  “I’m sure you know about erogenous zones; you’ve been studying the human body. This is one of them. You need to pull, touch, and if you feel fancy enough… use your mouth to do it. In fact, you could use your mouth all over… even your teeth”

The blonde, turns you to the side with no mercy. And with no mercy he also sits you over the huge white table in the centre of that cerulean lights room.  

“Never, ever you should kneel. Is the woman who should be lifted if it’s small enough for your lips not to reach her breasts” Jugram sentences; he takes it very seriously; he is raising a true king.

He cups your chest with one of his hands as his pale lips reaches for your nipple. First, the tip of his tongue. Then, the wet sensation of it, dampening your hardness. And ultimately, the sharp surface of his teeth, nibbling on them, making your head to be thrown back in total pleasure.

“See? She likes it. Now, if you want it to be faster so that you can use her insides you need to prep her” Jugram says, as if you were non-existent, like a piece of meat, like a doll to use…

And you couldn’t care less; as Jugram’s fingers open its way inside your sex. He didn’t take much to undress you, the white skirt wouldn’t cover much either way.

The pumping motions start slowly and from there the rhythm increases. Reflected on Uryuu’s glasses is the image of your body reaction to such blissful movements, going in and out, always hitting up so that you feel like you are about to burst.

“See how she retorts? It is exactly because she wants more… right, you slut? As a Quincy we should kill you, but first this hole should be useful” the blonde spits, so indecently fingering you while he does nothing but degrade you.

Uryu, who fights a moral battle inside himself, focuses on the way his white pants are now tightly crushing his erection. Why is he hard to such humiliation… when did he become the way he did? Why he is moving on his own, right now?

You whine louder as the glasses boy is also all over you in a blink of an eye. His delicate hand grab you by your cheeks, pressing hard with violence he never knew he had.

He swallows, letting his cape fall to the ground while cracking his neck. Your pleading eyes, and your opened lips are like a beautiful trap in which he had fallen.

Jugram has now added uncountable number of fingers inside you while pulls from your hair back to show your neck to his friend. Like the Devil presenting temptation to the young apprentice, he invites him to carve his teeth on your body.

And that’s exactly what Uryu does. He bites, as if he was trying to retrieve blood from your carotid, leaving marks in your skin. He takes the time, next, to smell the scent of your sweating sex flesh.

His soft lips travel up and down, the tip of his tongue too.

Jugram finds it fascinating; it doesn’t matter how much of a virgin Uryu could be, a man’s instinct can lead the way perfectly fine. And he notices, also, the way his pupil slowly kisses down your belly towards your already about to burst sex.

The blonde stops the masturbating pumps and allows Uryu to reach your folds as he can see his avid need to drink from it.

“Guess I don’t have to explain how to do that, huh?” he kinda laughs, something weird coming from the balanced man. And while Uryu gets lost in the perfume of your dripping core, he makes sure you spread your legs as it is proper.

And after slapping your inner thighs Jugram enjoys the way your eyes turn white when the tip of his next king’s tongue reaches for your salty taste.

Your belly spasms, your back arches but even if you wish you could lay on it over the table, Jugram won’t let you. His hand hasn’t stop pulling from your hair, and it’s both painful and pleasant.

“Do you think we are here just to please you? Open your mouth” he commands, moving your head towards him while he lets his zipper down.

You swallow, knowing that saliva will be the last thing you will have before his hardness hits your throat. And indeed, he lifts one of his legs over the table so that his crotch could reach your mouth, and guiding his sex inside your mouth, he makes you gag.

The frame of Uryu’s glasses carve into your thighs, as you involuntarily close your legs. He is not worried; he is actually enjoying the warmth of your skin against his blushed cheeks.

Your juices drip from the lips that once were tinted in blood, to his chin as if he was devouring a fruit. Uryu eats you out desperately; his senses have been overly stimulated and he swears he could cum by just this.

His eyes sometimes scan the way his blonde teacher makes you gag, with all of his length buried in your throat. He can only think of doing the same next. The tears running through your cheeks, the way you run out of oxygen, the protrusion of Jugram’s dick showing on your throat… why is he enjoying this? why the more you plead for mercy the more he gets harder, and harder?

In any case, the sudden explosion of your breathless climax amazes him. Uryu can feel your inner walls clenching to his fingers, and your orgasm invading his tongue.

Drop by drop, he feeds well off you. While Jugram grunts, because your mouth tries to close on its own as you come.

“Don’t bite, you bitch!” he protests, slapping your cheek hard enough to feel it but still soft enough not to hurt you. He might speak that way, but he is indeed very delicate on its own. He won’t go deeper for an inch more; he knows how not to cause you damage.

Uryu stands up, watching Jugram about to reach his own orgasm with the wetness of your mouth around his dick. He looks at his glasses wearing “little brother” with a smirk.

“I know you wanna fuck her, go ahead. Fill her cunt, I will stuff his stomach with my cum” he says, in between breathy pants. Words that surprise Uryu to no extent, where is the sophisticated Jugram he knows?

You give him a look, with blurry vision and a needy broken sight. You wanna tell him to do it, you want Uryu to fuck you and fill you up as Jugram said. You hope that your looks will be enough for him to understand, because you can’t use your mouth as it begins to get flooded with warm, sticky, white release.

He gets the message, clearly. But he is still inexpert; he thinks he knows what to do, but he doesn’t really.

Haschwalt sticks his dick out, pumping with his hands the last drops of his orgasm onto your lips. His seed drips from your lips to your neck and into your breasts, and it’s ok.

“Come on, fuck her… or should I show you that too?” he mocks his dark-haired companion while coming closer to him.

Jugram stands behind Uryu, grabbing a fistful of his straight hair. In other situation he could have been killed for doing so to the future king, but Uryu didn’t mind; he was too lost in pleasure to even think about it.

The blonde Quincy whispers on his ear, pushing him against you slowly and dominantly. “remember what our majesty told us… use her, now”

Reddish cheeks and warm breathe kissing Uryu’s lips, his eyelids sloppily falling down as he fixes his eyes in yours. His white pants fall to the ground, and the wet spot on his underwear grows bigger as his hardness does to.

You can only wait for his intrusion, eagerly to be penetrated, panting, and cleaning the still rests of Jugram’s cum off your lips and chin.

Uryu’s pale hand pump his never used sex, getting him ready to slide right in as Jugram spreads your legs surrounding Uryu from behind, leaving him in between you and him.

“Go…” he murmurs, ordering so sweetly. “Ye-yes” Uryu stutters, getting ready to fix all the time lost.

He is delicate, but it feels amazingly well. He slides in, resting, as Jugram grab him by his hip for a moment, right by your entrance. “Calm down, do it slower at first”

It’s so perverse to see Jugram believe he is the right of taking the lead, but it’s even more depraved that Uryu seems to be enjoying it even more than both you and Jugram.

“Now, begin moving… fuck her rough” the blonde finally says, while smiling so corruptly towards you as if he wanted to warn you of something. Perhaps, he was happy to find the perfect hollow to use on and on.

Like a total slave of desire, with no humanity left whatsoever, his glasses get foggy, and you take them off his beautiful face. Jugram allows you to close your legs, trapping Uryu with them around the waist.

You lift your hips up, allowing for him to go even deeper in that steady rhythm he has so easily learned to maintain. Carving nails like claws into his soft back, allowing for him to moan into your mouth, as you do the same.

Sometimes you take a look at the man who taught him; Jugram is sitting on one of the couches, ready to continue once his pupil is over.

But the one who is almost over, is you. And the grunts and moans become louder and faster. Your insides clench, milk your lover desperately. Uryu can feel it, he shakes, he bites your lip pulling with no mercy from them. You fix your eyes into his deep blue ones, mumbling something similar to an “I’m coming” and “please don’t stop”.

Of course he won’t stop, he can’t even if he wanted to. And soon after you carve your heel into the small of his back as you climax, he does to.

Uryu slams the table right next to you, as he is sweating and filling you up. What a beautiful façade of pure extasy and delicious desire…

More, I want more. From the regret to the need. Hollows might be toxic to Quincy, but Quincy aren’t toxic to Hollows… only deadly.

[666writingcafe]

Asmo's Greatest Fear

Content Warning: personal headcanon about Asmo's injuries from the Great War, discussion about death

I stand alone in a room surrounded by mirrors, forced to confront my actual appearance. Not the one I've spent many hours perfecting via various beauty products and spells, not the one I assume as a demon, but my true form.

We all have scars from the war. Lucifer obviously has the most, since he was the one directly fighting Father, but after observing the others, I believe I come in a close second. I was the only one among us that had no prior experience in fighting or even self-defense. I mean, I could attack using my words, but even the most scathing insults can't do much against swords and spells.

Needless to say, the "jewel of the heavens" is now a pale imitation of what he once was.

The right side of my face is burned beyond recognition. I lost all the hair there, too, and I doubt it's ever coming back. The other side is littered with scars, and what hair I do have is thin and wispy, on the verge of snapping off. Both the burns and scars move down my body in an uneven criss-cross pattern. There's not a smooth patch of skin to be found anywhere.

It's easy for people to say things like "don't judge a book by its cover" or "it's on the inside that counts" when they're looking at conventional beauty, but when they're presented with someone like me, all that goes out the window. In their eyes, I'm a freak. A monster. At best, something to feel sorry about.

And there lies the problem with this form: I'll never be treated like a person with thoughts and emotions. I'm reduced to a sideshow attraction for others to gawk at. Not even my brothers are exempt from this gut reaction. Oh, they've learned to temper it as they've gotten used to it, but there's still that momentary flash of disgust or pity when they catch me like this.

Perhaps it's fitting that I became the Avatar of Lust. It grants me, among other things, the power of illusion. I can appear however I want, and using that alongside my charm ensures that people like me.

And that I'm not destined to be alone.

"EEEEW! You're UGLY!"

I turn my head in time to catch a round black creature fly across the room, its back hitting a mirror. Rope soon wraps around it as a piece of tape appears to cover its mouth.

"I can't believe that actually worked." Zephyr? "I tell you what, Asmo, your Little D. is a real pain in the ass." What I assume to be No. 5 thrashes in protest. I wish I had it in me to chuckle at the sight, but any time I try to move any part of my face, it ends up looking contorted.

Making me look even more like a monster.

Satisfied with No. 5's condition, Zephyr turns their full attention onto me. Their eyes travel up and down my body so intensely that I wish the ground would swallow me whole. Silence is almost worse than words where this is concerned.

"Tell me, do you wish you were dead?" The question catches me off guard. It doesn't help that they asked it so casually, like they're inquiring about the weather.

"Wh-what?"

"If you had the choice between existing in this form or not existing at all, would you run eagerly into death's arms and let it take you away from all your suffering?"

"I..." Tears threaten to fall down my face. "I mean, I've thought about it."

"How many times?" Did I upset them? Their tone certainly makes it seem that way.

"I don't know! I've--"

"--lost count?" I can only manage to nod my head. Zephyr appears seconds away from biting my head off, and I'm honestly trying to not provoke them any further.

No. 5 raises its hand, and Zephyr magically makes the tape over its mouth disappear.

"3,613,969," it gasps. "At least since my creation, anyway." Zephyr nods their head as they make the tape reappear. After a few moments of contemplation, they quietly mutter,

"41."

"What?"

"3,613,969 seconds is roughly equivalent to 41 days," they explain. "Obviously, we don't have that much time on our hands, because we're expected to wake up sooner rather than later, so I'll just have to do the first one now and give you the other 40 once we've recovered from this experience." What in the actual hell is Zephyr talking about? Give me 40 what? Insults? Beatings?

My confusion seems to amuse Zephyr, for a slight smirk forms on their face.

"I still see you, Asmo. Your scars don't scare me." They step closer to me. "But I know you want proof, so here it is." Before I can fully register their words, they quickly close the gap between us and kiss me.

Hard.

Taglist: @lost-in-time-wanderer, @fuzztacular, @dianedancer18, @sweetbrier2908, @flare-love, @completelyshatteredbrokenmschf, @thunderlightning351, @l3v1chan, @anxious-chick, @5mary5, @expressionless-fr, @tenkobitch, @budbuddnbuddy

[unknownjpegs]

cute

He finds the wounded soldier in the thin alley of a downtown city turned war zone. There is the steady firework like sound of guns in the distance, his fingers swiftly turning down the crackling comm at his shoulder—mingled with the unstoppable and terrifying atmosphere of radianites somewhere, fighting. Smoke makes the otherwise bright mid afternoon sun a dull, lifeless corpse in the sky. No clouds. Just the smear of two universes colliding for one resource that is worth the scattered destruction.

Xavier stands at the mouth of the alleyway as the soldiers stares at him. His hand is sealed over a wound at his hip. There isn’t enough blood that it’s lethal—maybe. Unless he can’t get up, find cover, or be rescued by whatever team he might have left when Xavier’s unit is done. He’s not injured, but the evidence of fighting is still there. Dusty rubble on his all black gear. There’s a rip over the side of his black balaclava, red hair poking out like an outburst of fire. His arms are sore, but the sledgehammer is tied neatly to his back again.

Jesus, he thinks. I want to go home.

“Fuck you,” the solider barks, surprisingly sturdy with it. He’s aiming an empty handgun at Xavier. He only knows it’s empty because he’s been staring at this soldier for a long minute, watching as he fumbles out an empty medic bag, as he checks the slide on his handgun, as he slaps the heel of his palm to his forehead and swears under his breath. His accent is muddied and rough. For a while, Xavier’s been trying to place it—he’s pretty good at that. He likes geography.

Glass from a broken window crunches underneath his heavy boots as he walks down the alley. There is a distant sssss like a smoke grenade has been released. The sky lights up briefly green, but the smoke is downwind. Avoids them. The soldier twists a bit, raises the gun more—he’d have an accurate shot. He’d get Xavier right in the head—he has to respect that. Not useless then, just abandoned. Bloody in an alley. Medic used all his medic supplies on others.

Xavier stops only a few footsteps away, his own rifle in his hands. Not aimed yet.

“Well? Fuckin’ do it then—coward. Dickhead,” the wounded one snaps and throws the gun. It hits Xavier in the shoulder, clattering against the ground. In the hazy smoked out sunlight, the enemy looks washed out and exhausted. Sweat makes black curly hair cling to dark brown skin. There are deep bruises underneath big, pretty eyes. The cement beneath him is dark red, smudged, with the way he’d sunk down. He doesn’t look small, even though Xavier is standing at his full height and the enemy is sitting. Injured.

“Need help figurin’ it out, arsehole? The little trigger there, you just aim up that stupid fuckin’ rifle—”

“Do you ever shut up?” Xavier asks, his gloved hand tearing off his balaclava. His sweaty, messy hair sticks up in all directions. His skin is wet with the perspiration, so he wipes a palm across his face. He’s smiling too, that big, nasty wolf like grin that has earned him so much of a reputation. It’s too wide on his long face, shows too much of his teeth.

“Your mum,” the downed soldier snips coldly. His eyes narrow suspiciously, his hand briefly unsealing from his hip wound. He turns pale at that—which makes Xavier wonder what his skin might look like flush and full of life and blood and energy. The hand presses down again.

“Mum,” Xavier imitates as he rips the pack from his side. He approaches and kneels swiftly. There’s a distinct shhhhhk sound and he feels the cold press of a blade to his exposed throat. For a brief moment, the survival instinct pressing inside his skull from some ancient, never lost caveman era has him thinking of violence. Slamming the man forward, wrenching the knife, breaking a wrist.

Instead, he continues to unzip his pack. The knife doesn’t move. His eyes glance up briefly and his smile curls wider. The soldier is staring at him, pupils dilated so wide he looks drugged. Xavier tilts his head to the side somewhat, clicks his tongue.

“You know,” he pulls materials out the bag. “I’m shitty at this.”

“Yeah? You look it, mate. Why are you—”

Xavier wraps a hand around the others wrist, slowly pulls it away from the injury to his hip. He can’t see too well with the gear, plastered to the skin, glued by the tacky, drying blood. He scoots closer and feels the knife slowly slide away. He doesn’t pay it any attention as he gently (he hasn’t been gentle in a long time) peels up the under shirt to reveal a deep and unfortunate knife wound.

“Oh,” he says. “Wow. That fucking sucks.”

“It’s missed the important bits.”

“You don’t say,” Xavier says with a lurid, sarcastic drag of his eyes south of the wound. He wiggles his brows a bit—and is stunned when the soldier laughs. It’s a bitten off sound accompanied by a groan, a hand moving back to the wound. Xavier gets closer still. The smell of sweat and blood and gunpowder is overwhelming, when he should be all too used to it. The distant fighting seems to die away at the sound of the man breathing. He uses his teeth to rip into an alcohol pad and start cleaning at the wound.

Silence falls for a moment. Silence except their breathing. Then—

“Xavier,” he says, tearing open the fancy skin-like pad that covers wounds, keeps them clean. Promotes healing; this level of advancement has always unnerved Xavier. He slowly uses his palm to cup and squeeze it over the soldiers hip. His hand stays there for a moment. Maybe longer than a moment. If he didn’t have his glove on, they’d be skin to skin like that.

“Benji.”

“Really?” Xavier smiles again, brows turned upward.

“What?” His hands are suddenly shoved away, the enemy soldier trying to adjust himself against the wall. His cheeks have more color to them then, a little pinch of a dark red, splotchy and high on his cheekbones. His dark brows tuck together and the menacing sit of his lips is a sneer—but he’s pretty. He’s very pretty, even when he’s staring at Xavier like that. He has eyelashes too long and full. A dark curl sticks to his cheek.

“Just—it’s a cute name. I guess. Wasn’t expecting it.”

He stands then. Xavier is willowy tall, all legs. He puts a hand to the wall, leaning his weight there a bit. He casts a shadow down on the soldier, the sun behind him. He stares down as Benji stares up.

“Guess I’ll see you around, Benji,” he says, with a cocky wink.

“We probably shouldn’t,” the soldier replies.

“No, I got a feeling, you know?” Xavier walks backward as he talks, unslings his rifle from his shoulder. He checks it, inspects the chamber, glances out the end of the alley. More green has appeared in the sky, smearing the view. “Plus, I’m recognizable now. No one forgets a ginger.” He points to the mess of red, sweat damp hair.

“Red heads aren’t my type, mate.”

“Man, bullshit. Red heads are everyones type.”

The crash sound of something big and heavy has Xavier retreating without another word. All fun depleted as he sets himself to running toward the rest of the fighting, at a savage and hard pace. His hand, shaky and awkward turning his comms back on.

That was the last of his supplies.

[skxrbrand]

As with most of her missions that turn this bloody, she is alone — or at least not immediately accompanied by Revenant forces. It is an absolute bloodbath; the Hyena has carved a trail of gore straight through the facility’s would-be security team to the loading bay. They’d evidently known there would be trouble and had deployed some unspecified Tyrant variant to guard the trucks…for what good that had done them. The BOW, too, is left in a bloody heap. Hawker is too fast and too quick with a knife (and Uroboros’s caustic hunger) for a large, lumbering adversary, and departs the fallen and twitching corpse to finish her massacre.

The blood-rage fades enough, eventually, for her to realize she isn’t alone. It isn’t the sort of presence she’s used to, but it does elicit a deep growl inappropriate for something mostly human-shaped (mostly, because the oily black biomass of her mutation still coat her right shoulder and side like jagged and slithering armor, tendrils deployed deep into the nourishing guts of a corpse whose wriggling and whimpering is probably mostly dying neurotransmitters.

She detects motion and the rumble rises into a warning snarl, razor teeth on display.

Tyrants. Man-made creatures, supposedly made for war. But to the Architect, they are nothing but pale imitations of true chaotic violence assembled by fat-fingered children. Bio-weapons. Ha! What are the mutants of man to the those spawned haphazardly by chaos?

The Daemonic presence is both familiar and foreign, aura and scent both. Surely, it is a monster come to bear down on Hawke but not one of the brothers. Red of flesh, hulking and misshapen, shambling forth with an almost obscene swell of muscular arms and legs. The head, though certainly there, is hard to make out: a hellish mish-mash of man and bovine and beast that tormented the eye to look upon.

But worse yet, the creature isn't alone. Several more of them, equally disgusting in their own unique ways, seem to detect her through whatever senses managed to survive in their ravaged bodies. It would appear so much bloodshed in the presence of so much Khornate Corruption has it's consequences.

Consequences that surge hungrily towards Hawke, muscles bulged and clawed fingers at the end of trunk-like arms outstretched...

[hauntedjpegcollection]

coward

wc: 1286 au: valorant au ch: xavier, benji

He finds the wounded soldier in the thin alley of a downtown city turned war zone. There is the steady firework like sound of guns in the distance, his fingers swiftly turning down the crackling comm at his shoulder—mingled with the unstoppable and terrifying atmosphere of radianites somewhere, fighting. Smoke makes the otherwise bright mid afternoon sun a dull, lifeless corpse in the sky. No clouds. Just the smear of two universes colliding for one resource that is worth the scattered destruction.

Xavier stands at the mouth of the alleyway as the soldiers stares at him. His hand is sealed over a wound at his hip. There isn’t enough blood that it’s lethal—maybe. Unless he can’t get up, find cover, or be rescued by whatever team he might have left when Xavier’s unit is done. He’s not injured, but the evidence of fighting is still there. Dusty rubble on his all black gear. There’s a rip over the side of his black balaclava, red hair poking out like an outburst of fire. His arms are sore, but the sledgehammer is tied neatly to his back again.

Jesus, he thinks. I want to go home.

“Fuck you,” the solider barks, surprisingly sturdy with it. He’s aiming an empty handgun at Xavier. He only knows it’s empty because he’s been staring at this soldier for a long minute, watching as he fumbles out an empty medic bag, as he checks the slide on his handgun, as he slaps the heel of his palm to his forehead and swears under his breath. His accent is muddied and rough. For a while, Xavier’s been trying to place it—he’s pretty good at that. He likes geography.

Glass from a broken window crunches underneath his heavy boots as he walks down the alley. There is a distant sssss like a smoke grenade has been released. The sky lights up briefly green, but the smoke is downwind. Avoids them. The soldier twists a bit, raises the gun more—he’d have an accurate shot. He’d get Xavier right in the head—he has to respect that. Not useless then, just abandoned. Bloody in an alley. Medic used all his medic supplies on others.

Xavier stops only a few footsteps away, his own rifle in his hands. Not aimed yet.

“Well? Fuckin’ do it then—coward. Dickhead,” the wounded one snaps and throws the gun. It hits Xavier in the shoulder, clattering against the ground. In the hazy smoked out sunlight, the enemy looks washed out and exhausted. Sweat makes black curly hair cling to dark brown skin. There are deep bruises underneath big, pretty eyes. The cement beneath him is dark red, smudged, with the way he’d sunk down. He doesn’t look small, even though Xavier is standing at his full height and the enemy is sitting. Injured.

“Need help figurin’ it out, arsehole? The little trigger there, you just aim up that stupid fuckin’ rifle—”

“Do you ever shut up?” Xavier asks, his gloved hand tearing off his balaclava. His sweaty, messy hair sticks up in all directions. His skin is wet with the perspiration, so he wipes a palm across his face. He’s smiling too, that big, nasty wolf like grin that has earned him so much of a reputation. It’s too wide on his long face, shows too much of his teeth.

“Your mum,” the downed soldier snips coldly. His eyes narrow suspiciously, his hand briefly unsealing from his hip wound. He turns pale at that—which makes Xavier wonder what his skin might look like flush and full of life and blood and energy. The hand presses down again.

“Mum,” Xavier imitates as he rips the pack from his side. He approaches and kneels swiftly. There’s a distinct shhhhhk sound and he feels the cold press of a blade to his exposed throat. For a brief moment, the survival instinct pressing inside his skull from some ancient, never lost caveman era has him thinking of violence. Slamming the man forward, wrenching the knife, breaking a wrist.

Instead, he continues to unzip his pack. The knife doesn’t move. His eyes glance up briefly and his smile curls wider. The soldier is staring at him, pupils dilated so wide he looks drugged. Xavier tilts his head to the side somewhat, clicks his tongue.

“You know,” he pulls materials out the bag. “I’m shitty at this.”

“Yeah? You look it, mate. Why are you—”

Xavier wraps a hand around the others wrist, slowly pulls it away from the injury to his hip. He can’t see too well with the gear, plastered to the skin, glued by the tacky, drying blood. He scoots closer and feels the knife slowly slide away. He doesn’t pay it any attention as he gently (he hasn’t been gentle in a long time) peels up the under shirt to reveal a deep and unfortunate knife wound.

“Oh,” he says. “Wow. That fucking sucks.”

“It’s missed the important bits.”

“You don’t say,” Xavier says with a lurid, sarcastic drag of his eyes south of the wound. He wiggles his brows a bit—and is stunned when the soldier laughs. It’s a bitten off sound accompanied by a groan, a hand moving back to the wound. Xavier gets closer still. The smell of sweat and blood and gunpowder is overwhelming, when he should be all too used to it. The distant fighting seems to die away at the sound of the man breathing. He uses his teeth to rip into an alcohol pad and start cleaning at the wound.

Silence falls for a moment. Silence except their breathing. Then—

“Xavier,” he says, tearing open the fancy skin-like pad that covers wounds, keeps them clean. Promotes healing; this level of advancement has always unnerved Xavier. He slowly uses his palm to cup and squeeze it over the soldiers hip. His hand stays there for a moment. Maybe longer than a moment. If he didn’t have his glove on, they’d be skin to skin like that.

“Benji.”

“Really?” Xavier smiles again, brows turned upward.

“What?” His hands are suddenly shoved away, the enemy soldier trying to adjust himself against the wall. His cheeks have more color to them then, a little pinch of a dark red, splotchy and high on his cheekbones. His dark brows tuck together and the menacing sit of his lips is a sneer—but he’s pretty. He’s very pretty, even when he’s staring at Xavier like that. He has eyelashes too long and full. A dark curl sticks to his cheek.

“Just—it’s a cute name. I guess. Wasn’t expecting it.”

He stands then. Xavier is willowy tall, all legs. He puts a hand to the wall, leaning his weight there a bit. He casts a shadow down on the soldier, the sun behind him. He stares down as Benji stares up.

“Guess I’ll see you around, Benji,” he says, with a cocky wink.

“We probably shouldn’t,” the soldier replies.

“No, I got a feeling, you know?” Xavier walks backward as he talks, unslings his rifle from his shoulder. He checks it, inspects the chamber, glances out the end of the alley. More green has appeared in the sky, smearing the view. “Plus, I’m recognizable now. No one forgets a ginger.” He points to the mess of red, sweat damp hair.

“Red heads aren’t my type, mate.”

“Man, bullshit. Red heads are everyones type.”

The crash sound of something big and heavy has Xavier retreating without another word. All fun depleted as he sets himself to running toward the rest of the fighting, at a savage and hard pace. His hand, shaky and awkward turning his comms back on.

That was the last of his supplies.

[talesofsorrowandofruin]

*searches my WIPs for the spookiest excerpt* Well, I don't know if this is the spookiest, but it's certainly one of the most disturbing things I've ever written! Behold, Ketevan being a creep in Like Snow on Hungry Graves (warning for an adult preying on a minor and references to child marriage):

The voyage back to Vakaryan passed much more quickly than Ketevan wanted. She spent the whole time lost in thought. The most important thing on her mind was still the question of Hariye. Publicly reveal he was a mer? Have a special swimming pool constructed on her land and keep him in it? Take his scales or keep him safe from everyone who wanted them? Her room on the ship had a tapestry made of imitation mer-scales. Ketevan ran her fingers over it, watched how the gold and silver threads glittered, and compared them to her memory of Hariye's scales. It was the difference between a torch and the midday sun. That tapestry would have cost more than the average Vakaryanese farmer's yearly income. Ketevan suspected it was actually part of the cargo that had been hastily removed from its crate in honour of the ship's important passenger. And yet a mere handful of Hariye's scales would be worth more than the highest price this tapestry would ever fetch. Years of wars with the north-eastern barbarians had left Vakaryan in debt to Sui for their military aid. If she took Hariye's scales she would be able to pay that debt several times over. She could restore Vakaryan to the wealth and glory it had enjoyed in the reign of Queen Nestan the Great. And yet the price for that glory would be Hariye's life. If anyone else learnt Hariye was a mer they would have none of Ketevan's qualms. They'd kill him and take his scales for themselves without a minute's hesitation. He didn't know he should hide what he was, so sooner or later someone else would discover it. When they reached Vakaryan the first thing she had to do would be to keep him safe and far away from other people. One of the old fortresses along the coast would be an ideal place. Then she could decide what to do with him. For most of the journey she could see only two possibilities: kill him or keep him prisoner. A third possibility presented itself as the Vakayranese coast appeared in the distance. Both Hariye and Ketevan were on deck watching it grow steadily nearer. Hariye leant so far over the side that Ketevan briefly feared he was about to jump overboard. She grabbed his arm to hold him steady. He tore his eyes away from the land to flash her a reassuring smile and say something that sounded like, "Don't worry, I won't fall." Ketevan hardly heard him. Her mind was suddenly filled with a completely new idea. His skin was so warm and soft under her hand. She'd assumed a mer's skin would be cold and rough. And he was really very pretty with his large eyes, inky black hair, and pale skin. He was young, of course. She hadn't asked his age, but if she had to guess she'd say about fourteen or fifteen. That was old enough for marriage -- Vakaryanese boys came of age at fourteen, and she'd heard that in Çarisar and Sui a boy could be married at twelve. Years ago Ketevan had realised her view of marriage was very different to her sisters'. She looked for nothing in marriage beyond gaining more power through her husband. Love never entered into it and the thought of physical intimacy was downright distasteful to her. Hariye was no exception -- the idea of ever consummating this hypothetical marriage turned her stomach -- but she would certainly gain power if she married him and convinced him to give up some of his scales. She would also keep him safe so no one could ever harm him. And even though she didn't want to sleep with him, she had to admit he was nice to look at. Marrying him would solve her dilemma once and for all. Now she just had to find some way to make him agree to it.

Adding LSOHG's taglist: @whimsyqueen, @original-writing (Let me know if you want to be added/removed!)

Trick or Treat? 🦇

Trick!!

Send me the spookiest trick you've got!

[dccomicsimagines]

Babysitting on Halloween - Damian Wayne x Reader

Requested by Anon - CAn I have older!Dami celebrating Halloween with the fem!reader?!

Requested by Anon - So could you do a older damian(many 16 idk your the writer) where he's helping his s/o baby sit her five year old stepsister.

Requested by Anon - Could you do an imagine of older!damian Wayne where his girlfriend or s/o gets hit on by another guy and he become very jealous and protective of her?

Author’s Note - I put all these requests together. Hope you all don’t mind. Also Smiley is the stepsister. Now that can be her nickname or actual name, up to you.

***

“Absolutely not.” Damian crossed his arms, his face dropping into his batman glare. You ignored it and kept looking through the racks of costumes. 

“I’m watching Smiley on Halloween since our parents have to work and she wants to go trick or treating.” You spared him a glance to find his expression hadn’t change. An older woman further down the aisle looked at him nervously. You sent her a smile to reassure her. Damian still didn’t understand how his height and build changed things when he glared around in public. 

Damian’s gaze softened. “Beloved, this is Gotham.”

“Yes and?” You pulled out skeleton costume and held it up to your body. Damian shook his head. 

“People don’t trick or treat in Gotham, (Y/N). It’s not safe here.” Damian wrinkled his nose as you pulled out a skimpy skeleton costume next. He reached out, taking it from you and hanging it back up. You laughed and moved on. 

“No, they do trick or treat.” You rolled your eyes. “My parents’ neighborhood has a trick or treat party to keep things safe. They live in the suburbs. It will be fun.” 

Damian grumbled and narrowed his eyes at an employee that was lingering nearby. The employee paled and ran off. 

“Stop scaring people.” You took his hand. “If you are so concerned, then come along. It will be fun.” You smiled, tracing a finger down his chest. Damian’s eyes followed your finger like a hawk watching his prey. “And once Smiley is in bed, we can be alone and do whatever we want.” You sighed, looking up at him with doe eyes. 

World war three played upon Damian’s face. His mouth twitched. Eyes narrowed, than widened. His hand tightened around yours. You just kept your eyes on his, smiling rather innocently. 

“Fine.” He held up a hand, pursing his lips. “But I’m not wearing a costume.”

“Really?” You frowned, turning away from him. “I mean it doesn’t have to be something you’re uncomfortable with...” You grabbed a ninja costume and held it up to him. “What do you think?”

The tip of Damian’s ears turned bright red. You bit your lip to keep from laughing at the bewilderment on his face. “Perhaps, I could find something to wear that is not this polyester imitation of a uniform.” He took it from you, sneering when he felt the cheap fabric. 

“Whatever you want, dear.” You kissed his cheek. “It will be fun.” You turned back to the racks as Damian put the ninja costume away with a huff. “Now, what should I wear?” You tapped your chin, looking at all the costumes. 

“TT, anything you wear will be beautiful,” Damian said softly. You turned to hide your blush. “But it will be chilly, so you’ll need something warm.”

You snorted at hearing Damian say ‘chilly’. “That’s true.” Damian’s arm wrapped around your waist, keeping you close as you kept up your search. 

***

Bruce rubbed his eyes. Perhaps he was staring at the batcomputer for too long. “Damian, could you come back here please?” The batcave was quiet except for the bats screeching.

“TT, what is wrong?” Damian marched back into Bruce’s line of sight. Bruce hummed, taking in the old League of Assassins’ training outfit that fit Damian almost perfectly. 

“Why are you wearing that?” Bruce crossed his arms. It looked good on Damian, but that didn’t help Bruce’s concern.

Damian scoffed. A slight blush on his cheeks. “It’s Halloween, Father.” 

“Yes, I’m aware.” Bruce stood up and stretched. “But why are you wearing that?”

Damian stiffened, shifting from foot to foot. “(Y/N) wanted me to dress up. I couldn’t force myself to wear the ridiculous excuses of costumes at the store, so I thought I could wear something here.” He sneaked a glance at Bruce. “Obviously, our normal uniforms are out of the question.”

Bruce hummed. He studied Damian carefully. “So if someone asks about what you’re dressed as?”

“I’m (Y/N)’s bodyguard and by extension, her sister’s.” Damian smiled rather smugly. Bruce swallowed back a laugh. Did Damian know how charming he was being? Probably not. You were a lucky girl. 

“Have fun and stay out of trouble.” Bruce clapped a hand on Damian’s shoulder. “Use protection.” Damian’s ears turned red. Bruce had to swallow a laugh. He let his hand drop from Damian’s shoulder as he moved to grab a cup of coffee from the cave’s machine. 

“TT.” Damian hurried away before Bruce could say another word. Bruce shook his head and admitted he was proud of the man his son had become.

***

“Smiley, don’t move,” you whispered, gently added the glitter gel to her face. Smiley stilled her body, but, to live up to her nickname, she had a big grin on her face. 

“Can we take a picture when you’re done?” she asked. Her eyes sparkled in excitement. The two of you were in your parents’ bathroom. Smiley sat on the counter as you tried to make the picture of unicorn makeup she found online come to life on her face. 

Damian stepped in the doorway. He watched you work. “It looks...pretty,” he said slowly when you sent him a warning look. 

“Really?” Smiley practically glowed. You suspected she had a little crush on Damian. 

“All done.” You grinned, wiping your hands on a towel before holding up a hand mirror. Smiley gasped, clapping her hands at the rainbow glitter makeup on her face. “I think you’re going to be a fabulous unicorn. Now go get your costume on and we’ll have a photo shoot before we go.” You helped her down and she ran off giggling.

“You did a good job, beloved.” Damian stepped in to kiss your cheek. 

You smiled, heart fluttering at the praise. “Thanks, it’s harder than you think.” You took in his outfit. “I got to say, you look good in this. A lot better than the one we would have gotten at the store.”

Damian huffed. A faint blush grew on his cheeks. “You look good, beloved. I never thought you would be such a good-looking pirate.” He adjusted the pirate hat on your head. You bit your lip, holding in the giggles that wanted to spill out. 

“And the jacket’s warm so I won’t get chilly,” you added, tapping his nose. Damian smirked and leaned down to kiss your lips.

“Damian and (Y/N) sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G. First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes a baby in a baby carriage!” Smiley’s singing broke you and Damian apart. Damian’s eyes widened in horror while you just laughed and peeked around to see Smiley in the hallway in her unicorn costume. 

“Now you’re going to get it, Miss Unicorn!” You chased after her, laughing at her giggles. Damian was behind you, a rare chuckle escaping him.

***

Damian frowned when a little hand touched his pant’s leg. He glanced down to find Smiley looking up at him. “Dami, could you take me to the next house? (Y/N)’s taking too long and I want to get the candy.”

You had stepped away to answer a call from your parents. Damian glanced at you before letting Smiley take his hand and walked her up to the next house. A group of older girls dressed like some cartoon show characters passed them, taking about how much candy the house gave out. 

“Ooo, I think we hit the motherlode,” Smiley said. She ran ahead and knocked on the door. Damian stayed back. He was close enough to run and grab her if anything were to happen. Much to his disbelief, everything felt safe for the most part. The neighborhood was doing a very good job keeping it that way.

However, this wouldn’t stop Damian from replacing all the candy Smiley got tonight with candy he had pre-purchased. It was Gotham after all. 

The door opened and a lady cooed over Smiley’s costume. She glanced up at Damian and flinched, frowning worriedly. Damian relaxed his stance and forced himself to smile. The lady relaxed and dumped two handfuls into Smiley’s bag. “Thank you,” Smiley said, skipping back to Damian. “Look at the goods.”

Damian peeked inside the bag. He almost got a sugar high at the sight alone. “Yes, you did...well.”

Smiley beamed. Damian let her take his hand again as he looked around for you. 

He froze when he saw you shifting uncomfortably as two men stood rather close to you. Damian took a deep breath. He scooped up Smiley in one arm and marched to your side.

��I’m actually busy, so I can’t come to your party,” you said. Your voice cracked. Damian frowned, seeing the tension in your body. You weren’t afraid, but nervous. He lengthened his stride to get to you faster. Smiley just giggled, unware of the situation.

“Are you sure baby? Because it will be a lot of fun and you’re dressed so...yummy,” one of the men said, smiling like he owned the world. Damian clenched his fist. 

You shook your head, grinning when you caught Damian approaching. “Actually, there’s my boyfriend now. Bye and thanks for the invite.” You waved and slipped past the men to meet Damian halfway. 

“Are you alright, beloved?” Damian demanded. He almost kept walking toward the men, but you stopped him with a hand to his chest.

“I’m fine, they were just hitting on me.” You smiled and took Smiley out of his arm. She laughed, chatting away about her candy to no one in particular. You patted her head, but focused on Damian. “It’s okay. You don’t need to go over there.”

Damian pursed his lips. He glared at the men causing them to run off. “TT, I should.” His hand trembled. You took it, squeezing it gently in yours.

“It’s okay. I’m okay,” you whispered to Damian as Smiley kept talking, not caring that neither of you were listening to her. 

“They shouldn’t make you uncomfortable.” Damian growled, glaring at a group of children. They gave you all a wide berth. 

“I know, but this isn’t the time or place.” You kissed Damian’s cheek. “Relax. My parents just checked in and said to limit Smiley’s candy intake.”

Damian hummed. Smiley grabbed Damian’s other hand and tugged him along. Damian in turn tugged you. “Next house. I need more candy. My bag is only half full,” Smiley said, pouting slightly.

You laughed and shook your head. “We’ll do our best to fill your bag, but I don’t think there are enough houses in the neighborhood.” 

Damian snorted, but a smile tugged at his lips as your sister protested. He vowed not to leave your side again until you were safely home. 

***

“Is she asleep?” Damian asked as you walked in and collapsed on the living room couch beside him. Your sister had a bit of a sugar high and it resulted in a hour long chase around the house to burn it off. Damian had thought he had seen it all. Apparently not.

“Finally.” You let out a long sigh and snuggling into his side. “Thank you for tonight. It was fun.”

Damian kissed your temple, resting his arm around your shoulders. “It was...an experience.”

You giggled. “Yes, it was. I’m glad you were here with me.” You closed your eyes and relaxed. Damian hummed. It pleased him to no end that you felt so safe near him. Most people felt frightened. 

“It was my pleasure, beloved.” He grabbed the remote without moving and turned on the tv. You opened your eyes. “When will your parents be returning?”

“Probably around two.” You rested your hand on his knee. Damian’s knee burned at the pressure. “I told them to go out and have some fun since they ended up working so late and we were here anyway.”

Damian hummed. “So...what should we do?”

You looked at him with care. Damian blushed as you pulled your hand away from his knee. “We could watch some scary movies? I could make popcorn?”

Damian bit his lip, glancing at the tv then back at you. “I would enjoy that.” He let you get up and walk out of the room. Damian smiled as a sense of peace filled him. He let himself imagine what it would be like to have a home and a family with you some day. His smile widened. It would be something to look forward to.

[tyrantisterror]

One thing that’s interesting when comparing Beast Wars to G1 Transformers is how often the later gets wildly reinterpreted in adaptation while the former stays relatively the same.

The G1 characters and conflict have been adapted so many times.  There are dozens of Optimus Primes and Megatrons and Starscreams and Shockwaves and Soundwaves and so fucking many Bumblebees, so many iterations of the Autobots vs. Decepticons, and either out of necessity or sheer creative boredom there have been some wild reinterpretations of them as a result, sometimes even from the same writer.  One of my favorite examples is Ultra Magnus, who in the Marvel comics was written as a very uncertain character who constantly second guessed himself and his ability to lead, but in the IDW comics was written to be this hard-lined rules-obsessed character who was always certain what he was doing was right, specifically because Simon Furman, a writer for both comics, wanted to keep from repeating himself and decided to invert Magnus’s characterization to force different stories out of him.

G1 has a ridiculously huge cast of toys characters to pick and choose from, and because of all these adaptations, almost all of them have juicy personalities and character arcs to play with.  You’ve got the A-Listers, of course, but even z-listers like Ironfist and Swerve have at least one story where they get to shine.

Beast Wars, by contrast, is almost always focused on the original main cast when it’s brought back.  Beast Megatron, Optimus Primal, Dinobot, Cheetor, etc.  Where G1 adaptations will play with new settings and conflict wrinkles (Animated puts it in the somewhat distant future, the Unicron Trilogy really emphasizes the Cosmic Horror of Unicron, etc.), Beast Wars always (with one exception) takes place on prehistoric Earth.

And I theorize this is because of the different between their first cartoons.  Both are character focused - because the whole point of a toyline-based cartoon is to get kids emotionally invested in the toys their buying, and you do that by making those toys interesting characters - but because 90′s CGI animation was a SHITLOAD more expensive than 80′s traditional animation, G1 Transformers could make the cast ENORMOUS while Beast Wars had to kill off a cast member before they could afford to bring another on, and as such the cast remained pretty damn small - which in turn meant that those characters were even more focused on, given more development, and defined in a depth that the original cartoon iterations of the G1 cast weren’t.  G1 Megatron is a defined character, yes, but that definition is loose enough that he can be wildly reinterpreted while still feeling like Megatron.  Beast Wars Megatron, though, is cemented.  He must be a schemer, he must be theatrical, he must be gleefully beyond redemption yet still charming as hell.  The characterizations and plot twists of Beast Wars are so iconic that they almost loom too large, with re-adaptations often ending up feeling like just pale imitations of the original.

Except Beast Wars Uprising, which is creative as Hell and it’s kind of a shame that the only way to read it requires you to look at an eye-searing website.

Anyway, it’s kind of fun to think of how Beast Wars could be reinterpreted.  It technically has a huge cast like G1 - there were SO many Beast Wars toys, which means there are a lot more characters than those in the original show, and as the recent-ish IDW comics show, nothing’s to stop you from adding new characters to the mix (I mean, they only added two and still stuck to a lot of the same beats as the cartoon, but still).  You could do some big shakeups.

And hell, even among that core cast, there are characters that could use some more love.  Tigatron and Airrazor got screwed by Hasbro’s requiring new toys on the screen, their arcs cut abruptly short to make way for new product.  Terrorsaur and Scorponok were similarly eliminated but also had the problem of never really defining themselves in an interesting way, they could do with entirely new characterizations.  And as Beast Wars Uprising showed, there’s  a LOT of potential in Transmutate, a character written to die in her debut episode.

Here’s hoping 90′s nostalgia will do for Beast Wars what decades of 80′s nostalgia have done for the G1 cast.  I think it’d be fun to see the franchise get weird with these beasts.

[logicheartsoul]

the room (where you live in)

Summary: Inspired by the just-shower-thoughts post: "Every building can be a museum if you keep it the same long enough."

In which Bucky finds out the Smithsonian has added to its exhibit a recreation of one of the places Bucky lived in before becoming a soldier. A somewhat character study with some subtly hinted sambucky.

Author's Notes:Saw this post and then, I had this thought — we see SOME of the museum exhibit of Captain America but not all of it and I thought if Steve and the Howlies were so important, what if people took pictures of the rooms/houses they lived in before they “died” and did that museum thing where they recreate the room so people can look in or step inside? We kinda get a glimpse of that at the end of TFA to acclimate Steve to 2010 but what if they did that to a room Bucky lived in? And Bucky seeing it for himself? That's this fic lol

Kind of surprised I finished and wrote this in an hour considering how random it was but I hope you enjoy it! It’s a miracle I wrote another completed fic within the span of a week after 2 years. 

(One of these days I'll actually finish the Sam character study I wrote but it's a bajillion words longer than this one)

—————————

This is a tribute to the dead; the ghost of their life. Lingering in the shadows, in the dust.

A mausoleum.

Like trampling over the living grave of who he used to be.

This is not his home; this is not his life, at least the life he occupies now. This has not been his life in decades.

This facsimile of his home, his room — one of many rooms he left himself behind — is a pale imitation. It brings memories of the remaining impressions, not of his own reality.

The curve of the bed frame, the thin fabric of the window drapes — these are the same but not his. The hidden history behind all of the details, of the walls, the furniture, even the common household items — it doesn’t exist. Not with these things.

It is all imitation, a living simulation. An exhibit, except he’s not caged in.

(Not anymore.)

But perhaps for all that it is, the details based on the real, like the photos in the frames, the bed linens and the wallpaper and the curtains—

It is the closest thing he can get to touching his past. To the thing that ties him to those memories. The closest he can get to touching those that are gone.

Gone.

His past self is gone, nearly erased: by time, by war, by trauma and torture.

He cannot visit his old home anymore.

He cannot visit the places that were his.

He cannot visit the people who are now long gone. From time, death, disease. Can only touch those they left behind, their remnants: children, grandchildren, cousins, nieces and nephews and niblings.

Their traces of his mother, his father, his sister — live on in their eyes, their smiles, their laughter. The color of their hair, the curve of their chin, the height of their bodies.

And the ache lessens.

It doesn’t go away.

But his life here, this snapshot taken in time:

It’s a memory, not his own but another. Of an observer looking into the glimpse of his former world.

He cannot step back into it as if he’d merely paused.

Time does not stand still, even for those who can defy it.

He was made to stand time, but it went on around him.

And he understands and gets it, truly, standing at this exhibit of his life. People want to know a glimpse of the truth, want context for his life, for Steve’s and the Howling Commandos. Want people to know where he came from, from how heroic people can rise from any circumstance.

Especially with a symbol as powerful as Steve Rogers.

It’s still disquieting.

It’s like he’s the ghost and he’s haunting himself.

This—this life, it’s only a part of who he is, but it’s not him. Not now.

Missing pieces of the puzzle that comprise his whole, messy life.

Doesn’t show the spaces he’s made now, in a far different environment. The spaces made in a new community, in a new home. The room where he lives in now.

One tidy but filled with a life before him and hopefully a life after him. Of furniture sturdy and handmade with a dark, lacquered finish. With pictures of a family that originally wasn’t his but is now. With fuzzy blankets for the cold nights, with quilted bed covers. Decor of a university he never went to but the other occupant did.

And the difference true in his new room—

It is not originally his room.

But it’s a room he shares, one he lives with its first occupant.

Where their clothes line the closet and the dresser together. Where they swap and share shirts and jackets and other clothes. Tight pants and loose jeans and different types of shoes: boots and tennis shoes and flip flops.

But this room, it’s not a museum. It’s not an exhibit.

It’s part of a home.

A home, where many of its pieces and rooms have remained virtually the same. If it is a museum, it is a museum for the testament of a home, of family, of belonging and feeling. Happiness and lows lie among the walls but it’s a place for living.

For the living.

The memories here…

Here, he can touch them and know its history, know its touch is true. The faded, bleached color of the paper behind one of the framed posters in one of the living spaces. The messy scrawl and coloring of a child’s love for their mother. Post it notes for mundane reminders and drawings made of planes, the paper thin and wrinkled, taped on.

And more, much more.

This, this is his place now. His reality, his truth.

Here he is not walking among the dead, he is among the living. The ancestors that remain, do so with loving care, protecting, blessing. They live vivaciously, vibrant. Their remnants are honored and passed on to new descendants and occupants.

And he is fortunate, blessed, to be in such a space. To be invited in, to live in it, to allow it to make a home for him. For him to add to this rich space that existed before him and perhaps will after he is long gone.

It’s a legacy.

A legacy that doesn’t start with him and doesn’t end with him, but one he hopes to protect and help guide on.

In the room where he lives, he is not alone, not like he has been forced to for so long.

No, not alone.

And as he looks down on the other, in the low, morning light, he knows this is where he is meant to be.

Meant to be holding him close, meant to watch over him, the sun’s early rays softening the angles of his face: the slope of his nose, his cheek, the curve of his jaw. Imbuing his dark skin with a glow.

Meant to be loving him with all his heart.

If he is to be remembered, if he is to have another exhibit based on his life, of a room he has lived in—

He wants the world to know of him.

Of the man in his arms. Of his childhood home the man and his sister have allowed him to stay. Of the quilted bed cover they’re under, of the pictures in frames that contain the man’s face, young and older, of family and friends smiling and happy. Of the watch he wears on his wrist when he goes out. The color of the walls.

His memory, how important he is.

And he is important on his own, on his own rights and merits, but he’s important to him. Important to who he is now.

To his heart, his soul, his life. There is no part of him that hasn’t been changed, touched, transformed without the other.

Perhaps, when time has taken them both, if this room becomes a museum of their life, of their love, of the transmutation of their better selves—

That is a legacy worth leaving behind.

—————————

If you like my writing, feel free to check out my writing tag!

[light-miracles]

Loppy babysitting newborn lin and suyin after their births bc i have loppy and momma!toph brainrot

!!!! The brainrot is real!!!

When Lin was born, Toph was totally prepared for the fact that she'd have to hire a babysitter to take care of her when she was at work. And it wasn't a big deal, Katara had even recommended a couple of nannies.

Four days later her father is on her doorstep (how the hell did he get here so fast Gaoling is on the other side of the continent) saying things like 'Oh Earthen Fire needed me here I guess I'll have to spend more time in Republic City' or something like that. He's talking very fast and Toph isn't very good at paying attention to him (old habits die hard) but then her dad says something like 'If you have to go to work, don't worry, I will take care of my granddaughter' 'Actually I was going to hire a babysitter' and Toph can swear she heard the moment her father *went pale*. After fifteen long minutes listening to a thesis about the downsides of babysitters, which included arguments like 'You can't trust babysitters because they're basically strangers', 'Would you trust a complete stranger with all your savings? Then why would you trust them with your baby?' 'You didn't have babysitters and turned out pretty well', 'Spies from Ba Sing Se', 'Inflation on the rise', Toph is ready to give up and let her father take care of Lin for a few hours. Anything to shut him up.

But oh boy Toph didn't expect him to be the perfect babysitter. Lao laid his eyes on baby Lin once and *fell in love*. He has what Katara calls *baby fever*. To Lao, Lin looks like if someone had shrunk Poppy and he can't help but adore this tiny human who has Poppy's beauty and his last name. He hasn't felt like this since Toph was a baby, but this time there's no war out there and he's older and wiser. He's not afraid and he can enjoy the wonder and the warmth of having a baby in his arms.

Toph thinks he's senile, but Poppy tells her that he's just Like That™ with babies. He has always liked children much more than adults.

So Lin's birth marks a new beginning for the family, the happiest they will ever be. Lin is loved by everyone, and having the help and support of her parents and her friends makes being a single mother not as difficult as Toph first feared. Lin is a happy baby and then she becomes a happy child. She likes to play with Tenzin, study with her grandfather, practice Earthbending with her mommy and have them tell her stories or sing to her at night.

When Suyin is born, the family has to make a little adjustment and organize better, because since the city is growing, and that means that both the police and Earthen Fire have more to do, Toph and Lao have less free time. But since some of them are still strongly nannyphobic (*Lao*) then Poppy is the one who helps Toph take care of Suyin when she has to go out to chase down dangerous criminals.

Unlike Lin, Suyin is a difficult baby, who cries a lot and doesn't eat things she doesn't like. She doesn't sleep easily either, and many times Poppy has to rock her for hours before she falls asleep. Yet she loves every second of it. Nobody ever talks about it, but before Toph was born she suffered some miscarriages, and her trauma over it affected her relationship with Toph for most of her childhood. Somehow, holding Suyin in her arms had finally healed that wound that she had insistently ignored for nearly forty years. And when Suyin smiles *that* way for the first time (Toph's smile, Lao's smile), Poppy realizes that her granddaughter has probably become her favorite person. That Suyin later turns into such a fun and charming girl is a direct result of imitating her grandmother's negotiating skills. Suyin loves Grandma Poppy and Grandma Poppy loves Suyin.

Bonus: Toph is also spoiled more often, despite being almost forty years old. Her father invites her to lunch on Mondays because their schedules coincide (and if he always buys her favorite desserts, Toph doesn't complain). Poppy likes fashion and is always buying her new clothes. Toph doesn't complain either.

[mirrorofliterature]

ron & percy: some sunday evening thoughts

brought to you by your local percy weasley lover who is fond of all the weasley siblings and regards their parents with a healthy dose of scepticism who is currently in italy.

okay, italy aside, let’s get into some rambly thoughts.

so I’ve mentioned a few times ron & percy’s similarities and parallels: their tempers, appearances.

and well, admittedly the only time I’ve substantially written ron in my writing has not been in the most flattering light.

and I want to explain myself, as I do genuinely love ron. he’s not my favourite character, but he is a character I quite like + an interesting and lovable character who gets way too much hate. it’s a bit of a long scene, but not that long, so I’m going to extract it in fall under the read more to save people’s dashes.

A fortnight after Fred’s funeral, sparks fly between Ron and Percy, barely not literally.

Percy had come for lunch, after firmly refusing their mother’s requests to move back in, and he had offhandedly mentioned Harry.

How is he?

Ron, who has been an unlit tank of gasoline lately, took that as a challenge.

Why would you care? Wasn’t he a ‘bad influence’ who was ‘clearly deranged’?

Percy snaps back: don’t be so immature, Ronald.

The full name, the belittlement, cracks Ron’s composure completely, and he decides to come, claws out, for his brother.

It’s a thought that flits across Ginny’s mind less than some people may think: my brother is an asshole .

But it does occur, and often it’s flippant, meaningless, yet now -

“What do you know about the war,” Ron says, with an ugly sneer, “you didn’t fight in it.”

Here, this is deliberately meant to be misplaced insecurity (well, even if I left harry and hermione, at least I did more than percy, who I was told was a thousands time better than me for most of my adolosence [don’t compare your kids, not healthy]).

Percy’s face is bright, furious, as his ears redden. “I fought in the battle.”

Ron scoffs, crossing his arms. “And what else?”

Ginny loves Ron, but he has been so isolated this past year, barely peeking into the horror of Hogwarts or the shitstorm at the Ministry.

Ron forgets, sometimes, that he is not the only one deeply, irredeemably traumatised by the last year in his family.

“More than you know,” Percy retorts, tight-lipped, before spinning on the spot, the resounding crack loud.

The following silence is even louder.

Ron has quietened, now pale-faced. Percy gone, his rage dies, and remorse dawns on his face. He pulls at his already dishevelled hair. “Shit,” he says, a wild look in his blue eyes, “what did I just do?”

Ginny rolls her eyes, in a way that tries and fails to imitate only annoyance at her brother’s careless words, not fear.

So this scene was written quite early on in the drafting process.

Ron struggles to deal with negative emotions productively and this is just after the war - his brother just died, he was on the run for one year - he’s a live wire, basically. Very traumatised, a mild touch of survivor’s guilt and guilt from abandoning Harry and Hermione for a while, and he’s not getting the help he needs. Ron is grieving and angry and hurt - and I decided to write that as Ron with his temper very reactive, very quick to respond and fight, and still struggling with his own perceived abandonment by Percy - because although Ron may have tried to hide it, he was deeply hurt by Percy’s betrayal.

I think, ultimately, that Percy and Ron would repair their relationship, but it would take time. I closed their interactions off with this:

He peers at her, suspiciously. “Oliver told Ron to fuck off, so I didn’t get to speak with him, not really.”

Because Oliver is deeply protective of Percy, who probably came home a little mess from his brother (accidentally or not) targeting his biggest insecurities.

And then another mention here:

Repairing her relationship with Percy is tentative, but Percy is earnest, much more willing to take steps towards intimacy with her than he is even with Ron.

Even with Ron suggests a certain closeness or intimacy between the two - and I think that as much Ron griped about Percy, I do think that it’s pretty typical sibling stuff and that Percy was probably one of the most reliable people in Ron’s life for years - who may not have been the most fun, yes, but who would stick up for and support Ron, and when he stopped that, Ron was deeply hurt. He takes things very personally (see Harry and the Goblet of Fire situation). And, of course, in Ron’s eyes, Percy didn’t trust/believe Harry. (I’ve discussed previously how I view Percy’s break from his family ultimately stemming from a deep distrust for Dumbledore and broken interpersonal dynamics and Harry was just the convenient explanation, but I digress.) And Harry was Ron’s best friend, ride-or-die. Of course it cut deeply and their relationship is probably going to take a while to repair, but I think they have the potential for a close relationship after the war.

A lot of their friction - as seen in the fight above - is that they are too similar. Similar tempers, particularly, similar insecurities, but they express themselves differently.

Final interaction, at Ginny’s graduation ceremony, is this:

Percy, ever the courteous one, reprimands Ron with a stern yet fond look

Percy is Ron’s true older brother, and they love each other, but it is messy. By true older brother, I mean the age gap between Bill and Charlie and Ron is so substantial that they are more like fun cousins, whereas Percy had to do the hard work of actually being an older brother. Anyway. Maybe one day I will write more deeply on the subject instead of my messy evening rambles.

[farlynthordens]

rambling about gen and his similarities to the characteristics of a proper “yamato nadeshiko”

Part 1 (clothing) Part 2 (speech patterns)

In the previous 2 parts, I already talked a lot about how Gen’s clothing and speech are very feminine-coded, so it honestly doesn’t surprise me that he fits into this other feminine category.

A lot of this meta will probably sound like me being like

but hopefully you can find something interesting or helpful in this lol

What is Yamato Nadeshiko?

This name/term refers to a classically “ideal” Japanese woman. Yamato is an old name for Japan, and Nadeshiko is a delicate-looking, pink flower that is surprisingly hardy. Thus, a “Yamato Nadeshiko” exemplifies both the beauty and strength of the Japanese spirit. [EN wikipedia page for more general info]

Traits of one include:

beautiful both inside and outside

gentle/refined in behavior and facial expressions

supports the men in their life

inner strength -- resilience, mental fortitude, and/or being trained in weapons and self defense

generally of higher status (thus the ability to have nice clothing, be trained in weapons, etc)

Some of the first recorded instances of referring to people as a “nadeshiko” are in the poems of the [Manyoushuu] in 759 AD. In many of these instances, it’s believed the writers were referring to men rather than women. So, at least in the past, men could also be a nadeshiko. The current concept of a specifically female Yamato Nadeshiko didn’t appear until around the time of the world wars [JA ref].

Gen’s Related Traits/Moments

-Beauty and refinement

The classic Japanese standard for beauty includes long black hair and pale skin. A proper Nadeshiko also wears clothes that look nice and are tidy, but aren’t too flashy (aka wearing more subdued colors and subtle patterns). Gen does have pale skin and some long hair, but the long part is white ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

His stone world clothes do stand out among the characters because of them being very recognizably Japanese with a mix of modern elements (see Part 1 for more on this), but in terms of what kimonos CAN look like, his clothes are definitely subdued. Especially if we go by his original manga colors, he’s supposed to be wearing basic colors of tan, green, and white (until the timeskip outfit change).

He also has a habit of tucking his hands in his sleeves, which is likely based on ancient Chinese mannerisms? From what I’ve looked up, Japanese people haven’t really used the type of pose seen below. There are descriptions of [courtesans] hiding their hands in their sleeves as well as [women in the Meiji era], but you can see from the photos that they aren’t quite the same.

It’s much more similar to this:

(source in chinese)

Regardless, it still gives off the vibe of being “proper.” A lot of traditional mannerisms and styles of clothing, hair, makeup in Japan did originally come from China, so I don’t think it’s much of a stretch to think that someone trying to be “proper” would imitate Chinese trends. (This could also be lowkey stereotypical, but that’s a different conversation...) Speaking of which, his tiny eyebrows are also likely inspired by hikimayu ( 引眉 ), which were also a style brought from China.

(source)

 Men and women did hikimayu. The above photo shows what a Heian era ruler would have looked like, with heavily plucked eyebrows and fake ones drawn high on the forehead. It seems like the size of fake eyebrows varied greatly, from tiny dots to large, thick ovals. This was one of THE trends of the time especially for women, and was considered very beautiful (esp. when combined with artificially blackened teeth).

One of the main ideas behind hikimayu was that getting rid of your real eyebrows made you much less susceptible to accidentally leaking your emotions to others via your facial movements. Gen does a lot of comedic reactions, but in more serious moments, he tries to cover up what he’s feeling. Hmm...

-Supporting men

Gen’s primary role is being a support for Senku (and originally Tsukasa as well). He reads Senku’s behavior and emotions, and acts accordingly. He always stays close to Senku’s side. The two of them scheme together. Gen often thinks about what Senku would want him to do or what would be best for the KOS. When Gen does something that benefits Senku and/or the whole team, he often downplays his role in its success.

For these reasons, Gen more than fulfills the support criteria. He can read those he’s supporting, is always close by, and makes decisions based on what’s best for others rather than just himself.

-Inner strength

This is another point Gen hits on really well. He looks weak and fragile, but is actually quite strong -- this is the core of a Yamato Nadeshiko.

We know he has a lot of stamina since he’s able to run extremely long distances, and over the course of the series there are subtle moments where you can see him building upper body strength as well lol.

But more than that, being a mentalist, he also has a lot of mental fortitude in both good and bad ways. He’s stared death in the face multiple times, but either used his own wit to escape or worked with others to come up with a plan to save everyone. However, he tends to keep his own emotions bottled up, despite helping others let theirs out and work through old trauma (like with Sai). There are very few moments where he lets genuine strong, negative emotions show. He wants to help others, but ignores his own need for help.

(ch 207 vs 214) please tell us your trauma

Other less common traits I’ve seen listed are things such as communication skills, enjoying simplicity, appreciating the beauty in ordinary things.

Communication skills fits well because well, you know. That’s what he does.

The other points make me think back to when he first asked for a bottle of cola. It’s something any modern person would think is so simple and commonplace, but in the early stone world it was like a treasure. Since then, Gen really hasn’t asked for anything. He’s received new things, like clothes or the deck of cards, but not because we saw him ask for them. Even in ch 222 when Senku specifically asks people to request things they want, Gen says nothing.

(ch 222) i’m still crying over this tbh

Anyway, hope this was interesting. Let me know if you have any thoughts!

Other References

https://biz.trans-suite.jp/20002 (JA) kinarino (JA)

[otonymous]

Glutton For Your Flavour (Obey Me: Beelzebub - NSFW)

Description: You’re about to become Beel’s next meal Warnings: NSFW/18+: Explicit/graphic language — reader discretion is advised.  Spoilers for Lesson 5 of MS (hard).  Please note potential trigger warnings: dub-con (as an inadvertent result of somnambulism), cunnilingus in two flavours (soft and rough), squirting and overstimulation, slight size kink, very faint hints of tetraphilia, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it blasphemy, slight fear (monstrous descriptions) Word Count: ~2900 words (~14 mins of smut & shenanigans) Author’s Notes:  My very first fic for the Obey Me fandom!  I know I’m late to the party, but I’ve recently started playing this game and the story and its characters are so amusing I had to write about it.  This piece may not be to everyone’s taste, so please, please, please note the potential trigger warnings listed above and skip if it’s not your cup of tea.  That being said, hope you all enjoy the read! 💕😆

🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔

“Bad luck to be sharing a room with Beel, but what can ya do after he destroyed yours while destroying the kitchen, and all for a dumb custard!  Be careful — he might mistake you for a snack and eat ya in the middle of the night, hahaha!”

Mmm.

The scene fragments, Mammon’s face wavering as his voice grows faint, consciousness seeping into dark corners like sunlight cutting through fog.  And when you open your eyes, you can’t quite place where you are for a moment, straddling the line between dreamscape and reality.

Ahh…

You sigh.  There it was again, the sensation so pleasant it had roused you from the deepest slumber.

Further blinking off the haze of sleep, you take in your surroundings: a large bed lying empty across from yours in a room almost cavernous in size and just as dark save for a candle burning low on a desk, the glow of its flame orange like the hair that was currently brushing soft against your inner thighs—

“BEEL?!  WHAT THE HELL?!”  

“So tasty…not…enough…need more…want to…eat…zzz….”

Eyes still closed, the demon’s face is shiny even in the dark, slick from cheek to chin with what must’ve been a copious amount of his saliva and your arousal, you blush to realize.  And when he doesn’t budge even after a swift kick to the face, you are ashamed to find the Lord of Flies’ show of strength sending yet another throb to your already pulsing clit.

He does wake though, Beelzebub’s amethyst eyes opening wide before he falls backwards onto the cold stone floor to realize what he had inadvertently done in his sleep.  And as the always-famished sixth born looks from the shredded remnants of your panties to the pool of wetness on the sheets where his chin had rested, he becomes even more tongue-tied than usual.

“I…uh…I’m sorry!  I didn’t mean to…I dreamt I smelled something delicious and I was so hungry…and somehow I’m here, on the floor…I don’t even know…I-I’m so sorry!”

His cheeks grow so flushed they remind you of the red spider sandwiches he packed away during dinner, stuffing them two by two into his mouth until Satan smacked his hand away for trying to take more from his plate.  The expression on his face is so full of remorse that even if you were angry, you’d be inclined to forgive the demon who was currently grovelling at the foot of your bed, swearing he would hand himself over to Lucifer and Diavolo first thing in the morning to be strung up and hung upside down for a fortnight, even (gulp) forgoing food for a day or two.

“Beelzebub…Beel…BEEL!”  You shout, interrupting his self-inflicted tirade.  “It’s okay, you didn’t mean it.  You were sleepwalking.  You don’t have to go to Lucifer and Diavolo about this.”

“No, I have to.  My behaviour was inexcusable—”

“BEEL!  Let’s…just…try to go back to sleep, okay?  We have our midterm in Devildom law tomorrow morning and I really don’t feel like failing just because I didn’t get enough shut eye.  So please, can we just pretend like this didn’t happen?”

Those orange brows are still furrowed when Beel finally lifts his head and nods.  But then his gaze is falling again on the wet sheets and the shiver than runs through that larger-than-life body seems to send another wave of anxiety through the demon.  He makes a mad dash for the door, murmuring something about getting a snack from the kitchen and “you can have the room tonight” before it slams shut behind him.

He doesn’t return for the rest of the night.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The exam was so disastrous even Mammon didn’t bother sneaking another peek at your paper after the first two questions.  And even if you had somehow managed to get back to sleep after last night’s ordeal, it wouldn’t have changed the fact that you were still distracted by the memory of Beel’s mouth on your pussy:

His long tongue, serpentine as it delved deep between swollen folds to taste you with gusto.  

The way he rolled your clit between those plush, soft lips before sucking it into his hot mouth, over and over again.  

The throbbing between your legs that refused to cease long after the Avatar of Gluttony had left the room you were temporarily sharing, sleep only forthcoming once you had succumbed and reached beneath the sheets to finish the job he had started, your moans licentious even to your ears as you pretended your fingers were his.

It was a pale imitation, of course.  That much you could see for yourself, stealing a glance at Beel seated two rows down — quill twirling between long, dexterous digits when he wasn’t putting ink to parchment.

But those gigantic hands were just a small part of what made Beel demonically attractive, as if the word “small” could be applied to him at all: tall and built, there were times when even you envied the ease with which he maintained that perfect physique despite his penchant for shovelling enough food to feed all three realms into his mouth on the regular.

The same mouth which brought you so much pleasure the night before.

Ahem.

Clearing your throat, you pretend not to see the smirk that spreads across Asmo’s delicate face, hoping the lusty demon sitting just to your left wouldn’t pick up on the very secret thoughts you were having about his brother.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[Private Chatroom]: Satan, Levi, Mammon, Asmo

Satan: This is going to sound crazy, but doesn’t it seem like Beel’s…hungrier than usual?  Is that even possible?

Levi: OMFG!  You should’ve seen the state of the kitchen this morning after Beel decided to camp out there overnight!  It was a total war zone, like that epic battle scene in Vol. 5 of TSL lololol.  Soooo good XDDDDD

Mammon:  Hey!  He’s gonna eat us outta house and home at this rate!  Shouldn’t we stop him?

Satan: You do it, Mammon.  Aren’t you always saying that there’s nothing The Great Mammon can’t do?

Mammon: …..

Asmo: Please, as if anyone — angel or demon — could come between Beel and a meal.  

Satan: Why was he camping out there in the first place?  Was there something wrong with his room?  I don’t remember him complaining about anything since he got shacked up with the exchange student.

Levi: Not like he could, seeing as it was his fault to begin with and a direct order from Lucifer.

Asmo: Maybe we should ask her.  I’m sure she knows something about what’s inciting his hunger judging by the way she kept staring at him in class today fufufu 😏  She almost failed her midterm because of it, isn’t that right, Mammon?

Mammon: ‼️‼️

[Mammon has left the chat]

Levi: He is sooooo transparent LMFAOOOO

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Gasp!

Pressing a hand to your mouth, you try to contain your shock at the sight that greets you when you peek around the corner into the kitchen:

Curved, ebony horns sitting majestically atop a head of disheveled orange hair.  Thick, corded muscles that ripple across a broad back — readily apparently because the creature bent over a mountain of food on the ground was wearing nothing but a pair of pyjama bottoms, loose and slung so low over narrow hips that the sharp V defining his groin is visible even from the distance at which you stood.  

Because this wasn’t quite what you were expecting to find when you made your way to the kitchen in the middle of the night to search for Beel, thinking to approach him about the peculiarity of his recent behaviour: the way he now ate constantly and was less satiated than before, the fact that he seemed to be going out of his way to avoid you even though you shared a room.

In fact, he hadn’t said so much as another word to you after he gave you two dozen of his prized custards the morning after the incident, apologizing again until you had to be the one to make him swear he wouldn’t breathe a word of it to Lucifer.  The demon even made a beeline for the door as soon as he saw you emerge from the bathroom tonight, fresh from a shower.

It wasn’t hard to guess where he was headed.

Even still, you tried to focus on your textbook, reading the same line over and over again as you waited for Beel to return so you could have a proper conversation with the demon you made a pact with.  And when you could wait no longer, you made your way towards his favourite room in the House of Lamentation — silently, so as not to draw the attention of the eldest sibling.

But the growls coming from the direction of the open fridge this time sounded like Cerberus himself, enough so that you find yourself rooted to the ground, unable to take another step forwards or back.  

You had never seen Beel like this before, tearing into whatever he could get his hands on with a savagery that made your heart stop.  Teeth, lips and tongue devoured without second thought in a way that was simultaneously terrifying and…

Throb.

…arousing.

Suddenly, he stills, throwing his head back to sniff the air once…twice…and in a flash, he is upon you, towering over your head as he rises to full height — bigger and taller and much more intimidating than you’ve ever seen him before.

You should have been scared.  Any person in their right mind would have if they found themselves cornered by a demon of Beelzebub’s calibre.  But the hands that balled into trembling fists at his sides made you feel oddly secure, your deepest instincts telling you that not all was as it seemed.

“You need to leave.  Now…please.”

“What’s going on with you, Beel?  I just want to help—”  You reach for his arm.  He jumps back as if burned.

“I SAID YOU NEED TO LEAVE!  I-I…can’t hold back…for…much longer!”

Handsome face screwed up as if in pain, Beel turns to put as much distance as possible between the two of you, squatting on his haunches with his head in his hands when he murmurs:

“I…I don’t know what’s going on with me.  This has never happened before.  I’m hungrier than I’ve ever been.  I eat and eat and eat and it still isn't enough.  The last time I felt satisfied was when…when…”

His voice dies down to a whisper.

“…when I tasted you.”

Throb.

Putting out a hand, you steady yourself against the wall, knees suddenly weak at Beelzebub’s admission.  Or perhaps it was due to relief, the tension that had been steadily building in your strained relationship with the demon released to know that you weren’t the only one who desired to revisit that night’s events.

So you gather your courage, stepping softly towards the demon who crouched on the ground next to the lit fireplace, the heat radiating from the hearth warming the flesh you had deliberately left bare when you lift the hem of your night gown to expose yourself to Beel.

“What are you doing?!  I told you, I can barely hold back—”

“Then don’t.  I don’t mind, Beel.  I…I like it too.”

Amethyst eyes darken as they look up into yours, orange flames reflecting off pupils blown wide.  And when he speaks next, the deepness of his voice echoes in your body, as if its source were to be found within your own soul.

“Ask and ye shall receive.  I won’t touch you until you do.”

Nipples hardening beneath your gown, the rush of heat that floods your core makes you shudder when you say,

“Please, Beelzebub…I want you to eat my pussy.”

Back hitting solid wood, you barely have time to gasp before you are pulled to the edge of a long table in the centre of the kitchen, a long tongue running up the insides of each thigh in turn before they’re propped up onto broad shoulders, Beel’s breath blowing hot on the space in between.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can hold back.  I’m just…so famished, so desperate to taste you again—”

His words cut off in a low growl as he presses his lips to your folds, saliva dripping from his mouth mixing with the juices that already painted a glistening sheen on pink flesh.  You fight to bite back a moan at the vehemence of his hunger, the sheer greed of his tongue — flicking at your clit until your back arched off the table, heralding the arrival of the cream that leaked only to be swept up by Beel licking from end to end of that swollen seam.  And when that still wasn’t enough, you nearly swooned to feel that serpentine tongue penetrate, reaching depths that surely only a demon would be able to achieve as Beel sought out more of your flavour.

He buries his face deeper into your pussy, nose nudging your clit as arousal smeared over the entirely of his visage.  The vibrations of his voice further stimulates your locus of pleasure, punctuating the lewd, wet sounds when he says:

“You smell so delicious.  All the time.  And tonight, when you stepped out of the shower…I couldn’t take it, not with the way your scent flooded my senses.  I had to leave or else…this would happen.”

“Oh Beel…you should’ve told me sooner.”  

Mind lost in a haze of lust and body boneless from riding out wave after climatic wave, you reach down a trembling hand without thinking, fingers innocently tracing along the smooth ridges of the onyx horns that lay against your abdomen.

Suddenly, his breath hitches at your touch and the Sixth Prince of Hell is throwing his head back, eyes squeezed shut and mouth open in a moan loud and deep enough to reverberate off stone walls, clattering stacks of dishes in cupboards and making you come once more — legs convulsing upon his shoulders as you feel a preponderance of fluid gush forth from your body right into Beel’s waiting mouth.

The pleasure was such that you’ve never known before, so good that surely, it must be bad in some way, shape or form.  But you hadn’t the energy to ponder further.  

No, the only thing you’re aware of when your vision goes black is that Beel’s mouth is still on you, feasting upon a pussy that continued to respond to the teasing movements of his lips and tongue even as you ceased to think.

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Cheddar.  Pickles.  Ketchup and mustard.

The smell is what rouses you, but nothing could’ve prepared you for what you saw when you awoke in your own bed: mountains of cheeseburgers arranged on platters filling up every available surface in the room you shared with Beel.

“You can sleep for longer if you want.  I told Lucifer you’d be skipping class today because you’re not feeling well.  Are you…feeling well?”

Beelzebub lifts his head from where it’d been resting at the side of your bed, the rest of his body laid out on the floor as if he were guarding you like an oversized dog.  Those puppy dog eyes, full of concern, didn’t help his case either.

“I’m fine, Beel.  Better than fine, actually.  I feel fantastic!”  You smile, moving to sit up in bed.  The demon springs from the ground, putting an arm around your shoulders to help prop you up, and your heart can’t help but warm at how protective he was being.

He breathes, relief flooding those handsome features.  “I’m glad.  I was afraid I lost control last night and had to carry you back.  You were just…so tasty and…satisfying…”  

Those amethyst eyes glint as they travel to the apex of your thighs, and all of a sudden, he is grabbing at those human world cheeseburgers, shoving them into his mouth two at a time.

“Have some,” he says between bites.  “They’re my favourite and I thought you might like them too.  Besides, you need to eat if you’re gonna keep up your energy.”

You reach towards the nearest platter, taking one for yourself.  “Energy for what?”

Beel looks at you, expression completely serious when he says, “For the next round tonight.”

Throb.

🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔🍔

Thank you so much for reading!  Check out more of my work here! 📚

[cdroloisms]

the amount of angst in the post-prison writing you did just gave me massive post-prison dream brainrot and i'm just. sitting here thinking about how sam dealt with the curious looks and glances and having to face what's he's done as a warden. and everyone else's reaction to everything because hey, maybe the prison WAS a torture chamber that nobody deserves to be locked in to be treated like utter trash.

(btw i love your writing and analysis! they give me so much life :DD)

thank you anon!! this universe is ,, Fun ,, im ngl -> have this continuation of it, w/ sapnap and sam!! it’s a bit messy but oh well

(edit: i added these two asks as well bc they fit and i thought it’d be a bit redundant to rewrite this scene lmao -> the implication that dream’s admissions abt exile mightve been the result of ,, torture is. uh. yikes.) 

(This one is DARK, please heed the warnings)

TW: PHYSICAL/EMOTIONAL ABUSE (heavy warning for this one), starvation, toxic relationship, manipulation, references to the prison and exile, c!sam/warden!sam critical, violence, blood, dark themes, emotional distress, child abuse, torture

“Be honest,” Sapnap starts, quiet. “What did you do?”

Sam opens his mouth - hesitates, looks away. He should’ve known that his vague words and half-explanations that had been enough to push away most of the crowd - or at least, postpone the conversation for later - wouldn’t have been nearly enough to convince the man standing in front of him, but a part of him must’ve hoped, anyway. He’s not ready to speak, not ready to admit anything to himself, never mind someone else entirely - but ‘ready’ doesn’t matter, not when Sapnap is right here, waiting.

(He ignores how ‘ready’ didn’t matter for Dream when Sam had gone in, that first time, pick in hand and nothing but questions and rage spinning in an endless cycle in his mind, whirling together into something incomprehensible, insatiable, vicious - he’s not thinking about it.

He can’t think about it.)

“Well?” Sapnap’s voice raises, impatience coloring his tone, and it’s almost enough to draw a chuckle to Sam’s lips - he’d always been a little overeager, not doing well with silence, waiting, even as a kid. It’s part of the reason why he got along with Dream so well, Dream jumping at the chance to spend time with someone that didn’t shut him down for rambling and Sapnap simply excited at the chance to have someone that would join him on his hare-brained schemes instead of dismissing him as a dumb kid- and oh. Right.

The scrunch of his face is the same, Sam realizes, absently, as the expression Sapnap had when he was little; it’s the same crease between his eyebrows, the same slight jut to his bottom lip. Even with a new scar decorating his left jaw and the shadows under his eyes and collection of faint wrinkles belying his stress, he doesn’t look all that different - still looks young, a kid playing dress up in armor too big and too war-torn to belong to him. It’s easy to forget, but even after all the wars they’ve fought, even with all of the combat experience he’s had, Sapnap’s still barely twenty - only a few weeks out of being a teenager.

(He crushes the thought of what that makes Dream - he��s not. Thinking. About. It.)

“Hello? Earth to Sam?” Sapnap snaps his fingers in front of his face, and Sam blinks away the memories, the guilt, boxing it up and filing it neatly away to deal with - later. Never, ideally.

“Are you going to answer my question?”

Only later is now, there’s no escaping this conversation, and Sam. Really doesn’t want to be talking about this, right now. Sapnap fidgets, leaning on his right foot and then his left and then rocking back again - the feeling is mutual, then, but he knows the look in the younger’s eye well enough to know that neither of them are leaving without an explanation leaving Sam’s lips.

(Netherite and iron and smoke, bloodstained pickaxe tipping up a gaunt face, hand reaching around a too-prominent jawline with bruising force - are you going to answer my question, prisoner? Or are we going to have to do this again?

He’s not-

He can’t-)

“I-,” guilt, thick and heavy, circles his throat, chokes the words rising in his mouth. What can he even say? Can words really capture the sweat-slick desperation, the bubbling lava and heat and smoke stealing away all breath and thought, leaving nothing but a humming buzz of rage burning, hissing, begging for release? Can he really describe the endless darkness and weight settling on his shoulders, the hard edges and jagged fear taking anything soft, anything kind? Words swim in the back of his throat, try to reach his teeth, fall short; bloodstained memories haunt the back of his eyelids every time he blinks; there is so much, too much, to say, and yet nothing at all.

How does he even start?

There is no sympathy on Sapnap’s face when Sam looks, but there isn’t any cruelty either, just dark, watching eyes, lips thin and pressed together, jaw clamped shut, tense. Indifference, or a pale imitation of it, meant to hide the mess of his hair, the tremble in his hands, the helpless, desperate thing growing in his pupils. Sam understands and wishes he doesn’t; regrets, and wonders if he has the right, anymore.

“It- started, as an interrogation,” Sam stumbles over his words, stares at his hands because looking at Sapnap’s face will be too much, is too much. “I was angry. The prisoner- Dream- was desperate. That cell-” he shakes his head, remembers obsidian in his hands, remembers tearing away carpet, paintings, plants, remembers leaving the box bareboned, desolate, a cage and nothing more, “It messes with you. Screws with your head. I knew it, he knew it, but I guess we didn’t realize- I guess I didn’t realize-”

(Blood and crunching bone and shrill screams - tell me what you did to him-)

“I needed information. He wasn’t talking. I got- heated, and he laughed, and something- snapped, I guess.”

(I’ll tell you I’m sorry please please sam stop please)

“All I had on me was a pickaxe. He wasn’t talking, I was desperate - angry - I needed to know. I didn’t-”

(I just knew I needed to drag him away, he was ruining everything, he was destroying everything, I just needed him to leave before he brought down the whole damn server with him - the tnt was supposed to be a one time thing)

“It was supposed to be- one time. Was never supposed to happen, at all. But I guess I got mad - for me? For Tommy? I don’t- I don’t know, and it was- easy, you know? Take away the clock, one day. Give him less potatoes the next.”

(It was easy to do it again, I guess, mess with his invitations a little, take some of his stuff. There was nobody around but me and him and he’d ruined so much, he’d messed everything up - I thought that maybe if I took away his armor enough, he wouldn’t be able to go back. He wouldn’t ruin everything.)

“He’d done- so much. He was so awful to Tommy, to everyone- I thought I could prevent that. I thought maybe if I broke him enough, he wouldn’t be able to hurt anyone again. I renamed the pickaxe Will Breaker, to remind me, to remind him, I don’t know. I-”

Sam laughs, tired, poisonous, ignoring the way Sapnap whispers, stricken, looking at his hands and seeing nothing but red. Dream’s face, bruised, bloody, but glimmering with something almost like satisfaction comes to mind - and oh. Oh.

(Bloodstained teeth twisted in a bitter smile - Sam, I thought I had to.)

He gets it now. He wishes he didn't.

“I thought- ha-” His hand comes up to his face - he’s crying. When did he start crying? ”I thought I had to.”