#that's unrelated i just thought you all should know

[shoujoboy-restart]

Oh thought I was rebbloging from them, eh potato potato.

Also why would I be "scared" of them lol, you yourself said THEIR comparison isn't good, I'm not the one saying abortion for women is equal or comparable to the draft for men, they did.

> I've seen no love for Tate from MRAs

Neither have i because the MRA movement is dead and rotting when it comes to relevance in politics and social discourse at all, you had to bring it up unrelated, no, literally I also had to check if I even said "MRA", I only used "men's right" generically and obviously about the concept not the movement, that's how irrelevant it is to discussions now days.

Which makes this weird strawmans and skeleton digging you are doing really embarrassing

Idk who this warren dude is, good for him, bad for for him whatever, seems like a guy who the topic of a generic buzzfeed feminist article in the 2010s that would make some good and bad point about his beliefs i guess.

Roosh v, don't know don't care, I can remember the name only and he seems to call himself a pick up artist from I've seen, so the anti-sjw slop tubers from 2014 would probably go to great lengths to make him seem more relevant than he is just like mainstream media and probably use him for click bait, but whatever he's doing is for money and grifting by default from what I can see in the surface and that's just common sense I don't make rules lol.

Marc Lepine...

So a random anti-feminist shooter from the 80s? There's like a handful of them, again idk how he's relevant to this discussion specifically, like if you are using this to relive a debunk post you made against We Hunt The Mammoth in the 2010s and you felt it deserved more notes I will need you to pay before and after you finish and i ain't no cheap hoe. But I can definetely see a 2010s video by a random slop tuber that would use the fact he killed men too as proof "he's not a Real™ anti-feminist", make a bunch of edgy commentary about how actually someone should have pitty fucked him for the benefit of society, women shouldn't have been so picky about his demonic depressed aura and they should have thought of him when fighting for women rights completely unrelated to whatever internal issue he was having, issues which the slop tuber and his audience would probably call "socialism welfare" if separated from the topics of men's rights (again, generically, no one is referring to a movement that failed upwards, please move on 2010s it is better for a everyone if we do that)

Honey Badger Brigade, oof that's a deep cut, remember when they tried to go on Metakour's stream to beg for money for that pointless lawsuit going back where they said "actually we are now going to represent ourselves because all lawyers are dumb and don't know anything" which looking back as a adult really just came off as begging and trying to extend their 15 minutes of fame and that any lawyer worth their salt was telling them the contract they signed probably said they could lose their spot whenever and for whatever reason, I also remember when the butch one started using every slur know to man trying to be one of the Cool YouTubers™ 😎 when responding back to Metakour's not giving a shit about men rights because he didn't care about politics of any kind and told them to stop begging his viewers for money, even at like 14 i cringed and noticed how desperate they were to be pandering to anybody that gave them relevance, like nothing shows you REALLY care about men's right than using slurs like the hard-r n-word that dehumanized men based on their skin color and ethnicity, honestly they were the definition of pick me if you ask me, just saying whatever men wanted to hear with no care of concistency or true higher beliefs because it gave them some sort of relevance they could get if involving themselves with real world activism.

Yeah I genuinely don't get why you just brought up some random Mc Nobody author, one of the handful of grifters before Andrew Tate perfected the formula and prepared the soil for him to land, a random anti-feminist shooter form the 80s that would probably get some Devil's Advocacy for YouTube clicks from grifting slop tubers which would be consumed uncritically and then would make y'all look bad obviously and two pick me that had no real beliefs, begged for money every other week for like the political equivalent of pizza parties and would had no real opinion besides whatever mediocre men would like to hear women say.

Again, I said "red pill movement" which is a incredibly generic catch all term for men and people claiming to seek male improvement, which Tate is, he uses that term, most people that also call themselves "red pilled" accept and love him and I have yet to even see a "association fallacy" even begin to being used to claim he doesn't represent "red pill values", mostly because there's none since it just a "floating symbol".

But hey you are the same dude who believes in that weird narrative of "the term incel was actually made derogatorily by a random zoophililic radfem" made by incel appropriators themselves in a beyond weird attempt to make it seem like they didn't steal the term from a disabled woman who made a support forum for disabled and socially unpalatable men and women and actually everyone everywhere wronged them and that's why they advocate for pedophilia now (this is just as irrelevant to topic like your weird creature of the nights checklist you did so lol and lmao even).

Genuine advice, move on, the MRA movement is the definition of reactionary, the only accomplishment it has to show is a Apollo curse PR documentary, a bunch of pizza parties about how great it is to have xy chromosomes in a average way and a bunch of rent seekers shadow boxing at already retires feminist internet figure heads or waiting for the next ai generated article about why eating avocados and doing yoga is the ultimate feminism activism to drop to dibonky it epic style, I'm afraid if this discussion goes any further you are doing to talk about Anita Sarkesian as if she relevant still, and that's scary, move on genuinely, almost a decade doing this and y'all having nothing but YouTube views to show. Genuinely the only people who bring up MRAs unironically these days are TERFs and radfems claiming they have evolved into trans rights activists, and like they are twice more chronically online than MRAs yet they have more real world accomplishmenta than y'all did at the top of y'all's relevance back then...that's sad babe, real sad.

Not feminist as in "women should be included in the draft" but feminist as in "being drafted is a violation of bodily autonomy for any gender".

The draft should not exist. Drafting people into the military is a violation of human rights. You should not be able to force someone to risk their life. If you can't find enough people who care about a conflict to keep it going then it simply shouldn't keep going. You can't even force someone to donate a kidney using government power, why the fuck can you force them to donate their whole body and life to a cause they don't agree with or don't care about?

[cybrasigilism]

Cockwarming w/ Squid Game 2 Men (500 Followers Special)

warning: smut, obviously | not proofread | lowercase intended | cockwarming | sub/dom! reader (depending on the character) | mommy kink | degradation | praise | these are my headcanons + interpretations of these characters, please be respectful even if my opinions on the characters differ from your own

characters: nam-gyu (player 124), thanos/choi su-bong (player 230), park min-su (player 125)

(red = sub!reader | blue = dom!reader)

A/N: HOLY MOLY!! thank you all so much for 500! i truly cannot fathom all the support and i am eternally grateful. i figured i should do something special to celebrate this milestone, so here you go! many fans will be pleased to see i am writing for several beloved squid game men from the second season! i hope you all enjoy, as always. and again thank you all SOOO MUCH!!!

MDNI! 18+ content beneath the cut, reader’s discretion is advised

➤ nam-gyu (player 124)

➛ if you thought you’d have any sort of say in moving while you cockwarm nam-gyu— think again. he’ll hold you in place himself if he senses you getting impatient, but he knows you’re not stupid enough to try to pull a fast one and start moving anyway.

➛ he’ll pretend that you have absolutely no effect on him like this. like it isn’t killing him just as much to keep you from bouncing on his dick the way you know he likes. it’s all apart of the process with him though, being mean and restraining any possible movement. oh and you can bet he will 100% be poking fun at how pathetic you look.

➛ “such a predictable little slut,” he scoffs, his grip on your thighs tighter than usual. “i know it’s killing you that you can’t fuck yourself on my dick, isn’t that right?” you nodded rapidly, earning a somewhat sadistic laugh from nam-gyu. he loved having you at his mercy like this

➛ he’ll be extra mean from time to time and move just an inch, playing it off as adjusting his seating. but you know damn well that it’s his own twisted way of trying to get under your skin, and oh god did it ever work.

═════════════

➤ thanos/choi su-bong (player 230)

➛ thanos suggested it at first, he saw it as a fun new way to tease you. little did he know, the tables would be completely turned

➛ he wasn’t expecting to be the one in agony. he wasn’t anticipating that he would be the one to be begging for any semblance of friction as you sat motionless on his dick. you clenched down at his little whines and whimpers, but you remained calm— unrelenting in your stillness.

➛ “please baby, i’ll do anything… just move please, fuck.” his pleading was almost pathetic, you’d not seen him in such a position before. his cocky, obnoxious demeanour was thrown to the wind the moment control was ripped from his grasp.

➛ you don’t know what came over you, but suddenly you felt smug enough to tease him. i mean, if he could dish it out— he should certainly be able to take it. “oh? is this not going how you pictured? how sad.” you pretended the noise that was drawn from his throat didn’t damn near make you reconsider this yourself, his hands quickly finding their place on your hips. “señorita, please just fuck me.”

═════════════

➤ park min-su (player 125)

➛ you almost felt bad. almost. in all fairness how could you not? the way min-su was squirming under you, searching for some sort of satisfaction all while you held him down as still as you could. the tragic little whimpers he would make could have almost changed your mind into giving him the release he so clearly craved. he was gripping onto you, and you could feel him tremble.

➛ “it’s okay.” you assured him, brushing his bangs out of his face as he looked up at you with those trademark puppy dog eyes of his. “you’re doing so good for me.” you could feel his hands squeeze down on your thighs at the praise, a strained exhale leaving his lips. you had to admit, there wasn’t a hotter sight than this— seeing min-su melt in your hands like this.

➛ “ngh, mommy.. i c-can’t do this f’ much longer..” his speech was slurred beyond comprehension from the pleasure, you could feel his cock twitch inside you; desperate for any sort of leverage. “oh but you can,” you cupped his cheek, bringing him in for a kiss. as you leaned into it, you could tell even this slight shift in position was driving him up the wall— as if the way he was now moaning into your mouth wasn’t a telltale sign of his anguish.

➛ if you want to continue to drive him mad, whisper little praises in his ear.

“that’s right, you’re doing so well for mommy.”

“fuck, you feel so good… i could stay on you forever.”

“you’re doing such a good job for me, sweet boy.”

═════════════

oh em GEEEEEE!!! thank you all a million bajillion times over for 500 followers! i’ve been having a bit of a hard time feeling confident in my writing lately, but it’s honestly so relieving to see how many people await my works 🩵 i’m so eternally thankful for all of your support and each of your comments continue to make me smile :’) i promise i’ll keep working hard to contribute my best to this fandom, and of course THANK YOU GUYS FOR GIVING ME AN OPPORTUNITY TO SHARE MY PASSION FOR A SHOW I ADORE

as always, any advice/constructive criticism on how to improve my writing is appreciated and requested :) have a spectacular day/night lovelies 💋💋💋

tags: @gongyoosgf @strangelife122 @kouzih @agorsnotworld @kvstjwonnie @pink-apples001 @fiicalapsiholoaga @luvlyfandoms @gabbystinks

[juricel]

heyyy its me again

I have a silly request for you which you can ignore if you want to, since I think your ask box is piling up haha!

basically,

Yandere reader x pre corrupt shadow milk cookie turns to reader x Yandere shadow milk cookie

Reader, at first is super obsessed and does a lot of stuff for pre-corrupted shadow milk cookie and hes like super disgusted by how they’re acting. And suddenly, reader disappears one day, and hes fine with it

beasts get corrupted then get jailed,,

while in jail shadow milk cookie misses how loving y/n was, and realised that he has taken them for granted </33 And now he wants them back because of how love deprived he became

when hes out of the silver tree he see’s y/n again and at first hes all hip hip hooray !! until he sees that y/ns clinging onto the THIEF!!!

he goes batshit crazy, you can be creative with this if you want or just give your little ideas/comments I just really want more food wahah

so sorry if this doesn’t make much sense, it’s 2am :’)

tysm for reading oh great one!! you don’t have to do this right away dont worry love ur work already

—💤non

a/n: it's okay, i understand what you were aimimg for! I focused on the other requests before this one and had some church duties to do, so I apologize for having you need to wait for so long.

— yandere! shadow milk cookie x past yandere! reader (ft. the bus driver, pure vanilla cookie.)

໒꒰՞ ܸ. .ܸ՞꒱ა ۪ ׂ CONTENT WARNING: manipulation, physical abuse, heavy possessive and obssessive behavior, unhealthy relationship, implied forced established relationship, implied mindbreak, corruption, objectification, stalking, pure vanilla cookie needs a fucking break, one of these warnings is not like the rest, potential ooc.

𖦁 blueberry milk cookie was a heaven sent gift from the witches above, he was a celestial jewel, an angel's whisper brought down to earth, the very breath of seraphim—an impossible, transcendental blessing cradled in the tender arms of witches' own grace. he was a splendid confection, kneaded from divine essence, destined to scatter blessings upon the crumbed multitudes of earthbread—a being way out of your league, you, an ordinary cookie who could crumble and wither into a flour with not a single eye batting to your direction.

𖦁 ah, but how radiant he was, you couldn't help yourself from your love, your dear, your luminous, immortal darling. does he even know? does he grasp the way his mind glows, the way his thoughts spill like molten gold onto the parchment of your very soul? he was your everything, your love—your guiding star, your perfect darling, your sole, necessary breath. and yet, the world, the pitiful, ignorant world, could not comprehend his brilliance, like a mere toy, they had molded him, and cast him aside once their utilitarian need had been served; they did not deserve him. no, the world could not deserve him—those who fail to recognize the sacredness of his mind, who treat his wisdom as commonplace, who look upon him without the reverence of a disciple at the feet of a god—it sickens you, stirs a fury deep within your chest. in the hollowed, gleaming corridors of his towering spire, you would see them—fawning, indulging in their miserable, blind inanities, lost in the sick lies they prefer over the sublime truth he alone could offer. and mind you, it was he—he—who spent his invaluable time, his precious moments, entangled with these dull, odious fools, these imbecilic cookies just for them to throw it away! he should not have to share his divine self with such paltry, uninspired creatures. no, no, no. you could not abide it. you would sever every connection, carve away every distraction, erase every tether that pulled him from you. and if it were required to cloak him in the softest, most unrelenting shadow, to shield him from the world that could never grasp his greatness, to hide him where only your gaze could drink in the luminous glow of his mind—so be it. you would protect him, cherish him, and keep him safe from those who could never understand him as you do.

𖦁 yet, he couldn't seem to understand it all; with every embrace, a look of disdain was given to you, as if you were a taint smeared upon heavens, can't he understand? these cookies were the one that were evil! they will defile him, corrupt his very name with degeneracy! you were merely shielding him away from the evil, how could he not comprehend that? he must've been brainwashed. yes, surely, or so that was what you wanted to believe, however, all his actions proved otherwise: with every touch, he recoiled, like a skittish moth repelled by the flame it once sought. with every affectionate word, he replied in clipped, mechanical syllables, blunt and cold, each one landing with the weight of a slammed door. there was no love in them—no warmth, no hesitance, no trace of a feeling that might, by some miracle, have softened the harsh lines of his indifference. you learned quickly that tenderness was a language he neither spoke nor cared to decipher. a hand reaching for his own was met with a perfunctory pat, a touch devoid of meaning, as if acknowledging, rather than returning, the gesture. you could pour all your warmth into him, let it trickle down the cracks in his facade, but he would not absorb it. He remained, steadfast in his distance, near enough to torment, far enough to elude. you tried to believe in the silences, in the space between his words, in the possibility that somewhere beneath that marble exterior, there was something that resembled love. but hope, much like affection, was wasted on him. you tried, really! to continue loving him, you truly did, but, ah, your feelings leisurely diminished into grains of flour until your love turned into rust and dust.

𖦁 it wasn't long until then your unfortunate sweet dear darling, the celestial beacon in your life was sullied into taint when you vanished into thin air. from graces, he fell, and into the bottom of the endless pit of corruption.

𖦁 and oh, how much he changed: in the cold, lonely cell, he reminisced the past, thought of you, thought of your oh so tender gentle caresses! and to say that it made him deprived of warmth, made him ache—hunger not for food, but for yours was an understatement. he sought and yearned for it, hunger gnawed, a sensation with fangs, sharp and insistent, curling inside his ribs like a starved serpent. he gwaned for you—not sweetly, not poetically, but in the way of a body denied water, of lips cracked and trembling at the edge of a mirage. oh, to be held, to be devoured, to be anything but this wretched hunger pressing against the ribs, licking at the throat, whispering: more, more, more... ah! he couldn't stop it! he promises to himself that he'd apologize to you and pamper you with affection once he gets out of this petulant little silver tree!

𖦁 and he'd definitely stick to his word; the moment he flees from the withering tree binding him and his allies, he had his priorities straight: to find his dear darling! he was beyond ectastic, thoughts filled of embracing you once more and kissing you, but, ah, none could prepare him for the sight that would unfold infront of his very gaze—his sweet puppet was linking arms with /him/. at first, he laughed, he chuckled and brushed it off, no, no, surely he was just presuming things! there was no way his dear would betray him and replace him with such a... ungracious caricature of a cookie, right? right? if you were, he'd definitely need to give you a better eyes as a replacement which was a no worries for him! he has a nice stock of replacement! surely, you wouldn't stoop down to that level of degeneracy. yet, you didn't approach him like he thought and dreamed of within the silved tree, you only took a cautious step back, away from him, away from your perfect celestial darling and to the burlesque version of himself, realization dawned and it made him seeth with anger.

𖦁 blasphemous! how dare you! you superseded his spot with this thing?! to betray him was one thing, but to replace him with this cheap copy of himself whom hadn't grown ever slightly intelligent despite wielding his own power?! you little pest! he'll make you pay for this. oh, and, don't worry your pretty little brain! he promises to be much, much more tender than he will be to him, it will be grand, a show that will mark itself in earthbread's history. so won't you be a good little dear and wait till he finishes his one last marionette show before tending to you?

𖦁 and as for the destiny of the silly little thief... ah, he vows to make him taste his own medicine and he'll make certain it will be a fate worse than crumbling away! he wasn't gonna kill him, no, no, death was far too gentle, he was gonna corrupt him, brainwash his mind with sweet, insidious poison, and distort his reality into a glistening hall of mirrors where every reflection was a lie, every whisper a trick of the light. he would unravel, unravel most grotesquely, as his reason frayed like moth-eaten silk, his thoughts dissolving into the same exquisite delirium that had once seized his own skull in its venomous embrace! and most importantly, he was gonna make him feel like what it felt like to be in his place! he stole his soul jam and now you, surely he doesn't think he can get away with that, can't he? no, no, if he wants to take from him so badly, he was gonna make him /him/.

𖦁 but ah, don't be so upset, dear. shouldn't you be exhilarated? he's giving you the attention you craved for, the attention you digged the sand and soils for until your fingers scarred and numbed for, the attention you yearned and sought for like a madman. so, why won't you clap, give your sweet jester an applause for his spectacular show? don't tell him you were still concerned of pure vanilla cookie! he simply put him in the right path, the road down to the deepest depths of hell, of course, but it was still a befitting destination!

𖦁 yet, still, still, you prattled on, fretting that lovely little head of yours over pure vanilla cookie—his name tumbling from your lips like some sacred incantation, a hymn to a god too distant to listen. and oh, how it curdled something deep inside him, how it set his very marrow alight with a fury so exquisite it was almost pleasure. could you not see? he was here. here, before you, in all his resplendent, fevered devotion, and yet you—blind, foolish, maddening thing—spoke of another. oh! perhaps a lesson was in order. yes, yes, that's right, a lesson. a gentle one, at first—he was, after all, a man of remarkable patience. a game, then, a little amusement, something to turn those wandering thoughts back where they belonged. he would not interrupt, no, never that. he would only guide, nudge, mold. and in the end, oh, you would see. you would understand. you would learn.

𖦁 and to say the wait had been merely excellent would be a crime of understatement, a paltry insult to the fevered anticipation that had coiled and uncoiled within him for so long. no, the outcome was a marvel beyond the bounds of mere expectation. you were back, back as you had been, intact, whole—his darling, his own, still in possession of that precious, once-fractured self. giddy with triumph, he would fall against you, arms encircling the exquisite stillness of your form, his dear darling, still and unresponsive—your gaze, those glassy and depthless eyes, did not meet his but stretched past him, unfocused, fixed upon some distant and nameless horizon. there was no flicker of recognition, no gentle return of his embrace. and yet, he clung to you, triumphant, unbothered by your silence, unshaken by your vacancy. you were here. that was more than enough.

a/n: I've received like... so many requests featuring pure vanilla cookie with yandere shadow milk cookie after i made that one post... do you guys want him dead? anyways, i just lost my pity in the guaranteed banner to fucking sherbet cookie. i need frost queen to turn him into snow once again... can someone bless me their mystic flour luck, ill give you my burning spice who is currently 4 stars (f2p)

[bunji-enthusiast]

I had this in thought alot! (It's gory if you don't mind!)

Poppy playtime player becoming so hungry at this point that their losing their sanity and thinking of eating the corpses For survival so the rest has to hold player down from eating the corpses!

(I know its gory and so sorry if it made you uncomfortable)

𝐖𝐚𝐲 𝐃𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐖𝐞 𝐆𝐨

Sypnosis [The tempting smell of the corpses becomes more and more frequent, it eventually became too hard for you too ignore due to your increasing hunger. Luckily, you had some allies to help you resist it; even if forcibly.]

Characters [Kissy Missy, DogDay, Poppy, Doey The Doughman. (Seperate)]

Note || you didn’t make me uncomfortable at all! Don’t worry, but it’s a topic I tried to write with care. This shit is a very real thing that can happen, and should be treated with caution and respect.

Kissy Missy

You had never imagined it would come to this: an insatiable hunger gnawing at your gut, unrelenting as the hours passed. You, once a proud employee of Playtime Co., found yourself trapped in the eerie, decaying remnants of the factory, alongside strange, monstrous beings that had once been your colleagues. The stench of death lingered thick in the air, a heavy reminder of the atrocities committed during The Hour of Joy, but now it did more than just disgust you. Now, it tempted you.

At first, you fought against the gnawing cravings that threatened to overtake you. How could you—someone who had worked here—ever think of consuming the bodies of the very ones you had once known, even if they were twisted remnants of their former selves? And yet, each passing hour made it harder to resist, each sight of a fallen figure, each whiff of their decaying flesh, made your resolve falter. Hunger, once a mere inconvenience, became a ravenous beast clawing at your insides.

But you were not alone in this misery. Kissy Missy, who had once been just another experiment under Playtime Co.'s cruel reign, was there, always by your side. Tall and slender, her pink fur now marred by the scars of countless battles, she seemed almost... human in a way. Her blue bow and yellow hands stood out against her once pristine pink fur, now tattered from years of neglect and violence. She had been through her own trauma, the burns on her right side proof of that, yet she still managed to offer you a strange sense of comfort, a reminder that you weren't the only one left with so much lost.

You hated the hunger, but it was her presence that kept you from succumbing. Despite her own pain and injuries, she remained strong, acting as a barrier between you and the darkness threatening to overtake you.

Kissy's efforts were not subtle. She could see the desperation in your eyes as you edged closer to the corpses scattered around the facility, the lifeless remains of those who had been victims of the Prototype’s reign. She had already seen what the hunger could do to a person, and she would be damned if she allowed you to fall victim to it.

"Don’t," she would warn, her voice surprisingly gentle despite the fierceness that radiated from her. "Stay with me."

You hated that she had to intervene, to hold you back with both her force and concern. But you knew deep down that she was right. If she weren't there, you might have already given in, becoming something far worse than you already were. The hunger was more than just physical. It was a pull, a drive to consume the very thing that you had once been, the remnants of a life that had crumbled away into twisted, grotesque shapes.

Each time you got too close, her grip tightened around your arm, pulling you away from the gruesome temptation. There were moments, though, when you could feel your resistance weakening, when the hunger surged so strongly that it drowned out every other thought. At those times, she was not gentle. She would force you back, pushing you away from the remains, her sharp eyes filled with a mix of sorrow and fierce determination.

It was only then, in those moments, that you saw the lengths she was willing to go to keep you from crossing that line. The force she applied was not cruel but necessary. You were no longer yourself, a mere shell of who you once were. And she, though herself a victim of this cruel factory, refused to let you become something even worse.

"You’re not one of them," Kissy would say, her voice laced with a fierce protectiveness. "Don’t lose yourself."

There was something strange about the way she said it, as though she knew something deeper, something that had been lost to you. You were not just another victim of the Prototype’s horrific games—you were something else, something worth saving.

The hunger didn’t go away, not entirely. But you fought against it, clinging to the memory of who you used to be. And as each day passed, as each battle with your own cravings grew more intense, you realized that you weren’t alone in this anymore. Kissy Missy, despite her own pain, was there, holding you back from the abyss, keeping you tethered to whatever humanity you had left.

She would do anything to prevent you from falling, even if it meant pushing you to your breaking point. And in the end, you knew you owed her more than just your survival. She had become your anchor in a world that had long since drowned in darkness, guiding you through the factory’s nightmarish halls with a strength that you had long since lost.

But even then, there were moments when the hunger threatened to overtake you, and in those moments, you understood just how far Kissy Missy was willing to go to save you from yourself. She was more than just an ally; she was a reminder of the last shred of humanity that existed in this forsaken place.

Would you be able to resist the temptation forever? Could you both survive the horrors that awaited you in the depths of Playtime Co.? Only time would tell, but as long as Kissy Missy was there, you felt a sliver of hope that you might just find a way to escape the darkness together.

DogDay

You stagger through the cold, decaying corridors, your stomach gnawing at you with an unbearable hunger. It's been hours since you last found food, and your body is betraying you. The thought of cannibalism has been creeping into your mind, tempting you like a forbidden fruit. The idea repulses you, but with every passing hour, that same thought grows more and more alluring. Your lips are dry, your body weak, and every fiber of your being is screaming for sustenance. You grit your teeth, trying to push the urge down, but it rises again, a terrifying whisper in the back of your mind.

"Why not?" it asks, a cold voice that isn't your own. "What else is there? Food is food, isn't it?"

You stumble forward, your vision blurred from exhaustion. The floor beneath you seems to shift, as if the very foundation of this forsaken place is alive. You know you're being driven mad, but your hunger, that primal instinct, is overpowering. The walls seem to close in on you, their decay a reflection of your own deteriorating state of mind.

Just as you're about to give in to the temptation, a voice, soft yet commanding, cuts through the haze of your thoughts.

"Don't," DogDay says, his monotone voice a calm anchor in the storm that rages inside you. His words are a gentle plea, a reminder of the bond you share with him.

You turn to see him, his disfigured form standing in the shadowed corner of the hallway. His orange fur is a stark contrast to the darkness surrounding you, and despite his monstrous appearance, there's a sense of comfort in his presence. His body is a grotesque mockery of what it once was, bisected at the waist and held together with leather straps, yet his eyes, black and expressive, seem to convey nothing but concern for you.

"DogDay..." you mutter, your voice hoarse, as you struggle to stand. "I can't... I don't know how much longer I can hold on."

DogDay's head tilts slightly, as if he understands the torment you're going through. He knows. He's been there before, though perhaps in a different way. His stitched-together body speaks of an existence far more painful than yours could ever be. And yet, he chooses to help you, to guide you through this madness.

"I won't let you," DogDay says firmly, his voice barely above a whisper. "You can't. This isn't the way."

You can feel the weight of his words sink into you, and for a moment, you close your eyes, trying to push the hunger down again. But it lingers, gnawing at your insides. It's tempting, so tempting to give in.

But DogDay is here. He always has been.

You turn to him, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you take a step back. Not just from the hunger, but from the madness that has consumed you. You're not alone. DogDay is here, and though he can't move as freely as he once did, he is steadfast in his support.

The moment passes, but the hunger is still there, lurking beneath the surface. It's waiting for you to falter, to give in. But DogDay won't let that happen.

"Stay with me," he urges, his voice as steady as ever. "I know the darkness calls to you, but you're stronger than it. We just need to keep moving. Keep moving, and we'll find a way out."

You nod, wiping the sweat from your brow. The hunger doesn't go away, but for now, it's bearable. You can withstand it. With DogDay by your side, you will survive this.

As you walk together through the decaying corridors, the weight of the past still hanging heavily on your shoulders, you can't help but wonder just how far DogDay has come. He was once part of a group, the Smiling Critters, living in harmony with the experiments, but all of that changed during The Hour of Joy. The chaos, the bloodshed, it shattered everything. DogDay was left behind, a solitary figure in a world gone mad. Yet, through it all, he remained resilient, steadfast in his determination to help you.

"I was not always like this," DogDay says quietly, as if reading your thoughts. "I had a family once. A purpose. But that was taken from me, just like it was taken from everyone else."

His words hang in the air, heavy with grief and longing. You know the story, of course. The Smiling Critters' revolt against the Prototype, their deaths, and DogDay's subsequent imprisonment by CatNap. It was a tragic tale, one that left DogDay scarred in both body and mind. But despite it all, he chose to survive.

And now, he chooses to help you survive.

The thought is enough to steel your resolve. You can do this. You will not succumb to the darkness. Not while DogDay is here to keep you grounded.

The two of you move forward, one step at a time, the silence between you comfortable, yet filled with unspoken understanding. The hunger still claws at you, but for now, you resist. With DogDay by your side, you know you can make it through this.

Poppy

The atmosphere in the factory was suffocating. The low hum of machines, the distant clattering of metal, and the unsettling silence in between all gnawed at you. You'd been walking for hours now, your stomach growling like an angry beast inside of you, each hour dragging the hunger closer to the surface. There was a time when you’d had a deep hatred for the idea of cannibalism. But now? The thought didn’t seem so absurd. Every inch of your body ached with need. The edges of your vision blurred with hunger, but still, you resisted the impulse.

"You need to hold it together," you muttered to yourself, your voice hoarse and desperate. You couldn't let your mind go there, couldn’t let the gnawing hunger take you to such a dark place.

Then, out of the corner of your eye, you saw her—Poppy. A doll, yes, but one that seemed to hold some kind of strange power over you. She was small, porcelain skin cracked, but her eyes... her eyes were too real. Too alive. The crack running across her face only seemed to add to the unsettling, almost haunting nature of her presence. Yet she was there, watching over you, her concern evident even with her painted smile.

"Are you okay?" Poppy's voice, though childlike, held an unexpected firmness, as if she knew exactly what you were going through.

"Do I look okay?" you snapped, frustration bubbling to the surface. "I'm starving. I'm dying. And you're... just a doll. What could you possibly understand?"

Poppy didn't flinch. She merely tilted her head, her glassy blue eyes reflecting your pain in a way that only made the hunger worse. But there was something else behind those eyes. Understanding? Sympathy? It was hard to tell.

"I understand more than you think," she said quietly. "You don't want to go down that path. Trust me."

Her words held a strange weight. Despite her being a mere doll, she exuded a certain authority—like she was guiding you, almost protecting you from your own darkness. It was unnerving and, yet, comforting at the same time.

You stepped back, wiping your brow, but the hunger wouldn't let you go. It clawed at you, deep within, screaming to be fed. Your hand instinctively reached towards the nearest source of food—a small, half-eaten rat carcass lying in the shadows.

Before your fingers could wrap around it, Poppy's small, porcelain hand shot out. "No," she said sharply, her voice cutting through the fog in your mind. "I won't let you."

You froze, staring at her, confused. "What... what are you going to do about it? You're just a doll. What power do you have?"

Poppy's eyes narrowed. "I have more power than you think. And I will stop you."

Before you could process the words, Poppy was suddenly in front of you, her small hand placed firmly on your chest. You felt a strange warmth spread from the spot where her hand met your skin, and for a moment, the hunger seemed to ebb away, replaced by something else—something deeper. But just as quickly, the warmth was gone, replaced by a biting cold as Poppy stepped back.

"You don't understand," she said, her voice softer now. "I won't let you become like them. I won't let you become like... him."

You stared at her in confusion, your mind too clouded with hunger to process what she meant. You'd heard the whispers about the Prototype, the monster who twisted everything around him, but you couldn’t focus on that now. Not with the gnawing ache in your gut.

"I can't hold on much longer," you whispered. "I need food. Real food."

Poppy took a deep breath, her porcelain face still. She seemed to consider something before her eyes flickered to the side, as if she were contemplating an action. Then, with a sudden, sharp motion, she grabbed your wrist.

"You will not fall to this. Not while I’m here. Not while there’s a chance."

The intensity in her voice stunned you. You'd never expected a doll—a toy—to show such determination. But it was there. Her unwavering resolve was impossible to ignore.

"You don't understand," you said again, more urgently this time. "You can't stop me. You don't know what it’s like to be on the edge like this... to be so desperate."

Poppy's eyes softened, but her grip on your wrist tightened. "I do understand," she whispered. "I've seen the consequences of desperation. I've seen what it can turn you into. And I won't let you become that."

You looked into her eyes, seeing not a doll, but something much more complex. Something alive, struggling with the same darkness you were. She was just as broken as you, perhaps even more so, trapped in this hellish place for who knows how long.

"I will fight this," you rasped, voice trembling.

"You will fight this," Poppy repeated, as though reinforcing the promise to yourself. "I won't let you lose."

The hunger still gnawed at you, but there was something in Poppy's words—a lifeline. A chance. You weren’t sure if it was enough to save you, but you weren’t alone anymore. She had no power over your body, but in this twisted game of survival, she had become your tether. Your reminder of something you had long forgotten: humanity. You just had to hold on.

And for the first time in hours, you didn’t feel entirely alone.

Doey The Doughman

It had hours, maybe even more then a couple days—you couldn’t tell anymore. Time had become a blur, and the hunger gnawed at you with an intensity you could hardly describe. Your stomach was a hollow pit, and every hour that passed, the sensation grew worse. You hated it. You hated the very idea of what you were beginning to consider. But your options were running out.

The factory, once a place full of life and color, now stood desolate, a rotting carcass of what it had once been. Its walls, dim and cracked, seemed to close in on you with every passing moment. Your search for food had been fruitless, and what remained of the once-thriving operations was little more than discarded remnants of forgotten lives. Desperation had begun to seep into your thoughts, and with it, a temptation you never thought you would entertain.

Cannibalism. The idea lingered in the back of your mind like a whisper in the dark. You knew it was wrong, morally abhorrent, but the hunger—it was becoming unbearable. You couldn’t deny that the flesh of another being, even one of the toy creatures that had once roamed this place, might offer a solution. You didn’t want to think about it, but your body cried out for sustenance.

It was then that you heard the soft squish of footsteps approaching. You turned, blinking against the fading light, and saw him: Doey.

The dough-like creature was an oddity in this forsaken world. His body, made of multicolored, clay-like dough, seemed to shimmer in the dimness. His long arms—orange and yellow—hung at his sides, his short, stubby red legs moving with surprising speed. The blue bowler hat perched on his head was almost comical against his mismatched features, and his simple, expressive face, with a line for a mouth and two holes for eyes, always seemed to radiate an air of cheer, even in the darkest of times.

"Hey there," Doey’s voice was calm, but there was an undertone of concern that you couldn’t ignore. He could always tell when something was wrong, even if you hadn’t spoken a word.

You had never been one for speaking about your feelings, especially with a creature like Doey. You didn’t trust anyone—not after everything you’d been through. But there was something different about him. Something about his kindness, his willingness to help, even when it meant putting himself in danger.

"I know you're struggling," Doey said, his eyes narrowing as he read your expression. "But you have to resist it. You can’t let the hunger take control of you. Not like this."

You swallowed hard, feeling the knot in your throat tighten. "I don’t know if I can hold on much longer," you muttered, your voice barely a whisper.

Doey stepped closer, his large arms almost seeming to engulf you in their reach as he gently placed a hand on your shoulder. "I’m not going to let you fall into that darkness," he said firmly. "I promised you. I’ll help you resist, even if it means doing things you might not like."

You blinked, looking at the doughy figure in disbelief. "What are you talking about?"

Without warning, Doey’s expression shifted from that of a friendly companion to something far more serious. The playful demeanor that usually characterized his every move was gone, replaced by a cold determination. "I’m going to stop you if I have to," he said, his voice stern, yet full of understanding. "I won’t let you give in to it."

Your breath hitched, and for the first time, you felt a flicker of fear. It wasn’t from Doey himself, but from the fact that you knew, deep down, he was right. If you gave in, it wouldn’t just be your body that suffered—it would be your soul, too. But the temptation was so strong. It was almost impossible to push it away.

"Don’t make me do this," Doey warned, as if sensing your internal struggle. "You don’t want to go down that path."

The hunger inside you raged, a beast that tore at your insides. Your thoughts were clouded by the vision of the soft, tender flesh that could satiate you. You tried to push the thoughts away, but they clung to your mind like a shadow.

You took a step forward, your hands trembling as you gripped a nearby piece of metal, your mind flickering with the thought of using it, of ending the misery that had overtaken you.

"Don’t," Doey’s voice was sharp, his body blocking your path. "I will stop you, even if it means I have to restrain you."

He wasn’t threatening. He was determined. And in that moment, you knew he would do it.

You locked eyes with him, the weight of your internal battle becoming unbearable. The hunger had made you weak, both physically and mentally, but Doey was your anchor, a reminder of the better part of yourself. He wasn’t just a friend; he was a lifeline.

"Please," you whispered, the word escaping you before you could stop it. "I can’t—"

Doey didn’t give you a chance to finish. His long, orange arm shot out, grabbing you by the wrist with surprising force. "I won’t let you go there," he said softly, but with an unmistakable firmness. "You’re not alone in this. Not anymore."

For a moment, you struggled, but the strength in his grip was like nothing you had ever encountered. He wasn’t trying to hurt you—he was holding you, not with force, but with care.

"Just breathe," Doey said, guiding you to sit down on the cold concrete floor. "We’ll get through this. Together."

And for the first time in what felt like forever, you allowed yourself to lean into him. The hunger was still there, gnawing at the edges of your mind, but with Doey by your side, the battle didn’t seem so hopeless.

You weren’t alone.

And that, you realized, was more than you could have hoped for in a place like this.

[zealouswitchwerewolf]

Damian had watched as his family slowly unraveled after Ma's call. He didn't understand how they had taken her "you don't get to see Tim until you stop trying to use him" and turned it into "you have spent all your chances with him so you don't get to see him or talk to him ever again". Damian knew Ma had meant that they should find a way to solve their problems as adults without using Timothy as a crutch and then they could see or talk to Timothy as a part of their family instead of just based on his usefulness.

Father and Richard hadn't seen it that way. Grayson had spent the next weeks alternating between moping and getting into screaming matches with Father, then storming out of the house and disappearing for days. It was clear that he was being consumed by guilt but instead of trying to find a way to fix things, he seemed to be mourning Timothy, even when he was alive and well, just out of reach. Father had started spending more and more time in the cave. He initially seemed to be trying to bypass Timothy's security features. Once he realized he would not succeed, he had decided to start going through all his contacts, trying to get Timothy's current information. Based on his rising frustration he hadn't been successful.

They hadn't asked Damian. If they had, he probably would have called Timothy from his phone, allowing them to make contact without giving them the information. He had informed his brother of the situation and they both had agreed that that was the best course of action if it were to happen, as unlikely as it sounded. Damian had initially said he could just pretend not to have the information but Timothy had insisted that he didn't want his little brother taking heat for keeping it hidden. Not when he had Timothy there to protect him, even if from afar. Damian had reluctantly agreed. They didn't ask. They barely even noticed Damian. In those weeks they didn't acknowledge him more than a handful of times and only for a brief greeting or a hair ruffle. Alfred had taken refuge on his role as a butler and rarely stopped to talk anymore. The manor was big enough for him to have infinite places to clean and avoid his feelings. So he did.

Damian remembered the last time he had met with Timothy. They had talked. Damian had apologized for his early murder attempts and Timothy had accepted it. They talked for hours about the family dynamics and the differences between their upbringing, along with the similarities, and the cultural norms both around the league and their family. Damian could remember thinking to himself that it would have been very useful to have that knowledge when he had just arrived in Gotham. It made him regret his treatment of Timothy, even if Timothy didn't blame him for it anymore (or ever, according to their chat).

The part of the conversation Damian kept replaying in his head wasn't exactly about that. Timothy had told him about his life, both growing up without parental supervision and then becoming an emotional support Robin for the good of Gotham. He told Damian a story about neglect that didn't end when his parents died. He made sure to highlight the behaviors within the Bats that had led him into distancing himself from them and eventually realizing it was time to leave.

"i don't think they mean to, not really. They're just prone to lose themselves on the latest problem in front of them, making everything else blurry and unimportant until they completely forget about anything unrelated to what they're trying to solve" Timothy had said. "They're detectives with a puzzle. They don't know how to stop. They assume the world around them stays the same until they emerge from their current obsession and are surprised when that isn't the case, usually leading to a second deep dive into the next problem born out of neglect."

Timothy had stopped for a second then continued with a thoughtful look on his face. Damian hadn't truly realized it was for his benefit more than Timothy's. "For example, when you came to the manor, Bruce was trying to bring Jason back to the manor while keeping him in his mind as the 15 year old but he had been when he died. He couldn't figure out why it didn't work but refused to acknowledge all the changes Jason had had in the past years and therefore couldn't recognize the person in front of him with the image he previously had of his son. That's why he was so distant with you at the beginning. Dick tried to compensate for it as he usually did whenever Bruce got into one of his moods. That meant he started cancelling plans with me and switching his focus to you entirely while putting me aside, since, from his perspective, I was 'fine' and you needed him more, never even considering that a big part of that was because of the attention he was paying me or how it would affect me to suddenly take it away for no reason."

He had given Damian more examples after that. Timothy had reassured him that it wasn't his fault or his responsibility but it was still important for him to have the information and know the signs. Timothy had made him promise that if it ever got that bad for him, that he wouldn't wait as long as Timothy had or endure the neglect hoping that it would get better if he gave them enough time. He had made him promise that he would come to Timothy if it came to that. No matter what.

Knowing his decision had already been made, he started packing his bags. Only the essentials. And his animals. He couldn't trust his Father or Grayson to take care of them when they barely remembered to take care of themselves on a good day, let alone now. He called for Jon and texted the Kents. They agreed to house Batcow, Titus and Jerry on the farm. Alfred (the cat) was staying with him and he would ask Timothy about bringing Titus to live with them later.

He took a look around the room, making sure he wasn't forgetting anything. He decided to leave his finished paintings, he could always make new ones and he didn't want to travel with too many things, even if he was going via Kryptonian. He could always come back if he forgot something important (he probably wouldn't). He hesitated for a second then took the framed picture on his nightstand and carefully shoved it into his bag. It was one of the ones they had taken after Timothy had rescued Father. Everyone was in it, Brown, Cassandra, Gordon, Todd, Richard, Father, Pennyworth, Thomas, and Damian. Everyone but Tim. They looked happy. Now it also felt incomplete. Damian still took it.

He left his bags in his room and took one last lap around the manor, waiting until the last minute to put Alfred in his carrier. He didn't find anyone even though he made sure to go through their preferred spots. He was ready. He texted Jon to come pick him up. Clark was going to come by later to take the rest of his pets. He stood in the middle of the main hall and whispered a last goodbye before going back to his room and opening the window for an already waiting Jon.

🐦🐦🐦

Damian rubbed his hands on his pants and took a deep breath to gather his courage. He closed his eyes for a few seconds then knocked on the door. It opened immediately, familiar eyes watched him with a knowing sadness. Damian opened his mouth and closed it a couple times before the words finally came to him. His brother waited patiently. "Timo... Tim. Can I stay with you for a while?" Timothy smiled at him.

"Of course, Dames. Come on in. You can stay as long as you want." He stepped to the side to let him into the apartment and took his bags from him with a hug. The door closed behind them. "I'm proud of you, kid" Damian heard him whisper and felt warmth fill his chest. Yes, this had been the correct choice.

Bruce comes back from the dead and wants to make things better. Bruce comes back from the dead and Tim was the one who brought him back, so it's obviously Tim who'll know best how to help him reconnect with everyone.

It's Tim who should give him advice on how to bond with Dick. Dick has always been his idol, after all. Tim would know best how to bring him back, and he does. He gives good advice and the two of them begin to get closer.

So Bruce asks about Jason, too. Asks about how to bring his son back into the fold and Tim wished for a brief and brutal moment that it weren't so obvious who the favorite was.

Tim told Bruce to give Jason his space, to loosen his rules, and make it clear that no matter what the Red Hood did, no matter what the Batman believed in, Jason was always welcome. Bruce would always want him.

It worked. Bruce wasn't surprised. Tim was a special sort of bitter.

Bruce asked again for Damian and Tim had to push down his anger. "That boy tried to kill me," Tim wanted to say. "I hate him and I want you to hate him too so that I can remember a time when we had something in common," Tim didn't say, but he got close.

He instead told Bruce how Damian liked art and animals and loved hearing stories of the wonders of Batman.

He told Bruce just how much Damian loved being Robin. Told Bruce to tell Damian what a good Robin he was.

God bless or maybe damn him, but he did and it worked and Tim wanted to start screaming and clawing at something because that would have never worked if Tim tried it and it wouldn't have stopped Damian from cutting his line--something Bruce did not and would never know about.

Bruce asked about Babs. How should he make sure she knew that she was a part of the family? They they loved her and not just for the work she did?

He asked about Steph. How should he make sure she knew that she was more important than his rules and that, if something else should go wrong, she didn't need to run away?

He asked about Duke. He never got the chance to get to know him before leaving--not as well as he wanted to, at least. How should he let him know that he was just as much a son as everyone else? That, whether or not his parents woke up, he'd always be welcome?

He asked about Cass. How should he show her that he loves her even though he has nothing to teach her? How can he convey how much he cares about her, his first daughter?

Bruce gets brought back from time and he makes things better. He brings his family back together by following Tim's advice.

And Tim?

Tim brings his dad back from the dead and Bruce changes, becomes a better father.

Bruce changes, but not everything can.

That, Tim thinks, is why Bruce never calls Tim his son.

[00valentina-writes00]

Grayson fingering you in her office? Plaplspslslsmbxnsms I need it.

♡♥︎Hold It Together♥︎♡

Warnings: NSFW (18+), semi-public sex, fingering, Mild orgasm control, praise, office setting, established relationship, Grayson being in control.

The walls of Grayson’s office are thick—sturdy, built to muffle the sounds of confidential conversations, urgent reports, and the weight of justice being debated behind closed doors. But they aren’t soundproof.

And right now, that’s a problem.

You bite down on your bottom lip so hard you can taste copper, your fingers gripping the edge of her heavy wooden desk in a desperate attempt to stay grounded. The room smells of parchment, ink, and the lingering scent of Grayson’s cologne, a scent that clings to the fabric of her crisp uniform. It’s heady, comforting, and dizzying all at once.

Especially when her fingers are buried inside you.

“You’re trembling, sweetheart,” Grayson murmurs against your ear, her breath warm, teasing. Her voice is always so controlled, so composed—but there’s an unmistakable edge of amusement in it now.

She likes this. Loves the way you’re struggling, the way your body betrays you even as you fight to hold still, to keep quiet.

You gasp when she curls her fingers just right, pressing against that spot that makes your knees weak. Your body jerks, but she holds you in place, her other hand resting heavily against the small of your back, keeping you right where she wants you.

“Did you think you could come here, spread yourself over my desk, and walk away unpunished?” she muses, lips grazing the shell of your ear.

You shake your head, but words fail you. You can’t think—not when she’s moving her fingers in slow, deliberate strokes, her palm pressing firmly against your clit with every motion.

Your breath stutters. You squeeze your eyes shut.

Outside, the muffled sounds of the precinct hum around you—officers talking, boots against tile, the occasional crackle of a radio. If anyone knocked right now, if anyone stepped inside—

You don’t get to finish that thought. Grayson withdraws her fingers, just enough to make you whine, only to press them back in with a steady, unrelenting force. Your walls flutter around her, struggling to accommodate the thick digits that know your body better than you do.

“You need to be quiet, sweetheart,” she warns, her lips against your jaw now, pressing the softest kiss there before pulling back just enough to watch you struggle. “Or do you want them to hear?”

You shake your head again, your breath coming in sharp, desperate gasps.

She hums in approval. “Then hold it together.”

Easier said than done.

Your thighs are shaking, your body wound tight as a bowstring. Every drag of her fingers, every deliberate press of her thumb against your aching clit sends you spiraling further, making it harder to stay still, to stay silent.

“Please,” you whisper, barely audible, but she hears it. Of course, she hears it.

“Please, what?” she asks, still in control, still composed, despite the undeniable heat in her voice.

You squeeze your thighs around her hand, hips stuttering in search of more friction, more something.

“Please let me cum,” you beg, breath hitching as she curls her fingers again, teasing the edge of your release without quite letting you tip over.

Grayson chuckles, the sound low and knowing. She could make you wait. She should make you wait—draw it out, make you squirm, make you work for it. But she’s not feeling particularly cruel tonight.

“Be a good girl, then,” she murmurs, her pace quickening just enough to make you see stars.

And fuck, you try—try so hard to hold it together, to stay silent, to obey. But when she presses her palm firmly against your clit and grinds down just right, the pleasure snaps through you with ruthless efficiency.

A sharp, choked sob escapes your throat before you can swallow it down. You slap a hand over your mouth too late, your entire body shuddering as your orgasm crashes over you, wave after wave of unbearable pleasure.

Grayson doesn’t stop. She fucks you through it, coaxing every last tremor from your body, milking your release until your legs threaten to give out beneath you.

Only then does she slow, withdrawing her fingers with a teasing final stroke that makes you whimper.

You slump forward, panting, your forehead resting against her desk as you struggle to catch your breath. Your body feels boneless, weightless, as the aftershocks pulse through you.

Grayson takes her time fixing your wrinkled skirt, smoothing it down with deliberate care. Then, she lifts her hand—still slick with your release—to your lips.

“Clean up your mess, sweetheart.”

You shiver, but you obey, parting your lips to take her fingers into your mouth, your tongue gliding over them, tasting yourself on her skin.

Her dark eyes burn with something heavy, something possessive as she watches you.

She pulls her fingers away with a soft, pleased hum before pressing one final kiss to your temple.

“Good girl.”

And just like that, she steps back, straightens her uniform, and smooths a hand over her hair as if nothing happened at all. You on the other hand, shake as you pull your underwear and pants back up.

A knock on the door makes you flinch, your stomach twisting with residual panic.

Grayson? She doesn’t even blink.

“Come in,” she calls, her voice as composed as ever.

You swear you see the ghost of a smirk tugging at her lips when she watches you try to compose yourself.

She did that on purpose.

And you love her for it.

[narumi-gens]

Triptych | "Fate put us on the same path."

Chisaki Kai x f!Reader

summary: Your life is nothing more than a triptych, a work of art in three parts with each panel depicting a distinct period — a beginning, a middle, an end. And in the triptych that is your life, the central figure has always been Chisaki Kai.

chapter warnings: 18+ minors/ageless/blank blogs dni, yandere, possessive behavior, emotional manipulation, complicated family dynamics, codependency, daddy issues, abandonment issues, reader says "faults" but should really be saying "red flags" lol

notes: this is from a non-chronological series so the parts can be read (mostly) on their own or in any order. someone left the nicest comment on this fic on ao3 and I felt like I needed to update this fic, so this is your regular psa on the importance of leaving comments!

words: 2.2k

SERIES MASTERLIST

minors, blank, and ageless blogs do not like, comment, or reblog

The Middle

You’re having trouble breathing. You’re having literal trouble breathing. 

The shiromuku is so heavy and tied so tightly that it feels like each breath you take requires a monumental effort. There’s an ache forming in your shoulders from the pure weight of it all. You’ve spent so much of your life in kimono that you can put one on blindfolded. But this? This wedding kimono is another beast entirely. 

“It’s a bit tight,” you wince, causing the two women currently in the process of tying the obi around your middle in an extravagant knot to softly titter. 

“I know. It’s all a bit cumbersome,” the older woman in front of you commiserates before smiling at you so kindly that it alleviates your discomfort for a brief moment. “But it’s worth it. You look beautiful, just as every bride should. Your husband is a lucky man.”

You let out a noncommittal hum, which is cut short by a soft grunt when the woman behind you gives your obi a particularly harsh yank. 

“How did the two of you meet?” she asks, trying to distract you from how uncomfortable you feel as they continue to tie you up in beautiful silk. 

“We grew up together,” you reply, deciding the simplest answer is the easiest. 

“Ah, so fate put you both on the same path,” she observes with a soft smile and her words have you suddenly feeling breathless for a reason entirely unrelated to the thick layers of fabric wrapped around you.

“I guess so,” you murmur, but before you can lose yourself in your thoughts, you wince when your obi is given one final tug.

“There we go,” the older attendant behind you declares proudly as she adjusts the obi knot. As difficult as it physically is to do so, you sigh with relief knowing that the fussing is almost over. It’s been over an hour by this point. “All that’s left is the uchikake.”

One of the women lifts up the final and thickest layer that will be worn over your kimono. You reach out to gently trace the beautiful designs embroidered on the white silk. As your finger follows the outline of a crane’s beak, you can’t help the frown that forms on your lips.

“Can we take a break?” you ask and there’s a pause at your unexpected request. 

“O-of course,” the attendant in front of you says as she carefully places the uchikake back in its box before she and the other woman leave the room. 

When you hear the door close behind you, your posture droops as much as it can in such a restrictive kimono. Instinctively, you tug at the collar to try and loosen it slightly at the neck only to immediately worry that you’ve ruined the women’s hard work. 

You turn towards the room’s floor-length mirror and feel a rush of relief when you see that the collar appears untouched. Your eyes then drift to take in your full reflection for the first time and your lips part slightly in surprise.

So much of your life has been dictated by tradition — from the way you were raised to the clothing you had been made to wear to the marriage that your father tried to arrange for you — that the last thing you wanted was a traditional Shinto wedding ceremony. However, as you see how beautiful the shiromuku is, and how elegant you look in it, you’re in awe. 

But the longer you look at yourself, the more reality begins to set back in until the small frown on your face is reflected at you in the mirror. Without the distraction of the two women dressing you in such an elaborate garment, all you’re left with is the image of someone you don’t recognize — or rather the image of a future that you never envisioned for yourself. 

Eventually, the reflection becomes too much and you turn away from it to look out the window into the shrine’s gardens. When you see how dreary the weather is as it continues to rain like it’s been doing all morning, you sigh and rest your forehead against the glass. Your fingertip follows the path of a raindrop as it runs down the window’s surface and you absently wonder if the weather is a poor omen for your marriage. 

Not that an omen would matter now, considering you and Kai have already filed your paperwork and have been legally married for weeks. This ceremony is just that — ceremonial. So you’re not what it is that has you feeling so out of sorts.

Maybe it’s the chaos of the last months. Your mind has been a mess as you’ve tried to navigate your grief for your father, your guilt over not having returned home sooner, your indecisiveness about what you were going to do next, and your conflicting feelings toward marrying Kai.

You hear the door open behind you and brace yourself for the gentle scolding that you’re about to receive from one of the attendants for wrinkling your kimono with your slouched posture. You drop your hand to your side with a soft sigh.

“Can I have just another minute or two?” you ask, not quite ready to bear the weight of the thick uchikake that they’ve come to drape you in. 

But when you look over your shoulder, it’s not the attendants who have entered — it’s Kai. 

Your eyes widen at the sight of him in his montsuki haori hakama. While you of course knew what a groom wore during a Shinto ceremony, seeing Kai in the outfit stuns you. With the black haori, matching kimono, and striped hakama, he looks every bit the part of the Hassaikai’s wakagashira. 

He’s always looked good in the suits he wears, but there’s something about seeing him dressed so traditionally that makes your cheeks feel warm. When your gaze finally returns to his face, you’re relieved that he’s chosen to wear a simple black face mask like you’re accustomed to seeing him in rather than the beak-like one that you detest.

As your eyes meet his, you give him a weak smile and turn back to the window. His steps are soft against the tatami as he moves to join you.

“It’s raining,” you needlessly point out with a small frown. 

“Rain washes things clean,” he replies and somehow, the simple statement manages to put you slightly at ease. Silence settles over you both and the longer that it stretches on, the louder you hear the attendant’s words echoing in your head.

“One of the women said something when she was dressing me,” you eventually blurt out. When you hesitate, he gives you a hum to continue. “She said fate put us on the same path.”

Even without looking at him, you can tell that the sentiment pleases him. 

“She’s right. This is where you belong.” It’s such an expected response that you would feel annoyed if your mind wasn’t already so preoccupied.

“With the Hassaikai?” you gently scoff.

“With me,” he’s quick to answer, his firm tone giving you pause. 

You glance at him to find that his attention is already focused on you rather than the view of the garden. The weight of his gaze feels almost as heavy as your shiromuku and when you can no longer meet it, you look back out the window.

“How…” you begin before trailing off. You hesitantly bite your lip as you consider your words. “How do you think Dad will react when he finds out we’re married?”

You try not to linger on how your question is predicated on the optimistic assumption that your father will wake from his coma. When Kai doesn’t immediately answer you, you sigh.

“He’ll probably be happy,” you say dryly. “All that work he did to force me into marrying a yakuza and he got what he wanted in the end.”

An unexpected wave of exhaustion overwhelms you, and you bring a tired hand to your forehead. You’re certain that right now, you’re the antithesis of a blushing bride. 

“I told the old man I would marry you.”

Your hand drops at the sudden admission and when you turn to him with wide eyes, you find that he’s now looking out the window. 

“When he tried to marry you off, marry you away, I told him that you should marry me.” His frown is hidden beneath his mask, but you can see the tension lining his eyes. “But he said no.”

The questions come to you in a flurry. Why did your father turn him down? Why didn’t Kai tell you? How long has he been planning this? Has he been waiting years to marry you? How different would your life be if you had married him? Does any of it really matter now that you are married?

But with all of the questions that your mind is racing with, there’s one that comes to the surface. Is he in love with you? 

You feel stupid for thinking it. It’s a dumb thing for a wife to wonder about her husband, even if the labels are still new. But mostly, the idea of love is something that you’ve never considered of Kai. 

You’re not so naive as to think that his intentions toward you have only ever been chaste or innocent. In fact, innocent is a word you would never use to describe him. He’s spent enough nights in your bed over the years for you to know that he’s attracted to you on at least a physical level. 

Likewise, you’re not blind to his faults. He’s a dangerous man who does violent work. He’s obstinate to a frustrating degree. And his nature has always been possessive — of the Shie Hassakai’s power and reputation, of the territory that he perceives as rightfully theirs, and of you. 

Maybe for him, that is love.

And he’s always watched over you. He’s protected you. He never abandoned you. He kept you from harm. That’s more important than something as ephemeral as love could ever be. 

“What were you going to do? If I ended up married to some other yakuza?” you finally ask. When Kai turns to face you, you’re unsurprised by the dark look in his eyes.

“I would have killed him.” His response is a threat, but there’s no heat or anger in his tone. He tells you his plan to free you from a forced marriage with the same sort of indifference he would if he were telling you the sky is blue. 

You should probably be horrified that he’s talking so easily about murdering someone. But the tears that you can feel beginning to form aren’t from fear. You take a step toward him and close the gap between you before dropping your forehead to his chest. A gloved hand immediately comes up to rest on the back of your neck and keep you close.

“Always looking out for me, huh?” you murmur with a wet laugh, a faint smile tugging at your lips. He gives your neck a reassuring squeeze. 

Ever since you first brought Kai to your father all those years ago, he’d treated him like the son he never had. You had seen him look past Kai’s flaws as easily as you always have. But if his adopted son had openly gone against him to kill the man he intended for you to marry, you don’t know what he would have done. 

He was willing to risk it all to keep you safe. If that isn’t love, then you’re not sure what is — you don’t care what it is. To you, it’s everything. 

You clutch the fabric on his haori in a pitiful attempt to tug him closer. Despite your best efforts, you can feel a tear escape and roll down your cheek. You quickly brush it away with another sniffle.

Once you no longer feel like you’re about to shed any further tears, you lift your head, although his hand on your nape doesn’t let you go far. Slowly, your hand releases its grip on him and you run your palm over the material to smooth over any wrinkles you may have caused.

Your gaze settles on the symbol embroidered over his chest — the Shie Hassaikai’s emblem in place of where a family crest would traditionally be. You carefully trace the white thread.

“You know, it suits you,” you tell him with a soft smile. You glance up at him and nod meaningfully to his haori, the one in the style of the Shie Hassaikai’s kumicho. With an affectionate touch, you then straighten the front of his kimono, although it’s a needless gesture. You then give him a gentle push. “Get out of here. I have to finish getting ready.”

[nesswritesnonsense]

This Isn’t Writing Advice, It’s a Cry for Help

I am so sick of reading writing advice. It’s always just write, write, write. But what if I don’t want to? What if I want to daydream about my stories until I’m spiraling into Fae folklore, casually coming up with a title, opening line, and outline for a monster smut novel I never intend to write? (Pixie Dust and Fairy Fucks)

That’s what writing chaos is—it’s starting a story with an idea that spirals into five unrelated outlines, naming characters after inside jokes, and abandoning plot structure entirely just to spite the "rules" of how things are supposed to be done. “Ooh, you have to learn the rules before you break them.” No, you see, I already understand exactly why the fictional protagonist of my fake Fae smut gets trapped with her domineering Fae lover. I did the research. I know the Fae lore to back it up.

But I’m not that type of writer. I don’t write about that. Or am I?

Let me break down the writing process—or, more accurately, offer a cautionary tale—in a way you’ve never seen before. This isn’t about structure or discipline—it’s about embracing the chaos, because that’s where my creativity thrives. This is the beautifully inefficient process that works for me—feel free to borrow it, but don’t say I didn’t warn you. Proceed with caution (and maybe some emotional armor):

Existential Blank Page Panic:"What if I never have another good idea again?" The terror of starting. The blinking cursor feels like it’s mocking you, and you question why you even thought writing was a good idea in the first place.

Chaotic Word Vomit: Let’s just dump everything out and see what sticks." Ideas spill out wildly—some genius, some completely incoherent, some downright degeneracy (like Pixie Dust and Fairy Fucks, the smut that will never be written). But it’s all progress.

Procrastination Justified: "But first… let me clean my entire apartment." You convince yourself that everything else is critical to the writing process.

Research Rabbit Hole: "I just need to look up one quick fact…" 5 hours later, you’re an expert on an unrelated topic.

Outline Illusion: "If I make the perfect outline, this will write itself!" Spoiler: It won’t.

Epic Fuck This Moment: "Why did I think I could do this? This is garbage." Frustration peaks, and quitting feels inevitable. You beat yourself up and consider another hobby—and now you have an entire craft room that would put Michaels out of business.

Overthink Everything:"Is this comma necessary? Should I change my protagonist’s name… again?" You spiral into tiny details that don’t really matter.

Accidental Writing Moment:"I blacked out, and now there are words on the page?" Somehow, you’ve written something without realizing it. It’s not perfect, but hey—it exists.

Surprise Achievement Unlocked:"Okay, maybe I can do this." Euphoria hits—you made real progress, and it doesn’t totally suck.

Creative Delusion High:"This is the best thing anyone has ever written!" A fleeting but glorious moment of inflated confidence.

Editing Abyss:"I’ve read this sentence 47 times, and it no longer makes sense." Endless tweaking leads to self-doubt, and imposter syndrome sets in hard.

Disclaimer: I never claimed I was a professional, so if this so-called "advice" leaves you staring at a blank screen or suddenly pursuing a stained glass hobby, that’s on you. Chaos is contagious—consider yourself warned.

Identity Crisis Stage:"Wait… am I actually a writer?"You begin to question everything. Maybe you are good at this? Or maybe you’re just delusional?

Reset to Chaos: "Just kidding, back to square one." You realize writing is a never-ending cycle of nonsense. Whether you’re starting a new project or reworking the same one, the chaos continues.

[elizabethrobertajones]

Yeah right, liar.

........... CYLVA. WHY. You can't just say these things to Jane when she has NO IDEA THE LORE BOMB YOU ARE GOING TO DROP ON HER.

Quite literally, I think :P

Unrelated but she absolutely ate this camera angle

anyway remember when I said that Jane joining the Scions was a terrible idea because she would become Completely Hydaelyn Pilled and turn it into a weird cult thing if no one else was going to do it for her?

I feel like this is the exact level of fanaticism that meets that freak :P Granted, Cylva is manipulating the Warrior of Light generation machine for the sake of causing a calamity, with the Most Manipulated Pawns In The Universe who are only on step one or two of like 6 in this chess game. But the stuff she's saying is 100% something Jane would believe and agree with XD Like yeah actually we SHOULD dedicate ourselves to Hydaelyn by following a regeime of self-sacrifice and toppling evil in a semi-gamified and marketable plan to increase your Mothercrystal Rankings -

I know you're being dramatic and also want that but that's 100% the angle of the cat in the picture with all the knives pointing at it and the cat is so so smug and somehow exactly where it wants to be :3

^ pictured holding back saying the name that would trigger a second Echo flashback in a row and force Jane to realise exactly why Cyella has been scowling at her all month and spilling every other drink she ordered onto her head.

(Jane thought she was like. Maybe a former guard, wounded in battle and kept around as a barmaid out of pity even though her arms were shaky, and Jane was being ever so forebearing with this treatment and didn't even go complain to Glynard even though she really wanted to)

"Like you, I'm from the Thirteenth."

"What!? I'm not a demon, despite the scythe I carry! I come from the Source?! I was born in Ishgard!"

Cyella's eyes widened, and for a moment her furious composure, seething with self-loathing almost as visceral as the shadows that had framed her in the memory, faltered. "You - you're not?"

"I'm not!" Jane protested, dazed with the sideways blow to her sense of self that had come out of nowhere as she processed the tale of the Shadowkeeper in her own voice. "Why would you even say that? Unukalhai said he had no idea what Elidibus knew about me so why do you know any different?"

Cyella paused, glanced away as if through the veil to worlds long lost. "He lied to you, then."

"Why would he do that? I asked him not to!" Jane all but stomped her foot in its pointy-toed boot.

The pity that flashed across Cyella's face was exhausted, deeply ingrained. She looked Jane up and down slowly, brow furrowed - "Your avatar. Of course. Give me your - whatever focus binds you two together."

Jane reached for her job stone, but only clutched it tight in her fist, gripped with a deep horror of the answers she'd been hunting ever since waking in Fallgourd Float. "Why?"

"Did you not feel a thing when you made that pact?" Cyella was looking flummoxed now, her sword arm dropped to her side, her head shaking slowly, mouth slightly open and corners nagging down.

"I don't know, I was trying to figure out what was up with all the voidsent following me so I talked to Drusilla and she gave me this stone, but then I got called away to the First before I could figure any of it out? And then I started absorbing Lightwardens and everything gets a bit blurry and strange from there? I - I hadn't thought about it since."

Cyella rubbed her forehead. "Are you serious. Across all lifetimes and worlds, even when you can accomplish all this and you're still - " She held her hand out more insistently. Terrified more of her than the truth suddenly, Jane dropped the soul stone into her palm.

"Janey," Cyella said, to the stone. "What happened to you now?"

The avatar poured forth from the stone in a rush of shadow, pooling at Cyella's feet before rising in a pillar to a hooded figure carrying a scythe; a young woman who looked startlingly like Jane. But a few inches taller.

She looked from Jane, to Cyella, to Jane again, then back to Cyella. "Do you know how long I was trapped as a mere grub crawling in the slime of the shattered world?" she demanded in a scratchy, hollow voice. "Trapped in the rift alone while you broke free and left me to rot?" she added, in a screech that somehow sounded like another's voice entirely. "Ten thousand years severed and you lived as a king!?" both sides of her voice screamed.

Cyella wafted a hand through Janey like she was smoke, and the avatar dispersed, sucking back into the stone. For a long time, the two of them stared at the object gently shaking in her gloved palm; whether from the contained rage, or Cyella's own trembling.

"She seemed angry," Jane said, after a while.

"She ran off with some ascian and doomed our world, then had the gall to come crawling back to me when the Flood of Darkness came. Of course I kicked her away. What a bitch." Cyella threw the stone to Jane, who fumbled and barely caught it. "Well, you did me no harm, you poor mangled thing. Maybe you'd even be better if you'd never met her. I'm sorry I blamed you for what she did, for what it's worth. It seems the little leech climbed into your soul somewhere along the way and was simply biding her time playing at being your avatar until she could put herself back together."

"But I only picked up this job a day before I came to the First?"

"Something has been wrong with you for a while, though, hasn't it? I see - in your memories - falling through the dark. Moments before you're dashed to pieces on the rocks below your precious city, a rift opens, and something pulls you in. And I can see what you did not, thanks to the Echo. Elidibus was the one who caught you. Who saved your life only to feed you to that thing. All your magic, all that sorcery you've been able to command since? That's Janey, feasting on your aether and giving back just enough to make you feel special."

"Um... did you know her?"

Cyella buried her face in her hands for a moment.

After swallowing back several replies, she looked at Jane again with contemptuous pity. "I thought I did. What you have there, though... Flakey and useless as she was, is not even the Janey who let Igeyorhm walk all over her until our world was consumed by shadows. The last time I saw her, she was clawing her way into a rift to hide from the Flood, and I'm not ashamed to admit, I tried to stop her. To make her look, just once! at what she had done, and own up to something."

She sighed in disgust. "I don't regret watching her torn in twain, one half swallowed by the rift, the other twisted and mutated into a voidsent before my eyes. It's your bad luck you seem to be the perfect vessel for her to attempt to sew those parts back together. I'd advise not letting them."

"Oh... But... I'm actually pretty good at the art of the Reaper."

"Are all of you as stupid as each other? No, don't answer that. Just. Don't encourage her. Seek help. Be better than her - more like Ardbert. I know you can be, at least sometimes. Stop her from ruining everything all the time!"

"Um. Sorry about your big Shadowkeeper moment. Do you - do you want to keep doing this? It seemed important."

Cyella huffed and made another gesture like she wished she could waft Jane away as easily as she'd banished the voidsent Janey. "Let's get this over with. I don't even care." She looked out over the purple woodland below them. "Although, I have to say, I had learned a lot from Janey and Igeyorhm about how easy it would be to lead the First's heroes into a trap to flood their world, just as blindly as she had done, and thinking they were heroes every step of the way."

She took another, long, moment to compose herself, then resumed her tale.

And at the end of it, her plea rang hollow and empty; Jane bursting into tears as soon as Cyella begged her for death; her scythe remaining firmly sheathed, frozen by the horror of letting Cylva down again.

"Oh, hello! I'm Jane!"

"... of course you are."

[peggyrose19]

big news guys my hearing has finally started to fix itself a bit so i can hear sound clearly again and also my hearing aid finally figured itself out and reconnected to my phone's bluetooth which means i can stream directly to it and anyway this was a really dangerous thing to happen while i'm fixating on one specific song again cause i may or may not have put it on repeat for like 2 hours then went about my day and no one at my internship noticed 😃

[fluentisonus]

the thing is I am still thinking about that bit in conclave right before they're about to vote when the breath of wind & birdsong comes in through the window that had recently been violently blown in to let the light and air into what has til then been a suffocatingly still & sterile & dark & enclosed environment & it ruffles all the pages on the desks & they all pause and look up. like oh god is there

[sanasanakun]

Jimithon Mouthwashing is such a good representation of untreated, enabled NPD like it makes me want to squeeze the life out of him. I'm endlessly fascinated when watching him interact with his crew, surroundings, and himself because he's so fucking lost in his own sauce. It's insane. If I'm being real, it makes him my favorite character in the game.

It's a little scary to say, but watching Jimmy is like seeing a mirrored version of myself two years ago before I truly committed to treatment for my NPD. He's like a shadow. The opening line "I hope this hurts," which I believe comes from Jimmy right before the crash, is such a poignant statement. It's a simple line, but I can tell you from experience that the desire to hurt others when in a narcissistic rage is overwhelming. It's such a good line to sum up Jimmy's character in that moment. Luckily, in the real world, I had my friends and family there to catch me when I hit my lowest, even though I'd hurt them so many times. Jimmy probably could've used friends to force him into therapy (cough cough Curly cough cough)

[giantkillerjack]

Uh-oh! You are like, SOOO awkward!!

You're so awkward that it is occasionally mildly uncomfortable for people!

You're so awkward that sometimes people are confused by you and then there are awkward silences!

You're so awkward ...... that ultimately no one is harmed!!

Oh damn!!! What a vile crime you have committed! What an unforgivable thing it is to make a fellow human briefly confused!

Why, if *I* were ever briefly confused and kind of uncomfortable as a result, I'd be devastated.... by the absolute net zero change in my happiness and health! - From which I might never recover!! Yes indeed! No punishment can ever be enough for you!!

So you better absolutely hate yourself for it.

Better be SO MEAN to yourself about every single missed social cue so you don't forget your horrible crime! Meaner than you'd ever dream of being to someone else for the same thing! This is YOUR responsibility!

You need to show the world that you KNOW you are bad by punishing yourself constantly! After all, think of all the people who BENEFIT from you punishing yourself! - No, really! Think about it! Think about who benefits from your pain.

Think of alllllll the definitely-good people that your definitely-necessary self-torment definitely helps! I mean, you can't just cut off their definitely-life-sustaining supply of your suffering, right?? Sure, everyone else has a breaking point, but you're probably the only person in human history who doesn't, right? Best not to question it probably. Sure, it's a symptom that billions of people with trauma have had, but who knows? You could be a one-in-seven-billion exception. Anything's possible!

Instead, better just accept that idea that bullies carry like guns in holsters - the idea that people who have trouble with social cues deserve to suffer. Better carry on the burden they placed on you until you drop. Aid the cause of the callous by enforcing shame and suffering upon yourself extra hard; try your best to do their work for them. They're very busy.

Better not recognize that you need patience and kindness to heal from your trauma. Better not find out that it was trauma rather than personal weakness filling your head with self-hating thoughts. Better not find out it wasn't your fault.

Better not find out that awkwardness is not inherently harmful or unkind, and, in fact, the people who act like it is *are the ones enacting harm and being cruel.*

Better not get righteously angry when you realize just how much unnecessary damage this has done to you. After all, if you get mad, you might realize you deserve better. You might even feel brave enough to DEMAND better! You might build boundaries that keep you safe! You might make other people think they deserve to feel safe too! And we obviously can't be having that, so...

Better not show yourself even a little kindness a little bit at a time.

Better not make a habit out of it after all that practice.

Better not get confident.

Especially if you can't first wipe out every trace of awkward. (And you probably never will. Because people who experience absolute social certainty at all times tend to be insufferable assholes that enforce the status quo. And you just don't have the stock portfolio for that.)

Better not be confident and awkward because then you might confuse and delight people

- you might accidentally end up making other people feel less shame for their social difficulties

- you might make isolated, traumatized, and shy people feel like they deserve to be included in social situations

- you might even make them feel they can be themselves around you

- you might start loving the effect you have on a room

- you might enjoy conversations more

- you might forgive yourself and bounce back from shame more easily and frequently

- you might come to enjoy some of those moments of harmless confusion you cause because NOBODY expects the Confident Awkward, and that can genuinely be an advantage in social situations

- you might stop apologizing so much.

- you might find that socializing is like a video game: it requires practice but also a safe space for it to be fun and positive.

Or if you can't become assertive and confident, better not remain awkward and shy and quiet, and then love and forgive yourself anyway!

Why, it would be carnage!!

In either scenario, you run the risk of finding out that it's not your fault that safe spaces full of kind people can be really hard to find, create, and nurture. You could end up building a skillset that helps you do those things if you're not careful!

If you start giving yourself even the tiniest amount of grace at a time, you will find that you've accessed a gateway drug with extreme long-term side effects:

- You might realize that it was never your fault that it took so long to like yourself.

- You might realize that you were always worth talking to, even when you didn't like yourself and communication felt impossibly difficult.

- You might realize that you'll still be worth talking to even if communication becomes harder as you age and/or experience disability.

- You might come to know that you deserve to be heard even on bad days when words come slow and blurry.

You might discover that you were always deserving of kindness, first and foremost from yourself.

So. As you can see, it's FAR too much of a risk to start granting your awkward self free pardons for your many heinous and harmless crimes. Better to just leave it there.

[braisedhoney]

y'know i always say i tend to like villains (or at least antagonists??) more than the protagonist, but what i don't know is like. Why.

did i have one specific childhood villain that just formed my taste in characters for the rest of time??? if so wtf was it? i need to unravel my own lore it's driving me up the wall.

[itsalwaysdark]

ive gotta stop starting so many posts with 'also' like they r not continuations of conversations or whathaveyou generally

[my-thoughts-and-junk]

been thinking about how danse is who nora is endgame with in death shroud. it compels me