#this is what their child would wear actually if the had one

[dreamersworldduh]

Heyyy love your work so much!! It’s so hard to find male reader writers and I’m so glad I found you! :] I have a request for a Bruce Wayne fic maybe reader is like a nurse for the justice league and starts to connect with Batman or something where reader is a interviewer and Mets with Bruce Wayne and Bruce actually feel like they care or something. I honestly just would like any more works by you!!!!

HEALING TOUCH

• BRUCE WAYNE x MALE READER

SUMMARY — You never expected to end up here—working alongside the Justice League, stationed in the Watchtower, healing the world's greatest heroes. For most of your life, you had resisted the idea of becoming a healer, rejecting the weight of legacy and expectation. But fate had other plans.

What began as a reluctant acceptance of your gift soon turned into something more. The work was unlike anything you could have imagined—treating injuries that defied science, facing wounds no medical textbook could explain. And among all the heroes you encountered, none fascinated you more than Batman.

Bruce Wayne was not an easy patient. He was guarded, stubborn, and treated pain like an old companion. He never offered more than necessary, never shared more than a clipped response. Yet, over time, something shifted. Through late-night treatments, quiet moments, and unspoken understanding, a connection formed—one built not on words, but on trust.

This is the story of how you, against all odds, found your place in a world you never intended to join. How you became more than just the League's healer. And how, without meaning to, you found yourself at the center of something unexpected—something unbreakable.

WARNING! FLUFF. Suggestive Langauge. Violence.

WORDS! 4.6k

AUTHOR'S NOTE! Here we are with a long awaited request! Thank you so much for the support🫶🏽 Sorry for the wait, hope you enjoy! ✨

For as long as you could remember, you had been absolutely certain of one thing—you did not want to be a doctor. This wasn't some fleeting notion, nor was it the rebellious whim of a child trying to carve out an identity separate from their family. No, this was something deeper, a conviction that had been rooted in your very core from the moment you were old enough to understand the expectations placed upon you. It was an unshakable truth, one that clung to you throughout childhood and well into your teenage years, as persistent as the heartbeat in your chest.

Perhaps it was because you had spent your entire life surrounded by medicine, watching as it consumed those around you. Your parents were revered figures in their respective fields, their names spoken with admiration and respect in hospitals and academic circles alike. Your siblings—each one older, seemingly more accomplished, and unwavering in their purpose—had followed suit, slipping into white coats as though they had been born wearing them. The family legacy stretched back generations; your grandparents had been pioneers, their contributions to medicine immortalized in textbooks and medical journals. It was, as far as the world was concerned, an unbroken chain, a lineage of healers whose purpose was clear from the moment they took their first breath.

And then there was you.

The youngest, the outlier, the one who had always felt like an anomaly within your own family. Everyone assumed your path had already been decided for you, that one day, you would take your rightful place among them. It was expected, as if it were written into the fabric of your very being. But no matter how many times you heard the words—"When you become a doctor..." or *"It's only a matter of time before you realize it's in your blood"—*you never once felt the pull they did. While your siblings devoured medical textbooks with a hunger for knowledge, you found yourself drawn elsewhere. Science never fascinated you the way it did them; anatomy and pathology felt like foreign languages that you had no desire to learn. Instead, you lost yourself in books that spoke of worlds beyond your own, of stories woven with magic, adventure, and possibilities unbound by logic. You longed for something different, something more.

Then, one day, everything changed.

You discovered you had the ability to heal.

It wasn't something you had asked for, nor was it something you had ever imagined could be real. It wasn't the practiced skill of a surgeon or the carefully calculated knowledge of a physician—it was something else entirely. It was a gift, an inexplicable force that pulsed beneath your skin, ancient and powerful. And though you had spent your entire life rejecting the path of a healer, the ability had found you anyway.

At first, you tried to deny it. You told yourself it was impossible, a trick of the mind, a coincidence. But deep down, you knew the truth. This wasn't some fluke. This was something that had always been inside you, waiting. Your grandparents had possessed it, this extraordinary ability that defied the rigid boundaries of science. But then, it had skipped a generation—bypassing your father, eluding your siblings—and somehow, impossibly, it had chosen you.

When your family learned the truth, their reactions were a storm of emotions. Your father, a man of unwavering logic and discipline, was furious. He had dedicated his life to medicine, to the pursuit of knowledge grounded in science, and now, his own child stood before him wielding a power that defied everything he believed in. Your siblings, who had spent years honing their skills through study and relentless practice, regarded you with a mixture of jealousy and resentment. To them, it was unfair—this gift had come to you, the one person who had never wanted to be a part of their world.

And yet, here you were, standing at the crossroads of fate, faced with a decision you had never expected to make.

Would you continue running from the destiny you had spent your entire life rejecting?

Or would you embrace the power within you and become the kind of healer no one had ever seen before?

It was never supposed to happen this way.

You had spent your entire life avoiding anything remotely connected to the medical field, distancing yourself from the legacy that loomed over you like an unshakable shadow. Your family had long since carved their names into history as healers, doctors, surgeons—people who dedicated their lives to saving others through science and skill. And yet, you had never once felt that calling, never once been drawn to the weight of responsibility that came with the profession.

But fate had a way of making choices for you.

It had started as an ordinary night, no different from countless others. The city stretched before you in its usual haze of neon lights and restless energy, the rhythmic hum of distant sirens blending into the background like an ever-present melody. The cool night air carried the scent of rain-soaked asphalt, and the streets were mostly empty, save for the occasional pedestrian or flickering streetlamp casting long shadows against the pavement.

You hadn't thought much of the darkened alley at first. Gotham was full of them—silent corridors of forgotten corners, places most people knew better than to wander into. But something caught your eye, something that sent a ripple of unease through your gut. A figure slumped against the brick wall, partially obscured by darkness, barely illuminated by the dim glow of a nearby lamp.

At first, you assumed it was just another casualty of the city's merciless grip—an unfortunate soul lost to the harsh realities of Gotham's streets. But as you stepped closer, your breath hitched in your throat.

It was him.

Batman.

The Dark Knight, the legend, the untouchable force of Gotham, reduced to a broken, bleeding man before your eyes. His armor was cracked in places, deep gashes running along his arms and torso. His cape, torn and soaked in blood, lay in ragged folds beneath him. Bruises had already begun to form along his jaw, painting his skin in shades of deep purple and black. And his breathing—God, his breathing was shallow, each ragged inhale a battle against the pain threatening to consume him.

If he didn't get help soon, he wouldn't survive the night.

Panic surged through you. You weren't a doctor. You had never studied medicine, had never once held a scalpel or stitched a wound. And yet—

Yet, you could help him.

Your hands trembled as you knelt beside him, the weight of the moment pressing down on you like an invisible force. This was Batman. The man who had survived the worst Gotham had to offer. The man who had always stood between the city and the monsters lurking in the dark. And now, he was dying.

Doubt clawed at you. What if it didn't work? What if, after all these years of trying to ignore it, trying to pretend you were just an ordinary person, your ability failed you now?

But there was no time for hesitation.

With a steadying breath, you reached out, pressing your hands against his battered torso. The warmth came almost instantly, blooming from within, spreading through your fingertips like liquid fire. It seeped into his wounds, into torn flesh and bruised bone, knitting them back together as if they had never been broken. The deep lacerations closed before your eyes, the jagged cuts smoothing into unblemished skin. The harsh, uneven rise and fall of his chest steadied, his breathing deepening as strength slowly returned to him.

And then—his eyes snapped open.

Even injured, even weakened, his gaze was sharp, piercing. A predator assessing a new, unexpected variable in the equation. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the silence stretching between you like a fragile thread.

Then, his voice, rough but steady.

"What did you do?"

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. "I... I healed you."

The words felt foreign, like an admission you had spent years refusing to say out loud. But there was no denying what had just happened. No more running.

That night changed everything.

Word of what you had done spread faster than you could have anticipated. Batman was not a man who let the impossible go unquestioned, and he wasn't about to let you disappear into the shadows. He found you, sought you out, his mind already working through the implications of what you could do. He wanted answers—how your ability worked, what its limitations were, whether it was something that could be controlled, replicated, weaponized.

And before you even had time to process it, you were standing in the heart of the Watchtower, surrounded by legends.

Superman, Wonder Woman, the Flash—names you had only ever seen in news reports and whispered about in awe—now stood before you, their eyes filled with curiosity, intrigue, and perhaps even a hint of wariness. They wanted to understand you. They wanted to know if your abilities could change the way they fought, the way they protected the world.

They wanted you on their team.

You—the person who had spent a lifetime running from the expectations of being a healer—were now one of the most valuable assets the Justice League had ever encountered. You weren't a doctor, not in the way your family had always envisioned, but your gift was something beyond science, beyond anything medicine could explain.

And for the first time, you weren't afraid of it.

For the first time, you understood.

You had never wanted to be a healer. But maybe—just maybe—you were meant to be one all along.

The job was nothing like a traditional nine-to-five. There were no scheduled shifts, no structured hours, no neat boundaries separating work from the rest of your life. The moment you agreed to join the Justice League Medical Team, you knew things would be different, but nothing could have prepared you for just how much your world would change.

The Watchtower—an advanced orbital station, the Justice League's headquarters in the vast emptiness of space—was now your home. You told yourself that the decision to live there was purely practical. Emergencies didn't wait for convenience, and every second counted when it came to saving lives. Being stationed on the Watchtower meant you could respond immediately, without the delay of transport from Earth. You understood the necessity of it. And yet, despite the logic, there were moments when you would stop in the middle of a corridor, staring out through reinforced glass at the planet far below, and feel the weight of it all settling in.

You lived in space.

More than that—you lived in the same place as the world's greatest heroes.

At first, it was overwhelming. Every hallway you walked down, every turn you made, you found yourself brushing shoulders with living legends. Superman, Wonder Woman, The Flash, Green Lantern—names that had once seemed larger than life, figures who had saved the world countless times over, now passed you in the halls as if this were any ordinary workplace. Except it wasn't. There was nothing ordinary about it.

In the beginning, you kept your head down, strictly professional. They were the Justice League, and you were just their healer. You addressed them by their codenames, adhered to protocol, maintained the careful distance expected of any League-affiliated personnel. You did your job, and you did it well, ensuring that no matter how powerful they were, they had someone looking out for them when even their abilities weren't enough to keep them unscathed.

But things changed, subtly at first, in ways you barely noticed until, one day, you realized how different everything had become.

It started with the little things. The Flash—Barry, though you hadn't started calling him that yet—lingered after check-ups, cracking jokes, making it his mission to coax a laugh out of you. Wonder Woman, impossibly kind yet formidable, took it upon herself to check in on you just as often as you checked in on her. She would stop by the medbay, not just for treatment but to ensure you were eating properly, resting, taking care of yourself as much as you took care of them.

Even Batman, the most elusive of them all, had a habit of appearing unannounced. At first, you thought he was simply observing, studying you with that ever-calculating mind of his, trying to understand your abilities. But eventually, you realized that, in his own way, he was keeping an eye on you—not as an asset to analyze, but as a person he had come to trust.

And then came the moments that shattered the invisible walls you had unknowingly kept around yourself.

The first time Superman addressed you by your first name instead of "Doctor" or "Healer," it caught you off guard. It was such a small thing, and yet, the warmth in his voice, the familiarity, made it clear that you were no longer just another recruit to him. You were one of them.

Green Lantern—John Stewart—had been the first to insist you call him by his actual name, brushing off formality with an easy camaraderie. Soon, the others followed.

"Wonder Woman" became "Diana."

"The Flash" was "Barry."

"Green Lantern" was "John."

"Superman" was "Clark."

Even the most guarded of them, Batman, eventually became "Bruce"—though that one had taken significantly longer. And even then, you still only used it when it was just the two of you.

You hadn't expected any of this. When you joined, you had assumed you would remain in the background, tending to wounds and then retreating into solitude, never truly stepping into their world. But they had never seen you that way.

To them, you weren't just their healer.

You were one of them.

And despite all the years you had spent resisting the idea of being a healer, of belonging in a role that had always felt like a burden—you couldn't deny that being here, with them, felt right.

Months into your new job, you had seen injuries that defied all logic, wounds that no medical textbook could have ever prepared you for. Burns not from fire, but from alien energy blasts that left strange, unidentifiable scars. Fractures that should have been fatal, caused by impact forces no ordinary human should have survived. You had learned to treat injuries inflicted by magic, reinforced skin, and even Kryptonian physiology. Each case came with a story, and while some heroes eagerly recounted their battles—often in absurd, almost comical detail—others remained tight-lipped, offering only the barest explanations.

But no stories captivated you quite like Bruce's.

Batman was a different kind of patient. He never wasted words, never offered unnecessary details unless they were vital to treatment. He arrived in the medbay with injuries that should have left him bedridden for weeks, yet he treated them as minor inconveniences. A cracked rib, a dislocated shoulder, deep gashes that would have incapacitated anyone else—he sat through it all in silence, barely flinching as you worked. If you asked how he got hurt, his responses were clipped, single-worded: "Joker." "Bane." "Scarecrow." No elaboration, no unnecessary details. Just cold, factual acknowledgment.

At first, you didn't push. You had worked with enough patients to know when someone wasn't ready to talk. But you were curious—perhaps more than you should have been. It wasn't just the injuries themselves that intrigued you; it was how he carried them. The weight of Gotham clung to him, wrapped around his shoulders like an unseen shroud. He didn't just fight crime in that city—he bore its darkness, absorbed it into his bones.

And Gotham was your hometown.

You knew the streets he patrolled, the alleys he disappeared into, the villains he faced. You had grown up hearing about the chaos, the crime, the myth of the Bat who prowled the city's rooftops. You knew the fear Gotham instilled in its people—the way sirens became a nightly lullaby, the way danger lurked just out of sight. So when Bruce finally started talking, when he finally let slip the stories behind his injuries, it felt as if you were reliving every nightmare Gotham had ever breathed into your bones.

Of course, Bruce didn't start sharing because he wanted to. It wasn't in his nature to open up so easily.

Somehow, you made it happen.

Maybe it was the way you never treated him like an untouchable legend. Maybe it was how you never hesitated, never looked at him with pity when he sat on your exam table, half-broken but unwilling to admit it. Maybe it was your patience, your ability to hold your own in the long silences he used as armor.

At first, it was just small things—offhand remarks, fragmented pieces of information he let slip without thinking. "The cut isn't deep. Killer Croc caught me off guard." Or, "I didn't expect Scarecrow to use a new formula."

Then, slowly, those remarks turned into something more.

One night, while resetting his shoulder, you had casually mentioned remembering the sirens wailing across Gotham the night the Joker flooded the city with gas. Bruce's gaze flicked to yours, sharp, assessing, and for a moment, you thought you had crossed a line. But then, in that same low, controlled voice, he started talking.

He told you how he had chased the Joker across the rooftops that night, how the fight had left him with a broken rib and a chemical burn that had taken weeks to heal. He spoke in his usual detached, analytical manner, but there was something in his voice that sent a chill down your spine. The way he recounted it—haunting, precise, methodical—made it feel like you were right there with him, watching the city descend into madness.

And once he started, the stories didn't stop.

Every now and then, after particularly grueling missions, when exhaustion cracked through the iron barriers he built around himself, he would speak. Never too much, never sentimental, but enough. Enough to paint a picture. Enough to make you see Gotham through his eyes—the way the Narrows pulsed with desperation, the way Crime Alley still held ghosts, the way the shadows stretched long beneath the neon lights, swallowing everything whole.

He never told you why he shared these things with you, and you never asked.

Somehow, against all odds, you had become someone he trusted enough to talk to.

And in return, you listened.

The dynamic between you and Bruce was something different—something undeclared yet undeniable. It didn't happen overnight, nor was it something either of you had planned for. Bruce Wayne wasn't the kind of man who let people in easily. He kept his distance, his trust locked behind an impenetrable wall of silence, sharp glares, and an ever-present scowl. It was his armor, just as much as the cowl he wore. To most, he was untouchable, unreachable.

But somehow, despite all of that, you had found a way in.

And against all odds, he didn't seem to mind.

If you paid close enough attention, you might even say he enjoyed your company.

He would never admit it outright—Bruce wasn't the type for grand gestures or sentimental confessions—but over time, the signs became impossible to ignore. He lingered in the medbay longer than necessary, always finding some excuse to stay behind. A question about his injury, an offhand remark about the latest mission—little things that didn't warrant the extra time, yet he remained. He had a habit of showing up when the medbay was empty, as if he preferred your presence without the distraction of others. And when you teased him, poked at his brooding nature with easy charm and wit, the heavy silence that usually clung to him began to crack.

The first time you caught him smirking, you almost thought you imagined it. It was quick, barely there—a flicker of amusement before his mask of indifference settled back into place. But it happened again. And again. Until eventually, you stopped pretending not to notice.

And the stories—he liked yours just as much as you liked his.

You rarely spoke about your past, your family's legacy, the weight of expectations you had spent so much of your life trying to escape. It wasn't an easy thing to share, nor was it something you ever felt the need to explain to others. But with Bruce, it was different. He listened—not out of politeness, not to fill the silence, but because he genuinely cared.

He understood.

Of course, he did.

No one knew better than Bruce what it was like to be weighed down by ghosts, to live under the constant pressure of a name, a reputation, a path carved out for you long before you ever had a say in it. He never said it outright, but you could see it in his eyes, in the way he regarded you—not with pity, but with understanding. With respect. For the choices you had made. For carving your own path despite the pressure to be something else.

But more than anything, what Bruce appreciated most—whether he would admit it or not—was your touch.

It wasn't just your presence, the way you fit into his life without demanding more than he was willing to give. It wasn't just your sharp mind or the way you always saw through his carefully constructed barriers.

It was your hands.

Your gift.

The thing that made you unlike anyone else he had ever known.

Hal Jordan, never one to miss an opportunity for a joke, had once dubbed it your "healing touch."

Bruce had scoffed at the term when he first heard it, muttering something about Lanterns talking too much. But that didn't change the truth of it. Your hands, your power, were something he had come to rely on—not just because they mended broken bones and sealed wounds, but because, for a man who had spent his entire life in pain, your touch was the closest thing to relief he had ever known.

You could feel it in the way his shoulders eased ever so slightly beneath your fingertips, in the way his breath steadied when your power coursed through him. He never flinched under your touch, never pulled away like he did with others. He trusted you, in a way he rarely trusted anyone.

He didn't have to say it.

He never would.

But in the way he let you work on him without protest, in the way his ever-tense frame relaxed, in the way his eyes lingered on your hands as they moved over his injuries—you knew.

And that was enough.

[myboybreakscoffins]

Two Tickets Far From Here 

maniac (february 9) @black-brothers-microfic — regulus & sirius black microfic — mentions of child abuse, side effects of the cruciatus curse, hurt/confort, regulus's pov  — word count: 770

"Two tickets to..." Sirius paused, glancing nervously at the route chart before looking at the half-asleep girl behind the glass. "Actually, I have no idea. We need to get to Godric's Hollow—what train should we take?"

“Is that in the West Country?” the girl asked, barely stifling a yawn.

“I... guess so?”

Regulus stood in stunned silence, watching his brother make a fool of himself without an ounce of shame. Even worse, he was starting to doubt his own sanity.

Sirius was a total maniac—Regulus had known that for a long time. But maybe he had underestimated the reach of his own bloodline, because surely, he had to be losing his mind too. How else could he explain the fact that they had just sprinted through London in the dead of night, covered in half-healed wounds, with nothing but the clothes they were wearing, heading toward a destination they didn’t even know how to reach?

It was a well-known fact that prolonged exposure to the Cruciatus Curse could cause lasting damage to the mind. So, yes, that had to be it. Brain damage. Because there was absolutely no way Regulus Black would ever willingly engage in something this reckless, foolish, and downright suicidal.

"Look, Reggie." Sirius limped toward him, holding up two tickets between his fingers. He was clearly in pain, his exhaustion evident in the way he moved. "She said there's a train leaving in a few minutes that we can take..."

"And then what?"

"Then we board another train to—"

“No.” Regulus cut him off. “I mean... the potions will stop working in less than an hour. We won’t even be able to move.” It was only a matter of time before the pain overtook them again. The fact that Regulus had even managed to scrounge up a few potions back at Grimmauld Place was a miracle—just enough to momentarily dull the pain, poorly patch up Sirius’s broken body, and, against all odds, get them out of there alive. “Neither of us will be in any condition to drag the other one along.”

"James will come pick us up," Sirius assured him, lowering himself onto the bench beside his younger brother.

“But how will he know where to find us?” Regulus asked, confused. Potter had no idea where they were. If he did, he would’ve already been here, dragging Sirius off to safety.

With a mischievous grin, Sirius pulled a small mirror from his pocket and handed it to Regulus. “We’ll tell him,” he said simply. “As soon as he wakes up, we’ll use this to let him know where we are, and he’ll come get us.”

Regulus stared at his own dumbfounded expression reflected in the mirror. His brother had lost his last remaining brain cell. They were about to board a train to Merlin-knows-where, half their bones still broken, unable to use magic without alerting their parents to their location, and this—this—was his brother’s grand plan?

Sirius burst out laughing. It was obvious he was in pain, but not enough to stop him from being entertained by whatever expression was on Regulus’s face.

Regulus felt a cold sweat break out across his skin. Doubt clawed at the edges of his mind. Maybe this had been a mistake. “Maybe we shouldn’t have—”

Sirius’s laughter died in an instant. He grabbed Regulus by the shoulders and turned him to face him. The sudden movement sent sharp pain tearing through both their bodies, but neither of them flinched.

“Don’t,” Sirius said, voice deadly serious. “Don’t say it. Don’t even think it.”

For a second, Regulus swore he was looking at a reflection of himself. His throat tightened. He felt like he couldn’t breathe, overwhelmed by the terror, the uncertainty, the adrenaline still surging through his veins.

“We did what we had to do,” Sirius continued. “If we’d stayed, one of us would’ve bled out on the carpet sooner or later. And you know it.”

Regulus swallowed hard. Sirius’s fingers brushed gently against his cheek, a silent reassurance. They both knew they were on the verge of breaking down. They had survived their home once again, but they weren’t far enough. Not yet. Not safe.

“We’ll figure this out together, Reggie,” Sirius whispered. “I promise.”

And somehow, despite the fear, despite the doubt, Regulus believed him.

Sirius exhaled heavily and stood, heading toward the platform. “C'mon, the train’s already here.”

Regulus didn’t move. “Sirius?”

“What, baby brother?” Sirius called back.

“That train is going in the opposite direction.”

Sirius paused, then shrugged. “Fuck it. That sounds like a Prongs problem. We just need a private car to sleep in.”

[toto-the-cactus]

A fun question for the girl dad Primarchs. How do they feel about finding out that their daughter has a space marine lover from another Chapter. (Like mother, like daughter. They saw a big man in armor and decided they wanted to climb that like a tree.)

Guess what anon? You got me writing shit.

Hope you like this family drama and especial mention to @jaghatai-khock who let me use his sweet blorbo Callahan to be inserted in this shit show.

-°-

It was no secret that Lion El’jonson held a certain amount of irritation about anything that had to do with the Space Wolves Legion. Whether it was their own behavior or their beliefs that clashed with those of the Dark Angels Legion, it was a matter thrown out in the air for anyone to guess.

That’s why Eireen simply knew that the instant her father got wind of her meeting secretly with one the astartes that belonged to her uncle’s legion, hell will be brought upon her and, in consequence, making her already ermetic and busy schedule become even more unbearable.

Besides… it wasn’t like she was doing anything wrong!

It was a nice and friendly… meet up with someone that she had become quite close after a few conjoined campaigns that her father had with uncle Russ.

Cadoc had been a bit abrasive and loud the first time she met him, staying just respectful enough to not be considered rude or out of line. Her entourage of serfs had been scandalized when he had simply come up to her and asked for a sparring match to test her fighting skills out of genuine curiosity.

“This is probably one of the few chances I’ll get to spar with the trueborn of a Primarch. I’m really excited about it!” he had told her that day and, for a reason that still escapes her understanding, Eireen had felt her face burn at his words.

The redhead astartes had flashed a sharp smile back then, a challenge in that expression to try and get a reaction out of her and for the first time in her life… she felt like someone actually treated her as the warrior that she had been raised to be and not just some maiden to be protected.

Now? It became almost a ritual for them both to try some nice training session before deciding to take a nice break hidden behind the lush bushes of her mother’s garden. After some Dark Angels had ruined the flowers of the Lady of Caliban by walking alongside Eireen one morning, it had been nailed over everyone’s head that anyone wearing ceramite armor was forbidden to get close to the garden.

It was quite the convenience that the garden wasn’t so terribly far from the sparring arena.

Eireen had even memorized the schedule of it to make sure that no astartes of her father would see them both training.

For as much as the young lady felt like she wasn’t doing something criminal of any kind, even her mother had suggested to keep her little friendship hidden from her father until she knew how to tell him that her first ever friend (and crush) was a Space Wolf astartes.

“He can be a bit… overbearing sometimes, my dear. Especially if he thinks that this will be the perfect excuse for Leman to rush in and take you away from him” the look on her mother’s face said enough that even she found that logic a bit extreme and farfetched, but her next words almost made her scoff in disbelief. “He cares for you dearly and the idea of you going away scares him”

Eireen honestly felt like she was in her right to be skeptical about her father’s priorities when regarding her future.

All her life she had been reminded of the responsibilities she’ll have to carry on in the Imperium as the child of a Primarch. A weight that had been sitting over her neck ever since she could understand words.

But Cadoc was the one fresh gush of wind that she didn’t know she needed.

She could complain about her father and his astartes without looking like some traitor in the making. Instead of judgmental stares, the redhead marine would point out her mistakes in posture and correct them without belittling her worth.

‘I don’t want this to end’, she thought with a mix of joy and resignation.

“Hey!” he called her, finally pulling her out of her spiraling thoughts once a stalemate was met between the two when both battle axe and long sword didn’t yield a bit. “There was something I wanted to ask you but it also involves the Primarch and Legion Mother of the Dark Angels”

Oh no. That was going to be complicated.

“O-oh… Well… that’s going to…”

“EIREEN!”

Oh no no no no!

“Lion! By the damned throne, stop this nonsense!” and just right behind her father, there was her mother running with all her might to try and catch up with the Primarch.

“I’m not speaking with you, woman!”

Eireen admitted with some shyness that she had clumsily scrambled in panic to get back up from where she and Cadoc rested after their spar, a heavy weight dropping like a rock on her stomach at the scowl merring her father's face when looking over her friend.

The fact that the red-haired Space Wolf just smiled at her father after bowing his head in respect to the Primarch didn’t help at all.

“Eireen, you were supposed to be attending your diplomatic and history lessons” said the demigod in a strange mix of awkwardness and anger. It was easy to see how it took a lot of effort from him to not scoff when his eyes landed once again on her companion and friend. “Not lazing around here at your mother’s garden”

‘With him’ was the unsaid part of that sentence. Years of learned discipline were the only thing preventing the young girl from letting a very unladylike growl at how her father regarded the one single friend she had ever made.

“I… I had a few minutes free before my lessons, father” she defended, barely able to keep her stutter in check before her father scolded her for it. “I thought… I thought it wouldn’t be a bad idea to train my abilities with the long sword”

Lion opened his mouth ready to berate her for it (that was pretty obvious), but her mother interrupted just in time to save her from the awkwardness that was starting to build up between the few presents. It was a miracle that no Dark Angel had followed her parents here, but considering how stern the Lady of Caliban was when regarding her garden, Eireen counted her blessings by choosing this place as their hiding spot.

Small mercies.

“That’s very responsible of you, my love” it was amazing how easily her mother knew how to play with her father’s own methods and words against him. “Don’t you think, Lion? You always say that Eireen needs to practice her swordsmanship technique on the offensive. Even one of the astartes of your brother’s Legion is helping her!”

More than hearing, both ladies felt the rumble of a growl that begged to be free from the Primarch’s throat, who clearly didn’t find amusing being called out in his own hypocrisy.

“Enough of this disrespect! Eireen, go to your brother” said Lion after he managed to get a grip over his temper. “Callahan will make sure that you assist your lessons… without distractions”

Now it was the turn of the young lady to feel her face blush in embarrassment at the idea of being treated like she was still a toddler; one that needed to hold her brother’s hand all the time to find her way around everywhere they went.

“Actually! This is an excellent chance, my Lord and Lady. There was something important that I need to discuss”

That got everyone’s attention.

“Cadoc… what are you-”

“I wish to start my courting towards the Primarch’s daughter: Eireen”

The poor young girl swore that if more blood rushed to her face, she'd end up fainting on the spot.

The reaction of both her parents were quite a poem of different emotions; ranging from enraged shock to amazed confusion from both her father and mother respectively.

For a long moment, no one dared to even breathe too loud.

Eireen found herself staring straight at Cadoc’s face to try to see if this was some tasteless attempt of teasing from him… but the only thing that she managed to discover was a warm and peaceful look on his hardened expression when he stared at her back.

Oh, Grandfather almighty! She felt her heart flip inside her ribcage.

This was bad. Horrible bad timing too. The girl already saw the groundbreaking refusal her father was about to throw at Cadoc’s courting proposal.

“ABSOLUTELY…!”

“FINALLY!! JUST SAY YES TO HIM, EIREEN!”

And now, the poor girl could only cover her face in crushing embarrassment at the scream her brother had thrown while waiting for her at the edge of their mother’s garden.

How long had he been hearing?!

-°-

Dis me each time yall feed me ideas

[velvetvexations]

one of the wild things for me, just from my perspective, about the whole "male/female socialization" discussion is the extent to which it applies outside of "bio sex" too, and the fact that it is applied outside of that might be where some TRFs have gotten it in their heads that all trans women are secretly seen as women

speaking from my own experience as someone who was afab but spent my early childhood as a "genderweird girl" (tomboy to the nines, became a trans man in adulthood, etc) is the extent to which i was simultaneously punished for not doing Girl right, but also because i was a tomboy i was expected to still adhere to masculinity in a "correct" away among those who DID accept me as a tomboy. if i, as a tomboy, had "girly interests" my more tomboy or boy peers would react with a "Ugh that's so gay" and i have actually been called a faggot for it, disparaged for it, made to feel shame over it, etc, despite having been afab and identified as a girl at the time. like, generally people absolutely didn't like that i was a masculine girl, but those who "accepted" that i was got mad when i didn't do masculine right either and would disparage me for being faggoty. and when i did show interest in other boys, that was unacceptable and invasive only in a way where if i'd been a gay boy. though at the same time i certainly wasn't encouraged to be a dyke either. and throughout it all i experienced constant misogyny and have had horrible misogynistic violence inflicted on me. but also androphobic violence?

to add onto that, i know of those who grew up as masculine girls who were raised with expectations of toxic masculinity rather than femininity, because they were tall, strong, broad, "boyish", "naturally masculine", etc., and they're disparaged if they seek out femininity

and then on the flip side you have boys who grow up feminine or at the very least genderweird and especially as they socialize more with girls, they are to uphold expectations of femininity in those spaces while still being disparaged for not doing boy right. but as a Feminine Boy if they do masculine things, they are outcast by those who "accepted" them as feminine. sure the "mean girl catty gay twink" is a stereotype that is applied harmfully but not one without basis in reality, and when as men they are cruel they are cruel in ways often attributed to the feminine or to women, and these men also often experience misogyny from their peers in some way or another

this is why we really need to take seriously the idea that anyone can be subjected to transmisogyny and transandrophobia (and exorsexism!), because we see it all over the place in the earliest stages of child socialization and applied in ways that defy biological sex even

i think what happens is that people are classed along gendered lines for both biological sex reasons and for secondary characteristic reasons.

"if you are a big broad girl you have failed at being a girl for being big and broad and we will never let you live that down but you best never try to access femininity because what you are defies what i think is feminine and what feminine should be. so you better be big and broad and strong and not cry and not wear dresses"

and "if you are a small weak boy you have failed at being a boy for being small and weak and we will never let you live that down and whenever you try to access masculinity we will disparage you and hurt you and treat you as lesser for it and someone as small and weak and non threatening as you cannot be a real man because it defies what i think are real men"

as far as trans people are concerned there are trans people who were gender conforming before transition and those were not gender conforming, and so we have such wildly different experiences coming into the trans discussion, which is heavily treated like we need a one size fits all definition of The Trans Experience

idk it feels clunky to say there is "masculine socialization" and "feminine socialization" (without just creating a Second Binary) and these can be applied regardless of agab while people are still punished for not adhering to the expectations of their agab, but i have no other way to describe it. just that i think we need to discuss it more because it is so much more complex than we're currently allowing into the discussion

Yeah, exactly, either AGAB can be socialized either way, or neither. TRFs just assume that anyone who says "male socialization" must be trying to say all trans women were male socialized because they know TERFs say that and they haven't bothered to read anything beyond that.

[nameless-jamie]

JUST SAY YES

Glimpse Into the Future - Jamie Tartt x fem!PA reader

Masterlist

TW: cursing, kissing, emotions

Jamie Tartt had played hundreds of matches under the stadium lights at Nelson Road. He’d scored breathtaking goals, taken crushing losses, and heard the roar of the Richmond faithful chant his name. But tonight, standing in the dimly lit tunnel, his heart hammering against his ribs, he realized that none of those moments—not a single one—had ever come close to this.

This wasn’t about football. This wasn’t about the game.

This was about her.

Y/N.

The woman who had been by his side through everything. The one who had seen him at his worst and never turned away. The one who had called him out on his bullshit when no one else dared to. The one who had believed in him, even when he hadn’t believed in himself.

And now, she was carrying his child.

A baby. Their baby.

Jamie still couldn’t quite wrap his head around it, the sheer enormity of it. Some nights, he’d lie awake, staring at the ceiling, completely wrecked by the knowledge that soon, he would be holding a tiny, fragile little person who was half him, half her. And he knew, deep in his bones, that he wanted her by his side forever.

There was no time for any more second thoughts. He just needed to ask.

"Helloooo?"

Y/N's voice carried across the empty stadium as she stepped onto the pitch, the soft grass crunching under her trainers. There was a teasing lilt to it, but underneath, there was curiosity too. She didn’t mind coming to Nelson Road—she’d spent so much of her life here by now that it felt almost like home—but still, she had been curled up comfortably on the couch when Jamie had called her, insisting that he needed her to come to the stadium because some accident happened there and she needed to help him.

An accident he couldn’t possibly fix on his own.

"Jamie Tartt, you better have a good reason for dragging me out here this late, I was snug like a motherfuckin' bug and—”

Now, as she stepped onto the pitch, her silhouette outlined against the deep navy sky, Jamie felt like he was on the edge of something life-changing, he was ready. He cleared his throat loudly. That was the sign for the team to get started...

“Wait. Jamie? Are you there?” she called again, glancing around.

And then—

The lights flickered on, flooding the pitch with golden brilliance.

Y/N froze in place as the sudden brightness illuminated the entire stadium, making the empty seats glow under the floodlights. She turned to him, brows furrowed, her breath visible in the crisp evening air.

“What the hell—”

And then, before she could finish, the massive screen above the pitch flickered to life, casting a soft blue light across the field. The letters appeared slowly, deliberately, until the message was fully formed:

WILL YOU MARRY ME?

Jamie could hear the sharp inhale she took, could see the exact moment it registered in her brain. Her wide eyes flicked from the screen, back to him, back to the screen, as if she was trying to confirm that this was real, that this was actually happening.

And that was when he did it.

He stepped forward, right to the center of the pitch.

And in one smooth motion—because, of course, he had to be a little dramatic about it—he dropped to one knee.

Wearing his full Richmond kit.

Because, if he was going to propose, he was going to do it right.

For a moment, she just stared at him, completely frozen, her hands pressed to her mouth, her eyes glistening under the bright stadium lights.

Jamie’s heart was pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat, but he kept his voice steady, soft, honest. He wasn’t nervous about asking the question—he already knew what he wanted, knew that she loved him—but still, his stomach was a fucking wreck. This was big.

“I thought about doin’ this in some fancy restaurant,” he started, his accent thick, rough with emotion. “Maybe somethin’ all posh and romantic, like one of those private little candlelit dinners where they bring out a ring in a glass of champagne or some shit.”

She let out a watery laugh, shaking her head at him, and he could see it—the way her shoulders started to tremble, the way her lips pressed together like she was trying to hold back a sob.

“But then I thought,” he continued, “Nah. That’s not us, is it?”

Jamie glanced around the stadium, exhaling slowly, feeling the weight of everything this place meant to them.

“This is where it all started. This club. This team. You and me. I spent so long messin’ about, not knowin’ what I wanted, not realizin’ what was right in front of me. And now, we’re here.” His gaze flickered down to her belly for a brief second before returning to her eyes, soft and filled with something so much bigger than words.

“We got a little one on the way, and I want them to grow up knowin’ that their mum is the best fuckin’ person I’ve ever known. And I want them to know that I—” he exhaled, a soft smile touching his lips, ”—that I loved her from the start, even when I was too much of a dickhead to say it.”

A tear slipped down her cheek. She swiped it away quickly like she didn’t want to lose control, but Jamie saw the way her breath hitched, the way her entire body trembled under the weight of what he was saying.

He reached into the pocket of his shorts—because yes, he had figured out how to keep the ring in there without losing it—and pulled out a small velvet box.

Slowly, he flipped it open.

The ring sparkled under the stadium lights, catching every glimmer, every reflection. He had spent weeks picking it out, agonizing over it, making sure it was perfect—something classic but timeless, something that would look just right on her.

“So,” he said, voice lighter now, teasing, “What do you reckon? Fancy marryin’ me?”

Y/N let out a breathless laugh, shaking her head in disbelief, her hand still covering her mouth like she couldn’t quite process what was happening.

“Jamie, you absolute idiot,” she whispered, voice breaking. “Of course, I’ll marry you.”

Before he could even react, she was on him—dropping to her knees in front of him, throwing her arms around his neck, holding him so tight that he nearly toppled over. Jamie let out a breathless chuckle, wrapping his arms around her just as fiercely, feeling her warmth, her love, everything he had ever wanted, right here in his arms.

“You’re such a dick,” she mumbled into his shoulder, sniffling.

“Oi, that ain’t very romantic,” he muttered, grinning as he buried his face in her neck.

“I’m eight months pregnant, I’m allowed to be emotional,” she shot back, laughing through her tears.

Jamie pulled back just enough to see her face, to cup her cheek and wipe away a stray tear with his thumb. “Yeah, well. Get used to it, love. You’re gonna be stuck with me now.”

She smiled—wide and breathtaking and his—and pressed her forehead against his. “I wouldn’t have it any other way. Kiss me, please?”

And then—

The sound of popping champagne.

Y/N jumped slightly, twisting toward the sidelines, where the entire fucking team was spilling onto the pitch, cheering and clapping like they’d just won the goddamn league.

“Oi, bruv, about time!” Isaac called out, grinning as he lifted a champagne bottle in the air.

“We were this close to drinkin’ it ourselves,” Colin added, laughing.

“Took ya long enough, Tartt,” Roy grumbled, but there was a rare, small smile on his face.

Jamie groaned, burying his face in Y/N’s shoulder as she cackled, shaking her head. “You got them involved in this?”

“Course I did,” Jamie muttered, rolling his eyes. “What’s a proposal without a bit of spectacle?”

As the team surrounded them—cheering, hugging, clapping him on the back—Jamie felt it, deep in his chest.

This was home.

Not just the stadium. Not just the pitch.

Her.

And as he kissed her, right there in the middle of Nelson Road, with his teammates hollering around them and champagne bubbling over onto the grass, he knew one thing for sure:

This was the best moment of his entire life.

And it was only just the beginning.

[serpentface]

i had a dream that Couya had a falcon. no plot to it but the imagery was pretty clear, she was on some kind of rooftop or balcony wearing a leather gauntlet and calling for the bird by finger-whistling with her other hand. so now i have to know, is there a tradition of falconry in Wardin? (and would Couya have any interest in it if it was accessible to her?)

There's never really been a widespread or well-established Wardi falconry tradition, falconry Exists here but was only first introduced under Imperial Burri occupation and was never widely adopted.

Hunting traditions here mostly revolve around the use of dogs. Hunts of hares/jackals/small gazelle utilizing sighthound types to make the kill, and/or less specialized flushing/scent dogs to track down and flush prey items, are traditional and have a large degree of associated ritual. These are often major social events involving large groups of hunters and their kin, and are a very popular leisure pastime for nobility. Other non-subsistence hunting traditions forgo dogs and revolve around the use of khait for pursuit, or pursue animal aid altogether and wholly prioritize prowess with tracking, chase, archery and spearmanship.

Falconry is kind of antithetical to all these practices- it doesn't serve to replace the ritualized structure of big social hunts with dogs and doesn't Directly demonstrate the physical prowess and aptitude of the hunter. A lot of people would regard falconry as kind of 'cheating' (the bird does all the work and the hunter doesn't even get to show off any REAL skills).

Couya canonically thinks dog sport hunting is a bit of a stupid and annoying affair (also is distinctly not fond of dogs just in general). Most of her personal experience was being dragged along on big hunts associated with wedding celebrations when she was a child. These were interminable social affairs with other noble families and kind of a nightmare for her (they could last days out away from home, stuck mostly in one place with her mother and the women and young children, no opportunities to get away from this and be alone somewhere, no ability to actually participate and get blooded, boring, stressful, etc). Continued to be annoyed by it into adulthood because her stupid brother is soooo into hunting and her sister, who she would expect to have better taste, just loooooves dogs.

The concept of falconry WOULD be appealing to her in theory in part due to her distaste for the hunts she's familiar with, because it would strike her as the complete antithesis of the social dog hunt. She'd picture it as like, just you and a cool bird, a noble intelligent wild animal that doesn't just do what it's told but is working with you out of mutual respect. I don't think she'd actually Like it in practice though. She's not that fond of being in the outdoors to begin with and probably would get frustrated with the realities of managing a raptor.

[starberriemilk]

ok. ok. i hope you understand how much sinclair being transgender fits in with his character. you probably do better than me, but i want to rant about how good of an idea it is.

like, first. his symbol. a cracked egg. for a long time, eggs have been used to symbolize those strugling with gender disphoria without any way to identify it as something outside the norm. (child sinclair probably struggled with that a lot.)

his entire motif is "between two worlds" from his splashscreen, to his base EGO art, to even kromer's boss theme literally being called "between two worlds"

of course it's referring to his transitory state between coward and hero, but this major theme of change passes through the entirety of sinclair's life. i would not be surprised if he actually is canonically transgender.

like... everything about him seems to SCREAM transgender.

if you have more, please rant it to me as well!

YES I fully understand it and IM SO HAPPY THERE'S ANOTHER PERSON WHO GETS IT TOO! YES! I AGREE WITH YOU SO MUCH! I really want to make a BIG BIG post that'd be transgender analysis of Sinclair, and the only reason why I'm not doing it is because I'm 1. nervous that people would be upset I didn't mention a possibility of him being transfem (sorry I don't like that hc/interpretation :( it makes me kinda uncomfy since I see him 100% as a trans man!) 2. HOW DO I WORDS (im so bad at wording stuff and putting thoughts into text)

But either way I AGREE SO MUCH WITH YOU! I like to think that the reason why his symbol is a cracked egg specifically is because he is starting to figure himself out and presents as masculine because he realized he's comfortable with it much more, so its a start! AND OF COURSE YES YES I NEVER THOUGHT ABOUT HOW BETWEEN TWO WORLDS CAN REFER TO HIM BEING TRANS TOO... But then I look back at the book and I realize how much sense it makes. The whole point of between two worlds in the book is that nothing truly is black and white and that includes Demian's gender identity (it's said so many times how he resembles both a man and a woman and clearly. transgender too), and I like to think Sinclair finds himself in that "between two worlds" state of gender identity too, seeing that he's different, between the world of cis women and cis men - transgender. If that makes any sense!

I COULD TALK ABOUT THIS FOR DAYS I SWEAR! Because you're right, everything about him screams transgender and it makes me incredibly happy. I genuinely think that Sinclair is transcoded, with how much feminity he shows in his character. And I know people will say "but feminine cis men exist" but I don't care because one way to show a character is transgender, is to make them have traits of their opposite gender... And obviously PM can't make it more obvious with queerness because we all know what Korea is like, but this? What we already have? It means a lot to me

Since I want to make a post about this one day, I want to say something from myself too:

Sinclair is the only male sinner who has a soft, feminine face, one that is usually drawn on women in PM games. Even other more feminine/twinkish characters like Yi Sang and Hong Lu have more sharp features, but Sinclair's are completely soft. And I think this includes his body too, like you can't really see it in his LCB sprite because he wears an oversized coat but in other identities he clearly has small shoulders and more of a.. feminine figure, I think, which again to me feels like he's a trans man that binds to hide his chest (if anyone asks about Boatworks- he had top surgery and his scars faded, and there's probably tech in the City that lets you have get rid of your boobs without any scars left)

[arttsuka]

Cowboy Octavius is just the singer Red Leather right down to the daddy issues thank you and goodnight!

You are so right

[bumblydumbly]

Already said this but since everybody is too busy on the failmance happening im gonna say it again: Vi starting their confrontation by saying “never thought [my sister] would orphan kids” only to be stopped from killing jinx. By an orphan kid.

[imexperiencinggrowthgetoverit]

Amity Park: US MOST HAUNTED!

Amity Park: The Faceblind City!

except the westons

[snekdood]

bitches really be treating you like a dumb bimbo when you're blonde huh

[thatrandombystander]

Just got back from watching a production of Les Mis and yeah man to love another person really is to see the face of God 😭😭😭

[seat-safety-switch]

When we were kids, we didn't have access to cool power tools. Every summer, when the soapbox derby race was coming, we'd break into my neighbour's garage while he was at work. Then, we'd use his drill press, lathe, table saw, all the fun tools. Over the course of a week, a race car was produced, which is more than the workshop ever made during the rest of the year.

Sure, we could have asked him if we could have borrowed his tools, but no doubt he would want to be there to supervise. And then he'd want to help. We'd never get done while we were busy indulging the suburb-tinged fantasies of someone who didn't take wood shop and chose instead to idly worship at the altar of Television Presents: The Fantasy of Bob Vila in adulthood.

One year, Old Man Garrett got a security system. Probably this was because Ted (fucking Ted) didn't clean up the sawdust that one time like we asked him to. The old man must have seen the footprint, and realized that he did not wear size-seven Nikes. Child thieves, casing his precious table saw! Now, our humble breaking-and-entering had become significantly more difficult than "reach a coat hanger under the door and pull the emergency release."

With the help of some of the high-school kids who were taking electronics class, we managed to defeat the security system. We did so using an ancient Japanese technique known as "distract Old Man Garrett while he's setting it, and then cut the wires to the panel." I think it loses something in translation, but you get the gist of it. That year's car was especially sweet.

In adulthood, I got drunk and bragged to some work buddies about our little scam. They responded in abject horror, because I was still occupying the weird hump in the middle of a normal distribution of "acceptable crimes." It was terrifying to them to see one of their own, one of the suburbanites, speak openly about largely-harmless property crimes. What if we had been hurt, they shrieked. Around the water cooler, I would become a pariah, unless I could make amends.

I did hunt down Old Man Garrett after that, still feeling the sting of rejection. He was still on the property, and he still had a beautiful collection of immaculate cabinet-making tools in the garage. I rang his doorbell and, when he answered, I told him the whole story. He laughed.

"I knew it was you dumb shits from the beginning," he bragged. "Fucking Ted -"

"Fucking Ted," I echoed, unconsciously.

"Fucking Ted left his library book on building race cars behind on the workbench that first year. You didn't let him drive, did you?"

I shook my head. "We ran the car into him if the hockey-stick brakes ever failed."

We had a good laugh about the whole thing that evening, and I returned to work with my soul cleansed. It's just a pity Ted didn't know how bad he actually was at crime, before he tried to knock over that liquor store and all.

[ursaspecter]

🌓 halfmoonhorror Follow

wtf i'm literally shaking and crying right now i just saw silver bullets for sale on temu why the fuck are there silver bullets on temu

🪢 knotexplosion Follow

Hey. Hey. Look at me. Do you genuinely believe Temu of all places is going to have genuine sterling silver bullets for sale? TEMU. Wish and Shein's bastard child?

🌓 halfmoonhorror Follow

they had wooden stakes on there too i'm actually fearing for my and my partner's lives right now

🦇 count-fuckula Follow

Yeah I bought some wooden stakes from Temu and they broke instantly. I wasn't even using any force to put them in my lawn as it rained quite recently. I wouldn't worry too much about any silver bullets you find. They're probably just silver plated.

🍖 roadkill-meatloaf Follow

Can confirm- Temu silver isn't real and can't hurt us. I bought a bunch of silver jewelry off there because I can't afford anything the legitimate stores are selling and when I tried them they barely even burned. Not worth it.

🍯 bearly-hanging-on Follow

Why on earth would you, a werewolf, buy silver jewelry???

🍖 roadkill-meatloaf Follow

well for me it's a sex thing.

🪢 knotexplosion Follow

Why would you voluntarily wear jewelry from Temu? Did you at least sanitize it first???

🍖 roadkill-meatloaf Follow

Uh... I licked it first. Werewolf saliva can disinfect surfaces right?

🪢 knotexplosion Follow

YOU WHAT

🦇 count-fuckula Follow

Oh my g-d just because werewolf saliva can make your wounds heal faster doesn't mean it works miracles!!!

🪢 knotexplosion Follow

Wait how would you know that?

🦇 count-fuckula Follow

@.daddy-fenris is not the brightest sometimes.

🌕 daddy-fenris Follow

oh my god IT WAS ONE TIME why do you have to put me on blast right now

🦇 count-fuckula Follow

The world needs to know. Roadkill please go see a doctor or a vet or something.

🌓 halfmoonhorror Follow

i feel like this is taking away from the real issue at paw

🪢 knotexplosion Follow

Can't you see we're having a conversation here?

🌓 halfmoonhorror Follow

IT'S MY POST???

🍖 roadkill-meatloaf Follow

Not anymore it's not

[inbabylontheywept]

Babylon and the Duck of Butter

I have a gift for falling in love with random objects. One time, my aunt got me a little rubber chicken, and whenever I squoze it, a little egg thing popped out. Very silly. Except that chicken became something like my best friend. I carried it with me to school, and I kept it with me in my pocket, and whatever social hazards there were about Being The Guy Who Got Stressed Whenever His Rubber Chicken Was Missing were far outweighed by being The Guy Who ALWAYS Had a Rubber Chicken On Him. There's a lot of comedic opportunity that comes with always having a good prop on your person.

Of course, the chicken did eventually. Explode. And such was my grief that I did not eat for 36 hours. This was very stressful for many people. Mostly my mom. I was a very strange child to work with. She took parenting so incredibly seriously, and then I'd pitch her these curve balls like refusing to eat for a day and a half because my rubber chicken died. No parenting book tells you what to do when that happens. You just have to feel it in your heart.

A less tragic story of an object that I fell in love with was a large, foam toad that I found in a trinket shop. The toad was the size of a very large grapefruit. Much too large to carry with me to school (thank god) but enough that I could move it around the house, to keep me company during my solitary pursuits. If I was reading, the toad was there, and if I was tinkering with legos, the toad was there, and even when I slept, I would wrap the toad up in layers and layers of blankets, and then spoon it. I did this until the rubber coating on the foam started to wear out, and the foam started to get brittle and break down and leak this repulsive yellow powder. Then I simply put the toad in the playroom and would consult it on matters of great importance. Eventually I stopped doing that, and someone took the opportunity to dispose of it. Not sure who. By the time I noticed its absence, too much time had passed for me to actually be sad. As an adult, part of me thinks I would have maybe liked burying the toad, but part of me also thinks I might have refused to part with the toad, which would have resulted in it leaking more repulsive yellow powder into the house. So I understand why that decision was made. 

I want to state that this does not happen often, and it does not happen on purpose. I don't choose to fall in love with random objects. And it's always a little bit embarrassing when it happens. 

Which brings me to my wife. 

Before meeting my wife, I did not often go to places with crowds. I didn't really think of it as avoiding them - those places just didn't seem fun to me. But she liked those places, and I really liked her, and being with someone who really likes something can kind of sell you on liking it too, so I'd take her to places and watch her Visibly Enjoy the Fair and go: Alright. The fair is pretty sweet.  

Which is a thing that happened. After fourish months of dating, I took her to the fair. And she fell very visibly in love with a large series of quilts, and she stayed near them for a while, which she thought was very embarrassing, and I got to pretend to be understanding as an outsider, because I thought it would be much more impressive than also being the type of person that would fall in love with a quilt. 

Do not do this. The gods punishment for my hubris was that the room next to the quilts was full of butter sculptures, which was an entirely new thing to me, and I immediately fell embarrassingly in love with all of them. It was like the biggest, sappiest non-sexual crush you've ever had, but not only did the other person not recipropcate, they could not, because they were made of butter. I actually got yelled at for pressing my face against the glass, which is fair, but also, I hadn't realized I was pressing my face on the glass, I just started leaning forward because after approximately 30 minutes of staring wistfully at a cow made of butter my legs got tired. And I think I should be given some grace for that.

Anyway. My wife was very patient with me taking more time to look at the butter sculptures than the average person might spent at the Louvre, and she also felt much less embarrassed over falling in love with a quilt, and we had a good laugh about it on the ferris wheel. 

A few weeks after that was my birthday. And I don't know what I expected, exactly - but I did not expect what she did. 

Dear reader, she made me a butter sculpture. Of a duck.

She picked a duck, because our first kiss was at a Japanese friendship garden. It was our second date, and she'd made up her mind not to do any kissing until the third date, but as we sat on the grass, a duck walked past me, and I'd just seen the hold-duck-gentle-like-hamgurber meme,

so I sort of impulsively reached out and snatched it. I honestly didn't think it would work. I don't know who was more flabbergasted, me or the duck. But we looked at each other, and then I looked at her, and then she looked at the duck, and she looked so incredibly envious that I assumed that must have wanted the duck so I just handed it to her.

It turned out she was actually envious of the ability to just grab a duck as it walked by, but she accepted the duck and stroked it a few times before releasing it. (She also made up her mind to kiss me in that moment, which was very nice.)  

Anyway.

She made me a butter duck of my own. Obviously, I fell in love with it immediately. I cleared out all of the freezer-portion of my mini fridge, and I put the duck in there, and for the next several months, when I felt sad, or lonely, I would open the door up and spent some quality time. Just me and my duck.

But this is, of course, not the end of the story. 

Because.

After several months. 

The mini fridge died. 

I really didn't use it that often. It was mostly my duck storage container. But one day, I walked by it, and it struck me that it wasn't humming. So I opened the door, and it was just. Far, far too late. The duck was dead. Dead dead. Turned into a foul-smelling slime dead. 

I cried. I did. After the rubber chicken thing, I thought I had changed, but I had not changed, and the unexpected death of my butter buddy left me pretty shook. I texted my then-girlfriend now-wife about how sad I was, and she actually came over to help me say goodbye. We didn't even bother scraping the duck out of the mini-fridge, we just said our goodbyes to both and threw them together in the nice dumpster behind the chapel, because it seemed appropriate to put it in God's dumpster. And it did actually help quite a bit. I certainly did not go 36 hours without eating again. 

And that was, for some time, the end of the butter duck. 

However. Three (or four?) years ago, for my birthday, my wife was looking around thrift stores. And she found something interesting. 

The original butter duck had an odd pose. She'd sculpted it laying flat, intending to raise it up later. But the butter was less flexible than she thought, and she was afraid of cracking it so she left it down which left the duck with a very elongated, very in-motion appearance. And she found a brass statue of a duck in the same, running posture.

It wasn't the original. But it was oddly on the nose. It was a yellow brass, it had the same strange posture, the same crude little face feathers. 

I think it was $3, but it remains perhaps the most thoughtful gift I have ever received. I got very choked up when I unwrapped Butter Duck, The UnDying. 

Pic provided.

[dumbbitchgalore]

Old Man!Price craves a pretty little housewife to waiting for him at home 🎀

As John gets older, he has this visceral urge to domesticate you that it also seems obsessive of him.

Hand in hand, John'll bring you back home to his cottage in the Cotswolds causing your eyes to widen at the home in front of you. As if your pinterest board has come to life, stained glass windows and a garden full of peonies. 

“God, this is exactly how I imagine my dream home to be like,” You say in awe before shrugging your shoulders, “Well that is if money wasn’t an issue.”

Your words earn a chuckle from John as he ushers you inside, giving you a tour of his home while you such over every little detail. 

‘Oh, that backsplash is literally my dream!’

‘Oh my god, a reading nook?!’

‘No way, you have a bloody walk in the pantry?!’

The smirk ever leaves John’s face as you continue to gush over his house well into dinner.

John is a very committed and detail-oriented man and that is why he needed to get everything perfect according to your Pinterest boards. He never leaves anything up to chance so all he did was look through your phone, browse your inspiration boards getting an idea of what you’d call home. 

His plan was coming into fruition. John had the house and now he had you inside of the house now all he has to do is to ‘accidentally’ get you pregnant. But there was a nagging fear at the back of his mind, a fear of potentially ruining an unborn child’s life with his obsession. As much as he wanted you to be at home taking care of his kids and tending to his house, John did not want to be a bad father. 

Every time he’d fuck you raw, John would try with all his might to cum deep inside of you over and over again until your pretty cunt could no longer hold his cum in anymore as it seeps out of you causing John to plug you up with his fingers. But every single time, John would back out at the last minute opting to cum on your back or something. 

He wanted to baby trap you but at the same time, he didn’t want you to blame him for everything that might go wrong in his life. The guilt will weigh too heavy for him to think that he ruined your chances of a better life without him. 

So when tonight you suggest for John to wear a condom because you forgot to pick up your birth control, John doesn’t hold back. He on longer has that stupid harpy of a voice in the back of his mind telling him not to ruin you and to ‘fucking not destory the one good thing in your bloody life, John!’

Rutting into you like a teenage boy who stuck his cock for the first time into an actual cunt, John thrusts were quick and deep bringing you to the brink of an orgasm over and over again only to stop his hips for a few seconds to once again pummeling into you, his cock bully your sweet, sweet insides. 

For once John is grateful for a condom, cumming inside you without a guilty conscience knowing that the condom didn’t let his cum paint your insides. He slumps against you, rolling onto his side as he holds your body flushed against his own, kissing your forehead and muttering words of thanks for ‘putting up with his old arse.’

It came to a shock when John sees the positive pregnancy test in your hands, the two blue lines mocking his efforts to not get you pregnant. A day later, he takes you ring shopping and proposes that same night. 

Now who’s gonna tell John that you were the one who poked holes in his condom?