#this veneer thing—it has to stop

[ladysophiebeckett]

celebrity dentistry is ruining modern american cinema.

[fisherrprince]

oh so alisaie’s exaggerated bully behavior is 80% fanon. saying this she casually picks up a large rock

[captaintiny]

.

[hiruseki]

god i seriously am never getting over That Scene in orv. kim dokja has so little compassion for himself that the only thing he can think to do upon being confronted with the most powerless, frightened, vulnerable version of himself is to try and murder it with his own hands. even when everyone is sobbing and begging him to stop, even when everyone has already forgiven him without reservation, even when yoo motherfucking pilgrim of the apocalypse joonghyuk cannot muster any animosity, kdj will not stop trying to convince them this trembling little boy needs to die. it had been well established by that point that kdj is self destructive and self loathing, but he was good at maintaining some emotional distance from his actions. but the moment he steps off that train, recognizes his own drawings, realizes what's happened, that impassive veneer shatters and he becomes desperate and vicious. this man hates himself so much. seriously, can you imagine how it must have felt to be oldest dream? you're an abused, lonely, depressed child. profoundly alone in this world, betrayed by everyone you've ever loved. you are so frightened of everything you can't bear to live in reality. you meet yourself from the future, but even he has no sympathy for you. no, he hates you. he hates you so much he wants to kill you. he would point a broken sword at his own throat if it meant he could erase you. you don't know what you did wrong. you never do. all you can do is cower from the monster and hope he doesn't get you.

like it's so fucked up. orv is so fucked up.

[psychotrenny]

Tumblr users are so comically obsessed with Standpoint Epistemology. Like people will compulsively preface their statements with like "Speaking as XYZ" even when it's completely irrelevant or actively discredits them. The whole "speaking as someone who has killed a pedestrian with my car" thing was just an especially ridiculous manifestation of this trend

And like this sort of fixation around reaching correctness through merely existing as the right sort of person explains many of the more useless and cynical distortions of social justice you see whenever a tumblr discourse turns in that direction. It's why we see a lot of "oppression olympics" type behaviour, as in the sort of pointless and idealist arguments about what category of person is more metaphysically oppressed (in contrast to actually useful comparisons of the differing material conditions that various groups face); if being oppressed by a system automatically grants you unimpeachable insight into it then clearly the more oppressed you are the more correct you are. It's also why people feel the need to fake their oppression, on either an individual (i.e. racefaking) or group (i.e. tranandrophobia*) level; even if you're not actually oppressed enough to be automatically correct, pretending you are is a great way to win arguments regardless. In turns that leads to baseless projection of privilege onto others (i.e. all the tumblr users who accuse POC of being white purely for disagreeing with them; sometimes involving active claims of racefaking but often just ignoring their marginalised status altogether); if someone's more oppressed then you that might mean they're more correct than you and we can't be having that.

This sort of thinking highly counter-productive and yet it's everywhere. Sadly many people are more interested in self-gratification than actually understanding and improving the world, and as long as they're socially enabled they'll keep abusing progressive language to this end. Very miserable indeed

*transandrophobia rhetoric is especially revealing in this regard because like TME trans people are indeed marginalised by transphobia. But to stop there would force them to acknowledge the basic fact that transfems are especially marginalised by the intersection of transphobia and misogyny, which makes it a little more inconvenient to socially murder us while maintaining a veneer of progressiveness. So they have to make up their own special brand of oppression to make it clear that they have it worse (and therefore are more righteous and pure) than those awful male-socialised trannies

[moonstruckme]

hi !! i saw that your requests were open and i'd really love if you wrote something with james (or poly!m !!) with a gn!reader taking up literature in uni who tends to get back pains from being hunched over reading and writing almost all hours of the day (definitely not projecting, hehe!)

i love the stuff you write and everythings just so sweetly written and portrayed so lovely !! thank you for keeping the marauders fandom alive lol

Thank you ml <3

modern au

poly!marauders x gn!reader ♡ 709 words

James plops down beside you on the couch, and when he pokes your spine you straighten reflexively. 

“Sorry,” you mumble, only half in the room as the rest of your brain continues working on your essay. 

“Are you really not done yet?” Sirius asks, putting a bag of popcorn in the microwave. You start typing faster. They’re going to want to start the movie soon, and then your laptop is going to be wrested away from you whether you’ve reached a stopping point or not. “I can’t remember the last time I spent more than a couple hours on an essay. You’ve been laboring over that thing all day.” 

“It’s a long one,” you admit, “but it’s hardly labor.” 

“Sure looks like it, when your back is hunched worse than a coal miner’s.” 

You give him a deadpan look. Sirius glances down at your fingers, still typing rapidly, and shudders. 

“Fucked how you can do that.” 

“Literature students might be the new coal miners,” says James.

You hum dubiously, looking back to your work. “Not sure that’s a super fair comparison.” 

“Yeah, I wouldn’t quite say that,” Remus agrees with you, “but it’s not like you’re not doing yourself any harm when you write all day like this, love. Your back is already hurting you—” 

“You’ll probably get carpal tunnel,” James adds. 

“—and I know looking at your laptop for this long gives you headaches.” Remus’ slow strides into the living room feel like a countdown clock. You manage to hammer out the end of your sentence just before he pulls your laptop out from under your fingers. “If you’re not careful, it’s gonna fuck up your sleep. That’s enough for tonight.” 

You sigh but don’t complain, rolling back your shoulders to ease some of the tautness there. Your spine crackles, quicker and louder than the popcorn popping in the kitchen, and James flinches away from you. 

“God, make it stop,” he pleads. 

You ignore him and roll your neck to the side, eliciting a series of cracks from there too. James makes a dramatically horrified sound and squeezes his eyes shut, and Remus grabs your head in both hands, restraining you. 

“Don’t,” he tells you severely. “We’ve been over this.” 

“Freak,” Sirius says lovingly as he pulls the bag of popcorn from the microwave. 

“It hurts,” you complain. 

“Sounds like it, fuck,” James agrees emphatically. Now the danger has passed, he leans towards you again, splaying a protective palm over your mid back. “Sirius, could you grab my icy hot from the fridge? Here, lovie, lie down.” 

Remus lets go of your face somewhat reluctantly, letting James help you lay across his lap. His hand smooths up and down your spine, pressing down lightly upon muscles rigid with tension. You sort of wish he’d just crush you. You’re sure he could, he doesn’t spend all that time at the gym for nothing. 

“I’m gonna get you a back brace,” Remus mutters, fondness under the veneer of resentment in his tone. 

“That'd be kind of hot.” Sirius lifts your feet, dropping down onto the couch before passing James the tube of cream. “Those are the strappy looking things, right? I’m for it.” 

“I do not consent,” you say clearly, then hiss as James applies the cool balm to your lower back. 

He and Sirius laugh. Remus reaches over to press your shoulders back down. 

“Easy, angel,” says James. “It’ll help.” 

“I didn’t know it’d be this cold,” you defend yourself, a little laugh tripping out of you as well. “You do this voluntarily?” 

“You’ll see why in a bit.”

“If I were spending all of my Saturday hunched over my laptop and a bunch of books,” Sirius says, “I think I’d at least use the right ‘your.’ What are they teaching you, babe?” 

You suppress a groan. You’d sent Sirius a grammatically incorrect text two days ago, and he’s yet to stop lording it over you. 

“That was autocorrect,” you tell him again. 

He hums noncommittally, tracing a path up your calf with his forefinger. “I’m just saying, can it really be worth it if we’re making those sorts of mistakes? Will they even still give you your degree?” 

“Sirius, their back is getting tense again. Knock it off.”

[halemerry]

So there’s understandably a lot out there examining the painful/emotional parts of this season, but I just wanted to take a second to acknowledge something really important that is a bit... maybe not lighter in tone but something worth celebrating.

Because like, even if he seems a bit directionless and frustrated, Crowley actually is pretty happy this season?

He’s making progress. He’s letting himself have things he wouldn’t have ever before - even if it's not exactly the thing he wants the most. He's letting himself be himself. He's not censoring instincts and impulses to nearly the same degree and it's actually pretty remarkable.

Like, okay, yes, Crowley is pretty lost now that he exists outside the toxic structure he has been operating under for millenia. And, yes his safety net with Aziraphale and the structure they operate in has also crumbled a bit because so much of that structure was built around what they were and weren’t allowed to safely do within the toxic structure. But, I actually do think this season does a lot to show that even if this struggle is very real and has consequences that aren’t all objectively good, freeing himself from that structure is a net good.

He smiles more. He laughs more. He sprawls more. He seems generally more physically relaxed and comfortable trusting his instincts without having to check everything he’s doing or saying against Hell. And this state of existence isn’t dependent on Aziraphale being present either. It’s just him being him and becoming comfortable with what that means.

And it wasn't a snap your fingers bam you're better situation either. It takes work and time to break old instincts. I mean, years have passed and we’re still struggling to let anyone say that we are nice. But significantly his instinct isn’t to snarl or physically lash out. It’s to roll his eyes or half heartedly object or maybe throw in a light growl for old times sake. And, sometimes, the instinct is to grin like a self satisfied loon as you contradict the nice human who implied you were nice.

Crowley is now in a place where his impulses to be kind are things he’s allowed to give into now and, even if he’s doing so under a veneer of snark and sneer, he is letting himself do that. He’s making sure the people around him are caring for ducks properly. He’s admitting he was worried about Aziraphale and cooing at his own car. He’s apologizing for accidentally locking people into coffee shops and openly helping them get out without even stopping to think about how maybe doing so might clue them in that he’s not quite what he seems. He's helping Shax learn her way around earth, even when she’s actively working against him and Aziraphale.

Even when interacting with Jim, who brings out the most of Crowley’s negative reactions and masks, his instincts are just as often to be gentle as they are to be angry. So long as Jim isn’t actively setting off alarm bells in Crowley’s head Crowley is so patient with him. He explains gravity unprompted and proceeds to include Jim in on his planning to get Nina and Maggie together. After his initial explosion at Jim’s presence the next two are immediately followed up by him getting upset and then backing off of Jim. He starts to threaten Jim when he’s reminded Aziraphale is in danger and then nearly immediately backs off of that, acknowledging there’s no point in it. And then, of course, after he nearly talks Jim into jumping out a window and pressures him into extracting more information from his brain he feels guilty enough to then offer Jim an act of care and service. It's such a stark difference from the guy we see even this season needing to put a layer between himself and anything good he does by either denying thanks outright or putting the blame on being under some influence.

And it’s startling how much we see him smile this season and how many different versions of that we get. From the genuine delight on his face when he thinks Operation Lovebird is working to the pleased little smirk he gives Aziraphale through the window when he watches him bring order to the arguing angels and demons in his shop, to the little smile of familiarity when he wonders what happened to Mr Dalrymple - Crowley smiles a lot compared to the first season. And it doesn't matter where he is either. He has a delightful time in Heaven, snickering and grinning to himself nearly the entire time he's prancing around there. And that’s not even getting into his dorky little snort laugh that pops up a few times throughout the season.

And I just. It’s so nice that this show doesn’t want to deny that what Aziraphale and Crowley are doing is hard but also that it doesn’t want to wallow in that struggle either. It never wants to frame that what they earned at the end of season 1 has doomed them but it isn't afraid to show the speed bumps that the system they were in is causing them on their way to happily ever after. They’re allowed to be happy. They're allowed to struggle with getting there. This is allowed to be a good thing for them, even if it sometimes takes work.

[itsanidiom]

OFFICE BLS RANKED BY THEIR ABILITY TO MAINTAIN THE VENEER OF APPROPRIATE WORKPLACE BEHAVIOUR

Because I saw @sorry-bonebag's tag and had to.

Here we go! Disclaimer: I'm not going to list every Office BL™ these are just the ones I've seen. Sorry if your fav is missing! Let's start with our lowest scorer that definitely sets the tone for the bottom of the barrel.

CHECK OUT - The veneer is tracing paper if not completely transparent. Fucking in the office. Yeah. That's an HR violation for sure. Thankfully your company is too small to have an HR department. But you're definitely getting fired by your boss who is also your boyfriend who you are also cheating on.

BED FRIEND - The veneer is only considered opaque because everyone else in the office is blind as hell. HR is pretty sure you two fucked in the office bathroom, but they have no proof so could only give you a warning.

LOVE MATE - Veneer is 1-ply. I mean, if the whole office ships it, is it truely an issue? HR thanks you for keeping things PG.

WE BEST LOVE: FIGHTING MR. 2ND - The veneer is definitely paper thin, but it's 2-ply. At least you avoided fucking in the office. Just a good smack in the face and some mutual sexual harassment. HR win...I guess.

HISTORY4: CLOSE TO YOU - Veneer is getting a little thicker, but depends on the light. Rooftop and in-office grandiose love confessions aside, HR thanks you for keeping your higher heat make out sessions off business hours. Still, gossiping about your romantic interests with your coworkers is grounds for a warning.

OUR DATING SIM - Veneer is about as thick as the space between your legs through which HR can see that you're literally holding hands in the office right now, stop it.

STEP BY STEP - The veneer is solid. Mainly office stuff happens in the office. HR approves of this boring as hell vibe. Still, you get marked down slightly because you did almost get down in the company parking garage.

CHERRY MAGIC - The veneer is a wholesome thickness, but no kissing in the company elevator. HR slap on the wrist for sure. We don't care how quickly the doors closed. There is CCTV in that elevator, sirs.

JUN & JUN - The veneer is currently in the process of being painted on so we'll have to wait and see, but it's looking pretty thin so far. HR has their pens ready to write up the report.

OLD FASHION CUPCAKE - The veneer is solid, but HR saw you hugging in the coffee station. Thank you for waiting until you were off work hours to make out, I guess. Enjoy your fancy desserts.

ROOMATES OF POONGDUCK 304 - The veneer is there. HR heard some weird noises over the zoom call, but we're just going to ignore those for now.

[acowardinmordor]

Risk and Reward

Steddie-adjacent. Tw: homophobia

I always love fics where Steve makes himself Eddie’s alibi while Eddie is still unconscious/in a coma. Knows that it will work because he knows in this town there is no way anyone would believe that Steve Harrington would come out if it wasn’t real. No one would believe it, because everyone knows that his parents are always gone, because his dad is in Congress railing against the gays and their depravity and how they deserve to die and burn.

Steve saying it. Signing an affidavit about it. Giving quotes to the ravenous press. It has to be true. And everyone who doesn’t think it’s disgusting think it’s the most romantic thing in the world.

The government was stepping in, all eyes were pointed at Munson, and he was going to be thrown in a cell for life. Or, to save the cost of the trial, he would have vanished somewhere between the hospital and the prison.

Steve coming out stops that. Airtight alibi, reinforced by the knowledge that there will be consequences.

Eddie is safe, and the government has changed tactics, is blaming dead Jason Carver for it all. Eddie wakes up six weeks later, shocked to wake up at all, and trusts his uncle enough to play along. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were dating the Harrington kid?’ Eddie knows how to tell a story that leaves space for a player to fill in their side. He tells stories about little moments and always describes things from his perspective. That way, if it contradicts the story that’s already out there, he can make a find quip about how he remembers it different.

When he finally gets a moment alone with his uncle, two days later, his guess gets confirmed. Wayne knows damn well that Eddie’s gayer than a maypole, and also knows that Eddie has called Steve his nemesis for years. Wayne knew from the second Steve said it that it was a lie, and knew it would work if it was believed.

The only thing confusing Eddie - well, the only thing in this tiny slice of his world - is why his fake boyfriend/no-longer-nemesis, isn’t in the hospital too, playing the part. If the guy was willing to say it at all, then he’d go all in. If there was one thing Eddie’d learned during those days, it was that Steve only ever did something at 100%

And yes, part of him feels terrible that Steve did this just to save him. He feels awful knowing that this is going to ruin a chance for a normal life. Wayne said the Indianapolis paper picked up a story about it. But at the same time, he’s so fucking grateful. Steve saved him. Again. And now, at least for a while, they’ll need to keep up the story. He’ll get to hang out with him, pretend they’re dating, stand close and cuddle closer. He also feels bad about how excited he is for that chance.

It’s the next morning when Eddie realizes his uncle dodged every question about why Steve wasn’t here. Wayne dodged almost every question after explaining what happened with Steve and the press and the Feds in the first weeks. Then, nothing.

The party visits him that afternoon, a veneer of joy stretched thin over something worse. Eddie’s first guess is that Red didn’t make it. But he hears her a moment later, complaining about ‘these stupid casts slowing me down’. The kids aren’t as good at dodging as Wayne is. Eddie gets the story quickly, such as it is.

The Harringtons came home from DC, gave a few speeches in praise of law enforcement against a serial killer. They visited the families of those that died.

They sent an assistant to find Steve in the hospital to deliver a message. No one else heard it, but the best guess is that it was a threat. Steve went with the assistant. They haven’t seen him since. When Dustin confronted the Harringtons at their last event in town, all they’d say was that ‘our son is getting the best help, and we love him dearly’

Eddie looks at Robin when he hears that for what it is. She drops the kids back home and begs a sympathetic nurse to let her talk to Eddie past visiting hours.

“It’s been a month since he vanished”

“Where?”

“We don’t know, we tried, even Hopper - he’s not dead - couldn’t find him. And this guy named Murray. We don’t know.”

“But…. ‘The best help’. You know that means…”

“I know”

“He’s, Christ, Buckley, he’s straight. Ladykiller. He’s straight and they sent him to some—“

“Yeah, but Eddie… I don’t know if I should… I guess, not that it matters now, and he never said anything, but he’s my best friend. He’s my soulmate. I know him and I think… if his dad wasn’t like he is… if he’d ever felt safe saying so… he knew they’d be furious when he came forward as your alibi, but he told me they’d just disown him, and it would be over. He was scared, but he was okay with what he thought was going to happen”

“I thought he hates me”

“He kinda did”

“Not anymore?”

“No.” There’s a pause where they both think about where Steve might be right now.

“Maybe he hates me again now.”

“I don’t think he would, but…”

And Eddie thinks how weird it is to see spastic Robin Buckley, who rambled in the Upside Down and always had more energy that she could contain, acting so subdued. No. So broken.

They both heard the Harringtons’ speeches and ads when he ran for office. They know what the man thinks about people like them. They both heard stories about what the places are like, where someone can go to ‘get help’

“Do you think I’ll ever get to thank him?”

“No.”

“Do you think we’ll ever see him again? You and the kids at least?”

She’s quiet for a long time, before she picks up her bag.

“If he ever gets to leave wherever they put him, and we ever see him, I don’t think he’ll be the person we knew anymore.”

[itmakesssenseincontext]

Honestly I loved episode three. I loved the gaping hole Kanan left in the narrative. He's a ghost, he's right there, he never existed, he never left.

When Hera talks to Mon Mothma and the senators and Mothma asks about Jacen, and Ezra is mentioned by name, but not Kanan. Just 'I lost people who were like family' and the only person she can be taking about is Kanan but he is unnamed. We know. She knows. But the others in the scene cant. And the republic wouldn't really want to acknowledge that loss. A Jedi died fighting for them, and his wife is begging for help to find their Jedi adoptive son and there 'isn't resources' because there is never fucking resources for anything that doesn't line the elites pockets because under the veneer of space opera, capitalism is rotting and always will be.

And when Hera is talking to Jacen, and he's been playing with Chopper when he should be with his Dad or Ezra learning Jedi stuff, and when he ways he wants to be a Jedi and it just hangs there and Hera tells him she knows. How many excuses has she come up with to keep him away from the Jedi stuff because its safer for him to let his talent burn out and she just can't loose another person to that. She can't go through it again. How long can she keep him safe from it? She can't. He is Kanan's son as much as hers. Ezra will come back, but at least Ezra will Know. Will have known Kanan. Know what Hera fears.

And when Ahsoka talks about the force with Sabine and she says the same things Kanan did, and Sabine doesn't stop her because how would Ahsoka know? She barely knew Kanan. When she trains Sabine with wooden weapons and its the same way Kanan did. And when they do the blind drills, and she should have been learning to fight blind from Kanan. Even the mask Sabine wears looks more like Kanan's mask from 'Twilight of the Apprentice' than any of the other helmets we see used for the same drill.

Kanan left this huge absence in the show, that only exists for those who knew him, both in universe and those who watched Rebels. And I just think its fucking beautiful.

[3amfanfiction]

Simon Finds a Toy

You had just moved to town when the serial killer who was passing through takes a shine to you. Simon/Reader, 3.5k

18+ cw: kidnapping, hobbling, spanking, animal death

March is practically over when everything goes wrong.

Running through an abandoned warehouse avoiding bodies was not how you saw your evening going.

When the first of you began disappearing into the dark, no one noticed. You didn't all know each other, it was one of those friend of a friend types of gatherings, with everyone separating into pre-formed cliques within the first hour.

It was a younger guy who had suggested exploring the old building a mile down the road—no surprise there. Per his words, he fancied himself an urban explorer. You hadn't seen him since the beginning, one of the first to go missing.

You weren't even supposed to be here tonight! You'd just moved into town and you were trying to make friends. When the pretty girl at the bakery invited you to hang out, you thought you were good. That maybe life wasn't so hard and setting down roots wasn't impossible.

Stupid—tempting the universe like that.

Whoever this guy was, he was massive. The kind of massive where if he barreled into you, you would be pancaked. You had watched him take a bear of a man (Jeremy? Jason? Maybe—all you can remember is he said he was a footballer) out half an hour ago—lifted, bent, and broken all in one smooth, brutal move.

It was as awe-inspiring as it was fear-inducing.

So you run.

You run and you hide until you're backed into a corner. He's found every other person and now it's your turn. You're bleeding and bruised, aching where you slammed into sharp corners and machinery in the dark.

This is it, the climax of your story, is anyone surprised that you run your mouth a little? You don't hold back as you tell him everything you think about him, every new fucked up thing this evening had presented, every grievance ever buried down under the veneer of civility.

Why is he just staring? You're caught, nowhere to go, and he's just … looking. He's got shark eyes—pools of inky black that suck you in. Drowning.

He decides to take you home with him.

This has to be a joke.

///

April brings cruelty in its change, where you're expected to learn the shape of the season.

Stop messing with these knots or you won't like the consequences.

How were you supposed to know this is what he meant? He said it exactly once; the first night in the truck when he hopped out after hours of driving just to find you with the rope halfway undone, eyes glaring at him from above your gag.

He grunted out his warning while retying it, calm as you please, as if it wasn't a bother to him one way or the other.

Looking back at it he was probably hoping you would ignore the warning, the psychopath.

The next morning he had to tighten them again after your long night spent fiddling but he didn't say anything—just adjusted the knots and walked back around to continue the drive. He hadn't stopped that day other than for gas and one bathroom break on the side of a cracked and potholed back road, where if there had been any traffic, they would've gotten quite the show.

He didn't even have the decency to take you into the trees.

You had gotten one hand completely out of the hog tie by the time you two reached your destination; this little tin-roofed shed with just enough room for him to pull all the way in and close the doors behind him was the only building you'd seen in hours.

He doesn't address your unbound hand—simply refastens it into the tie while ignoring how you had removed the cloth gag with your partial freedom. What follows is the culmination of days worth of you sitting in enforced silence, thinking up every creative thing you could call him. Unfortunately he ignores you cussing him out, and throws you over his shoulder to begin his trek through the woods.

He doesn't seem to mind you screaming your head off, at least other than making sure you don't do it directly in his ear. That got a sharp adjustment of your torso across his shoulder; your grunting wheeze in response not very demure.

Now you're here—staring at your hands. Or rather, your thumbs and where they were taped in little braces to stop you from moving them. Sweat and dirt making the skin itch beneath the bandages.

He told you you wouldn't like the consequences. He TOLD you. Did you think he was lying?

Well—kind of, yeah. What sort of monster breaks someone's thumbs?

Your stare turns into a glare, unseeing of anything around you until a heavy hand landing on your shoulder makes you jerk in surprise.

"Leave it, pet. No use thinking on it now," is grumbled down at you before he huffs in something resembling amusement as you lean sideways, trying to get out from underneath his grasp.

You've been waiting for the day when he loses his patience and murders you too, but it hasn't happened yet. Maybe he finds it entertaining when you act like a kicked dog around him.

Which is a funny thought considering he has a dog that damn near idolizes him.

He ignores him most of the time—takes care to feed and water him but that's the extent. No scratches behind the ear, no tummy rubs, no kisses between the ears. As if you needed another reason to hate this guy.

You watch him put together three plates, two in bowls and one on some kind of wooden board. You snort to yourself when you think of this guy enjoying a charcuterie board, ignoring him when he cocks an eyebrow back at you, waiting for an explanation that won't come.

At least you've gotten better at keeping your expression blank when he sets the two bowls on the floor, before taking his charcuterie board wanna-be into the dining room.

Asshole.

///

May saw flowers blooming and lessons learned.

You have use of your thumbs again. That's a win.

Puttering around this stupid cabin is driving you insane. You've learned a few things since you've been here—his name is Simon, he's military, he murders people in his free time, and his dog's name is Dog.

Fucking. Psychopath.

You're not allowed outside. Simon had told you this as he was unwrapping your thumbs for the last time, break yer ankles if ya even try f'r the door. So you don't. You make your displeasure known in other ways, pushing to see where the lines are, so you know where to press to cause the most damage.

He annoyingly stoic. Nothing you say seems to get a rise out of him and other than breaking an established rule—don't touch the rope, don't go outside, don't try and stab him with a kitchen knife—he leaves you to your own devices.

He's always around, hovering. He responds if you talk to him civilly, ignores you if you scream at him, and bends you over his knee if you start swinging.

The cup you threw at his head was ugly anyways.

You screamed yourself hoarse that first time he pulled you across his lap, other leg pinning yours down with a forearm pressed between your shoulder blades. You thrashed but could barely move, well and truly immobilized.

You began pleading as your pants were pulled down, begging him not to touch you, telling him you were sorry. He acted like he couldn't hear you.

The first slap was more shocking than anything. Your voice caught on a hiccup of air as his palm made contact, the fat around his strike rippling. You don't get a moment to process before he's smacked you three more times, alternating cheeks.

Eons later, after he's reached whatever preconceived end he had decided on, you're a limp, sobbing mess, your face pressed into the cushions, great gasping sobs rolling their way out of your chest.

He cleans your face before applying cooling balm to your skin and that was a greater gut punch than the spanking had been. He doesn't get to be both—he doesn't get to hit you over and over again and then hold the tissue while you blow your nose. You can't handle him being both.

You don't sit comfortably for days and a new rule is created—don't throw things inside the cabin.

///

You're allowed to eat at the table with him now, no more guarding your bowl from Dog who was surprisingly nimble. Simon and Dog have the same conversational aptitude so at least you can eat in peace.

That's another good thing he has going for him (are you going to go to hell for thinking of good qualities in a murderer?) he never stints on portion sizes.

You were quite pleased to realize you had stayed delightfully soft over the past couple of months. Locked in the cabin as you are, the only exercise you've gotten is for your tongue, which has been honed razor sharp by this point with the vitriol that never seems to cause as much damage as intended.

He was a decent cook too. Nothing insane, his meals were basic and limited by what he had stored in his kitchen and cellar, but you hadn't had a bad meal yet.

He left sometimes to restock. Or for other excursions. When it came time for him to leave you would be moved to the bedroom, regardless of how much you kicked and snarled, and a leg chain would be connected to a hook under the bed.

Those days were some of the worst. If he noticed the salt crusting the bed when he eventually returned he never said anything.

///

June saw the temperatures rise, tensions following suit.

You don't like to think about the start of summer.

You had a nervous breakdown one day when the heat was intense. Simon had gone to pick up food and he had left you unchained. You were standing in the living room, looking at the front door, free to walk through it whenever you wanted.

So why were you standing here?

Simon would be upset if you left the cabin. Its one of the rules, don't go outside, that you're supposed to follow. There are consequences if you don't follow the rules.

You ignore the tremble in your knees as your fingernails dig crescents into your palms, the door taunting you with its presence. You could do it; you should do it. Run. Get away, get to the police, have him thrown in jail.

You're going insane, you're losing your mind. Is any of this even real? Why are you still standing here?

In an attempt to get yourself out of the standstill you were in, you forced yourself to take a few trembling steps . . . towards the kitchen where you got yourself a glass of water, and ignored the door behind you that was taunting you by calling your name.

You taught Dog a few tricks instead.

Nothing crazy—sit, lay down, shake. Still, you were pretty proud. Something good came out of this.

You didn't make eye contact with Simon for a week once he was back.

///

July is sunburns and fingermarks left where you touch him.

All you see is Simon, he's all you talk to (that sometimes talks back), all you hear. Is it any surprise you said fuck it?

You remember reading something once that said humans required touch, if they didn't get it they'd go crazy. Heh. Maybe that's what happened to Simon, living up here in this cabin, hard to have anybody to touch.

So you bend first; you always bend first with Simon. Every day with him is a yielding in one way or another. You're not sure if you even know how to stand upright any longer.

It starts with a pat on the shoulder.

He had brought you back a puzzle book from his last murder spree. Some giant workbook with a dozen different types of puzzles. If you had any dignity left it would've been lost at how excited you got for that puzzle book.

So, you thanked him. You took the book, patted him on the shoulder, and then went to sit at the table to play with your new entertainment. Simple, simple, simple.

So explain how you ended up here.

Don't swallow, keep your throat open for me, don't you fucking swallow—fuck, fuck, fuck.

///

August was a sticky heat and you were careful not to dig too deep.

You had to butcher your first animal at the end of the summer months.

Simon was out on a short trip when the dog caught a fox. He came dragging it in just like his papa, proud of the innocent blood dripping from between his jaws, his own muzzle bleeding where sharp teeth and claws had sank in.

When you pried it from his teeth, you realized the fox was still breathing, little heart thrumming against your fingertips, vibrating at an almost continuous hum.

The dog's fangs had punctured its stomach. Organs and muscles ruptured and bleeding. Another mark in the 'just like papa' column. Not decent enough to kill cleanly. Have to play in it, enjoy it.

You knew what you needed to do but still you hesitated. Weren't you going to attempt to save it? It's what you would've done before. Before Simon, before this cabin, before the nightmares.

One hand held it firmly, keeping it from attacking out of fear or pain while you softly dragged the other through the damp fur of its back, attempting any sort of comfort.

You could see yourself in it; living your life with your own sharp little teeth as protection until something bigger came along. Something that saw you and decided you would taste best in its maw, your blood coating its throat.

It drug you as a prize back to its home, uncaring of the blood you leaked on the floor, the bile you spit at its feet. You wondered if it would hurt less, to be the dog.

You did the fox a favor when you sliced its neck. No more pain.

///

September saw the leaves changing and witnessed your further plummet into Simon's orbit.

He had been home for weeks. Continuously. No little camping trips, no missions, nothing. He was beyond pissed but it was his own damn fault for getting stabbed in the leg.

You had cackled when he came limping in, blood oozing through the fabric he'd tied tightly around the wound. Looks like his latest quarry had sharper teeth than he realized. Good for them.

Stitching him up was repugnant—he laughed in your face when you gagged at the blood that coated you up to your forearms and were thankful to wrap him up and be done with it so you could bathe. The blood left a stubborn stain under your fingernails for days.

After weeks of him following you around—touching you constantly, sticking his fingers in your mouth or in your cunt whenever he liked, eating the food you made for yourself—you were fit to burst.

Go find your next plaything, just get him out of my hair!

///

October saw the trees shedding their leaves, their bare branches showing through. It saw you without a mask of your own.

You were allowed outside when Simon was home. It had been such a subtle decline, you thinking of escaping, that you didn't notice it's absence until now, when you were watching the cold sun create shadows on the ground with no desire to wander father than the front porch.

You were allowed outside, you were no longer chained up when he left, you could leave. You could pack a bag, pick a direction, and walk. For however long you needed to.

But.

It was getting colder at night. You'd be out there for days if not weeks before you found a road to follow if you were lucky. Plus you had no idea which direction to go. What if you ended up deeper in the mountains?

What if you continued to lie to make yourself feel better?

///

November saw the winds begin to howl with your feral side howling along, music in the dark.

Simon was gone—getting the last of his energy out before you were snowed into the cabin with the winter storms that were starting up. The eerie howling having long become a background echo in your ears.

Dog had been acting strange all day. Staring out the windows, growling at the door, barking when the trees brushed the roof. You'd let him out to check several times but he always came back inside after circling the cabin.

Strange.

The sun had almost set when you saw movement outside the window, a dark mass moving between the trees, too deep in the dusk to make out.

Dog hadn't come back yet from his last perimeter check, leaving you alone inside the cabin. You watched out the window for several long moments, only hearing the wind moving through the trees.

A loud bang on the opposite side of the cabin had you looking away from the window with a start; when you looked back after a few short seconds, the shape was gone—faded back into the trees.

Your heart pounded in your chest, mouth drying up and palms becoming damp. You ducked out of sight of the window and creeped into the kitchen, pulling one of Simon's knives out of the knife block.

One benefit to living with a serial killer, his knives were always in pristine condition. You know if you needed to stab someone, this knife would be slicing through them like butter.

Pressing into a corner, your mind spun in rabid circles. Who was that outside? How did they find the cabin? Were they there to hurt you? Dog never came back in. What if they murdered him and left his body to rot in the leaves? Dog was a good boy, he didn't deserve that.

You gripped the knife tightly, steadying your nerves. You weren't going to be the victim again. You'd been there, done that and you knew how it played out. When (if you told yourself, it might not happen, they might leave, there might not be anyone out there) they came through the door, you would defend yourself. If someone came through that door, it means they killed Dog and they will be coming for you.

You took a deep breath while wedged into the corner with the door firmly in sight, holding your knife in front of you, ready to attack. You would do it. If they thought you wouldn't, they're about to be too dead to relearn.

The door opens between one heartbeat and the next, the wind's grasping fingers catching, causing it to slam back against the wall, a dark hulking mass standing on the doorstep. You pounce, screaming like a wild thing, knife flashing through the air. They snatch your wrist and wrench it behind your back, kicking the knife away.

Thought we were past this, pet.

Oh. It's just Simon.

The following let down had your body shaking like you'd spent all night out in the cold. Tremors wracked you from head to toe as you tried not to think about how readily you'd been to commit murder.

The last few moments replayed in your head as you breathed in a controlled manner, attempting to regain control of your body. It's only Simon, it's only Simon you repeat to yourself, self soothing, it's only Si—what?

Since when has the fact that it's Simon been comforting? Have you forgotten what he did to you?

No, of course not. You hadn't forgotten. You knew Simon wasn't the good guy of the story. You were simply happy for the devil you knew . . . right?

///

December saw the snow begin to fall, walls following suit.

Simon finished last minute preparations around the cabin, within ears reach all day, every day. You spent a lot of time trailing after him, watching him work. Helping occasionally when he'd hold out nails for you to pass him as needed, or holding a board steady as he cut.

You asked him questions—things you hadn't bothered wondering before, how long have you lived up here, do you have any family, what do you do for your job?

He answered truthfully, as far as you could tell. It made you offer pieces of yourself in return.

///

January saw the snow pack everything in, forced proximity tightening bonds.

You and Simon spent all day together, every day. He never ran out of stories to tell you about his past mission or murdering sprees. Listening to him talk, you realized he really did get rid of the annoying ones first. A strange thought to have with no feelings attached—you didn't even notice their absence.

///

February was dark. February was cold. Hadn't it always been you and simon?

///

March saw the snow melting, the sun waking earlier each day. When Simon left to stretch his legs, March saw a second body following along behind him.

Next

Story Repository || Main Repository

[brayneworms]

and teary faces know the craft | lyney

kinktober day one: lingerie

word count. 1.8k

content. 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, lingerie, making out, both lyney + reader getting blueballed, allusions to jealousy + insecurity, somewhat established relationship, lyney is a bratttt, gender neutral reader

♪ death kink - fontaines d.c.

notes. call that lyngerie

kinktober 2024 m.list | regular m.list

He's a tease. 

You should more than likely stop being surprised by it; like the owl is wise and the bake-danuki is curious, it's simply in his nature. The coy flutter of a lash, the point of a toned leg, the briefest catching of his amethyst eyes on yours at something that could be construed as innuendo. A flash like the white spark of a kamera bulb, and then gone again, retreating into shadow like it was never there in the first place. 

Backstage smells like pine wood and wax. The stage squeaks with each turn of Lyney's boot upon the shining floor. In around an hour, the Opera Epiclese will be seething with audience members, packed in and huddled tight for the show. For now, it is only a palimpsest; the only people in the seats for now are you and Freminet, who maintains a shy distance a couple rows in front of you, fiddling with his little robotic penguin. You think he's started to grow used to your presence—and he's pretty sharp beneath the sandy bangs, his eyes snagging on little things others might gloss right over.

You suppose Lyney and Lynette are similar, though; beneath different veneers, all of Arlecchino's children are remiss to let any small detail slip by them. 

You suppose it's a mark of the Hearth, that inclination towards neuroticism. 

"And voila!" The twins' routine finishes with a swish of Lynette's skirt and Lyney's arms raised towards the domed ceiling. "What did you think?"

Freminet raises his head. "It was great," he mutters. "As always. The bit with the water tank is new, right?"

"It's merely a spruce-up of our old bit with the box," Lyney smiles. "But yes, essentially, it's new."

Freminet hums. "Well... be careful, is all. I liked it though."

Lyney beams. It's an inevitability that his gaze turns to you then, hunched a little further back. "And you, our dear guest? Do you concur?"

You raise your chin. "I think... it's your best work yet." 

The smile Lyney offers is beatific—and genuine, you know, only because your own praise is such. As someone who lives a life half behind a mask, Lyney has become well-tuned to the frequency of other people's lies; it's why, you often think, he's so enamoured with you. Because you don't lie to him. 

"Does that mean we can take a small break?" Lynette asks, fiddling with a glove. "I'd like a chance to refresh before the real show."

"Of course, of course. I would say we've more than earned it." As Lynette makes her way offstage, probably on the hunt for a teahouse, Freminet trails after her and Lyney catches your eye. You approach up the centre aisle that runs through the middle like a parting through a scalp, up to the edge of the stage. It’s so tall that it comes up to your chin, and Lyney extends a hand down to help you haul yourself up. It smells like rosewood and wax up here, settling pleasantly in your nose. Lyney watches you, eyes wide, earnest. He has such a sweet face, if you can learn to ignore the gleam in his eye. 

“Want to help me get ready?” he asks casually. You bite back the urge to raise a brow; he looks stage-perfect already, down to the outfit. He doesn’t need help with a damn thing.

All you say is, “Sure,” and he leads you happily through the maze of corridors backstage to his dressing room. He and Lynette have separate ones here, which is nice; neither of them particularly like sharing space. Lynette keeps her things organised, and Lyney… decidedly doesn’t. He’s not a messy person by metric, but he does tend to charge forward toward the goal without realising the trail he was leaving in his wake. 

The dressing room is modestly sized, draped in swaths of red and gold cloth that make it feel heady and hot and close. A sparkling mirror edged in something that glows lurid and blue-white, throwing your features into sharp relief; and a complimentary basket of local Fontainian specialities which you pick through with interest, coming up with foreign titian fruits and crystal bottles of fizzy alcohol.

“So…” Lyney hovers at your shoulder, watching you pick through the cellophane-wrapped morsels. “You really liked the show?”

“I did.” You put back some fancy chocolate thing and turn to face him; he doesn’t back off, watching with his hands twisting like snakes before him. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was nervous. “You’re really getting into it. Lynette’s working very hard.”

It’s a prod, a careful poke—and as you guessed, Lyney pouts. If he had ears like his sister, they’d probably be pinned back against his head right now. “Only Lynette?” 

 A slow grin spreads over your face like molasses. “Oh, I see. You’re fishing for something.”

“Ahaha… I don’t fish.” He crosses his arms over his chest, chin jutting petulantly. “But when you go out of your way not to compliment me, you can’t blame me for thinking the worst. Perhaps my loveliest guest of all is losing interest?”

“Perhaps,” you say mildly, then backtrack as soon as his expression falters. “Oh, come on. You know what I think of you. Must I say it every time.”

“You could stand to say it more.”

“I bought you that lovely gift only a few days ago.”

Lyney’s eyes flash; that gleam, like the side of a cut amethyst. “Oh, I remember,” he says coyly. “I’ve grown quite familiar with it, in fact.”

The notion makes heat flare in your gut. “Oh, yeah?”

“Mhm.” He pauses, smiles—catlike, just a hint of sharp teeth between the plush peach of his lip. “You might say I’m familiar with it right this second, actually.”

You blink. Your mouth is as dry as the Great Red Sand. “Are you trying to tell me—”

Tease. It’s in the way Lyney’s face slips into an innocent little smile as he hooks a finger over the cuffed edge of his shorts and yanks it up enough to expose a glimpse of rouge lace. Unable to stop yourself, your hand flies out, keeping it there. You stare from it to him. 

“Are you serious?” you whisper. 

Lyney giggles. “I take this to mean you’re not losing interest, then?”

“I’ll kill you.” You sound too hoarse. “Show me.”

Lyney casts a slow, obvious look at the ornate clock hung open the wall. “Y’know, I’m just not entirely sure we have time right now, dearest.”

“Sounds like a you problem,” you mutter, fingers hooking onto his stupid bodysuit and fumbling at the buttons. You can feel his stomach flex with silent laughter at your obvious eagerness; usually you’d be trying to reign it in—the last thing a tease like him needs is more fire to stoke the fuel of his ego—but sue you. He knows what buttons to press. He has way too much power in his sleek gloved hand. 

You get a handle on the suit and yank it down with difficulty to his knees. What you’d seen a glimpse of were two thin silky garters, encircling the plush of his pale thighs, just about hidden by the hem of his shorts. One wrong move and they’d slip out from under the black leather, glaringly visible to everyone. The idea makes you feverish with anger and also so turned on you can barely see straight. 

The garters clip onto dusky pink underwear, arching gracefully over his pubic bone to encircle the triangle of his waist. When you lift a trembling hand to lift his shirt, you see a matching bralette, satiny cups tight against the soft swells of his pectorals. You can see straight through the gauzy fabric, coffee-coloured nipples pebbled under your attention. 

“I hate you,” is the first thing that come out of your mouth. The sight of him in this sparkling pink-red set makes you want to do unspeakable things. You want to ruin that fabric forever and buy him a new one. A dozen new ones in hundreds of different shades, ruin them systematically, rinse, repeat. 

He laughs again, but even his facade has its limits; he sounds slightly breathless, and you can see the faint pink blush on his cheeks starting to crawl down his chest. His collarbones gleam like cut diamonds, archons you wish you could bite them. “I take it you approve?”

Your answer is as animalistic as you feel, the rough crush of your lips over his. You’re rewarded with a muffled mmphf?! as your weight pushes the both of you back against the table, sending the cute basket of edible arrangements sprawling in a mosaic upon the floor. You muscle your way between Lyney’s legs, the press of his stiffening cock so close through only the wisp of organza, hot and insistent as a brand mark. Your hand tangles in his hair, dragging him impossibly closer as your lips duck to press against his butter-soft skin, his jaw, his neck—

“N-no marks!” he gasps, even as he presses his hips against yours with a moan. “Dearest, lovely, mon chérie, please—”

“You’re so pathetic,” you whisper into his neck, feel the buzz of your words sink into the soft skin of his throat. Lyney shudders and whines his protest. “No time, remember? Whose fault is that?”

“I just wanted—you to look at me,” he grits out, legs locked around your waist. It occurs to you that his fears of you losing interest are likely to be grounded in reality, dressed up with a lilting voice and wave of a hand. Your heart twitches. 

“I’m always looking at you, stupid.” 

Lyney’s cheeks darken, brows coming together as a sort of glaze slides over his eyes. This look you’re familiar with; it makes your breath hitch. He leans forwards, lips parted—

Three sharp knocks at the door. “We’re on in fifteen minutes, brother.”

Lyney’s whole body scrunches up, a cold disappointment stealing over his face. He looks to you desperately, but you can only shrug. “Answer your sister.”

He droops like a wilting flower. “I… I’ll be right out, Lynette.”

There’s a pause, a deeply disappointed sigh, and you hear her heels clicking neatly back down the corridor. Lyney scrubs a hand down his face and awkwardly gets down from the desk, fumbling to right his clothes. His whole body shivers as he does his bodysuit back up, having to readjust it several times in wake of his hardness. He looks down unhappily at the result.

As he goes to leave, he pauses, hand on the doorknob. “You’ll stay for the show?”

You see the question for what it is, and smile. “Wouldn’t miss it. I’ll wait for you after, too.”

Lyney tucks his head away, but you fancy you can see his giddy smile anyways. “I’ll try not to make you wait too long,” he murmurs; one hand reaches down, adjusts the cuff of his shorts just so you get the briefest flash of red-pink. And then he’s gone, out the door and down the corridor to the stage.

You lean against the table, heave a sigh. Start picking up the spilled complimentaries from the basket. You have a feeling, later tonight, that you’re both going to need the sustenance. 

[baileypie-writes]

Please, I need more Veneer or Velvet x Reader fluff, I'm sorry I knoe I'm not specific about anything I'm just very brainrot by both of them 😭

You can ignore this if you want dw 🫂

A/N ~ Sure! I decided to do headcanons of the both of them(separately). I hope you like it!

~Fluffy Velvet and Veneer Headcanons~

Velvet x Reader, Veneer x Reader(separately)

Fandom: Trolls 3: Band Together

Reader: Gender Neutral

Relationship: Romantic

Warnings: Tooth-rotting fluff

~Velvet~

~ This girl isn’t very affectionate. So most of the hugging and kissing will be done by you. She may act like it annoys her, but she likes it. She even secretly craves it.

~ Velvet’s love languages are words of affirmation(receiving) and gifts(receiving and giving). Please tell her that you love her and that you’re proud of her. It will make her day. She lives for any kind of praise.

~ She loves gifts. Even though she has lots of money and things already, getting things just hits different for her when she didn’t buy it herself. She keeps anything you give her on a special shelf in her room. She also gives you gifts sometimes. Most of the things she gives you are expensive, like designer clothes or the latest phone model. She likes the look on your face when she gifts them to you, and of course the thanks you give her.

~ Velvet will defend you with her life. If somebody ever wrongs you, they’re banned from all her shows. If it’s somebody on the internet, she’s fully prepared to send her fans after them. She’ll then do her best to make you forget about the person completely. She says things like: “They don’t know what they’re talking about. They clearly don’t know you at all, otherwise they’d know better.” and “Just forget about them. Idiots like them are a waste of time.”

~ She likes doing your hair. Her hair styling skills are amazing, so it always comes out great. Sometimes, she uses you to test out styles she might do on herself.

~Veneer~

~ Oh, goodness. Veneer is clingy. He doesn’t get a lot of attention from his parents or Velvet, so you’re his only source of it. He needs it to survive. But he’ll be happy to give some affection back! In fact, he’s very affectionate. He gives the best hugs and kisses!

~ Veneer’s very caring. He always makes sure you’re feeling okay both physically and mentally. If he senses that you may be the tiniest bit not okay, he’ll drop everything to be with you.

~ He’s a cuddler. He loves cuddles, he can’t get enough of them. If you two are ever just chilling alone, every time he ends up wrapping his arms and legs around you in a hug. And he will not let go for at least an hour.

~ Veneer spoils you so much. He probably buys more things for you than for himself. When you told him that you’re running out of room because of all the stuff he gives you, he seriously offered to buy you another house. There’s no way to stop the spoiling. Just bear with it.

~ He may not be able to stand up to Velvet for himself, but he won’t hesitate to stand up for you. Nobody, not even his sister, is allowed to be rude to you.

~ Veneer’s really good at comforting. It breaks his heart when you’re upset, so he uses everything in his power to make you happy again. He’ll talk to you, telling you that everything’s gonna be okay. Within a few minutes, you won’t even remember what you were sad about.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~~baileypie-writes

[starry-bi-sky]

the idea of the whole school of Casper high judging wes´s flirting skills and then being horrified that they still somehow kinda work is gold!!

also i feel like somewhere in the future someone in the batfam will ask baby dami how he got the "demon" name since hes a clone and hes just going to look the person in the eye and say "my brothers pet stalker gave it to me"

"MY BROTHER'S PET STALKER GAVE IT TO ME" that's now the only way Damian refers to Wes - that and 'Weston'. And just imagine Danny walking into that room in that moment as he says it, and then perking up and going "Oh are we talking about Wes?" and he walks over to ruffle Damian's hair and affectionately goes, "and he's not my pet, Dames." But he doesn't deny the stalker bit.

(And you know if Wes was there he'd be denying it up and down that he's a stalker - he's an investigator. A detective! Quit calling him that!) And the batfam present all exchange slightly concerned looks with one another and someone -- lets go Dick or Tim or Bruce, goes "Stalker?"

Danny just waves it off with a huff and goes "it's not that serious, don't worry i've got it handled" before changing the subject to something else. Or talking a little bit more about wes without bringing up that he thinks he's a vigilante (which he is).

and also yesss imagine the first time dany goes to bother wes during the middle of lunch and danny says something mildly tame compared to what he normlly does because wes is with a bunch of friends -- maybe he decides to do the "hey Weston, I heard you spreading rumors about me being Phantom?" thing, and he's wearing this bewildered smile

all of Wes' friends are giving Wes this LOOK like 'way to go genius, you got his attention, now what?' and instead of Wes stammering or backtracking, instead he doubles down on it. All of his friends are looking at him like Velvet from Trolls 3 when Veneer revealed that they were phonies. Just utter betrayal.

just. just this face. the entire table is making that face at Wes as he (to them) fumbles the bag so badly that he may as well have tossed it into a gutter. They all watch as Fenton is weirded out by Wes, and the two of them have this back-and-forth with Fenton poking holes at Wes about him being Phantom and Wes just keeps saying he is Phantom, and he should stop denying it.

When Fenton finally leaves, Wes' best friend turns and thwacks him hard in the shoulder and hisses at him what the hell did he just do? He didn't just miss the basket, he missed the entire damn court entirely! he threw the ball into the stands!

And Wes hisses back at him that he has no idea what he's talking about. Wes' friend calls him an idiot. A big dumb idiot. And then Fenton goes and bothers him in the hallway a few days later. And everyone else?? Flabbergasted.

And then it keeps. happening. Fenton keeps?? approaching Wes? And he sometimes he seems vaguely delighted by their conversations, like Wes is saying some of the funniest things in the world? -- and okay, maybe it is funny that he keeps getting accused of being a vigilante, its funny in a weird way. And Wes looks completely annoyed by his existence -- and you know what somehow this tracks because Fenton was dating Valerie for a time and she was completely annoyed by him when they first met. Maybe Fenton has a type???

Either way, nobody knows how to wrap their head around how Wes's cringefail "flirting" techniques are working. By all means, Fenton should be hating this guy because he keeps accusing him of being his parents' worst enemy (self-proclaimed by the Fenton parents), but instead he just appears bewildered but mildly entertained by Wes' antics.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Wicked Games 9

Warnings: non/dubcon, cheating, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Steve Rogers

Summary: you had a one night stand. Or did you?

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

You sit in the front room of Steve’s apartment. The vague recollection of that morning you fled tugs at your mind. You should have left Barrett then. Maybe if you hadn’t been such a coward, he would still be alive. 

It’s not just your mistake you ran from. It was reality. You put off the inevitable for far too long. You didn’t want your relationship to end. Not like that. On top of all that mess, you ignored yourself, your body, for too long. 

By the count of it, you’re nearly two months along. There’s no question who the father is. You and Barrett barely slept in the same bed, let alone got anywhere close to intimate. 

You drop your head and shiver. 

A shadow approaches and something clinks gently on the polished coffee table. You wince and glance up with only your eyes. You don’t move as you feel him looming over you. 

“Tea. Uncaffeinated. Gotta be safe--” 

“Why are you doing this?” You drone to the floor. 

“It’s been a long night. I figured it would help--” 

“Not the goddamn tea.” You lift your head and glare up to him. “We don’t know each other. I don’t want to know you. I don’t want this baby inside of me--” 

“You’re emotional. It’s hormones.” He says calmly. “I can recognise that. You’re not speaking from a good place right now. A lot has happened. You got big news and you’ve lost someone you loved. Once.” 

“You killed him. You—you murderer!” You stand and he shifts to meet you. He’s big. Not that you didn’t notice before but face to face, it’s even more obvious. You’re no match for someone like him. Not for Captain America. 

His jaw ticks and his eyes narrow. “I protected you. He was choking you. I could hear his pulse. He was full of adrenaline. He would’ve killed you if I hadn’t stopped him.” 

“And? All my problems would be solved--” 

“Don’t say that,” he snarls. His veneer cracks and his face contorts in anger. “You won’t talk like that when you’re carrying my child inside of you.” 

“I’m not keeping it--” 

“It’s not your decision.” 

“It’s my body,” you snip. 

He takes a deep breath and his nostrils flare as he lets it out. He considers you and his features ease. “Like I said, you’re not thinking straight right now. Sit down and have your tea.” 

You stare at him then look past him to the door. He puts his hands on your shoulders, drawing your gaze back to him. He pushes until you sit. Enough to warn you of his full force. You gulp as your butt meets the couch. 

“Stop acting like this is the worst thing that could happen to you,” he drags a hand away and grabs the tea. “I’d say it’s the best thing you could hope for.” 

He hands you the cup, holding it by the body even as it steams. You take it by the handle and watch him. He releases it as your knuckles touch the searing porcelain and you tremble.  

“Besides, where are you going to go?” 

His question breaks the last of your resolve. Your shoulders slump and you look down into the depths of the pale herbal brew. You blow over it and drink without feeling the singe on your tongue. That simple act keeps you from devolving into a new fit of horror. 

He turns and sits beside you. You want desperately to move away but you don’t have the energy. You’re not sure if it’s acceptance, fear, or just complacency.

You’re done. It’s over. Each time you close your eyes, you see the blood pooling under Barrett’s battered head. 

“That’s it, deep breaths.” He reaches to rub your back. “All that excitement, you gotta be exhausted.” 

You don’t react. Not even a twitch. He caresses your shoulder and his fingertips flutter across to your neck. His touch creeps up and he pets your hair. 

Your eyes search and land on his shield. It hangs from the wall. The edge is still dark red. Your vision blurs as you fixate on it. 

“Wash it off.” You grit through your teeth. 

“What?” He winces and runs his index and thumb along your neck, resting his hand across the back. 

“His blood. His fucking blood!” You slam down the mug and it sloshes, scalding your hand. You yelp and wrench away from him. You stumble to your feet and storm across the apartment. “Get rid of it! Gone! Gone!” 

You grab the bottom of your shirt and wipe the reddened metal. The blood chips away and flecks onto your hand. You whimper and drop the shield, recoiling. You cover your face and heave. 

“God! Just make it stop!” You shriek. “This can’t be real. It can’t!” You spin and stagger around dizzily. “No, no, no--” 

“Sweetheart,” Steve’s footsteps mirror his placid tone as he approaches. “Stop it.” 

“What is wrong with you?” You tear your hands away from your face and growl. “Why don’t you care? You killed him!” 

He stares at you. His expression is tepid. His head tilts as the corners of his lips curve, just a little. 

“Why would I care? I got you.” He shrugs. 

[iwritenarrativesandstuff]

There's something in the differing emphasis that Brad and Hunter and Charles place on the phrase "good guy" that really affected me on my first watch and hit even harder on my second. I'm going to try and put it into words.

When Brad and Hunter say it, they say "we're good guys", as in, good at everything a guy "should" be good at - good at sports, popular with the ladies, on their way to a good university. But they turn out to be total shitheads. They don't care about being "good", they just care about their reputation, how they're perceived. It's status and power - they're good guys and they feel entitled to do whatever they want.

But when Charles, feeling betrayed by this reveal of their character, says he wanted them to be good guys, the emphasis is completely different. Charles wants to be a "good guy". He doesn't want to be a "bad guy".

The emphasis is on good, because that's really the crux of Charles' greatest fears, isn't it?

When Charles wants to be a good guy, he doesn't mean it the way Brad and Hunter do; that veneer of goodness that comes with popularity. He means that nothing he did was ever good enough for his dad. Doing the good thing and helping that kid his "friends" were beating up literally got him killed. Trying to stop Devlin only got him trapped in the loop, stuck until his friends freed him, only able to watch helplessly as a mother and her innocent children get slashed to death before his eyes.

And it's this helplessness that is the thing that truly sets him off at the end of episode 4.

It always struck me just how much of his breakdown there, for as much as he finally gives a voice to his own hurt at the injustice of his situation, was still about other people. Because he was secure-ish, at one point, when he was Edwin's partner and protector. He thought he did a good job at it anyways, but guess not, because something obviously happened with Edwin and he's not talking to him about it. And he likes to think he did good with solving cases, but Crystal is still hurting and haunted by a demon and nearly threw herself off a cliff earlier that day because she wants her parents so badly, and he's no closer to helping her solve that. And all of it, every single part of it, is a reflection of his own unresolved trauma; that he never "made it better" and he can't, so now he tries to be good enough for other people, but that isn't working anymore either, and now someone is threatening to take Edwin away, and even this final shocking act of anger and violence is still in service of protecting; of saving someone from the suffering he was never able to escape except by fucking dying.

His anger, really, stems from the injustice of it all, and the abuse of power by guys who can get away with it because they're guys, when they should've, could've, been good to others instead. It's a large part of why he projected so strongly onto Brad and Hunter - they did everything right, they were good guys who got screwed over, because even if everyone seems to love you, there's always that one person you can never please, right? Who will hurt you, no matter how good you are. When it's revealed that Brad and Hunter are far more like his bullies, like Devlin, like his dad, than he'd thought - controlling, intolerant, cruel to those who "step out of line" - Charles feels betrayed and horrified because he related to them... so what does that say about him?

But here's one major difference that Charles does not seem to recognize well. Charles has never had the power in these situations. He was the victim, and his being the victim is through no fault of his own, but the fault of those who decided to be cruel. It is certainly not contingent on how good he is. Being good in the eyes of people who want to hurt you will not stop them from hurting you.

When he lashes out at the Night Nurse, it's out of helplessness and rage. Once again, he's pitted against someone who holds more power than he does and is threatening harm, and he's just been bitterly, brutally reminded that a smile and a helping hand and a firm word never, ever worked to make it stop. There's only one other way he can think of to shift the balance of power, and he's finally livid enough to actually do it. This violence is a desperate attempt to finally overcome yet another force much greater than him, a transdimensional entity that has unjustly arrived to take his best friend to Hell. And Charles wins, he did it, he stopped her, at least for the moment. But at what cost, when he looks at his friends and can't tell whether they look more scared for him or of him? And can he blame them, when he's clearly scared of his own anger and how overwhelming it is now that it's been let out?

Because he tries so hard to be good and it's never good enough to stop the suffering. Because that anger rose to the surface so easily and maybe that means he's not good at all.

But of course, Charles once again misses something important here - there is a distinction in why that anger exists. His dad, Devlin, and Brad and Hunter get angry because their power over others makes them feel they have a right to punish when things don't go their way. Charles gets angry because he feels more helpless than he'd care to admit, and seeing cruelty inflicted onto others by those with power makes him want to cut them down to size.

And herein lies the second major difference. Charles... is a kind person, at heart. He's genuine. He really does likes helping out, he likes making people happy, he doesn't turn people away who need help, he's friendly and protective. The scene where Edwin pulls him out of his fear that he's somehow bad even though he really doesn't want to be, is outright one of my favourite scenes for what it brings to both of their characters. Edwin knows exactly what to say. While it's always good to check your behaviour, to apologize and take accountability - because no one can be good all the time, and even the most well-intentioned of us will mess up sometimes - Edwin is right.

"Bad guys do not worry about being bad guys."