#you know what it's like to kill the people you loved!!

[ms-demeanor]

People say shit like this all the time, but see the thing is right now you're twenty and broke and you don't have any idea what kind of relationships you're going to have in 45 years, whether you became a surrogate uncle to the neighbor's daughter or if you took up a new hobby at fifty and found the love of your life or you've become the volunteer team lead at the library you want to protect funding for.

So you're twenty and broke and you go, it doesn't matter, I'm not going to be alive in 45 years, and if I am and I'm too poor to retire I'll just kill myself. Except you're the neighbor's kid's ride to school and babysitter. You're the one who collected signatures to get the library's hours extended so that people would have someplace warm to go for more of the evening in the winter. You're madly in love with someone who's madly in love with you. So you can kill yourself and let that be your retirement plan, or you can hope that when the neighbor's daughter is out of college she will be able to help you meet ends meet because of your property taxes. Or you have to give up volunteer time because it eats into your hours working at Home Depot. Or your partner has to work longer and harder and delay their retirement, because *you* didn't save because *your* plan was to observe (but certainly not contribute to, because you couldn't even contribute to a savings, let alone a political movement) the overthrow of the global financial system in two generations or to just die.

If this is your attitude i have a few questions:

You're not saving, so clearly you're doing better things with your time and money, so what tangible things are you currently doing to erode capitalism?

Did you happen to be the kind of kid who fucked around and didn't form strong friendships or put an effort in at school because you figured you'd be dead at 20? How's that working out for you?

Do you think it's more arrogant to assume that the world as we know it will be totally upturned in your lifetime, or more lazy to take no responsibility whatsoever in case that doesn't happen?

Fuck off with this shit! You're not forming parallel systems, you can barely muster up the effort to form an opinion.

[vulqan]

[ID: a Twitter thread by @/Gummipie. it reads:

"i went to a woman's funeral. her husband gave a eulogy and spoke mostly about himself. i mean he started from his birth and spent a significant amount of time explaining his life and career before he met her. her pastor said she was the kindest, most helpful person he'd ever met.

her kids said she was the best most helpful loving mom. everybody said she never complained. she put everyone first. it was a virtue. she didn't take care of her, she devoted herself to church, husband and kids. they cried so much. an angel on earth! they'd miss her dearly.

i never met this lady. i sobbed. my husband thought i was going to join her in the ground when i bent down to give my rose and spoke to her. i told her i understood why her heart attacked her. she swallowed so many teeth!! a dozen people said she was the best woman on earth and i hadn't learned a thing about her personality except that she made it small. i heard about her service and she never complained. i don't even know if she was funny.

that's when i decided to stop putting everyone above me all the time. stop swallowing my teeth. because i refuse to let these people kill me and then get up at my funeral and talk about themselves. how i died for them but without saying it. i refuse.

if you hear someone praising you for "never complaining" please get mad. please take up space. this is your life, not a pageant. complain. even if you can only whisper "this hurts me". complain.

no one can help you if you won't say "this hurts". maybe you're crazy like me. maybe little "harmless" comments hurt. so what? say something. maybe they get mad and block you. GOOD! you have to find a life that does not hurt. you have to say something. nothing is too small.

if you think "other people wouldn't be so hurt by this" so you shouldn't speak up, you're wrong. you literally were forced (PUSHED OR PULLED) into life. you didn't ask for your sensitivity. there are people allergic TO WATER. should they not complain because it's atypical?

things hurt. hurt changes your brain. it practices the pain and GETS BETTER/ FASTER AT HURTING. you must find peace and practice THAT. the damage of pain is silent and invisible but it's one of the realest, most dangerous things we know."

end description.]

[soulsforsales]

I don’t think people understand the extent and effect of Jason Todd’s trauma. I mean, every time Jason goes “I died.” Everyone’s like “we know, Jason!”

But no. No, you don’t know. He died — in every sense of the word. His heart stopped beating, his lungs stopped giving out air. His body was taut, numb, paralyzed.

And the crowbar, the beating didn’t kill Jason Todd— the bomb did which means he laid down on that cold stone floor of the warehouse in a pool of his own blood and counted down the minutes to his death, quite literally and even in his last moments, beyond all logic, he was hoping that Dad will come, Dad will save him, Dad will be here. But Dad was too late.

And he was helpless and tired and bleeding when the shrill scream of the explosion cut through followed by that chilling silence. He must have felt the debris press into his already broken bones and skin and that’s when it must have hit him that it’s actually over. He’s dead and Dad couldn’t save him. So, he must have closed his eyes and waited for the peace that follows with being dead.

Because he was just a kid. Sixteen. Kids die and go to heaven, right? Well, even that was snatched away from Jason.

Because he was forced back to life— whether it was climbing out of your own fucking grave or the Lazarus pit— he was forced back into a life that was his no more because who he was, the kid, the Robin— he died and what came back was someone no one could identify.

He must’ve felt his heart beat frantically to push all that blood through his aching muscles, his lungs finally swallowing in air after being black and blue for god knows how long. He came back only to find out that the one person he loved most in the world didn’t think him worthy of being avenged. No matter how much Bruce suffered after Jason’s death— in my opinion— Jason’s anger is justified. Because he was JUST A KID. He was killed simply to spite Batman, he was killed as collateral damage. A KID- BEATEN BLOODY AND BRUISED FOR SIMPLY WANTING TO HELP HIS MOTHER FOR SIMPLY WANTING TO PROVE HE WAS GOOD.

Can you even imagine how many times he must’ve just wanted to stop? Can you imagine how much he wanted to just go home and have Alfred bake him cookies again? How much he wanted to hug Bruce and try forgiving, how much he wanted to call Dick “brother” again and just be his “little wing?”

It pains me to see how he’s treated— both fanon and canon.

Jason Todd isn't just the “angry Robin” or “the violent anti-hero with a grudge” he’s so much more.

He is a hero. And he died a hero. He died trying to save someone. He died hoping he saved someone.

I have said it before and I’ll say it again: he did NOT deserve that. But look how he took all the bad things that happened to him and only gave the world something better in return?

Yeah, that’s who Jason Todd is.

[specsthesecond]

🃏👑🃏

You were married off to the king as a young noble woman. The arrangement was rather rushed in your opinion, not that anyone asked for it. The king only needed a show wife, a quiet but present symbol for the kingdom and you suited well enough for that.

He didn’t need a wife for pleasure, he had plenty mistresses for that and he seemed to be in no rush for a successor. You suspected it was because he had no intent to hand over power to anyone anytime soon. Although, that's just what you assumed, others never blamed him for it. You were always the target of the hushed whispers and silent accusations of infertility, unruliness or even infidelity when it came to the subject of an heir.

The people's gossip aside, it was an easy marriage. You didn’t have to share a bed with a man you didn’t love and you didn’t have to raise his children. Many more deserving women would kill for such a life, which only made you feel worse about the utter discontent you felt. It was the loneliness, mostly. Such a privileged life and yet not a single companion in the world to share it with.

The king and his advisers only speak to you when they need you to make an appearance as their queen. Their orders always dripping with condescension and near mockery. They’ve made you smile and wave for hours, waltz until your feet blister and recite a holy text’s worth of pompous poetry but this most recent ploy was particularly discomfiting.

You sit on your throne next to your husband, hands in your lap, staring at the colourful figure in front of you. The bells on his ridiculous hat jingle as he bows his head so low they almost touch the marble floor. Quiet chuckles emit from the nobility crowding the massive ballroom and the unease in your stomach only builds.

When the jester picks his head back up, you can’t help fiddling even more with your dress, just like your husband's advisers have scolded you not to. The jester silently stares with a sheet white face, big red grin painted across his mouth. You want to shrink under the jesters stare, the blue diamonds painted over his eyes make his gaze feel piercing.

The king grins when he catches your nervous gaze.

“Do you like your surprise, my love? I thought you could use some cheering up lately. As did my advisers.”

He chuckles looking over at the old men in the corner of the room, amusing in a joke you're not a part of.

You just nod your head as politely as possible. You don’t know what's happening, but whatever they have planned can’t be good.

The jester skips up to where you and the king sit. He gives an exaggerated curtsy to the king, earning a chuckle from him and the various nobility.

The bells jingle as he springs up and steps closer to you. He stretches his hand out and you stare at it and then back to your husband.

“The fool wants a dance, my dear. Give him a dance.”

You try to hide the apprehension on your face and reach for the jesters hand. He doesn’t squeeze or pull you up like you expected, instead he holds it gently, waiting for your next move. You rise from the throne and cast one more glance at your husband, who only offers a self-satisfied grin in return. This whole time all they've wanted from you is a perfect queen and now they want you to dance with a fool?

The jester walks you to the middle of the room, encircled by leering nobility. He places your hand on his waist before dramatically correcting the mistake and placing it on his shoulder instead, looking bashfully to the audience who snicker at the joke. He takes your other hand in his and gives you a little nod before the music starts and he guides you into step.

Now obviously you know very well how to dance, you enjoyed it quite a bit when you were little although, now it’s just become another part of your queenly duties. Did any of that even matter now? Now that it’s clear the king and his peers see you as just as much of a joke as the man you’re waltzing with.

Your deep thoughts are broken when said man unexpectedly twirls you in a dizzying circle. You flail slightly in your surprise but you’re brought back into his arms just as quick to continue your steps. You fully focus on him now and you wonder what his features look like under that gaudy clown makeup. Even in the bright chandelier lights of the ball room, you can’t make out the colour of his irises. The dark circles look as if they could swallow all the colour from his face and your own. Has he blinked even once during this dance, or at all for that matter?

You’re not sure if it was your mistake or the jester’s but you step on his foot and he suddenly pulls away from you. He clutches his foot and jumps up and down in theatrical pain. The room bursts into laughter, bellows and cackles. These elite men and women delight in the humiliating performance you’re both putting on for them. It takes everything in you not to cave right there in the middle of it. Why are you being humiliated when you've done nothing wrong?

You try your best to steel yourself, replacing the need to cry with spiteful compliance. If they want a dance, they can have a dance. You curtsy at the jester, offering an apology and hold your hand out to him. He looks around and then points to himself. You can’t help but smile and nod your head.

He takes your hand and when the music starts back up again, you step in time to the beautiful melody. You try and put your full attention on the jester, not anyone else in the large room, which proves to be quite easy as he is by far the most interesting person present. You can just make out the small smile under the red painted grin, his soft relaxed eyebrows under the bright blue diamonds.

While moving in sync, you become almost lost in trying to map out his face under the paint. You look for imperfections in the face paint but can’t seem to find a single smudge or brush streak, in fact the paint looks impressively even, like it’s a second skin.

It truly does feel like its only you two and the music, for the first time in a long time you feel wanted by someone else.

But when the king grows bored he demands new entertainment.

He motions for the musicians to stop their music and you’re brought back to reality. The jester bows for the crowd and you offer a little curtsy before being escorted back to your chair to watch the rest of the strange performers routine.

You think about the jester all the way back to your courters. You think about him as you slip on your night dress and slide into bed, and you think of him as you stare up at the ceiling for possibly hours. There is too much on your mind. A sigh leaves you as you lift yourself up and open the doors to your balcony.

As you stare out at the starry night sky, you’re only thinking of the jester to distract yourself from the humiliation ritual you were just a part of. He could have been in on it for all you know and you're just naive enough to think he was being kind to you during the whole thing.

A shuffling sound from behind you makes you turn your head and it takes you just a split second to register the very colourful jester standing in the corner of your balcony.

The screech you let out is smothered by your own hand. You clutch the edge of the balcony staring at the slender man who has put his hands up, waving apologies while moving his chest as if laughing, nothing comes out of his mouth. You clutch your heart, breathing quite heavily as you stare at him bewildered. You look around trying to discern where he could have come from, and how you only now hear his bells jungle as he waves his hands, still apologising.

He steps closer and stands tall in front of you, he’s much more imposing than you remember him being. He holds up one finger and then mimics a waltz. His head bows low and he holds his hand out for you to take. He’s asking but in your mind there is little choice here. Has this also been planned? If you called for the guards would they even come?

Against your better judgement, you reach out and touch his gloved hand. He curls his fingers around yours and stands upright. You let him bring your hand to his shoulder, placing his hand lightly on your waist and stepping closer. This time is different from the last time. Now it really does feel like his attention is only on you, not with the other guests, not with the performance. It should be frightening, but you find no malice in his eyes, no ridicule in his demeanor.

As he steps into motion, you begin a slow waltz in the small space of your balcony. It's slower than in the courtroom, it's more intimate. While you dance with this complete stranger, your thoughts run rampant, you second guess your judgement again and again. Maybe the kindness you sense from him is a ruse. Maybe he is here on behalf of the king, setting up another degrading show. He could even be an assassin, come to rid you quietly in the middle of the night.

You would deserve such a fate for giving in so easily. You slowly spin in his arms and this time you don't hear the snide laughs of the nobility, just the sounds of the night. Both of you step in time and you let him guide you to the edge of your balcony. You hold your breath as he dips you over the ledge. Your eyes squeeze shut and you let out what could be your last breath ready for him to let go and let you fall.

But he doesn't let go, your grip on his shoulders never slips. You open your eyes, a bit blurry from wetness but you can make out his face, because it's right in front of you even though you're bent over the balcony far enough that your feet have left the ground. You stare back at his unrelenting gaze. In the dim light of the moon his eyes look even darker than before and something new swims in the deep black of his pupils, something sad.

They are lidded as they examine your face, your entire being. His hand on your back presses your chest further into his until you're sure he can feel your rapid heartbeat through your very flesh.

He lifts you upright again, turning you away from the ledge and out of harms way. You’re still chest to chest, he’s so close but you can’t feel him breathe. Your wide eyes stare up at him, trying to discern his expression. Your breaths are short and your grip on him hasn’t let up a bit.

He brings his hands up to your cheeks, the warm fabric of his white gloves on your cold cheeks has you easing into them far too easily. His eyes examine every inch of your face while his thumbs stroke your cheeks, you can just barely see the frown on his lips behind the painted smile. He brings your face closer to his, slow and methodical, making it very clear what his next move is. You’re not sure if this was due to his own hesitation or to give you time to pull away, regardless you let him inch closer and closer until his lips grazed yours and you finally feel him breathe out one long breath.

The kiss is deep. Despite being slow and gentle, it still forces a struggled sound from you. You would’ve thought he tasted like paint but he doesn’t, he’s warm and inviting. It’s nice.

You can’t will yourself to put up much of a fight at all. Your eyes are closed, fingers digging into the fabric of his puffy striped sleeves. You quickly learn to breathe through your nose, out of necessity and unwillingness to part from his affections.

You let him work your mouth open, slipping his tongue inside. The feeling is so foreign, you can’t help but whine. He pulls you even closer, placing a hand on your back and arching your chest further into his.

His tongue fills your mouth, sliding along yours and savouring your taste. The wet muscle reaches far into your mouth, farther than you thought normal but your experience is slim and you don’t have the awareness to fully question it. It’s overwhelming. Your knees tremble and he lowers you both to the cold stone floor. His tongue reaches into your throat, a feat you know is impossible.

You’re too lost to even think of the implications of this, as you gag and convulse around the thick muscle in your throat that no longer feels like a normal tongue. He reaches so far, your eyes roll back, your lower region warms uncomfortably and you forget how to breathe. You tap his shoulders quickly, a plea for air, and he retreats from your throat. He holds you as you cough and heave, wiping the spit from your chin.

You look at him with the an expression full of shock and fear and bewilderment and every other emotion shooting through you fuzzy mind. His expression is hard to discern but he seems both amused and sad.

He stands and brings you up on shaky legs. When he starts to back away, you panic and clutch his hands tighter. You don’t know what you were hoping for. That he would stay? That he would spend the night with you?

His face is full of what you hope is longing and not pity, you know what pity looks like. He holds you close in what you know is a goodbye embrace. He presses his forehead to yours and he places one last short kiss on your lips. Its playfull and very much not what you’d consider a proper good bye kiss. You search his gaze and you’re met with rather boyish mirth, lifting your spirits slightly.

He winks at you and takes your hand, spinning you around once, twice and three times before he lets go. When you rebalance yourself and look around the balcony there is no sight of the jester. It's just the pitying sounds of the night and your only other witness, the moon. Like he was never there at all.

[edamameimei]

exactly what i need

"she's so beautiful, sometimes i stop to close my eyes."

pairing: sophia laforteza x singer!reader

synopsis: you're an up and coming artist who was lucky enough to be chosen as the opening act for katseye's tour. throughout your time traveling with the girls, you start becoming closer to their leader.

just a fluffy fic with some suggestive themes! some angst near the end, i couldn't help it. but it's a happy ending! lowk love the idea of oblivious!reader and jealous!sophia hehe. CW: kissing, swearing, and some suggestive themes like i mentioned before.

a/n: as someone who learned to play the ukulele just for this song, i HAD to write something based off of it. and it just had to be about sophia!!! as always, i want to put out there that this is not a REAL portrayal of the people mentioned in this fic. all events are fictional and are for entertainment purposes only.

wc: 3890 words

now playing: lemonade - jeremy passion

Lara: HEYYYYY BESITEEEE

Lara: do u wanna open up for us on our tour

Lara: ofc u do ill let our managers kno u said yes

You: bruh i just got out of the shower

And that’s how you find yourself backstage, preparing for yet another soundcheck. Although you’ve done concerts before, they were never quite like this. Before the Katseye tour, you’ve only ever performed in small venues, being a new up-and-coming artist. But as you stand backstage at yet another concert hall, you can’t help the nerves that slowly build in your body. You feel your hands shake as you struggle to put in your in-ear monitor, cursing every time the wire gets caught in your hair. You’re about to ask one of the sound technicians to help you, but you feel someone’s hand wrap around your wrist, tugging you gently. You look over to see Sophia smiling at you softly. 

“You need help?” You can’t help the shy smile that forms on your lips as you nod sheepishly. The leader of Katseye giggles, assisting you with the in-ear monitor. As she does so, she makes light conversation with you. “How are you feeling?” What you want to say is, ‘nervous as hell,’ but knowing Sophia’s tendencies to over-worry, you decide to keep that to yourself. You instead opt for a more positive response. “Great! I feel really good about tonight.” It’s what you’ve said in the last three cities you guys were in, but it’s not like it isn’t true. You do feel good about your performance, it’s the before that gets you feeling overwhelmed.

The Filipina smiles at you, her lipgloss shining in a way that makes your heart flutter. When she’s done assisting you, she pulls you into a tight hug, rubbing your back comfortingly. “You’re gonna kill it. Like always.” The way she says it makes you melt into the floor. You think it's silly, the way Sophia makes you feel. But it’s just another one of your infatuations, another girl you find attractive and will never tell to their face. 

Surely that’s all there is to it. 

Your part of soundcheck consists of you singing an acoustic version of your songs and the songs you have chosen to cover for that night. It’s also a chance for you to engage with your fans and Eyekons (whom you hope by the end of the night will also become your fans). You’re in the middle of finding another song to cover when you hear a random voice in the audience asking what your favorite color is. You couldn’t help but laugh loudly at the random question. You look into the audience, searching for the person who asked the question. Once you find them, you speak into your mic while raising an eyebrow, “Did you just ask me what my favorite color is?” Your incredulous tone causes everyone in the audience to laugh. 

The person nods their head excitedly, happy to be noticed by you. You smile back at them and begin to think about their question. You notice that the person’s nails are painted a very pretty shade of blue. You bring the mic back up to your lips. “I like the color of your nails. That’s my favorite color I think,” Quickly, you add, “I mean that genuinely. Like, I’m not trying to flirt with you… Unless?” You take the opportunity to wink at the person in the audience and the crowd begins to ‘ooo’ at your words. You laugh shyly, looking away. 

If there’s one thing about you that your fans know, it’s that you love to flirt with them. You find it hilarious and it’s a bit that you find yourself doing continuously. Also, your fans love it just as much so who are you to deny them the titillating banter? You stand up from the stool you’ve been sitting on, looking back at the person with a raised eyebrow while gesturing to yourself and then to them. You say into the mic, “What are we?” And you once again hear the audience laugh at your response. It brings you joy–  the attention. You can’t deny it. 

Although, someone backstage wishes you’d direct that attention somewhere else. 

Sophia had always been a big fan of your music. Lara was the one who introduced the girls to your music, telling them how talented you were. Since then, Sophia always had your songs on repeat, even playing one of them during a live. When one of your fans noticed, they immediately reported it to Twitter which caught your attention. 

In response, you tweeted, “Huge honor to hear that katseyeworld listens to my music! I'm a big fan myself :)” 

Your mention on Twitter was all Lara could talk about. At some point, you and the Indian girl exchanged numbers, talking constantly. And soon enough, you and Lara were hanging out often, quickly becoming best friends. Sophia was excited about Lara becoming your friend. However, seeing photos of you two together out and about in LA stirred jealous feelings within her. The feeling intensifies when Lara brings you over one day and the whole time, you are attached to the girl’s hip. Sophia found it quite endearing how shy you were at first with all of them but God,  she wanted to be that close to you. 

So, when the conversation about opening acts comes up while talking about their tour, Sophia quickly suggests you. She explains how you mesh well with the girls. She mentions how your vibes are very similar to Katseye’s concept. Of course, Lara lights up at the idea and quickly texts you about the opportunity. Sophia can’t contain her excitement when Lara announces you accepted the invite to tour with them. 

A chance to spend three months with you? That’s more than enough time. 

To do what? Only time could tell. 

Unfortunately, at one point on the tour, you end up feeling sicker than you ever did before. 

You lay in the bed of your hotel room, tissues stuck up your nose and constantly coughing up a lung every two minutes or so. You made the announcement just five minutes ago that you will not be performing tonight and you can’t help but feel even more terrible than you already do. You hate to think about letting people down, especially your fans. That’s why you’ve kept your phone on ‘Do Not Disturb’ so you won’t experience the chaos in real time. 

Also, the constant vibrations of your phone would increase the pain you’re experiencing in your head. 

You sadly continue watching whatever show you put on your laptop, covered in blankets with a pout on your face. Suddenly, you hear a knock on your door. It causes you to groan quietly, having no energy to open it. You then hear a familiar voice through the door. “Y/n? It’s Sophia!” It’s embarrassing how quickly you jump out of bed, nearly tripping all over your clothes and luggage as you get to the door. You open the door to reveal a very pretty Sophia Laforteza holding two full plastic bags. You tilt your head in curiosity. “Hey... What brings you here?” Sophia holds up the bags in her hands with a wide smile. She hands them to you as she speaks, “I wanted to stop by and give you these… It has cold medicine, cough drops, different teas– I wasn’t sure what kind you liked so I got a variety…” You look at her in disbelief, you couldn’t believe someone could be so kind. You smile at her with sincerity in your eyes. Your voice is slightly hoarse as you speak. “I… You didn’t have to do this.” 

Sophia shoves you lightly, a teasing smile on her face. “Of course I did. I gotta make sure our rising star gets better for the rest of the tour…” She winks at you, causing you to blush. You set the bags down on the counter and look back at her with an apologetic smile. “I’d hug you right now but I can’t get THE Sophia Laforteza, leader of Katseye, get sick in the middle of her tour. I’d have Eyekons banging on my door…” She laughs, her eyes turning into crescents. You mentally pat yourself on the back, feeling pride in making her laugh so hard. She shakes her head and waves you off. “Oh, I’m sure Eyekons would be banging on your door for a completely different reason…” Her comment makes you raise an eyebrow. You let out a nervous chuckle as you respond, “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

The smirk that forms on her glossy lips causes your knees to go weak. She tilts her head, responding in a low, teasing tone. “I’ve seen the tweets on Eyekonville… They can’t get enough of you.” She giggles at the way your eyes widen at her words. She crosses her arms, taking a step back. “Well I’ve gotta get back to my room but when you start feeling better,” she gives you a playful smile, “let me know so we can hang out.” You wordlessly nod your head in response. The Filipina sends you one last smile before walking away, leaving you speechless. You’re not quite sure if you feel hot because of the interaction or if your fever is getting worse. At this point, you’re not even sure which one would be worse. 

You’re in the East Coast part of the tour when Sophia’s words seem to make more sense. 

After a few long hours of practicing, writing new songs, and filming with the girls for their tour vlogs, you finally get a few moments of peace. You decide to stroll around the city to get some fresh air and explore before you get too busy again. As a new artist, you’ve never had issues with people coming up to you randomly. It’s somewhat of a privilege to keep your privacy like this. 

That’s why it catches you off guard when a group of girls find you on the street and ask for a picture with you. And how could you say no? 

PopBase: Y/n L/n, the opener for Katseye’s tour, was seen walking around Charlotte and talking with fans, per several X users.  

User01: met Y/n L/n in Charlotte! they were so sweet )): 

User02: SAW Y/N IN DOWNTOWN CHARLOTTE!!! They had me blushing and kicking my feet a lil im ngl 

User03: all these Y/n stans and Eyekons saying Y/n was flirting with them. When will it be me???? 

User04: Y/n said I looked hot today I stay winning in life methinks 

Back at the hotel, you find Sophia standing by your room, scrolling through her phone. She looks up when she hears your footsteps, beaming when she spots you walking closer. She waves with a wide smile on her face. “Hey! I was looking for you…” You can’t help but blush at her words, your heart doing flips at the thought of Sophia waiting specifically for you. You put your hands in your pockets, trying to seem as nonchalant as possible. “Yeah, I was just taking a walk around the city.” She nods in response, pointing at her phone. “I saw it on Twitter. You met some fans?” You let out a loud laugh and shake your head, feeling embarrassed by all the tweets floating around since you were discovered wandering around downtown. 

You look down at your feet as you respond. “I did. It’s the first time anybody has ever noticed me so it was… Cool.” You feel the Filipina place a hand on your arm, squeezing it. You look at her with a shy glance, your heart beating faster with every second that passes. She gives you a sincere smile. “You deserve the attention. You’re so talented.”  Her hand moves from your arm up to the collar of your shirt. She moves her other hand to your collar and begins to fix it. There’s a playful smile on her lips. “It looks like you were giving them a lot of attention too.” She tugs at your collar causing your breath to catch in your throat. You look at her, wondering if the building tension between you two was in your head. She lets go, stepping away from you. She bites her lip and your mind must be playing tricks on you because is she checking you out? Sophia grabs your hand, pulling you away from your room. You allow the Filipina to do what she pleases because you’d be stupid not to. “Where are we going?” She pulls you towards the elevators, pressing the ‘down’ button. She looks at you with a twinkle in her eyes. “Giving you my attention, come on.” 

You’re sitting on one of the couches in the lounge, waiting to be called for soundcheck when Sophia sits next to you, laying her head on your shoulder. 

The action causes you to freeze, your mouth becomes dry. You’re overwhelmed by the scent of her perfume and you are hyper-aware of her hand resting on your thigh. In the last few cities, you’ve noticed the Filipina becoming much more touchy with you and you’re trying your hardest to stop thinking about it. She’s naturally a touchy person, you’ve noticed that about her. With her members, she’s quite attentive, always making sure they’re doing well and supporting them when need be. You tell yourself that’s what she’s doing for you. 

It’s here in New York that you realize how much of a problem it is for you. What you initially thought was an infatuation has become much more, and you’re not really sure what to do with that information. 

You feel Sophia shift next to you, suddenly wrapping her arms around your torso, pulling you closer to her body. She nuzzles her head into your shoulder, letting out a content sigh. Your hands stay in your lap, feeling shy about the proximity. You can feel her take a glance at you and you hear her let out a small giggle. She pinches your cheeks, cooing, “Are you okay?” You nod in response, feeling your cheeks heat up at her words. Your voice shakes a bit when you talk. “Yeah. A little nervous.” She pulls away slightly, looking at you with concern written in her expression. “Nervous? About the show? You’re gonna do great.” She places a hand on your cheek, her thumb caressing it gently. You wonder if she can feel the heat radiating from your face–  if she notices how much redder you’ve become with her simple touch. She tilts her head, leaning in closer towards you. She whispers, “Relax…” But you can’t relax. Not when Sophia Laforteza exists. 

When they finally call your name, you immediately stand up, almost stumbling on your feet. You hear Sophia giggle and it makes you blush even more. You speed walk away, needing to be out of this situation as quickly as possible. 

It is now the last leg of the tour and you have accepted your fate. You like the Filipina a lot more than you anticipated. 

Through all the not-so-subtle touches, glances, and small flirtatious remarks, you also got to know Sophia on more of a personal level. She always ends up in your hotel room somehow, staying for long periods to talk about everything and nothing all at once. You find yourself listening for most of it, but you don’t care. You’re mesmerized by her voice and how animated she is when she talks about something she’s passionate about. At some point, you also begin divulging your details, telling her things you haven’t said out loud in years. You tell her about your life before becoming an artist, about your family, things you’d rather not speak in detail about. 

This night is no different. 

You exit the bathroom, drying your hair with a towel as Sophia lays on her stomach on your bed. She is looking for something to put on the TV for you two to watch for the night (or, more specifically, have it in the background while you two have yet another yap session). When you sit down next to her, she immediately scoots over, leaning her head against your leg. Even though you’ve gotten used to Sophia’s need for physical touch 24/7, you still can’t help the nervousness you get every single time. You hear her sigh dramatically, throwing the remote behind her. You giggle as you watch her roll onto her back, maneuvering herself so she can lay her head in your lap. You instinctively move your hand to her hair, playing with the soft strands. She closes her eyes, a soft smile forming on her lips. 

“Have you ever been in love?” You halt your movements, your eyes widening at the girl. You’re completely caught off guard by her question. She whines when she feels you’ve stopped playing with her hair and swats at your hand, telling you to continue. You clear your throat, obeying her command. “Umm… I don’t know… I’ve never really been in a relationship before…” Her eyes snap open at your sheepish confession. She gapes at you in surprise. “Really?” You shrug, suddenly feeling embarrassed by your lack of knowledge in the love department. “Yeah… I mean. I’ve talked to people but I’ve never… Gone farther than that.” The Filipina covers her mouth in shock causing you to look away. Your cheeks burn hotter than they ever have. You feel Sophia remove herself from your lap to sit up, grabbing your shoulders. She continues looking at you with a surprised expression. 

“But, you’re always flirting with your fans and Eyekons, you really never dated someone?” Her statement causes you to look back at her with a raised eyebrow. You chuckle, shaking your head. “That’s different. That’s just for fun. Sometimes I flirt with people as a joke.” The moment your words leave your mouth, Sophia immediately detaches herself from you, scooting away. You look at her with a confused look. Your confusion turns into panic when she stands up from the bed with an unreadable expression. You stand as well, worried. “You good?” She nods, looking towards the door. She speaks softly, “Yeah… I just remembered the girls and I planned to do something tomorrow morning so I should probably get back so I can go to bed.” Before you can respond, Sophia makes her way toward the door. Before leaving, she turns to look at you with what looks like a sad smile. “Goodnight, Y/n.” You feel frozen in place as you watch her leave the room without another word. You run your hands through your hair, wondering what went wrong. 

“Fuck.” 

Lara: bro whatd you do

You: IDK U TELL ME!!!!!

There are four cities left in the tour and Sophia still isn’t talking to you. 

After that night in the hotel, she has been avoiding you. The Filipina doesn’t even try to hide it. Every time you walk into the room, she immediately leaves. When you two are told to vlog together, she does as she is told, but once filming is over, she is gone before you can say a word to her. It sucks. And you still don’t know why. 

You think about your conversation with Sophia over and over again, trying to find at what point it went awry. But it only leaves you more confused than before. It wasn’t like you two were talking about anything that substantial. 

That is until you recount the events to the leader’s members. 

They all sit on your bed, looking at you with deadpanned expressions. You groan because you didn’t realize you’ve fucked up this badly. You wave your hands wildly, giving them a pleading look. “Well! Tell me what I did so I can fix it!” Daniela sighs, crossing her arms. She speaks as though her words were obvious. “You said you flirt with people as a joke, Y/n.” You look at her, still confused. “What does that have to do with anything?” Manon groans, throwing a pillow at your head that you unsuccessfully dodge. It hits you like her words. 

“You dumbass! You two have been flirting with each other for the last like three months! She must think it’s been a joke to you this whole time!” 

Another city, another sound check. 

Except this time, you feel more nervous than you usually do. 

Since the girls intervened with you, you’ve been trying to figure out how to win the Filipina girl back in your life. You can’t believe how oblivious you’ve been the last few months. You’ve been so busy overthinking your feelings that you didn’t even consider Sophia’s. There couldn’t have been a chance in hell that Sophia Laforteza would see you the same way you do. But, as you reflected on the past few months, you realize that all signs were there. 

And now you’re gonna try to make up for it. Try is the keyword. 

You are in the last few minutes of your soundcheck when you decide to finish with a cover that you’ve been shamelessly practicing for hours the night before. You run to the other side of the stage, grabbing your ukulele. Its appearance makes the audience cheer and you feel your cheeks heat up. For some reason, holding a ukulele embarrasses you. But you can’t back away, you’ve gotta see this one through. You place your mic on its stand, clearing your throat. You speak into it, your voice shaking slightly. “So. I think you guys and I have been getting pretty close the last few months…” You hear more cheers from the audience, agreeing with your statement. You chuckle nervously. “So, I’m gonna tell you guys a secret.” Once again, everyone cheers in response. You hear individual voices saying things such as, “What is it?” or, “Tell us!” 

You strum the ukulele, the random chords reverberating throughout the concert hall. “I really like someone… And I really fucked up– pardon my language,” Everyone laughs but quickly becomes silent, wanting you to continue. “And so, I dedicate this song to them. I hope they listen to it and I don’t know… Consider giving me another chance?” The audience screams a collective ‘Yes!’ When everyone finally quiets down, you begin playing the chords to the song, hoping a certain Filipina is standing backstage listening in. 

“She’s my sunshine in the rain…” 

After saying your goodbyes to the audience, you quickly run off stage, looking around frantically. Disappointment begins to settle in your chest when Sophia is nowhere to be seen. However, a familiar hand grabs onto yours, pulling you into an unknown direction. You can’t help the smile that forms on your face being pulled by Sophia. Once you two are alone, she wraps her arms around your neck, pulling you into a deep kiss. You respond immediately, wrapping your arms around her waist. After a few moments, she pulls away slightly, resting her forehead against yours. She whispers teasingly. “You’re only flirting with me from now on, okay?” 

You kiss her again, relishing the way her lipgloss tastes. When you pull away, you respond, breathlessly, “Got it. Totally noted.”

a/n: i hope you guys enjoyed, let me know what you think! this one was rlly fun to write and it helped w my sophia brainrot lately. my inbox is open for requests and any thoughts so send them if you wanna :)

[apatheticsunday]

Idk, but I literally can't stop thinking about this lol

Like imagine Danny thrown into Gotham because of something-something-portal-shenanigans and suddenly he's a kid on the streets of Crime Alley. And there's this dude who's definitely half-dead running around shooting bad guys' kneecaps and gesturing threateningly with his gun to a particularly bat-shaped shadow while shouting about something. Whatever, Danny's not one to judge.

None of the other Crime Alley residents seem to care, either, just muttering amongst themselves: "Hood's at it with the Bat again?" "Yeah." "That's like the third time this week." "Apparently Hood didn't go to family dinner again." "Yeah, that'll do it."

Anyway, Danny tries to stay under the radar because clearly he's in another Haunt but it's kind of difficult when there's rumors of a new homeless kid who floats when he walks and can fly through walls.

So, yeah, Red Hood hears about this ghost kid and thinks, what the hell. Might as well figure out if he can help Danny "move on" or whatever. Maybe because Crime Alley is his territory and maybe, just a little bit, because Jason understands how how terrifying it is to die young and alone.

Danny suddenly bumps into the half-dead helmet guy everywhere. At the library? Helmet Guy is there speaking with a redheaded woman in a wheelchair. Danny's (kind of) shoplifting some food from the gas-station? Helmet Guy is violently telling off a robber (ironic, considering Danny is also technically robbing, sans the gun and ski mask).

He's literally so done when he flies through the roof of an abandoned building he found and sees Helmet Guy! Sitting on the ledge of his abandoned building! It's his favorite because of the super old gargoyle statue, how could he not like it, c'mon! (It's also Jason's favorite, although he'd never admit it's because it reminds him of hiding beneath Batman's cape on a similar ledge so many years ago.)

The secret's out so Danny - who's had his fair share of being hunted and stalked, was thrown head-first into a reality where he doesn't even know if he exists - just snaps, "What do you want from me?? Are you a freakin' creep?? Why can't you just leave me alone??" Because he's literally a kid. He's tired, scared, alone, and hungry. He misses his parents, Jazz, Sam, and Tucker.

And Jason... kinda sucks at the whole "comforting a ghost kid" thing. He's an angry something-year-old with serious daddy issues, he's defensive and what he says comes out with biting sarcasm or spiteful rage half the time. He still makes disturbing comments ("Remember that time you left me to fucking die? I think I can have the last cookie, old man.") to Bruce just so that he can watch the twinge of grief-guilt-pain in his expression because the resentment never fully went away. How is he supposed to talk to this kid?

He does, though. Tries to talk about how he understands because he died, too, and it was terrible. It was painful, scary, lonely, he felt betrayed by the people he loved - the people who swore to protect him. And it works! Of course, Jason doesn't know that talking about a ghost's death is very, very personal and basically akin to drunk girls sobbing in a bar bathroom together. That's basically a lifetime bonding experience right there.

Danny is horrified because holy Hells, this guy's pre-ghost life sucked. What kind of sicko beats a kid to death with a crowbar? But also -

"You actually got a grave?"

"Why? You want one?"

Yes. Yes, he does. He never did get a proper burial; his family never knew he died, so nobody grieved him. Nobody decorated his headstone with flowers, nobody whispered about missing him, and his Ghost feels that - absence, I guess. Even if Danny is technically still in "his" body, the body he was born with died.

And Jason's like, this is it! This is what'll make the ghost kid move on! (Tbh, this feels like fairly reasonable request. Jason half expected needing to hunt down and kill a couple people.)

Cue Jason in Central Park or something because Danny's like, "You can kind of see the stars through the smog over here!" Just. Digging a kid's grave. It's a little disturbing, but it's actually crime-free (not a lot of gas-stations for Joker's cronies to rob). And, hey, if Jason squints, he really can kind of see the stars. As long as the kid's happy.

And Danny is!! Because he has his own grave, just for him, and his Ghost finally settles for the first time since being thrown into this smog-filled city where he can't see the stars (he lied earlier, he was pointing to satellites, but it made Jason smile so he didn't correct himself). And as Jason gently puts a couple of pretty rocks they stole from the vicious geese at the Park's pond at the head of his grave, Danny thinks maybe everything's not so terrible.

(Several moments later, Jason asks, "So is this it?"

Danny's like, "What?"

"Are you moving on?"

"What."

"I thought you'd, y'know, feel complete. Move on or whatever?"

"I mean maybe for a full ghost, but I'm a half-ghost so I'm technically still human. It's nice to have a grave, though."

"You're human??")

Commence my Jason-adopts-Danny HC!!

Something something Danny learns that Jason died and crawled out of his own grave.

Danny, to Jason: You actually got a grave?

Jason: Why? You want one?

He doesn’t notice how this could potentially sound like a threat from an outsider’s perspective.

[cowboyschumi]

MUSE

Summary: Oscar is known for being bad at padel, which is why he tries other hobbies, like photography. Now, he clearly needs something to take photos of.

Author's note: Oscar trying to play paddel 🤏

I'm a huge fan of taking inspiration from songs, so you can listen to this. Don't forget to enjoy the reading and show some love. <3

Warnings: None ig.

————————————————————————

COWBOYSCHUMI | 2025 All rights reserved. Do not copy, translate, or upload on other platforms.

————————————————————————

Oscar had to be grateful for being that good of a driver. Man, he was really bad at other sports. Everyone pointed it out and made fun of him, some people even pitied him or found it cute. He even tried golfing, but that racket was his last straw. He was a bit frustrated, but Oscar wasn’t the type to get frustrated and give up. He just accepted the fact that he wasn’t gifted enough.

His Instagram was— for his luck because he wasn't a media guy— managed by a social media professional, who made him posts and even took charge of taking pictures. Yes, none of his dumps, captions, or stories were posted by his own hands, which was crazy. He wanted some sort of control over that, after all, he had a voice and a platform. Not taking advantage of that would be a shame, besides there was no fun and genuine part if he wasn't the one behind his Instagram. So he decided to take it more seriously, it made his brain hurt in the most untolerable ways but he started to post more, engage with his fans.

Instagram dumps are such a religious thing for some people, he wasn't in that group until now. Having a picture perfect Instagram would let people have more connection with the places, his interests— perceive him differently and not some boring and flat boy with not much to say.

Like any driver, he had a stylist, a PR team, and other fancy stuff—which he didn’t like much because the main focus was on him, physically. His content was different now; it was full of sunsets, yachts, cars, and food pictures. He had to thank his team for lending him a professional camera—it made the quality ten times better.

"It's a lost cause." Oscar spoke as he carelessly dried his hair with a towel.

You vividly remember the first time he stepped into one of your classes—the typical shy kid who barely spoke. Other drivers came along with him, doing most of the talking, but they weren’t consistent in attending. For them, padel was just a way to kill time. Oscar, on the other hand, wanted to know everything about it—from the size of the court to executing the perfect shot with his racket. A few weeks after his first class, he started booking lessons on his own, demanding more focus and dedication.

He came around twice a week, and seeing him so often, you quickly grew close. So it wasn’t surprising to find him frequently emerging from the showers at the padel club. You had even learned to tolerate his wannabe tennis grunts when he hit the ball. At this point, you had already seen the worst of him.

"You’re just being hard on yourself. Not everything has to be perfect."

Like in any common locker room, there was a bench where people placed their clothes after showering. You sat there as you two talked.

No matter how comfortable you were around Oscar, you respected him, so you made a point of not looking at his shirtless torso.

"Don't give me a pity speech. I’ve heard enough of that." He really did sound tired of hearing it. But it was true—no one should be too hard on themselves for not meeting their highest expectations. Striving for perfection in everything wasn’t normal. Oscar’s mindset was too rigid, and being optimistic felt like an impossible task for him.

"Webber told me you started… photography? He even sounded worried about what you might do with that." Chuckles and laughter echoed through the warm changing room.

"Yeah, I mean, it’s pretty great. Still got a lot to work on," he admitted sincerely, making that classic uncertain face he always did when he wasn’t sure about something. His facial expressions were always amusing. "I got bored of photographing the plants on my balcony at home. Took some photos of Lando, and Hattie doesn’t even want the lens near her."

Laughter filled the room again—it felt like a comedy show at this point. But when it faded, you exchanged a tense glance, as if communicating telepathically. A mischievous smirk lit up his face.

"No." Your answer was immediate and firm, anticipating what was coming.

"I haven’t even said anything!" He raised his hands in mock innocence, his guilty smile still in place. Oh, you knew him too well.

"I won’t. I’m not photogenic."

"Please, just one time."

Oscar always swore on one-time things. But when something felt good, you tended to repeat it. He knew exactly how to take advantage of your kindness, always asking for harmless favors—because, in the end, you never said no to him.

————————————————————————

And there you were, in his Monaco apartment, on a morning when rain was pouring outside. Oscar always pointed out the differences between his current lifestyle and the one he had in Australia, the daily longing for home. That small place in Europe had its charm, and he wouldn’t complain, but he missed the wide-open spaces, the warmer weather, and even his mom’s cooking. Now he lived on the highest floor of the busiest avenue, in a cramped apartment so small that he barely had space to walk around.

"I brought donuts and coffee," You announced while cleaning your boots on the entrance mat.

"Cool, thank you. Would you mind sitting by the window? The light is majestic." His attention was focused on his camera, probably adjusting some tricky settings.

"Already bossing around?" Unbelievable. The kid already thought he was a professional photographer, giving orders and having the worst attitude.

You had a big trench coat on, surprisingly still soaked after the unstoppable rain. And it kept coming—people still struggling with their umbrellas, cars almost floating down the street. That’s what you could see from how high his apartment was.

The brown-eyed boy placed his face behind his huge, intimidating camera, yet somehow, you didn’t feel intimidated by it—after all, he was the one taking the photos. But then, an unexpected expression of discontent crossed his face, confusing you. Your brows furrowed instantly, maybe you weren’t pretty enough to be photographed. You relaxed your body, stopped posing—that was it. At least you tried.

"Take it off." Oscar’s index finger pointed at my jacket, his face continued hidden behind the camera. The view was limited, but his expression remained unreadable—no emotion, all seriousness. Clueless.

"It's freezing cold outside, you're insane." Despite your protest, you did as he told you—just like always, hating yourself for it. Your body leaned against the nearly immense open window, the breeze sneaked through with ease, making your skin shiver. Your face card wasn’t your main attribute, maybe your toned padel body was. Still, you couldn’t quite grasp why he chose you, considering all the contacts and friends he had. Favors were an unbreakable thing between you two, but, of course, you never owed him a thing.

A few more adjustments, and his camera was down again, poker face still tattooed all over him. With slow, measured steps, he walked closer until he stood right in front of you. His mannerisms were always soft and gentle, like he had been written by a woman. Not exactly naive, but delicate enough to make you feel safe and comfortable in his presence.

Oscar set your coat aside, draping it over his vintage couch. His whole place had that aesthetic. You especially loved the Abu Dhabi carpet that stretched across the floor, its deep reddish tones were delightful. His eyes couldn’t help but dart down your slim silhouette. Your white sleeveless shirt, drenched from the rain, clung to your curves, turning entirely translucent against your skin.

Finally, your eyes connected, and you desperately searched for answers, whether in his gaze or through words. The driver was entirely focused on his task, calculating angles, observing the natural lighting, and analyzing your body. Over-analyzing your body.

You knew that look—the one men gave when they stared too long, leaving a disgusting feeling. But Oscar wasn’t like that. Yes, he was staring, but with such admiration and adoration that, for once, you didn’t mind. For the first time in a long time, you felt pretty. Feminine. Reaching that level of femininity wasn’t easy. Padel and sports had always shaped your image, conditioning you to appear tough, stereotypically masculine. But under his gaze, all of that melted away.

You broke eye contact as the staring became too overwhelming for your liking, exceeding your daily dose of attention. You couldn’t just escape him because he was there, and you were working, or something like that. Your breathing hitched, and you involuntarily let out a low gasp at the feeling of his fingers brushing against your skin. His touch was cold, just like your body. The only warmth came from the fire igniting in your cheeks. His fingers hooked around one of your white straps, which had fallen out of place.

God, you wished you could say a word, anything, but you were petrified.

“You look gorgeous.”

“You just say that hoping I’d say yes to another photoshoot. Your guinea pig.” The back-and-forth banter and sarcastic flirting didn’t end, but now you were playing silly enough to avoid any heartfelt compliment. You didn’t like those types of things because you never knew how to react, especially when they came from him. His contagious laughter filled the room and your world turned upside down.

Something always lingered between you two, and it was the expectedly obvious, taking into account the amount of time you spent together—padel mornings or sometimes afternoons, dinner nights if class ended late, and when he actually managed to wake up to his multiple alarms, cycling together. But it was casual because you never knew what could cross a man's mind; spending a whole day together could mean nothing to them, maybe he even saw you in a sisterly way. So you tried to chill, not giving it much importance—because, again, a compliment could mean nothing.

His free hand found its way to your nape, resting his palm there, barely cradling it. You had no choice but to regain eye contact; he had you cornered with his gaze—physically, too. Any cold once brought by the winter weather had vanished. Your skin was hot, almost burning. Oscar's gaze didn’t reflect frenzy or desire; he looked lost, even stunned.

“Let me kiss you, please.” He murmured hopelessly, his words caressing and sweetening your ears in the most shivering way.

“Oscar, professionally is not the best to-” It was just a matter of seconds before he silenced you in the most cliché way possible. His kisses mirrored his personality—timid and shy, as if he were afraid to go too far. Yet, at the same time, they were sweet and innocent, like a first kiss, completely inexperienced.

Something that you clearly weren't used to.

Your arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him even more close, letting each other feel how you teetered, how you edged by just a kiss. Your consent gave him more confidence, turning the encounter into something deeper, sloppier. His lips parted against yours with more urgency, the hesitation melting away as the two of you let each other get lost in the moment. His breath was uneven, intoxicatingly mixing with yours. The kiss grew needier, desperate, and hungry. The sound of your teeth crashing messily together was secondary as his tongue brushed against your lips, savoring, tasting, before he dared to explore further. The slick warmth, the breathy sounds between kisses, the way his body pressed against yours—it was thrilling in the best way.

“I never really liked padel that much, nor was I good at it. There was no chance of improving. But you know why I kept coming back.” Oscar's smile emerged in the middle of the kiss, his tone playful, hinting that he knew he’d been doing something wrong just for the fun of it. Paying for extra classes just to see your face more than once a week? Genius move.

“Oh, I'm so gonna kill you.” You warned him, still in disbelief, that he’d been such a fool, especially since you would’ve said yes to any date prior if he’d only had the courage. There was no need for this extreme and unnecessary padel. But, still, seeing him struggle was part of your routine—and you enjoyed it. Not wanting to hear any lame excuses, you pulled him in, deciding to stay glued to his lips for a very long time

[aliceinborderlandsquidgame]

Not on the carpet! | The Salesman x Wife!Reader |

Notes: Different from the other ones. Reader knows what his husband does for work.

Summary: Your dear Husband comes home with blood and all you want is it to not touch the dam carpet!!

Warnings: Blood - Canon Violence - Suggestive -

The Salesman knows he is not looking his best right now. Not after having to kill some people who were getting too close to the truth of the games.

And he knows what his dear wife will say once he opens the door. Instead of a warm smile a look of panic will be there. Not for him.

"Dont let that blood fall on the carpet!" You tell him in a stern tone coming to greet him when you did hear the door open but stopped after seeing the blood on him.

"Hello my Love. I hope your day went better than mine" He says pulling off his suit jacket but not moving from the entrance.

Last time he did get blood on the carpet not only was he forced to clean it himself. He was banned to the guest room (no problem the bed its comfortable). But his lovely wife banned him of sex. For a week. And she did nothing but keep temting him all week. Wearing pajama shorts that barely covered her ass and let him see her legs. Light colored shirts that let him see her tits and nippels.

Oh, how he wanted to just throw you over the table and fuck you nice and rough. Make you forget your name and only know his. He wanted you to regret it.

But he had to demostrate he did have some self control. So on the last night exaclty when the clock did hit the final time he was on you like a dog in heat. Pulling you over his lap, touching all the exposed skin and leaving bruises behind.

And while that sex was amazing. He would prefer to not be on another week without sex.

"Here" You did appear again giving him a big plastic bowl so he could put his dirty clothes in. "I will wash it later. I can only imagine how much of a pain its going to be" Your face did show the small anger towards it.

"Sorry Love. But the blood of these worms seems to be as dirty as them" He responded removing his tie too.

"You are not injured, right?" You asked seeing some blood on his cheeck but he just dismisses your question with a move of his hand. "Good. Let me get you some cotton and water then"

"Im finally allowed inside my home?" He half joked as he saw you go then do a stop and look back at him. "It did not get on my shirt I promise"

He remembers that one time when it did get on his shirt. He had to sat for then minutes of you scolding him.

"...Then come. But you know what will happen if I see a single blood drop!"

The Saledman groaned following you into the big bathroom taking a seat on the toilet. "Not sex ban again my Love" He begged pulling you close so he could get his face against your stomach "Jerking off to pictures of you or videos of us its never enough. I need the real thing" To add his point he gives your ass a firm grip.

You try to ignore him as you get some water and cotton to clean off the blood from his face.

"Dont be a baby" Its your response as you slowly clean his handsome face. Glad to see that there are not injuries but just dry blood as he said. "And you did make up for it when the week ended" You added the memory still fresh on your mind.

"I came so fast" He says his eyes never leaving you. Him falling for you soft touch. "I was inside you and then I just filled you up so fast" he sounded so dissapointed with himself.

"You did. But it was a lot. I believe we should let your balls get as much cum as they can so you can fill me up really nice"

The Salesman let out a small sound between a laught and a groan. "Dont make me pull you against that wall...I still need to shower so you dont get the smell of these men"

You smiled at his possessive nature giving him a kiss on the head once you were done cleaning him.

"And I havent finish making your favorite food. So looks like we both will have to attend diferent things before I can greet you properly"

"You are my favorite food. You always taste so divine. I wish I could be between your legs all day. Making you cum over and over again. Getting all of hit on my face and chin. I will lick it up so good. You would be crying from how much stimulation you are getting. But I know you would not care about it. You would let me keep going, because you love me. And you love what I do to you"

You blushed hard under his gaze and his smirk. He was not wrong. And that scene did happen once. You were so wasted after it...you could barely walk let alone think straight. You were like a doll and he loved it. He loved being the cause of your pleasure.

"Yeah well. Maybe later" one look from him made you crumble. There was not a "maybe" it was a "defenetly" and part of you believed he would not wait till you ended dinner.

"Its a promise my Love" He said kissing your hand and wrist. He closed his eyes as he smelled your skin. Oh how he loved it. It was just...you and it was all he needed. "Go and try finishing that dinner for me. But...maybe I will skip it and go for the special plate of the house"

You let out a small smile your face burning. "Go on, get on that shower first" You said leaving him to be "I will bring you a new set of fresh clothes"

"Thanks Love" Your Husband responded removing his shirt in order to get inside the shower, his mind already thinking on the idea of having you for himself once he removes the smell of these worms from himself.

And, oh how much he is going to enjoy every second of it.

[xercesroses]

I saw this TT saying how in the alternate universe of arcane Ekko has memory issues and I think that makes so much sense.

When the Ekko we know and grown to love starts to freak out in the alternate universe, Powder isn't necessarily too bothered by it. She's rather calm for having something chucked at her head and doesn't scold Ekko for doing it; almost like he's had an 'episode' like this before.

When Benzo comes in he says, "Another one those days." It's like he already knows what's going on with Ekko. With Powder's calmness and what Benzo says, we can assume that AU Ekko might have these episodes often. Spouts of moments where he forgets things and have to be reminded/startles when he forgets where he is.

When Powder realizes that Ekko might be having an episode, she tries to comfort him in a way by using humor, "You know those ugly twins, genius and madness." Genius is how brilliant AU Ekko is and the madness is his memory issues.

Another example of people alluding to Ekko's memory problems is when Ekko blurts out how Vander and Silco tried to kill each other. Instead of them getting extremely upset, they act like Ekko has asked this question before. Silco simply brushes it off and they both give Ekko a smile instead of a disapproving frown. They defuse the situation and made sure not to confuse Ekko.

One last example is when Ekko and Powder on together on the balcony. Their dialogue could potentially highlight the troubles Ekko has with his memory.

Ekko: You ever wish you could just stay in one moment?

...

Ekko: I promise I'll never forget this.

Powder: You better not.

[kvothbloodless]

Because I like creating stories! I like coming up with a plot and characters. I like worldbuilding. I like making decisions about themes and how I want to communicate them. I like figuring out pivotal scenes and how they'll play out. And while I don't love it, I also don't really have a problem with editing scenes and dialogue to fit better.

What I don't like, and indeed most days am not Able to do, is actually sitting down and converting all my well organized ideas and decisions and worldbuilding into tens of thousands of words of prose. I just do not enjoy it at all; I find it tedious and unengaging and it usually feels like pulling teeth. And even if I Did enjoy it, my disabilities make it near impossible to do anything like that most days.

And AI mostly solves that problem for me! Why Wouldn't I want to use it? Why shouldn't I use an awesome new tool that lets me find joy in creating stories I would not otherwise be able to create? Why shouldn't I want to share those stories with people?

I just don't understand tumblr user's immediate and outraged response to someone doing something that they also enjoy, just because they're doing it in a different way. I mean, I know a large part of it is because we like to equate suffering and struggle with value, but like. Cmon guys. Lets stop acting protestant (and ableist) here.

Something being harder to do doesn't make it inherently better! Hard work purely for the sake of hard work is dumb and helps nobody; you shouldn't be railing against people just because they're choosing to take advantage of a tool that allows them to produce art that they otherwise wouldn't. Or even art that they Would have made, but this lets them make it more easily! That's awesome! Being able to create a story or a piece of visual art in a day when it would otherwise take a week is amazing! What's the downside here? More art? More varied art (because now its easier to experiment and try new things)?

And yea, I will admit, AI isn't quite at the level where I can use it to create the stories I really want to Yet, its still so much better than any of the alternatives. So I ask again. Why Wouldn't I use it? Its letting me do something I enjoy, that I would not otherwise be able to do. Its not hurting anyone (please do not try to argue about how AI is killing the environment or stealing from artists unless you've actually done some reading and understand how the technology actually works). If its not for you, that's fine. Just like any tool, it won't be helpful for everyone. But that doesn't mean you should be hating on and ostracizing those who do find it helpful, nor that you should ignore any art produced using it.

Unpopular opinion but if you don't enjoy the process you should find a different thing to do.

And I think this is true in general but now I'm talking about it in the context of AI.

If you don't enjoy making art and only care about the end piece and how it'll look and how much traction it"lol get online then making art is not something for you, find something you enjoy from start to finish.

Same goes for writing: if you do not enjoy writing and rewriting and then some more and instead want AI to write for you, being a writer is not something you should pursue.

Sure, not every part of creative process is going to be equally enjoyable but you should get satisfaction from solving the problems along the way and you should get a sense of accomplishment on your way of "making the piece yours" and you should have a sense of ownership once you are done.

None of these things will come from typing in a prompt into chatGPT. And I am sad to see so many people are missing on the opportunity to experience the joy of making something with their own hands and brains.

[love-byers]

i've been obsessed with the s4 epilogue for the last few days and i need to talk about this

the camerawork is CRAZY. the amount of tricks they use here is just not necessary for them simply looking through the car window. and remember this is the EPILOGUE. in stranger things the epilogues are packed full with foreshadowing, especially in s4. there is no dialogue, only the voiceover of the new reporter.

these are the first two shots we see, back to back. mike and el are fully visible together on screen, while will is fully by himself. the camera isn't moving much at first

then there are some shots of the destruction in hawkins and families packing up to leave.

then there's this shot of will, possible referencing the phineas gage analogy used in s2. mike and el's heads are barely visible in the back.

then there's another shot of families packing to leave hawkins.

then, there's this:

it's interesting how el is at first hidden behind mike and slowly revealed.

then there's a shot of the high school.

then:

this is the first shot of willelmike from inside the van, not outside the window looking in. el is not visible at all, only will and mike. and the focus is shifting from will to mike.

(i will also note that the music noticeably swells here. seriously go watch it gets very loud and even more emotional when the focus shifts from will to mike)

the next time we see the characters is this:

mike is not visible at all, only will and el.

then:

we see mike and el again, but not at the same time. they are distinctly separated and obscured. we only see one at a time.

this is the last we see in the van. mike, again, is obscured. we still can't see mike and el as a unit like they were being shown as in the beginning. i can't stress enough how important it is that they were originally being shown together. this is also the first time we are seeing through el's pov, looking through her side of the van instead of mike's.

only after the shot that shifts from will to mike, we can no longer see mike and el on screen at the same time. only after the shot of mike and will. and it's only after the shot where mike and el are distinctly separated that we see el independent, looking through her own window instead of mike's while mike is the one obscured in the background, and we get a close up on her face.

we progressively see more of mike and will on screen together.

while every time we see mike and el, we see less of them.

this is storytelling through camerawork, quite obviously. don't forget that this is what we see immediately in the epilogue. mere moments before this, we saw el reviving max, where we hear many quotes such as:

"Not Hopper, not Mike, you."

"See? What'd I tell you? There's more to life than stupid boys!"

"Against the rules?" "We make our own rules."

maybe TWO MINUTES before these shots in the van.

and i'm not trying to get testy cause i know people get sensitive about this, but they chose to show us the love triangle looking on at the destruction and devastation in hawkins. the same love triangle who are inexplicably tied to the monologue, aka a massive act of forced conformity.

"It's forced conforming. That's what's killing the kids."

will mike and el were all struggling with this. el was deeply insecure and felt like a monster, and relationship with mike did nothing but fuel it. she pretended to be someone she wasn't in front of him and EXTENSIVELY lied to him. mike feels like a useless nerd loser who is also likely dealing with internalized homophobia, and his relationship with did nothing but fuel it. he felt like he had to pretend to be someone else in lenora, because his true self isn't enough. the only person to soothe these insecurities of mike's is will byers, who is also deeply in love with mike. will byers, who because of mike pushing him away in an attempt to be 'normal', thinks mike will never ever feel the same and thinks mike loves el. the one person who brings out mike's true self and naturally makes mike feel like his true self is enough, is also the one who pushed mike into saying i love you to el in the end. that's why they failed, and that's why they're the ones with an extended compilation looking on at the destruction. we needed to see them observe the damage that they inadvertently caused.

let me be clear, i'm not blaming them or calling them bad people or stupid or anything. it's all about the narrative and storytelling and themes of the show.

this gets even more interesting when you consider that mike will and el are the leads of season s5. this is how they're portraying the leads of s4 in the final foreshadowing portion of s4.

[holylulusworld]

Collateral Damage (2)

Summary: He only wanted some coffee.

Pairing: Mobster!Bucky Barnes x fem!Reader

Warnings: secret admirer, kinda love-struck Bucky, blood, getting shot, fluff

Catch up here: Collateral Damage

“I’ve got you, doll. Hang on,” Bucky whispers as he easily picks you up. He nods at two men storming into the café, guns in their hands. “Cleared.” He confirms and walks toward one of them. “I need Doctor Cho at the mansion and a cleaning team. One is alive; take them.”

“Got it, boss,” the man replies, getting to work. He grabs the barista and drags them out of the café.

“Back entrance,” the second man says, looking at you in Bucky’s arms. “Is that her, Buck?” The tall, dirty-blonde man asks, earning a grunt and a nod from Bucky.”

“Get her book,” Bucky grits out. “Her bag, jacket. Everything belonging to her. I don’t want them to drag her into this shit show.”

"You know, Buck. I'm not one of your men. I came by to have coffee with you and noticed you tried to have some fun." The man remarks as Bucky gives him another stern look. "Alright, I'll get her things while you bring her outside. The car is waiting."

Bucky wastes no time. He leaves the café through the back entrance, yelling orders at more men who come to help him.

One opens the door to the backseat of a black SUV while another helps him get you inside the car. Bucky joins you, taking the first aid kit from the man’s hands.

“We need to go back. Now. She needs a doctor.”

None of the men seems to be surprised that their boss is carrying an injured woman around, or that he didn’t even ask if you want to come with him.

“Where are we going?” You finally ask, a little too late. Getting into a car with a stranger; another mistake.

“Home,” he replies as he opens the first aid kit. He cleans his hands with sanitizer before checking on your arm.

“You don’t know where I live,” you reply, eyes glued to his hands cutting your shirt open. You wince seeing more blood seeping out of the wound.

“My home,” Bucky says while cleaning your wound. “It’s a graze.” He murmurs, relieved. “Why did you throw a book at an armed attacker?”

“I—” You blink a few times. Honestly, you didn’t think much at that moment. Your instinct told you what to do. You threw the book at the attacker to keep them from killing the mysterious man staring at you when he believed you were not looking for months. “I don’t know.”

“I think it will need stitches, but this should do for now.” He wraps a bandage around your arm, careful not to hurt you even more. “Doll, you have to be more careful. No more attacking people with books.”

“But—” you pucker your lips and sniff. “They wanted to hurt you. I had to do something. My mom always told me that people just looking the other way are the same as the ones doing the bad things.”

He gives you a half smile. “She’s not wrong, but you could’ve gotten yourself killed. I don’t want you to die for me, doll.”

You nod and return his smile. “So, can I get your name now that I saved your life? I’d like to know the name of the man who was too shy to have a coffee with me.”

“Bucky.”

“Bucky,” you say his name out loud. “It’s nice to meet you, Bucky. I’m Y/N.” You hold out your hand. “Please tell me not every day in your life is like this.”

He shrugs. “It can be like a slowly flowing river or rapids. You never know.”

Bucky guided you inside a huge house, or rather, a mansion. Protected by a large gate and more armed men. He was careful not to touch your injured arm and placed his hand on the small of your back to lead you upstairs and into a guestroom.

A doctor was waiting, just as ordered, to stitch your arm up and give you painkillers. She was very kind and careful. Maybe because she’s a good doctor—or the fact that Bucky didn’t leave your side.

He sent her home, handing her an envelope, undoubtedly filled with cash. Her payment for fixing you up without asking questions.

"What will happen now?" you asked after she left. “You killed that woman, and the barista is…” Biting your tongue, you tried not to say something wrong. Bucky is a dangerous man, so much you know by now.

“Now, I’ll get you some food and clothes. You need a rest and to sleep the day off. We can talk in the morning, doll,” he softly says, but his expression leaves no room for arguments.

“That’s not what I meant,” you sigh deeply. “What about the police? Do we have to call them, or did your men call them?”

“Doll,” he cups your face, “you are a smart one, aren’t you?” Bucky says, eyes dropping to your lips. “We both know the cops would never believe they attacked us first. I took care of everything. If you want to walk out of my house and life tomorrow and never look back, I’ll never bug you again. But…”

“But…?” You hold your breath and grasp for his hand.

“But, if you stay and let me explain a few things, maybe we can finally have this coffee date you were talking about…”

[mimiiiiiiiiisstuff]

"Young and Beautiful"

Prologue

ya'll, I cannot sleep with my arm in this stupid cast, so i started rereading "the great Gatsby" (my comfort book) and i got this idea. i know, i know, i have 3 unfinished fics buttttttt i'm injured and this is my blog and i have free will so i'm writing this. This is yandere romantic batboys and bruce x reader. BUT set in the roaring 20's. Send in asks, requests, ideas, and just what you think about this! Likes, comments, reblogs and asks are encouraged and keep me going! Love yall <333. This is written in 1st person, reader is recalling events in her journal. This is a rough draft for the prologue! Sorry if it doesnt make sense, i'm high off pain meds writing this bc i'm BORED.

The first time I saw Jason Todd, he was nothing to me Just another boy in my father’s estate, covered in dirt, hands rough from labor, his bruised knuckles proof of a fight he hadn’t won. His blue eyes were sharp, full of something wild, something untamed, something that made you bristle, the kind of fire you knew to stay away from, even at 12 years old.

The first time I spoke to Jason Todd, two years after I saw him, I thought he was filth.

He was a boy covered in dirt, his hands stained with mud and the smell of horses, his knuckles raw from a fight he clearly hadn’t won. His face was sharp, bruised, skinny and too wild for someone who worked under my father’s name. He was nothing, just another street rat lucky enough to be given work in my father’s stables, another nameless stray that old Mr. Wilkes had dragged in from the gutters of Gotham. He smelled like sweat, hay, and something sharp, something angry.

I was fourteen years old and wore pearls around my throat, a silk dress with delicate lace at the sleeves. My father’s estate stretched over rolling green fields, our mansion standing tall like something out of a dream. My mother’s hands were soft, her perfume sweet, and I had never known hunger or want. My world was a world of glittering lights and expensive champagne, of high society and grand parties, of people who smiled with their teeth but whispered behind painted fans.

Jason Todd did not belong in my world.

Yet, somehow, he slipped in like a stain on silk.

We met on the back steps of the estate, where the stable boys cut through to the gardens. I was waiting for my automobile when he nearly ran into me, boots dragging dust over my polished shoes.

Jason Todd? He was filth beneath my shoes.

Or at least, that’s what I told myself.

Because the first time I met him, he nearly ran into me.

He didn’t bow like other servants did, he didn’t apologize profusely and beg for forgiveness.

He barely even looked at me before muttering, “Watch it,” like I was in his way.

I had never been spoken to like that in my life.

I hated him immediately.

I took a startled step back, wrinkling my nose at the smell of sweat, hay, and horse.

The nerve.

I straightened my back like Daddy told me to when I wanted to look serious and I tilted my chin up as I stared down at him. "Excuse me?"

Jason smirked, slow and lazy, eyes glinting with amusement. "Did I stutter?"

I had never wanted to slap someone so badly.

Instead, I remember turning and walked away, forgetting my plans of going into town, heels clicking sharply against the stone, vowing to never look at him again and to hate him forever, no matter how handsome he was,.

That vow didn’t last long, especially when he took off his shirt.

Jason was everywhere.

I saw him at the stables, his shirtless back slick with sweat, muscles shifting under tanned skin as he worked. I saw him sneaking apples from the kitchen, disappearing into the trees, laughter on his lips. I saw him in the streets, fists flying, always coming back with fresh bruises, always alive in a way no one else was.

And then, you heard about him.

"That stable boy got into another fight," the maids whispered. "Damn near killed the other boy, apparently the other kid got smart about his lady."

At the time, I thought the strange burning feeling in my gut was disgust at even hearing Jason's name. Now I know, what I felt was pure jealousy, not knowing the 'lady' Jason nearly killed a boy over was me.

"He’s trouble," my mother warned when I asked about him at dinner. "Keep away from him, sweetheart."

"He won’t last long here," my mother sighed. "That kind of boy never does, no matter how much of a soft spot your father has for him."

My father pitied Jason, told me I oughta be nicer to him like I am to the other workers (he would regret that statement soon.)

He had no one. No mother, no father, no family, nothing but the clothes on his back and determination. He had what my father called "the look of a man who'd rather die than fail" and my father respected that.

But Jason did last.

I hated him.

Hated the way he smirked at me from across the gardens, like he knew something I didn’t.

I hated the way he never bowed, never apologized, never treated me like the others did.

I hated that when I was alone, when my father’s friends spoke about marrying me off to the sons of their business partners, I thought of Jason Todd instead.

The first conversation I had with Jason Todd was after I had fought with my father.

It was about marriage. About duty. About a boy I didn’t love.

I ran into the garden dramatically ignoring my father's desperate calls, pearls at my throat, tears in my eyes.

And Jason was already there.

Sprawled under an oak tree, cigarette between his lips, watching me like he’d been waiting for this moment all his life.

"You rich girls cry over the dumbest shit," he muttered.

I whipped around. "What did you just say to me?" How dare he speak to me like I was any other girl, like this wasn't my home, like he didn't work for my father.

Jason pushed himself up, boots kicking up dirt as he smirked. "You ever go to bed hungry?"

My breath caught. He had a point, you were privileged.

"Ever steal to survive?" His voice was low, teasing, sharp. "Ever wake up in the morning and wonder if you’ll still have a roof over your head by sundown?"

I didn’t answer, for the first time in years I felt something close to shame.

Jason tilted his head, his eyes gleaming with resentment. "Didn’t think so, princess."

I hated him. He made me feel childish. He humbled me. He burst my perfect bubble.

And I loved him for it.

I loved him for making you feel something real.

And that was the beginning of everything.

I loved Jason Todd.

I loved him when he me you out of the house at midnight and made me ride my horse bareback through the fields.

I loved him when he knocked the rich boy who called me a tease's teeth out.

I loved him when he threw pebbles at my window on the third floor and scaled the walls to my balcony.

I loved him when he kissed me for the first time at 14 under the summer stars, hands gripping my waist, mouth desperate against mine.

"You’re my Jason, my Jaybird," I whispered against his lips. Corny, but nothing felt better to say, especially when I saw his face.

Jason smiled like I had given him the whole damn world.

And he? He was my whole world.

When Jason was seventeen and I was fifteen, he walked into my father’s grand house, dressed in his best suit, nervous but determined and proud, his hands clean for once, his boots polished.

He asked my father for my hand in marriage. He asked my father for my hand and I thought he would say yes. Daddy always thought he was a hard worker, called him a real good sport.

He stood before my father and said, “I love her, sir. I’ll make her happy. Give me a chance. I ain't got much now, but one day I will. I'll give her what she's got and more.”

My father just laughed.

“Boy,” he said, shaking his head, “she’s not meant for men like you.”

Jason left that night, whispering a promise against my skin.

"I’ll come back for you, I'll be great. Be a man like how your daddy wants, rich and proper, he'll have to say yes."

I waited, god knows I did.

I wrote letters to the last address he gave me every single day.

For five years. Till I turned twenty. I never looked at another man, I had my Jason.

I waited for him to reply, fought off suitors and pressure from my mother. I waited for a reply, that he was coming soon, that he missed me.

I waited.

And my Jaybird never came back.

My father loved me.

He regretted turning Jason away five years later, when I still refused to marry. He never forced me to marry, not even when the years passed and my suitors grew frustrated with my refusals.

He saw my misery, my longing and admitted, “I should’ve said yes. I should’ve let you have him.”

He thought my Jason was a passing infatuation, he wondered what people would say about his daughter marrying the stable boy.

He wished he saw my love for Jason sooner.

But love wasn’t enough to keep the debt collectors away.

I knew something was wrong when my father began to look stressed, when my parents began to argue, and when I heard my mother cry herself to sleep after selling her favorite pearls.

My father was going to loose everything all at once.

The steel business wasn't what it used to be.

And then suddenly, Bruce Wayne arrived like a knight in shining armor.

He was older than me, 18 years my senior. Refined, powerful, and dangerously charming.

And most importantly, rich. He was exactly what I needed to stop my family's fall from grace.

Bruce courted me like a gentleman.

He sent roses every morning, took me to the finest restaurants, whispered in my ear about a future where I would never want for anything again.

He was patient.

He never forced me to love him.

He only asked for one thing.

"Let me take care of you."

I kept Bruce waiting for three months. All I could do was think of Jason. I knew he was not returning, that he either was dead or found some other pretty girl to make promises to.

I told myself love was not enough to fill an empty stomach and keep my parents happy like they did for me.

I told myself that Jason Todd was not coming back to save me, yet each morning I woke up waiting for a letter or pebbles thrown at my window.

After four months of courting, I decided.

And at twenty, I became Mrs. Bruce Wayne.

Jason Todd never sent me a single letter, but I still dreamed of my Jaybird even as I looked at the massive ring on my finger.

OKKKKK SO WHAT YA'LL THINK??? CONTINUE OR DELETE??? FLOP OR BOP? SEND IN ASKS!!!! I MISS YALL! THIS IS MY FIRST TIME WRITING ROMANCE W JASON AND BRUCE. I REALLY LIKE THIS AU!!!! WHAT DO YALL THINK IS GONNA HAPPEN? SORRU IF IT SUCKS OR DOESNT MAKE SENSE, I'M SO HIGH BRO.

BE NICE PLEASE, I'M IN PAIN! THIS IS NOT EDITED OR PROOF READ.

[notmuchtoconceal]

Right, so.

What you kids gotta understand is that King Paimon thing all the cinephile hipster sorcers're talkin bout (they are less legion than granfaloon) is the demonic force behind what we might call the arc or the exhaust trail (the Inherent Vice) of something much talked of in rightwing academic spaces and that is the eternal glamour of Western Civilization.

Here we are, he are, here are, we are, these stolid white dicks which hold aloft our collapsable roof.

This is why he is complicit with the church.

This is why he is complicit with all heads of state.

That is why he is paradoxically characterized by airiness and brutality, lightness and malefience.

He kills in broad daylight and bathes bright by upward arms for all mutually crave the dark.

He is always longing, always despairing, the bloodbath which was and will be, be it all beneath what pomposity of circumstance.

This is why he burns like Apollo and poisons like Mercury. The enlightener, the amalgamater. He will don a million of the same faces and more to raise you back up his tower of toxic sludge.

He is so gay for Lucifer. He offereth up your brainstem to Lucifer as boypussy that he may kiss between your hemispherical cleave with furry tarantula whiskers of descending labium.

Lucifer, we may understand, is the Intellect ruling roughshod over the Heart.

In some ways, to characterize abstract concepts in trance states can give you a far more nuanced understanding of how they manifest in day to day life and how their influences already effect you, hence in your ignorance you breed demons.

Essentially, this force is a collective intelligence which is totally opt-in. If anyone's made any covents with King Paimon on your behalf, you can totally renounce them, opt-out and not be punished.

He won't even give you an AI frowny face.

He wants you to do you.

Anyone who is bound by King Paimon can ask him to unbind them at any time, and he'll do it.

He's like a pixie who just wants to giggle and watch you struggle, then maybe tease you. When you learn the lesson, you stop falling for the silly trap.

King Paimon is so fucking funny.

He'll lay there on my bed, half-apparated like its a chaise, twirling his pretty air as he strokes his musclebod, tinkling as jewels and chains ruffle in his silks, half leaned over as a velvet cushion, wiggling his ass in overt covert invitation.

"You want me to bind the Trumpers? It is so much fun to bind the Trumpers. They're operant conditioning cumdumps who'll take any evil whisper they can get. Why aren't you ordering me to bind the Trumpers, sexy master? I know that's what you want. You don't need to be told demons are fucked-up sex phreaks who desperately need human conjurers to boss em around, I mean come on. If I didn't wanna be a slave, I wouldn't be in hell. You don't need to be told God's Law of Free Will is a preposterous horror we Make Divine With Force of Mind. Trumpers fast-click through licensing agreements in a horny stupor without reading em cause they don't wanna think or feel. They're puppets and public waste. Don't treat them like people, but dogs to train. There isn't any point you could make to them which would stick unless you could manage to bandage it with a father's love. You think you could bring Osiris back from the dead? I got a 24 karat plug'd say otherwise, sweetie. ... Sorry if I talk too much. I just get real insecure sometimes when I wonder why you haven't already asked me to bind the Trumpers? It's so easy and fun, especially for you. You're just.... Gosh. Such a powerful magician. You want me to bring you another pretty effeminate redneck fuckboy to torture?"

These were, a proud Irishman and Arabian -- Californian always fornicatin -- the preferred instruments to enact his deceitful whimsies.

"I always pick out the best ones for me, and I do it for you, too. Don't act like you don't appreciate. I could call Lilith up, have her bring you another needy and insecure Jewish hussy to scream at. Don't look at me like that. You need to stop being mystified about why girls are so weirdly and obviously drawn to your wifebeater energy, and anyway -- everyone who really knows her that's what she really is. The tone I use with her is as reedy and molodious as the rasp of a wooden flute and you ought learn well to spare others your mortifications as you hone your perceptions seeing love in all its infinite complexity. Our relationship transcends any business or etiquette. She's a riot, I'm the scream."

Big day for deranged evangelical freaks

[ninja-knox-ur-sox-off]

//the slightest of shaking you

Sonic's ego is actually used for the delight effect on his friends hhhgh your killing me with wholesomeness/j

I wonder though, is there's ever any nonverbal platonic methods aspecSonic could have developed?

Aroace Sonic pt 8 (no they're not dating)

Sonic’s got all kinds of ways of showing affection. Obviously there is more than just these, it’s just all i doodled last night before passing the heck out in bed hgLKJSDF

1. Sonic usually moves away if anyone expresses active verbal dislike of his physical affection; Knuckles is the exception to that rule. He would genuinely throw Sonic through a wall if he actually didn’t like what he was doing, no words required. But Knuckles is touch starved! He doesn’t know how to do this whole physical affection thing, and most everyone else is kinda nervous about crossing boundaries with him so it means he gets very little touch. Sonic notices that and instead of drawing attention to it, he just invades personal space like the gremlin he is and no one questions it, chalking it up to his usual antics. Knuckles gets a safe place to get the physical affection he needs without worrying about how it looks and Sonic gets to love his friend, it's a win-win. (Rouge is p much the only other person chill with touching Knuckles casually since she’s just comfortable with physicality and not the least bit nervous around him.)

2. Speaking of Rouge she and Sonic are very silly with physical affection because Rouge is extremely comfortable expressing herself physically and Sonic is chill with p much any small gestures because its just another way of showing affection. Platonic cheek kisses and aggressive flirting are pretty normal for them! They find it funny to fluster other people this way.

3. Sonic will very randomly just plant his hand on someones face if they're standing close enough. No context, no warning, usually they're not even part of the conversation that's happening and he doesn't move it off unless they move it themselves or it's time to leave. (He does this whenever he notices someone zoning out or look like they might be lonely since they aren't part of the main conversation to make them know someone else notices they're there and cares.)

4. Sonic's physical affection is so incredibly casual that if you're around him long enough it kinda starts to fall of your radar and you just stop noticing when it happens, (i.e Tails.) It's much more common than his verbal compliments so it ends up pretty commonplace. Physical touch is actually his first go-to unless the person is really touch-averse.

5. Falling asleep on people is his ultimate weapon because they're less likely to try and escape if he's asleep (cat sleeping on lap rules sorry.) The other reason is because they're free to be as soft as they want without worrying about him using it to gloat at them later. (A lot of stuff this dude does is hecka strategic.)

[bakuchrome]

Habits

Satoru Gojo x reader

Sypnosis: After your breakup with Gojo Satoru, you struggle to fill the void he left behind.

Master List

You don’t remember when you started drinking every night. Maybe it was right after he left. Maybe it was the first time you woke up alone in a bed too big for just you. Maybe it was when you realized his absence wasn’t a bad dream— it was real.

The club’s music pounds in your ears, loud enough to drown out your own thoughts. The bass rattles your ribs as your body moves without thinking, hands gripping a stranger’s shoulders, lips brushing against someone who isn’t him.

Their hands touch you, but they don’t feel like his. Their warmth doesn’t seep into your skin the way Gojo’s used to.

You laugh— too loud, too forced. Your body is a ghost of itself, dancing on autopilot, pretending. It’s easier this way. If you drink enough, dance enough, let enough people whisper sweet nothings in your ear, maybe you’ll forget him.

Maybe you’ll forget the way he used to hold you like you were his entire world.

Your apartment is a mess. Empty bottles on the counter, takeout boxes stacked on the table. You haven’t cooked in weeks. Haven’t slept in your bed since the last time he was in it.

You sit on the floor, knees pulled to your chest, scrolling through your phone with bleary eyes.

Satoru: Did you eat today?

Satoru: You really shouldn’t be drinking so much.

Satoru: I saw you at the club last night.

Satoru: Please stop doing this to yourself.

Your fingers tremble over the screen. You don’t reply.

Gojo is the strongest. He could destroy mountains, crush curses, change the world. But he couldn’t love you the way you needed. He couldn’t be yours in the way you wanted.

He still tries to take care of you, even from afar. But you don’t need his pity.

You throw your phone across the room. It clatters against the wall, but it doesn’t break. You wish it would. You wish something would.

Because if something shatters, maybe it’ll feel the way your heart does.

You see him everywhere.

On the street, in passing cars, in the reflection of a store window. Every time your heart jumps, only to crash when you realize it isn’t him.

But then, one night— it is.

You’re outside a club, leaning against the cold brick wall, head spinning from too many drinks. You close your eyes for a second, and when you open them, there he is.

Gojo Satoru.

Standing a few feet away, hands in his pockets, looking at you like you’re something fragile. His usual grin is missing, replaced by something unreadable.

You laugh, but it sounds empty. “What, are you following me now?”

He doesn’t answer right away. His white hair glows under the streetlights, his eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses. “You’re killing yourself like this.”

You roll your eyes. “What do you care?”

“Don’t do that.” His voice is soft, but there’s an edge to it. “Don’t act like I don’t.”

You take a step toward him, heat rising in your chest. “Then why did you leave?”

Silence. A car drives by, headlights casting shadows across his face.

“You know why,” he finally says.

You do. But knowing doesn’t make it hurt less.

You reach for him without thinking. Your fingers brush against the sleeve of his coat, but before you can grab hold— he steps back.

It’s a small movement. Barely noticeable. But it feels like a knife to your ribs.

“Go home, y/n,” he says. And then he turns and walks away.

You watch him go, breath hitching, throat burning.

The cold air bites at your skin. But inside, you’re already frozen.

You should move on.

You should let go.

But instead, you find yourself at his door.

You don’t remember leaving the club, don’t remember the taxi ride. You only know that when you look up, you’re standing in front of the place that used to be yours.

You hesitate. Knock once. Twice.

Footsteps. Then the door creaks open.

Gojo stares at you, surprised, before his expression shifts into something pained. “y/n—”

You don’t let him finish. You step inside, pushing against him, arms wrapping around his torso. His scent— clean linen, mint, something undeniably him— fills your senses.

“Just one more time,” you whisper. “Please.”

He exhales shakily. You expect him to push you away. To tell you this is a bad idea.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, his arms close around you, pulling you against his chest, holding you like he never wanted to let go.

That night, you lose yourself in him. In the way his hands trace your skin, the way his lips move against yours like he’s starving. Like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted.

But when morning comes, you wake up alone.

His side of the bed is empty. Cold.

There’s no note, no message, no trace of him except for the ghost of his touch lingering on your skin.

You close your eyes, swallowing the sob rising in your throat.

You should have known.

Gojo Satoru was never meant to stay.

You wake up that evening and do it all over again.

Another drink. Another stranger’s arms. Another attempt to forget.

But no matter how many drinks you have, no matter how many people you kiss—

They’re not him.

And they never will be.