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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 2 days

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A Guiding Hand 5

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, age gap, parental neglect, depression, inference of self harm, violence, abuse, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: your online academics are affected by your personal struggles but your professor won’t let you give up so easy.

Characters: Raymond Smith, Lee Bodecker in the background

Note: I'm a sleepy baby.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

Another unit done. You’re not certain how you’ve kept it up but you’re just waiting for your motivation to fizzle out. Each activity, each page, you teeter on the edge of oblivion. Workbook Five is almost complete and Six will be the final for the course. There’s a shell of disbelief around you. You really did it.

Well, not quite yet.

You sit back and stretch your neck and shoulders. Your teachers always told you to stop hunching but your shoulders always curled forward and your neck sunk anyway. Not out of defiance, just to make yourself small, maybe even, invisible.

You stand, fingers cold and slightly numb. It’s a rainy day and the cold seeps in as your mother keeps the radiator off. You tuck your hands into your hoodie sleeve and find your slippers, a faded old pair that used to be somewhat fluffy.

It’s quiet. You haven’t heard your mother at all. It’s not too unusual. After a binge, sometimes she just sleeps all day and night. You don’t like it, you don’t like that it’s normal, but it’s just how she is. How it is and always will be.

Well, you’re trying to change yourself. You can’t change her or this place.

You open the door slowly and peek out. A habit. You emerge quietly and rub your nose with your cuff, sniffing behind your sleeve as you shuffle into the kitchen. You do your best not to make too much noise as you fill the kettle. You have a few more bags of green tea, the you’re all out. You need to go back to the grocery store but the food credits won’t come until next week.

You turn the dial on the stove and lean against the front as the kettle sits on the back burner. You close your eyes, groggy and slightly dizzy. You’ve been staring at numbers for so long, you don’t even know what time it is. Morning at night, you can’t tell by a glance through the gray window.

You yawn again. Maybe chamomile might be a better choice. You lift your head and lean back on your heels as you mull the decision. The floor creaks with your weight as you shift indecisively. You’re not even sure you have any left.

As you back up, you collide with something, someone, else. You grunt as suddenly there’s a clamp around your neck and you’re shoved forward against the stove. You brace the edge, careful not to touch the top as the heat from the burner radiates across the metal.

Lee’s chuckle brushes over your hair, “there you are, girl. You been hiding.”

“Eek, no--” you squirm and writhe.

He’s too strong. He pushes harder and you’re forced to bend, precariously hovering over the stove, the kettle not far from your cheek. You squeak as your slippers scuff on the floor between his feet.

“Please--”

“You should be begging,” he snarls, “little girl like you, messing where she shouldn’t be.”

“I’m sorry,” you squeal, “you were hurting her--”

“Ain’t none of your business, is it?” He jolts you and you nearly hit your head off the back of the stove. He grabs your wrist with his other hand as he pinches your neck tighter. “Your mama likes it rough, don’t ya know? Walls ain’t that thick.”

You whine and struggle to resist him as he brings your hand up, angling it towards the kettle as you hear that water starting to hum. You can feel the heat roiling from it. You push back against him, pressing your hand to the back of the stove to get better leverage.

“Want me to hurt you? Is that it? Tired of just listening,” he snorts, your hand shaking close to the kettle as you babble, “suppose like this, won’t be too bad.”

He wiggles his pelvis against you and you hiccup in fear. You twitch and he shoves your hand against the kettle. You cry out as it scalds your skin, steam hissing through the spout and towards your face. Your eyes well and you gnash your teeth.

“Pl-please,” you plead and he lets go of your arm, framing your hip instead.

He pulls you back against him, “Mmm,” he shakes his hips again, “think I could. You ain’t bad from behind.”

Horror erupts up your throat as you scramble desperately, trapped by his weight. You grab onto the handle of the kettle, even as your burnt flesh screams, and you hurl yourself back. He staggers as you swing the heavy vessel in his direction but it only splashes on your slippers as he dodges away from you. A flare of anger lights up his blue eyes.

“Ha,” he sneers at you, “you’re funny, girl. Got a whole lotta fight for nothing. Far as I can tell, ain’t no other man around to want you. Not even your daddy.”

You lower the kettle, breathless and terrified. The sting of his word wounds more than the blistering flesh on your fingers. You shake your head.

“Leave me alone,” you croak.

“Hmph,” he curls his lips, “just you wait,” he eyes you up and down.

You stand, paralysed by the stove. He stomps away and you watch him go, not daring to move. When you hear your mother’s door slam, you shakily set the kettle on the countertop. You turn your hand over an examine your palm, the sight of it adding to the agony.

You don’t know how you can write now.

📓

You tap the mousepad twice to get it to react. Your poorly wrapped hand makes everything double the task. You huff as you switch hands, awkwardly navigating to the email icon. You expand the window and find a new email. Professor Smith.

‘Thank you for your last submission. I have reviewed your work and would like to provide feedback via Zoom if possible. Please provide times which work for you.

Looking forward to speaking again.

Take care,

Raymond’

As usual. He is very direct. You can almost appreciate that about him and yet it does not rein in your paranoia. Feedback via Zoom? Why? Can’t he just write it down? Did you do something wrong?

Ugh. You slump and stare at the keyboard. It can’t be avoided. You haven’t even started Six because of your hand. Maybe a review would be helpful. Besides, it would be a waste to give up now. It wasn’t so bad before, was it?

You hit reply and key in your response slowly with one hand.

‘Hello Professor,

I can do anytime tomorrow.

Thank you.’

It isn’t the most academic or professional response. You don’t know what else to say. You have no schedule to adhere too, you can only hope your mom isn’t making a racket.

You send and close up the laptop. You have to rewrap your hand. It’s really hurting but you’ve been rationing the Polysporin. You just want it to heal quick so you can finish your work.

📓

Professor Smith confirms for nine in the morning. You make sure you’re awake but your head is pulsing. Your sleep schedule is all off. You opt for a plain long-sleeved tee over the hoodie, trying to appear as presentable as you can. Nothing you own can compare to his tidy attire; you recall his sweater and stiff collar. Often, you find yourself wilting over how he must think of you. Just like everyone else does, you suppose.

You get set up. Your room isn’t too bad. You’ve been trying to keep up on it. Your laundry is in a basket although the bookshelf is getting a bit cluttered again. Oh well, he won’t be able to see much around you.

You open the laptop. Ten minutes to go. You can hardly sit still. Your anxiety peaks as you hear your mom’s voice from down the hall. It’s early for you, but even earlier for her.

There’s a knock at the door, “honey, do we got any coffee left?”

“Mom,” you get up and go to the door, cracking it open, “I left enough for a pot in the tin. I’m still waiting on the credits.”

“Oh,” she smiles through the narrow space, “Lee musta used them the last of it.” She smiles. She’s drunk. She hasn’t just woken up, she’s been awake all night. She turns and waddles away unsteadily, “baby, we got no coffee.”

You sigh and shut the door. You go back to the computer. Please don’t make a ruckus. You don’t need another scene.

You click the meeting link and fidget. You’re not ready. Are you ever? Life is just doing things you’re unprepared for.

You wince as Professor Smith appears on the screen. He greets you by name and you return a ‘hello, professor’.

“Good morning?” He asks brightly.

You shrug, “yeah, I guess...” you look one way then the other, uncertain, “how are you, professor?”

“Great, thanks for asking,” he reaches for a tall mug and takes a sip before exhaling, “so, I suppose you would just like to get this over with.”

“Um, no, er, I...”

“Not saying anything about you,” he assures as he leans forward, crossing his arms over the desk. His eyes scan through his lens and you realise he must be reading something on the screen, “you’ve done wonderful work. I especially wanted to high light a few things.”

“Oh, uh, yeah, I probably made some mistakes,” you clumsily click around as his image remains in the corner of the screen. You hiss as your fingers throb and open the workbook.

“On the contrary, it’s perfect. In fact, you’ve managed to bring my own error to light. I was certain at first it wasn’t me but I went in a redid the work for Problem Eight. Clever.”

You sit back and nod, surprised.

There’s a thump and your mom’s voice, met by Lee’s rumbling timbre. Muffled enough that their words can be deciphered but you worry it is still heard through the microphone. You clear your throat and move closer, sitting up as you bring your injured hand to rub your neck.

“A lot going on?” Smith wonders.

“No, sir, sorry, I wasn’t expecting it,” you shrug and scratch your cheek, the gauze rough and loose.

“Oh my, what’s happened there? Are you alright?”

You pause and jerk as another bang sounds and your mother’s cackle erupts, stopping sharply

“Yes, sir,” you quickly hide your hand, “I had an accident. Um, I was going to ask... it’s taking me a while to type...”

“By all means, we may discuss accommodations,” he assures, “I am, as ever, patient. Most importantly, you must take care of yourself.”

“Sir,” you nod and your door rattles in the frame. “Um...” you glance over your shoulder. Why now?

“Are you certain this isn’t a bad time?”

“I’m sorry,” you face the laptop, “I didn’t think--”

“Hey, you lazy bitch!” A hard rap shakes the door behind you, “get out here.”

You go wide-eyed and stare at the screen. No. Please. Not again.

Professor Smith’s brow ripples and his jaw squares, “it seems you’ve got some chaos over there.”

“It’s just... I... one sec,” you bring the call full screen and search for the controls and hit mute. You stand up and go to the door, trying to block it out with your body. You open it as Lee smirks back at you, “we’re all outta coffee. Why don’t you go and get us some?”

He holds up a ten dollar bill and flicks it against your nose, “y’ain’t got nothing else to do.”

“I’m busy,” you say, “can it wait a few minutes?”

“Busy?” He snips, “with what? You can watch your damn TV when you get back.”

“Sorry, but I can’t--”

“Lee, she’ll go in a bit,” your mother preens from down the hall.

“I got a damn headache, she can drag her ass out right now,” he barks back at her, “it’s my money, ain’t it?”

“Please, I’m... just after.”

“Why? Whatcha hiding?”

“Nothing, it’s school--”

He shoves the door and you stumble back, hitting the bookshelf with your shoulder. He bulls past you and looks around, his eyes narrowing on your laptop. You turn to see the professor watching intently from his side of the call and you scurry to catch up with Lee and stop him. He elbows you away, tossing you against your bedframe. You hit it and crash to the floor.

“I see, you entertainin’,” he scoffs and hits the keys several times.

“Who are you, sir?” Smith asks, his tone cool but dangerous.

You hear the little blip that signals the mute is off, “should ask ya the same. Whatcha doin’ talkin’ to young girls, eh?”

“Is she your daughter?” Smith challenges and gets a chortle in return.

“Nah, just a whore like her mother, ain’t she? You’d know better than me.”

You get to your knees and grab at his hand, “please, he’s my professor.”

“Don’t lie to me. Irene,” he spins as he hollers for your mother, “come see what your daughter’s doin’." He pauses to grit over his shoulder, "If ya gonna be whorin’ on the internet, you should at least try to get some money outta it.”

“Huh, Lee, leave her alone,” your mom appears in the doorway and you crawl past Lee, keeping low as you reach up to keyboard and feel around.

Professor Smith says your name but you hold the power button until the laptop fan slows and quiets. You sit back on your heels and look over as Lee peers around your room. Your mom sways in the doorway.

“Who was that?” She asks.

“I told him, it’s my professor--”

“You ain’t smart enough for all that book stuff,” Lee growls, “go on and keep lyin’.”

“Why do you care?” You sniff.

“Honey, don’t be rude.”

“Mom,” you whine, “he shouldn’t be in here.”

“Lee, baby, I’ll go get the coffee,” she redirects. You hang your head.

“I want her to go,” he turns and throws the ten at you, “the way she leach of ya, it’s the least she can do.”

You wince, “it’s okay, mom, I can go.” You grab the desk and stand, swiping up the bill. You need to get out of this apartment. Staying will only make him angrier. Staying will only make she shame worse.

#raymond smith #dark raymond smith #dark!raymond smith #raymond smith x reader #the gentlement #series #fic #a guiding hand #dark fic #dark!fic #au

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underforeversgrace · 8 months

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A Guiding Hand

I had a random ADHD moment of a short story stuck in my hand and *vague gestures* this is what it became. Note: this is not fanfic. It is technically original short fiction.

Word Count: 1,134

I forget how old I must have been the first time I felt them. Maybe five or six? Just a young child.

My mother had taken me to the mall, I know. Everything was too loud. There were too many people, and they walked around me as if I wasn’t there, as if I wasn’t real. I don’t know where my mother went or how she lost me – to this day I haven’t a clue. It’s a blur of legs and loud voices, a cacophony of humanity I couldn’t escape. I think I screamed for my mother. I think I cried.

I have vague memories of being curled into a ball near the bathrooms – a long hallway with a single flickering lightbulb, that occasionally cast the window-less path into a darkness that struck me with terror. It was in one of those periods of darkness when they came.

My hand felt like it’d been plunged into ice water. Or perhaps boiling water? It burned me with its cold.

“Come, little one,” they had whispered, tugging me to my feet. “It is not yet your time.”

Despite the pain from their touch, their voice brought me only comfort. When the lights flickered back on, their touch seemed to grow… lighter. Like something that had been torn from the plane of reality but was fighting to stay there, to stay as my guide, even as tears clouded my vision so entirely I couldn’t see them.

Yet for some reason, I remember the woman in white, who had begun to approach the hallway I’d hidden in. I remember her sky blue eyes that spoke of sunshine, and the frown that did not.

Perhaps it is simply a child’s memory, fleeting and faint? I simply do not believe this is true, however, because I remember growing to fear the flickers of light. The one helping me was in the darkness, after all. The light brought a suffocating loneliness. Still, they kept tight hold of me, even when we reentered the main atrium of the shopping center, even when there was no darkness left for them to hide in. They helped me find a room with a big, orange sign on it, though white decorations in seemingly random patterns disrupted the pretty orange.

I’d later learn this sign said MALL SECURITY.

Men in stiff blue uniforms sat me down in a stiff, plastic chair, and then a screech echoed through the mall, my name belted for all to hear.

My father came quickly from there, checking me over for injury. I remember tears of relief slipping from red eyes before he scolded me from wandering off from him. I remember asking what happened to the person who’d given me their hand and guided me.

I remember being told I’d walked there on my own, gentle smiles on the faces of the adults as they attributed it to a child’s overactive imagination.

I remember the way my father looked at me.

I’d grow up, but I never forgot the hand that burned me as it led to me safety.

Who’s hand had I held? Who had guided me?

I was seventeen the next time it aided me. A party I had lied to attend, full of drinks I was too young to have. And apparently one drink with a little extra something in it, just for me. The world had begun to spin and I wasn’t sure if the nausea I felt was from the way everything was upside down or the alcohol I’d consumed.

I had stumbled outside, away from the one behind me, collapsed behind a bush. It was the dead of night and I’d found the all-encompassing darkness – the place that hid me from the light’s revealing glare as I was pursued.

The burning cold was a welcome agony as they again grasped my hand. It was the first time in a decade I’d felt them, but it brought me a peace no one else had. “You are not ready,” they hissed. While I heard the anger, I knew it wasn’t directed at me. I tried to look at them, but the blur of the spiked drink and the dark hid them from my view. “I will guide you.”

And so they did, slow and steady as I tripped over bramble and brush, though I never fell, they kept me on my feet. When we reached the sidewalk, we avoided the dim light cast by the street post. I couldn’t deny my relief, even in my drugged haze. Their hand meant safety, and that was what I craved in that moment. More than once, I heard twigs being snapped underfoot and the whisper of distant voices, but I remained safe, clutched close by the figure I couldn’t see.

When the house I shared with my grandfather came into sight, I breathed a sigh of relief, though I paused as I saw the porchlight. My safety, my guide, pulled me onto the porch, and the distinct feeling of their hand being not-quite-real as we crossed the light’s threshold made me ache with loss.

They didn’t release me until I had gone inside my home, casting a wary eye out for the man who’d first grabbed for me, the sparkle of the gold rings upon his fingers an unpleasant memory.

“You are protected here,” they said – and then they were gone.

It wouldn’t be until I trekked my way upstairs, collapsed onto my bed, that I realized – even in the light, I had seen nothing in my hand, despite the pressure of their grip.

What had held my hand?

I’d feel them again several times over the next fifteen years, but I never saw them. Each time, they kept me safe, kept me protected from people who wished me harm.

And when they time came, they saved me from my own ignorance.

I stood at the balcony of the castle, watching the fires burn in the distance. How hot they must be, I wondered, for me to feel the heat against my cheeks? Were the people down there hurting, screaming?

The thought brought a smile to my face.

Cold shot through my right shoulder as they placed their hand on me. “It is nearly time, my love,” they said, another rush of pain as they stroked my cheek. “Are you ready for the ascension?”

My smile only grew as I nodded, and I looked over my shoulder at the empty space behind me, but where I could imagine a human’s head would be. It was time for the heralded end – the thing I’d been born to do, the destiny so many had tried to steal from me.

“Thank you,” they whispered in my ear, and the last thing I knew was the knife slid between my ribs.

#grace writes #grace writes original work #technically #a guiding hand #short story #ask me to explain this in excruciating detail i am desperate to info dump about this nonsense of a story #and also #yeah #yeah all the stuff i write is apparently Like ThatTM #oops.

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finisnihil · 3 months

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“They finally made this theme more blatant-" Why does it need to be blatant. What's wrong with subtlety? Concepts can be underused but subtlety is not neglect.

Blaring all your concepts and themes is not good writing. It's so disruptive to a story's flow when the characters look off the screen to be like "See? This is the concept. The idea. The theme."

If you can feel the hand of the author becoming too heavy that's bad.

For example: I see people saying Azula's abuse in ATLA is more blatant in the live action and it's good because "it's being discussed more". It already was discussed at length. The show made it clear she was a victim at every turn, every behavior, every reaction, it came from a place of trauma. It was made clear that she was scared of ending up like Zuko because Zuko was an example of what would happen to her if she failed. When she says she's better than Zuko it wasn't just because she was raised to think hersef superior to him but because Zuko failed and failures get mutilated and exiled, failures are abandoned. In that final Agni Kai the music is morose and somber because this isnt some epic battle its a fucking tragedy, the burning out of "Ozai's brightest light" and Azula finally succumbing to her terror and trauma she was repressing now that her worst fears are realized. How can you see a fourteen year old girl chained to a sewer grate wailing and writhing and breathing fire desperately as unsympathetic? Even Katara and Zuko are horrified as to what has become of her.

The writers weren't looking us in the eye and saying "See? She's a victim too" when they wrote this, they weaved it in. They weaved it into her obsesison with symmetry, her extreme perfectionism, the way she talks about Ozai, the ways she calls herself a monster, her isolation from those with healthy home lives, all the ways she held herself together and ultimately all the cracks and seams that she shattered down when she fell apart. It did not need to be blatant to be clear.

#Finis Analyzes #Nihil Dreams #ATLA #avatar the last airbender #Azula #I’m so fucking sick of people saying stuff like this #Please learn media literacy I am begging you #The narrative is not going to hold your hand and play tour guide and point out everything #Stop acting like it has to #You can analyze it yourself I promise

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sweetmapple · 9 months

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I am going to turbo hell for this one

#baldur’s gate 3 #astarion #jerma985 #jerma hamburger #but rat #I know how terrible this is but the will of god guided my hand #girl dinner #yipee

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tooquirkytolose · 1 year

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Love Spell~

#my art #comic #a lil doodley one before i do the witch one teehee #in my head this is a spiritual successor to crossroads of destiny lmao #i did the opposite btw if anyone cares! the guide smiles until they think they'll be left alone #here the girl doesnt smile until the end :)#anyways raise ur hand if u wanna be turned into a frog

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konigsblog · 28 days

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mutual masturbation with simon riley...

simon's dick hardens at the sight of you getting off, that fucked-out stupid look in your eyes, with tears brimming in your waterline—he's obsessed.

it's addictive. simon's thick fingers prod against your tight hole while you wrap your hand around his veiny shaft. your strokes are slow, biting your lip and gazing into his eyes while attempting to calm your breathing. you pant like a filthy mutt in heat, your grip on his lengthy, slick cock tightening at the wet, throbbing sensation between your soft, supple thighs.

simon's dick pulses and aches at the pleasure, the softness of your hand in comparison to his rough, calloused, and scarred skin feeling heavenly. simon begins to push another digit inside your entrance, watching your jaw fall slack and your eyes glisten with delirium. he pumps two fingers into your swollen, soft folds while cooing at you for being so pent up, so sexually frustrated. you look perfect like this; legs spread wide open for him, gazing up at him needily, and jerking him off messily.

“that’s it, there we go. attagirl, you’re doin’ so well, ain’t‘cha? strokin’ my dick, that greedy cunt swallowin’ my fingers, yeah?” simon cocks his head to the side teasingly with a cruel grin plastered on his stupid mug. the effect he has on you leaving him feeling playful, sliding another finger into you unexpectedly, your moans only getting louder.

god, simon adores stuffing your pretty holes full, finger fucking you into stupidity until you're begging for permission to come all over his scarred fingers.

you watch as simon's tip begins to weep, oozing out strings of his creamy arousal. pearly orbs of his stickiness flow from the head of his lengthy, fat cock and run down his stuff shaft, acting as lube as you jerk him off rapidly and eagerly, tears beginning to roll down your cheeks from overstimulation and desperation, with pleas flowing from your lips.

#orla speaks #simon riley #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley smut #simon riley smut #simon riley x female reader #cod ghost #ghost mw2 #ghost smut #ghost x reader #oh lord i just know simon would be so cocky during this- guiding your hand while praising you for staying still and keeping quiet!

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reaversanctuary · 2 months

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Sancta Spatha de Lunae Lumen, absolvo! Absolvo me!

Sancta Spatha de Lunae Lumen, praemostra mea manus!

Sancta Spatha de Lunae Lumen, semper ad latus meo, mea dux sancta!

#bloodborne #ludwig the holy blade #ludwig the accursed #dark souls #soulsborne #my art #a fanart i never expected to make but this guy’s ost guided my hand like the moonlight #also i am finally playing bb after all these years!!!!

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yrsonpurpose · 8 months

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When I was a boy, my father used to bring me here. Early in the morning before the museum opened. Now I like to come at night. In here, at night, no one else is around to gawk at you or try and take your picture. You can slip between the statues like a shadow. When I was younger, I would dream of taking somebody I loved here. And he'd love it as much as I did. And we'd dance right here amidst all these statues. Just a daft pubescent fantasy. Please be patient with me, and I promise I will try and be brave for us. Because when they write the history of my life, I want it to include you, and my love for you. History, huh? Bet we could make some.

#rwrb #rwrbedit #red white and royal blue #alex claremont diaz #henry fox mountchristen windsor #firstprince #usersteen #usernuria #usermaloune #userveronika #chrissiewatts #userninz #userlang #mine*#ever feel like crying #dont think about the fact the security images got leaked #alex guiding henry's hand straight into his hair bc he knows he likes it #im fine thats absolutely fine #henry was looking at the statues but alex was only looking at henry and to me thats cinema

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nelkcats · 9 months

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Spite

Danny made himself known to the world by hacking into the Justice League's communications line. Amity was safe but he was so tired of being ignored that the moment he figured out how to isolate his small town from the rest of the world he decided to let the heroes know they had failed.

He posted all the ignored calls, the GIW legal documents, the experiments, everything that would let them know that they had failed. Because he had saved himself and the others but never got help.

In a very short time Amity declared itself independent, similar to Atlantis or Themyscira; they didn't need anything from the rest of the world anyway.

At first the League thought it was the attack of a villain or some new organization.

It became very obvious that this was not the case the more they confirmed the information presented, from a law passed under their noses to the threat of exterminating an entire race of beings that were much stronger than them but decided to chose a peaceful route instead of just destroying everything.

For the first time in years, the League felt useless. The weight only increased when the last piece of "evidence" turned out to be the death certificate of Daniel Fenton, the first victim of the whole mess.

#dpxdc #ghost king danny #Danny was tired of being ignored #and maybe he's being unfair to the League #but they never answered his calls #all the times he needed a helping hand #or someone to help him heal his wounds #a guide to follow #he never got that #and that is a hundred times more unfair in his mind #dp x dc #dc x dp #Amity survived well on its own #and the Infinite Realms have infinite things to offer #so they don't need more allies #The League doesn't know what to do #Should they apologize or leave them alone?

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allastoredeer · 2 months

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Okay, so, I decided to have a little fun and traced one of the collages I made (posted all of them in a different posts) to both relax and practice line thickness, and HOT DAMN do I have more respect for background artists.

Those details CRUSHED me. But also O.O I noticed so many things in the background that I hadn't before. Like the horse mosaic on the wall, the lions jumping through hoops in the background, how the staircase isn't straight, it's curved, and just how many eye shapes there are in the hotel, damn).

I'm probably ALSO going to use this as a reference, because one can never have too many references, and like with my other ones, anyone is free to snatch this one up too if they want. Something about the absence of color and shadow just...help my brain with the shapes, you know?

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 17 days

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A Guiding Hand 1

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, age gap, parental neglect, depression, inference of self harm, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: your online academics are affected by your personal struggles but your professor won't let you give up so easy.

Characters: Raymond Smith, Lee Bodecker in the background

Note: surprise double chapters!

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You lay in the dim glow of your laptop, the screen saver swooshing back and forth, giving light to the dark. You’re limned it its idleness, in a similarly inert state. You blink, eyes dry and raw, your head pounding. Your back and shoulder pang with your inactivity as you lay on your stomach, neck twisted to one side.

Your vision is static and fuzzy, the air humming. You groan and drag an arm up, the effort alone like lifting a boulder. The world is distant and desolate. There is nothing beyond those four walls.

A chime comes from your laptop. You stare at the curtain, darkness along the borders. It’s night time already. Or again. You don’t know. You lost count of the hours, rather, days.

You roll over and peer at the abyss above. The ceiling is similarly shrouded in shadows, the corners clustered with darkness. Your head spins at the effort of your movement. Your tongue is starchy and sticky from neglect. You cough and sit up, nearly falling back against your pillow.

You don’t want to be awake. It’s so much easier to sleep. Nothing makes sense in your dreams but everything is awful in real life.

You push yourself to the edge of the bed and reach for the plastic cup of stagnant water. You sip from the brim and a slam brings you back into focus. Your hand shakes and you clack the cup back on the table, turning to watch the wall as chaos erupts on the other side.

“Goddamn, Irene, get off of me. I ain’t tellin’ ya again,” the holler rolls through like thunder. “Fuckin’ skank.”

Your eyes round as your ears ring. You cover them and back up to cower against the headboard. Your lip trembles as you hear a crash followed by the shatter of glass.

“We were having fun, sweetheart,” your mother’s desperate yawl comes over the patter of her feet, “don’t go so soon, please, baby.”

“Why you actin’ like a goddamn whore?” The man snarls and you hear your mother whimper. You sniffle as you fold yourself up and push your chin down against your knee, shielding your head as if it’s you taking the blow.

“I--” your mother snivels, “I just wanna love you, hon.”

You close your eyes. Lee huffs and stomps past your door, his shadow flickering beneath. He’s just another in a line of men your mother brings around; each one as angry as the last. It always starts the same; at first, they’re nice, then you hear how they change.

“I’m too damn tired and it’s too damn late. I’ll be back when you get your head screwed on,” he retorts and hits the wall, making you jump again as the springs of your bed squeak. “And you’re a goddamn mother... should know better...”

You crouch in fear, locked up as you listen through the wall. You hear him moving around as your mother begs him to stay. You press your hands to your ears so you can’t make out her words. The front door of the apartment snaps shut and quaver out a breath.

You wait until you hear your mother retreat, herself crying, and the clink of a glass comes shortly after. You wipe your face and lift your head slowly. You won’t be able to sleep, not with your heart racing like this.

It takes all your strength to crawl across the bed and put your feet to the floor. Your stench clings to your unwashed clothes. You haven’t changed in a couple days at least. You can barely remember the last time you left your room.

You sit down in front of your computer. The metal seat of the folding chair is hard and cold, even through your pants. You squiggle your fingers over the touchpad of the outdated laptop, as thick as a book.

The screen wakes up and you key in your passcode with one finger. The wallpaper comes up, the colours stinging your eyes, and you squint as you adjust to the glare. You tap on the envelope icon to open your inbox.

At least a dozen unread emails clutter the folder. Reminders and notifications automated by your obligations and inactivity. You scroll through and delete the messages telling you to submit your assignment and noting several missed tests. At the very top, the latest of the bunch, is from a person.

Your heart sinks as you see the name and the subject line. Professor Raymond Smith, Attn: Overdue Work. God. You clutch your head and your eyes tinge once more. You don’t have enough moisture to summon any more tears. Your head pulses and your eyes itch but you can’t cry.

You shudder and make yourself look at the screen. You hover your hand over the mousepad and make yourself tap. Just one quick touch and the message opens.

The professor greets you by name. You want to dissolve into nothing. It’s easy to just be a student number on a screen but now he picks you out of the bunch and you know exactly why. You haven’t logged into the learning site in a week or more. You haven’t been able to make yourself.

‘It has come to my notice that your last tasks have gone unsubmitted. As your instructor, I am obligated to check in to see whether I can expect these assignments to be submitted for grading. As well, I would offer any support necessary for you to do so.

Please respond to this email at your convenience so we might rectify this situation. You may also schedule a meeting through my calendar linked in my signature.

Best Regards,

Professor Smith’

You cringe. How do you explain to him that this always happens? That you’re just a failure?

This was supposed to be different, but just like everything, you blew it. You thought that you could make this work. You remember the day you got your acceptance; the program is manageable and you can do it all online. You thought you were getting better but your mom stopped refilling your script and you stopped caring.

You sit, blindly staring at the screen. For an hour, maybe more, caught between shame and sadness. You can’t just run away from another thing. You take a breath and raise your hands over the keyboard. It’s just letters on a screen.

Dear Pro

Hello Professor

I apologize for not submitting my work. I will not be able to complete this course due to mental health personal reasons.

Thank you.

You read and re-read. You guess it’s good enough? You don’t know. Whatever. Just another poor excuse.

You hit send and you peek at the time. You look at the original email. It’s a bit strange the instructor would email that late. You delete the email and go back to bed, hiding under the blanket. Typical, just another stupid idea.

📓

Your head throbs as you wake up. You’ve slept too much. Nothing different than usual but you haven’t left bed for more than a couple minutes at a time. Your skull feels ready to cave in and swells with each movement.

You get up, stumbling as you find your bearings, shuffling to your door and into the hall. You go into the bathroom. It’s a mess, like usual. Your mother’s clothes are on the floor and a man’s razor is on the edge of the sink. Is he here again?

You relieve yourself and flush, washing your hands then your face. You should probably shower while you’re in there. You lift your arm and confirm the need. You stink and your clothes are damp with your sweat.

You undress and crank on the faucet. You step into the grimy booth behind the counter as the water splashes down cold and slowly warms in the whining pipes. You shiver and let it cleanse you as much as it can.

You squeeze out some of the discount soap that smells like a hospital and scrub yourself as the air steams around you. You hear an odd creak then the plastic of the toilet seat hitting the porcelain tank. What the heck?

You grab the edge of the curtain and peek around it, smearing lather along the plastic. It’s opaque enough to blue your silhouette but not completely hide you. That man, Lee, belches as he holds his dick and pisses. He looks over and smirks.

“Ah, sorry, darling, didn’t know you were in here,” he chuckles and turns straight, leaning to brace the wall as he sighs, “goddamn, my balls are tight.”

You pop back behind the curtain and grimace. Ew. It’s not the first time you’ve had an awkward run in with one of your mother’s suitors, for lack of a better term, but no less jarring than any other. You shut off the water and back up, reaching past the other end of the curtain to grab the towel.

Something closes around your wrist and has you yelping. You cling to the curtain, staying behind it as Lee tugs on you.

“Don’t needa be shy, darlin’,” he tries to drag you out, “doubt it’s much different than your mama.”

You try to yank back but he’s too strong. You slip and barely save yourself as you grab onto the towel bar. You cry out, “let go! Please!”

He squeezes and you wince, pressed against the curtain as your knees buckle. Your soles are slippery on the wet tile. You whine and whimper, heart pounding in your chest.

There’s a knock at the door and he lets you go. You quickly pull free the towel and hide in the shower to wrap your body in it. You don’t think it’s clean.

“Everything okay?” The door groans with your mother’s entry.

“Ah, I’m just tryna piss and your daughter’s making all sorts of fuss,” he scoffs and flushes the toilet, “like she ain’t never seen a real man before.”

“Oh, Lee, you shoulda let her finish--”

“What’s the big deal, she was in the shower,” he deflects, “you know I ain’t her for that brat.”

You pant and lean against the wall, veins coursing with adrenaline. Your mother grumbles as they leave. You feel the draught of the open door and warily sidle out from behind the curtain. You gather your clothes and check that the coast is clear and find your way back to your room.

You pull on a fresh hoodie and your least dirty pair of sweats. You need to do laundry desperately. You need to do a lot of things. Your computer bings as if to agree with that sentiment.

You sit down at the table and stare at your laptop. The folding plastic thing has barely enough room for that and your notebook. You sigh. All you do is sigh. Everything is just a disappointment. You have nothing but trash around you and you fit right in.

You open the lid and login. You could watch that play through of the new fantasy game you can’t afford. Or you just break that damn thing. You have an email.

You don’t click on it right away. Instead, you scroll through a subreddit on an obscure television show you streamed on Youtube. All the posts are years old and the place is dead. If you’re good at anything, it’s avoidance.

Finally, your anxiety knots tight enough for you to do something. You close your browser and open Outlook. You make a strange noise as you see the response to the email you sent days ago. Or by your estimation. You scratch your neck until the skin burns.

You work at deleting the spam from your inbox before you’re forced to face the Re:

You click and read with trepidation. Again, the professor addresses you by name.

‘I understand that you are dealing with personal obligations. Considering how far we are in this course, I would like to allow you the opportunity to complete it successfully. If the current workload is too much, we can discuss alternatives to meet the learning objectives.

I would prefer that we have this conversation face-to-face. If you would like explore your options, please use the link below to meet with me on Tuesday at noon. Please confirm here and I look forward to meeting and speaking with you then.

Also let me know if I can do anything else.

Professor Smith’

You want to melt into nothing. You want to evaporate from existence. You want to just keel over and die. How embarrassing!

You want to delete it a forget. You want to say now and through everything away. You want to go back to how you’ve always been. You want to be a slug in the dirt. You want to stop hoping because it only ever ends like this.

But you can’t. You hit the trash button but then you can’t help but stretch your fingertips between CTRL and Z. The message reappears and you read it again and again and again. It feels like this is the moment. This is the big decision you make; is your life always going to be like this or are you going to try?

You hit reply.

‘Thank you, Professor Smith. I will meet you on Tuesday. I appreciate your understanding and I will do better.’

Your eyes blur as you move the cursor over the little arrow. You take a breath and tap your fingertips. That’s that, then.

#raymond smith #a guiding hand #dark raymond smith #dark!raymond smith #professor au #the gentlemen #raymond smith x reader #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #series

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fungal-rot · 1 month

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HANDSHANDSHANDHANDSHANDS-

#i just wanna hold them #then guide them to my throat :)#joel miller #joel miller hand appreciation #joel tlou #joel miller tlou #tlou #the last of us #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #the last of us hbo #joel miller smut

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raycatzdraws · 4 months

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ribbonwood

#linked universe #linkeduniverse #lu hyrule #(also zelda 1!!! but idk how people would feel about me tagging it since I used Jojo's design?)#(ya'll can always tag my gen loz art as LU (or as any linkverse honestly if it inspires you to think about your favs) and vice versa)#(I want to inspire you to think and create! If you see my gen loz art and want to add that to your headcanons or it changes how you think??#take it! play with it! invite me to play as well haha!)#(not ocs but like- gen stuff??? ye go for it)#mom walked in and looked at the comic I was working on #so I started rambling about my plans with it and what my peers are working on and how cool it all is and how I want to have more of that #and she said “what a waste of time”#so I got loosey goosey with it :\#nice exercise to just draw w/o doing guides or being careful #did this in like under 15 minutes! >:D #but anyways #I haven't slept yet so gn!#.. he's holding stuff in the wrong hands!!!! a #look up ribbonwood / redshanks trees! If Hyrule was a tree- this is it #I imagine zelda 1&2's landscape to be california chaparral!!! I'm really passionate about it!!!!!#check out the california chaparral institute's website -> chaparral -> chaparral types #it's Hyrule's Hyrule!

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bluerosefox · 1 year

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Same As The Day I Lost You

I...

This came to me as I'm making dinner so I'll be quick.

What if we mix deaged Danny and twin/older sibling (either one works) Damian, AND he gets tossed to his sibling in a last minute escape.

Like what if he was fighting Vlad who was doing his whole "denounce your father and join me as my son Daniel!" Thing while in the Zone and knocks Danny into something that's floating in the Zone with the ability to deage or was hit by a new Fenton or Plasmius invention while fighting in town that accidentally deages him.

Danny, who in this was adopted, gets put back to the age of six. The same age he had been found by Jazz in a 'haunted' forest Jack and Maddie were visiting/investigating while also using that time as a family vacation. (They were shocked to see a little boy with a stab wound bleeding out and rushed him to the nearby town, almost completely forgetting about the glowing green tiny puddle they found nearby and bagged most of it as evidence when they heard Jazz's scream of terror over finding the hurt little boy)

The sudden revert into that traumatized age, along with the child response to a fight or flight scenario, and add Danny's deepest need/wish to be protected his child fogged mind wishes to go to the one person who always made him feel safe.

His twin/older brother.

Just as quick as it was with Danny being turned into a child, his ghost powers ripped open a portal and sent Danny to the person he wants to be with...

Only he didn't know that right at that moment his seventeen year old twin/older brother is currently fighting the League with his family's help (his mother was trying to convince him to return to the League and be it's heir) in Nanda Parbat (the very place Damian lost the last/only person he knew loved him without any strings attached.)

So imagine everyone's face when a portal opened up, some muttering its a new pit being formed before them or something, and crawling out of it is a very scared and confused six year old Danny.

#danny phantom dc #danny fenton #danny phantom #dp x dc #crossover #dc x dp crossover #No one will be ready for child Danny #Does he have his older memories? idk maybe #maybe his six year old mind from the sudden deage is at front rn or something #Damian almost feral/angry screams at his mother for 'daring to try to replace Danyal with a cheap clone'#only to see the look on her face and knows this wasn't planned #his little brother who he secretly watched as his mother tried to go behind grandfather's back to heal only for the pit to greedily keep #was brought back by the pits not looking a day over the age he lost him #What happened was Danny disobeyed an order from Ra's and was punished for it #he almost died for it and Talia wanted very badly to keep him because he looked so much like her beloved and she couldn't bare losing that #Only the pits kept Danyal instead of bringing him back #or rather under the guide of a certain entity he was brought to the forest the Fenton's were visiting #Damian scoops Danyal up when he see's the look in his mother's eyes shift from shock to calculating greed/love #he refuses to leave his brother in the hands of the League or his mother #he loves her despite everything but knows Danyal would never truly survive their mother's version of 'love' especially in the League #Also Damian may have...refused/forgotten to tell the others about Danyal #so cue them being horrifically confused #The pure sick feeling and deep seeded panic Bruce feels when he see's the mini version of himself but with hints of Talia hits hard #blue rambles

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