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cmcsmen · 1 year

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Dying With Dignity

By Bishop Joseph N Perry of Chicago

Dying with Dignity is a touchy phrase these days – often repeated but interpreted in radically different ways. For some, dying with dignity means to be able to die without any pain and not having to depend on anyone. Once you reach the point of not being able to take care of yourself or the point where, in your estimation, you are humbled, you should be able to die with dignity while remaining in control of your destiny and all things around you – if your mind is still ok – until you breathe your last. Dying with dignity means still to some others the personal choice to end one’s own life either by your own hand or with the help of someone else. The late Doctor Kevorkian’s assisted suicide to a number of people received huge headlines in past years and had become an explosive moral and civil law question.

The Church does not believe in assisted suicide. The Church does not see rhyme or reason to take one’s own life no matter how rough the pain of life might be. We all climb Mount Calvary in one way or another. And our Good Fridays vary with their pain, no doubt. Nevertheless, the Church and its members harbor great sympathy for those who go the way of suicide and the loved ones they leave behind while we beseech Almighty God for his mercy within the Church’s prayerfully-rich funeral rites. In every instance of a suicide a lot of questions are left unanswered. We see life as a precious gift of God that belongs to God and therefore has to be honored beginning with life in the womb up to and inclusive of senior age. To do anything directly to provoke death is nothing close to an honorable act, as the Church sees it. To inject a person with a substance that ends their life is wrong. The Church believes that is murder.

At the same time, the Church believes that we should allow ourselves and others to die when nature has taken its course. If machines are the only things keeping a heart beating or lungs breathing, the church believes that these extraordinary and often expensive means need not be used to keep a person pulsating indefinitely when it is medically confirmed that all brain activity has ceased. Extraordinary means this way can be chosen but need not be. When nature signals that it is time to die then we should allow a person to die. It is God’s Will that the person return to Him, why play a tug-a-war with God?

Sometimes, you have these situations where heaven is pulling in one direction and the family or medical personnel are pulling in the other, and so a person is suspended in limbo between heaven and earth, until and if someone recognizes the futility of the situation. In fact, you can sign to that effect before major medical procedures, to let me die naturally with dignity. If the brain and/or the heart or other vital organs simply stop working on their own, then by God, let God have me! The Church does not require us to bankrupt the family to keep loved ones alive when nature has signaled that we should return to God.

These things being the case, then Jesus did not die with dignity. In fact the scripture passages immediately leading up to the Feast of the Resurrection, events witnessed by the apostle John, indicate that there was very little dignity for Jesus in his last hours. He was taken, mistreated, his backsides ripped apart with whips having sharpened shrapnel at the ends, made to suffer humiliation and dragged through the streets carrying the instrument of his torture, spikes driven into his flesh and left to die by asphyxiation. Nothing could be farther from the dignity befitting a king. They did not break his legs, the Scripture tells us. This was a violent act to hasten the death of a person on a cross. When they came to Jesus they found that he was already dead so, as the apostle John witnessed again, an officer plunged a lance into his heart to make sure that he was dead and not simply in a coma. Thus, without knowing it, the scriptural passage that says, not a bone of his body would be broken, is thus fulfilled.

That was a brutal world with blood and gore and little respect for life, especially the lives of slaves and subjugated peoples. It is said that a recognized government has the right to issue the death penalty as a punishment for certain crimes. But, in this case, the victim was clearly innocent, having rather suffered a travesty of justice.

But, Jesus never denies who he is. He never stoops to lying or denying the work he has been about. He betrays no friends and never raises a hand to hurt someone else. He never does anything to run away from the suffering others want to inflict – the supreme irony – of the whole Passion narrative. Why does he submit while hardly opening up his mouth? Why does Jesus allow himself to be treated this way?

III

A theme of victimization consequently runs through the Christian story – our story. We are the doormats of the world. What we believe and stand for makes us the butt of jokes of late night TV shows and the subjects of ridicule and targets for the evil practices of the world. Hints as to the reasons for this script for Christians can be taken from the passage of Isaiah the prophet – the first scripture text of Good Friday Service. Faith does not really mitigate or dilute suffering. Suffering and even death are not the last word for the believer. Suffering can take away sin in our religious experience. Suffering can make up for a lot of things when it happens to come our way based on the sufferings of that first man, the God-Man, Jesus Christ. We thus have rich new ground with which to interpret our own agonies in life.

Suffering can be redemptive. Some of us are redeemers – saviors of some child, some spouse, saviors of some friend, some community or society or job, by what we suffer. The work of redemption continues in the bodily persons of us – Jesus’ disciples.

In midst of a dehumanizing passion, Jesus is the most humane person in this tragedy, not allowing himself to become the animal that others who want him dead have become. Good Friday in the Church calendar year is the feast of death with dignity. But it is not the meaning that the Kevorkians of the world propose. Jesus had the dignity to accept his suffering so that our suffering would be alleviated. We Christians can understand this kind of suffering – vicarious suffering, suffering so that another might live; suffering so that our children might have the things they need and grow to be the men and women of faith and responsibility we so sorely desire of them.

Perhaps, it is not suffering itself that needs to be feared and avoided at all costs. Some suffering is simply part of the human condition. Some parts of it we provoke in our making life miserable for another. Perhaps, what needs to be avoided is a death without dignity that pretends that suffering does not exist at all; a death without purpose. Jesus’ death is a sign that no suffering is meaningless when Jesus walks with us. No tears are wasted when Jesus walks with us. No pain is unnoticed by God when it is the pain of a believer.

#Passion Sunday #chicago #catholicism #male catholic spirituality #bishop joseph n perry

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muses-morii · 7 months

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🌟 Anti? Or Vanitas?

🌟 Drop one of my characters’ names in my inbox and I’ll tell you 10 facts about them 🌟

Thanks so much for sending in! I'll do both! Haha! Let me tell you bout my Dark bbies!

~ Anti ~

Anti can travel through mirrors. It can jump in and out of them, using them to travel between rooms, buildings, worlds and even Universes.

Anti can talk to other Heartless! The sound It makes is a chittering/growly sort of noise, much like a velociraptor

Anti knows who It used to be. It has all of Sora's memories, only they've become dark and twisted in Its mind.

Anti has a soft spot for Roxas. He is probably the only one out there who's generally safe around It.

Anti is very observant. It watches people from the shadows and learns things about them, things It can use against them.

Anti yearns for a Heart. It devours them in hopes It can one day find one to fill the void within itself. It can hear the beating of a heart and listens to it like it's music.

Anti likes to play with Its victims so that It can hear the music of their heart for longer before It rips it from them.

While Anti can't read minds, It speaks in ways that often makes Its victims think It can. The truth is, It just listens to the beating of their heart and uses what knowledge It has gained against them. The more It knows you, the worse off you are and It knows more than It should.

Anti is afraid of Keyblades. It hates them as much as It fears them. They hurt to look at, they hurt to touch and they are a painful reminder of what It once was.

Anti is always smiling. If It ever stops smiling in your vicinity, something very terrible is about to happen to you. It smiles and laughs to confuse the people around It.

~ Vanitas ~

Vanitas hates Ventus for not finishing him off. He hates all the lights for letting him continue to exist and that's something he won't ever forgive them for.

That being said, Vanitas does genuinely want what Ventus has. He's jealous of him and the others and their lives and happy memories. All he has is pain and hatred.

Emotions and feelings are very confusing for him. He experiences them in their raw, most visceral forms and with his new lease on life, this leads to panic attacks, anxiety, terror and often, blind rage.

Despite the hurtful and hateful things he says and does, Vanitas longs for the others to accept him, to look at him with something other than distrust.

He gets frustrated easily while trying to learn how to live, because he is trying. But he lacks patience with himself. Failure was always punished with pain and torture in his life.

He doesn't know how to read or write. Riku is teaching him.

He could 100% be a Keyblade Master, but taking tests is for losers with no faith in themself. He knows how good and capable he is and that's good enough for him.

When he was given clothing, Vanitas stood naked in his given room for a long time, just holding his shirt and looking at himself. Seeing himself for the first time without the armour and mask. He hates himself and what he saw in the mirror, but there was something in receiving clothes for the first time.

He fully expects to be cast out of the tower at any given moment. He fully expects the others to turn on him at every second and the only one he trusts implicitly is Ventus. Don't ask him why. He couldn't tell you.

Vanitas has always thought that mercy was weakness. But now that he's been shown it, he has doubts about his own beliefs. Every time someone tries to teach him something new, despite how he knows they feel about him, he wonders if maybe, Master Xehanort was wrong about it.

Ahhhh! I love sharing headcanons! Thank you so much for sending in!

#soap talk #muse talk #muse: Anti #Muse: Vanitas #Muse Headcanons; please do not reblog #ask reply #k3ytoheart

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drakenology · 3 years

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the yakuza wife - yakuzaboss!bakugo x housewife reader - inspired by @hanji-is-life ‘s sexy ass.

yakuza au

tw: violence, sadism, mentions of blood, smut, cum, cussing, daddy/ddlg kinks undertones, mentions of guns, very much harley quinn and joker only joker actually loves harley in this ya know?

“where the fuck is my money?” bakugo asks this bludgeoned man tied up to a metal chair in some god forsaken warehouse god only knows where.

“please sir, i’ll get it to you as soon as I can! please stop!” the man pleads, flinching when bakugo raises his fist to land a mean left hook into his jaw with a dark chuckle.

“you know you shouldn’t borrow from people if you have no intentions in payin’ em back. it’s fuckin’..” he pauses before taking a crowbar and bashing the man in both his knees, blood curdling screams filling the empty space. “rude!”

bakugo smirks as the man begs for mercy, pulling a set of pliers of his pocket and holding them up to the man’s face to tease him, grabbing by his neck to make him meet his intimidating gaze.

“shoulda thought of that before trying to playing me for a fuckin’ fool.. hey, I wonder how many teeth I can pull outta ya before your weak ass passes out.” he grunts, waving the plier in his face until the sound of his phone ringing stops him from doing anything.

“you’re lucky I gotta take this.” he mumbles, taking a piece of dirty cloth and shoving it into his mouth to keep him quiet.

bakugo turns away and rolls up his sleeve, setting up his tools for torture as he answers the phone.

“hi baby!” you chime, at the mall having the time of your life with his credit card.

“hey. ‘m workin’ whaddaya want?” he says, holding up his pliers and sitting them down on the table as his hostage screams in the background.

“just checking on you, dummy! whatcha want for dinner, hm? i know you haven’t eaten yet.” you say, holding up different dresses to your frame to imagine yourself in them. “hey, pink or powder blue?”

“pink. and ‘m not hungry. you’ve got security with you, right baby?” he asks, kicking the man onto the floor with a loud thud.

“of course. you won’t let me leave the house without them.” you respond, not even paying attention to the muffled screams you hear in the background. you’ve learned not to ask too many questions when it comes to being a yakuza wife.

“gotta keep my baby safe, right? listen, princess I gotta go. i’ll be home before 9 okay?”

you suck your teeth and roll your eyes, “fine. be careful okay?”

“always am. love you baby.” as he hangs up and returns to his task.

the difference between you and katsuki was night and day. everyone knew you to be so sweet and kind; unbeknownst to them all how you ended up with a cretin like Bakugo. even though Katsuki was immoral in many ways, he knew marrying you was the right thing to do. who else would want to dress his wounds and pick out his suits for the day?

katsuki demanded you quit your job. in fact he came with you to put in your two weeks notice, tough scowl staining his features as your boss signed the approval with shaking hands.

from that day on he ensured you were well taken care of and that marrying him and becoming his housewife came with many perks.

for starters, your husband was loaded. all those years of extorting and money laundering paid off every time you come home with a couple shopping bags from the mall.

katsuki loved lavishing you in the finest of everything, adoring how you look in designer. so much so, he fucks you by the bay window of your luxury penthouse, the Chanel dress he just bought you hiked up over your ass as his calloused fingers make way into your mouth. you’re pinned to the glass, bare breasts pressed against the window as he railed you from behind. and he wonders why you turned out to be a spoiled brat.

your gifts always made you stand out above the rest. many men fawn over you and he knows this. just a small price to pay for having a fine ass wife. but if anyone ever forgot their place, if anyone ever got to close. well. that’d be the last time you’d ever see them. course you have no idea why. but even though katsuki loved you with all his heart, you could be a real pain in the ass. you were so bratty, especially when he was busy.

one day you came trotting into his office in the middle of some business deal. whatever. your jimmy choos popped and you needed a new pair before the yacht party you were attending started.

“daddy’s taking care of business right now, okay? go wait outside.”

“no! you promised we’d go shopping! I need new shoes what the fuck am I supposed to do with these?” you whine, pouting like usual to get your way. bakugo’s brow raised, walking towards you and gesturing for the meeting to continue without him. his hand rested on your lower back as he escorted you out.

he fucked your brains in in the next room for disobeying him, panties around your ankles, your charm anklet jingling as he picked up your legs.

“spoiled fuckin’ brat. told you to wait didn’t I? hm? or did you make a scene ‘cause you wanted my dick?” your head hangs back as your hips are held down by him, thrusts brutal as you cry for him to slow down, face turned away from his. he grabs your chin and turns you around harshly with his scarred and calloused hands, bruised knuckles turning white with a tight grip.

“look at me when i’m fuckin’ talkin’ to you.”

he came inside you when he was done, pulling your panties up for you as it dripped down your leg.

“now.. back to what I was doin’. tell the driver to take your ass home.” he huffs with a zip of his pants and a shake in his sleeves to fix them. bakugo leaves you on the desk, leaving the door cracked for you to leave when you got yourself together. and when you did you could hardly hold yourself up, holding your high heels in your hand as you limp to the car waiting outside for you.

having a yakuza boss as a husband was always exciting. something in you liked the danger; the thrill.

you tell this tale to your other socialite girlfriends and they almost never believe you.

you were out with bakugo on a date when work called. to your dismay, he had to get up and leave. you insisted on being brought along, hating being left alone in that big house that was often empty without him. he agreed but only if you promised to be quiet like a good little girl.

when you arrive at some warehouse (the same one mentioned earlier), a man was already hog tied on the ground, muffled screams behind a piece of duck tape as bakugo ripped it off. you sat by a table, legs folded in annoyance. this interrupted date night? you scoff and fold your arms.

“ah. good seeing you old friend. remember me?” he asks, taunting him a little with a gun in his hand pressing it against his jaw as the man let out muffled pleas for him not to shoot.

“you tried stealing from me. fuckin’ idiot. my boys caught you in some hotel with your little girlfriend. did you think you were gonna have a victory fuck after you made off with my money, hm?” bakugo asks, hitting him upside the head with the butt of his pistol.

you jump at the sound of the blow, a small part of you turned on watching your husband beat the crap out of a complete stranger. your pussy starts to ache when you peer over at bakugo’s strong tattooed arms as he flung his jacket aside, rolling his white sleeves up to ensure his expensive suit doesn’t get soiled.

“oh fuck, where are my manners? this is my lovely wife, y/n. say hi baby.” he coos at you, a switch from rough to gentle when he spoke to you. you smile and wave, the hostage sobbing out a weak greeting when bakugo demands him to.

“anyways. what’d you do with the money, asswipe? gonna tell me or are you gonna make me fuck you up in front of my pretty wife. god, look at ‘er, ain’t she gorgeous? you know I was about 30 minutes from railing her before you had to go along and ruin our night. I should kill you right here.” bakugo turns his head towards you with a sick look in his eye.

“whaddaya think, princess? what should I do to this motherfucker, huh?” he asks.

“smack him again. he ruined date night.” you grumble, folding your arms.

“he sure did, baby.” bakugo says, punching the hostage in his jaw. he gestured for his men to crowd around him, all of them taking turns kicking and beating him with metal bars. katsuki walks towards you and pulls you into a passionate kiss, a bit of blood on his knuckles as he pulled your hair. god, this whole situation was sick. but why was it so hot?

bakugo carries you away to the car, tells the driver to fuck off somewhere while he rails you in the back seat, knowing his men will take care of the rest of what he started inside the warehouse. you straddle his lap, bouncing up and down on his stiff cock as the car rocked back and forth. the car windows fog up as your body heat commingled throughout the space, your hands pressing against the glass to gain to balance as you rode his fat cock.

“fuck, daddy. you’re so hot when you’re handling business. ooh, you’re dick’s so hard.” you purr, bakugo’s hand pinching and playing with your breast as his hips thrust upwards. He smirks at you, almost a bit shocked you got as turned on as he did from the pain he inflicted.

“hmm, I know baby. god, you’re sick. getting this wet from watching me beat up some punk. dirty fuckin’ girl.” he huffed into your hair, leaving sloppy kisses on your neck followed by harsh nibbles.

truth is even though you were so sweet and caring, you had a dark side no one knew about. I mean why else would you marry into the yakuza?

you were both fucking insane.

#bnha smut #bnha bakugou #bnha imagines #bnha headcanons #bnha todoroki #bnha kirishima #bnha x reader #bnha bakugo x reader

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chipper-smol · 3 years

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Hollow Knight Telephone Round Two: Vanilla Chain 1

Prompt: Ghost remembers each time they died and that’s how they’ve progressed through challenges most bugs wouldn’t even dream achieving. However, no one else seems to remember and instead they wonder why Ghost reacts badly to simple casual touches.

By @ink-of-void

A dull drone of rain pattered down across the cool stone below. The rain had only served as a buffer to the dull, passive steps of the bugs in the city, or the ever so gentle wing beats in the distance. Occasional creaks and groans would whine from the structures of the city, begging for maintenance or to finally be allowed rest. Each sound, each moment only served to further cement itself in the cacophony of white noise. A symphony of empty sound that echoed into the city's ambience.

It had been hours since the Ghost had stopped in front of the statue. Its small head tilted upwards to face that of the stone, carved to the likeness of its sibling. The inscription below spoke of sacrifice. An Eternal sacrifice. It was almost ironic. How the one forced to suffer was put on display at the apex of the ‘City of Tears’.

Memories began to rise, welling up and bubbling in its shell. They could remember their sibling screaming. How the sound of their cries echoed on deaf ears, or that easing their pain meant rending their own flesh in a desperate attempt to stop the torture. It was a waking nightmare.

They had failed their sibling. Try as they might, time and again, they could not bring it upon themselves to strike that final blow. The cries of the ‘Hollow Knight’ screeching into the black egg as they faded away from consciousness for the umpteenth time. A pang of discomfort manifested in their shell.

Slowly Ghost’s mind went from just their sibling to all the other bugs. Each one of those who slaughtered Ghost without mercy, killed with reckless abandon, or just proved to best them in combat. They were the ones it had defeated in the past. Bugs that had caused them to relive the same ritual of failure repeatedly before finally earning that place of victory. Every misstep, every badly timed jump, every poorly executed attack, It all ended in the same punishment over and over.  CRaCK.  The pain was almost palpable just thinking about it.

It felt just as new as the first time they were ever defeated. A cold sting of its shell cracking, body being torn limb from limb, crumbling beneath them like old stone. Void spilling from its head and pooling into a free floating shape among those lost to the sickness or those who simply proved superior. Though, the empty feeling of losing its corporeal flesh paled in comparison to what came next.

It was like floating up into an entropy of empty space and confusion. The dark land was void of any life or warmth, disorienting all that passed into its wake. Yet every time, it would be waiting to welcome the vessel back again and again into its crushing, desolate embrace. It felt itself being split in two, one being given back to the world, while the other was forced to remain in limbo until it was saved. But it wouldn't matter, as they would re-awaken only moments later, sitting patiently on a bench back where they started.

The overwhelming sense of exhaustion and dissonance took a toll each time they came back. Missing half of their being and having to fight themselves just so they can regain the broken piece back. All the while, no one else seems to take notice, or even remember what had happened prior. Hundreds of failures, hundreds of deaths, and Ghost could never seem to get used to it. It truly was a burden, one that Ghost often sought refuge from by simply resting a while longer at the bench.

It was a dance with death that always ended in what could be considered a ‘mercy’. The lack of claim to its shade, allowed them yet another chance. But perhaps mercy wasn't the right term. Having to battle your own face, a fragment of your own being… it hardly seemed kind, or fair. Even after returning the shade to its rightful place, the fight wasn’t over. Most of the time, it was only just beginning. There would be no rest. There was never any rest.

However to the spider in red, this tiny bug formed of the void and pale, felt nothing as it cut down everything from vermin to gods. Acting as if death was simply part of a long list of chores, they made it seem effortless. So when she first responded to Lemm’s call, she would be lying if she didn't find it the slightest bit odd that Ghost was simply standing idle. She reached out to them, barely grazing their back with her fingers. “Ghost?-” 

Without another moment passing, the vessel whipped around, nail in hand. The slash was quick, the sharp song of the blade ripping through the air as Ghost’s reaction went into motion. Time seemed to slow for a moment, its blind attack not revealing the consequence of its actions before it was far too late. Ghosts cloak finally revealed the bug into its immediate view. Upon seeing the figure, their body tensed, hanging onto the blade with an iron grip.  

Hornet didn’t even realize what happened until she glanced down at her arm. Seeing the deep blue blood dripping from the new slice in her shell was telling enough. It was nothing more than a surface wound if she was honest. Easily fixed with time and bandages. But that wasn’t her concern at the moment. Letting her hand close, she looked over to Ghost with a worried expression.

The vessel stood ready, both hands on its nail as it simply held the weapon in place. A tiny shake was visible at the end of the nail it was brandishing. Their face held no expression, yet its body told Hornet all she needed to know.

“Little Ghost?” She asked quietly, holding up her hands to show she wasn't a threat. “Are you… alright? Lemm asked me to come check on you. He says you’ve been here for hours now.” 

Ghost paused for a moment, clicking its head towards Hornet. Realization struck them, causing them to slowly lower their weapon. Their gaze fell to the floor as the nail hit the stone sidewalk with a light clink. Their blade’s shimmering reflection bounced back to the vessel's sockets. Part of it was stained with the blood of their sister, obscuring some of the brilliant reflection. The water occasionally dripped down and cut the image in two, washing away the blood as it did.

Hornet sighed, going over to them and gently knelt down.

“Is something the matter, little Ghost?” the spider chimed softly, going over to touch their shoulder. Ghost recoiled, pulling their shoulder away in a rather aggressive manner. Their head didnt lift, turning instead to focus on their path. They put their nail on their back and began their leave. The spider stood up after a moment, bowing her head with a little shake as Ghost began to disappear

 “Even you need to rest sometimes, little one. Please I’m, try to get some.”

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By https://twitter.com/Hell_Yena

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By @nonbinary-ghost

Rain patters down against your shell like thousands of tiny, icy stones. The drum of it inside your mask and the prickling of it against your small body would normally be unpleasant enough as to be overwhelming; but lost as you are in your thoughts and the twisting waves of emotion trying to drown you, the rain is scarcely enough to ground you. You feel disconnected and distant, as if you aren’t really in control of your body, merely being carried along by the steady movement of your legs.

You gradually realize that you have been wandering like this for a while now. How long, you can scarcely guess, but long enough that your cloak is soaked through, and any scrap of warmth has left you. Dirtmouth had been celebrating the first twelve span of being free of the Infection, and while you had been just as happy as the next bug about the recovery of the town, the celebration had filled you with a nameless, twisting dread. And then all the lights and the sounds and the smells and the touching had left you reeling and sick. So you ran.

It could have been hours since then. You have no way of knowing. You don’t quite remember deciding to come to the City of Tears either. You just let your thoughts blur into a black haze, pointed your mask to the ground, and let your feet carry you wherever they wanted to go. You hadn’t expected to find yourself standing before the statue of your sibling. You simply realized that you were staring blankly at the inscription along the statue’s base.

“Through its sacrifice, Hallownest lasts eternal.” Something hot and prickly bubbles up inside of you at the words, making your shell itch and crawl like when you fall in acid. Hornet had once explained the feeling as anger. Why are you angry? You puzzle over it for a moment, resisting your initial urge to strike at the plaque with your nail and scratch out the offending inscription. Instead, you read over it again, feeling the anger boil deep in your belly.

Sacrifice. That’s the part that makes you angry. Sacrifice implies choice. Hollow had no choice in sealing the Radiance. You hadn’t had any choice. None of your siblings had any agency over anything that happened to them. No, none of you were giver the choice to make sacrifices – you were the sacrifice. And for what? Hallownest still fell. So many bugs died, so many cultures were consumed by the plague and lost to dust and rot. All of your siblings, but Hollow and Hornet especially, still suffered and struggled. Yes, you had eventually killed the Radiance, but that hadn’t been part of the Pale King’s plan. He didn’t even know about Godseeker, didn’t even consider that there might be another way that didn’t involve condemning his child to an eternity of suffering. No, your “Father” had expected all of you to “sacrifice” yourselves to the seals and suffer in silent mystery to keep the Radiance contained. How dare he imply any level of choice in what happened to your siblings.

“Ghost?”

The soft question yanks you painfully from your thoughts and you feel as if you slam back into yourself. You are suddenly very aware of the rain hitting your mask, of your hands clenched into fists.

Of the dark shadows that had begun to flicker like flames around you receiving back into you. You spin to find Hornet standing on one of the nearby signposts, her red cloak so damp it nearly looked brown and her needle poised as if prepared to zip away at any moment.

“Are you alright?” Her stance relaxes somewhat as the shadows fade. You don’t know how to answer, so you simply turn away. You look up at your sibling’s likeness looming over you, proud, regal, poised. Not at all like the desperate, brutal Pure Vessel you were forced to fight in Godseeker’s Pantheons. Not at all like the sick and injured bug that you freed from the black egg temple after killing the Radiance.

“Do you need to be alone?”

You shrug. The happiness and celebration in Dirtmouth had been overwhelming, and you had wanted to be alone then. But now, a part of you mutters discontentedly. You’re lonely, and maybe Hornet of all people could understand these feelings. She was the only one besides Hollow who might. “I’m angry,” you sign, pointing at yourself and making a sharp gesture with both hands. Hornet has slowly been teaching you and Hollow the sign language used in the Hive, but none of you are all that good with it yet. It often requires body language and facial expressions for certain distinctions between similar signs – a difficult feat to accomplish when your face is a mask. Hornet follows your gaze and hops down to join you.

“About the statue?”

You point to the inscription.

“We didn’t have a choice,” you sign furiously. “We failed. And now what’s left?”

You stop, a dawning realization creeping through you. That was why you’re angry. Why you’re discontent even though by all accounts you had succeeded. You defeated the Radiance, ended the Infection, freed your sibling, and even survived channeling the Void Entity. You are free to do whatever you want now, but you slowly realize that this new freedom is what has you feeling so distant. You and your siblings were all created with a purpose, and now, with that purpose gone, you have nothing left. You have no other skills but fighting. No passions, no home, no culture to rebuild. You and Hollow are free, but now what is left for you? Your Father had sacrificed your futures, not just your lives, and now you are feeling lost and separate from the bugs around you. They had all suffered through the plague, lost loved ones and homes. But they had passions and dreams to guide them and give them hope. You only have nightmares that keep dragging you into the past, making it impossible to look forward to the future.

“Who am I supposed to be, now?” you finish limply. The anger is gone, replaced with a choking sorrow. Your breathing feels thick and heavy. Hornet holds out a hand, hesitating before touching you to make it an offer, and you lean into it, letting her hand rest lightly between your shoulders.

“What the Pale King did, what he demanded of all of us, was unjust,” she said at last, an ember of her own rage warming her words. “There is nothing that can change that. You and Hollow and all the others deserved so much more. But Ghost,” she kneels so she can look into your mask with such honest ferocity that your breath hitches in your chest. “You are so much more than what our Father made you. You are not just a weapon or a tool. You never were. There is a future for us now, because of you. I know it will be had. It will be scary. Change always is. But we have each other – you, me, Hollow, all of Dirtmouth – we are all here to support each other. We are all learning and growing past everything that happened. I promise, none of us are going to leave you behind again.”

A tightness forms in your throat at her words and your vision blurs as that heaviness in your chest tightens. That promise to not be left behind again stirs a confusing blur of emotion that you can’t make any sense of. It doesn’t feel good, but it doesn’t feel bad either.

“Can I hug you?”

You nod and lean into her touch, the weight and warmth of your sister’s arms doing more to ground you that the rain. For once you feel … safe. Something inside you cracks, like an old shell you’ve grown too big for, and suddenly you’re crying. For everything you went through, for everything you lost, for everyone who didn’t survive to see the same light of freedom. You sob, clutching at Hornet’s cloak.

You finally let yourself mourn everything that brought you here.

And tentatively hope for everything that might come to be.

-------------------------------

By @brimal-baspid

-------------------------------

By @martin-ftw

The rain pours heavily in the city of tears.

The knight walks up to the fountain square. They look upon the fountain, where the Memorial to the Hollow Knight resides.

The knight inspects, "In the Black Vault far above. Through its sacrifice Hallownest lasts eternal." as Hornet dashes in with her needle.

"Again we meet little ghost." Hornet started, "... seek the Grave in Ash and the mark it would grant to one like you."

After finishing her guidance for the knight, she added, quietly, "Are you, perhaps, even a little, afraid?"

The water flows through the fountain endlessly, yet the knight remains emotionless.

Hornet giggles to herself, "hmmhmm, that's right, no voice to cry suffering, best of luck to your journeys little ghost."

After a few seconds of silence, Hornet raised her needle and hopped onto the ceiling.

The knight pauses, and dashes right to the opened door, leaving only the sounds of rain splashing the water fountain and flapping of wings from the lumaflies.

At the front door of the Pleasure House, the knight inserts the simple key and opens the door, walking in as Hornet follows. With the beautiful singing by Marissa, the knight goes on the long elevator ride as Hornet clings onto the elevator.

“About to learn your troubled past, aren't you little ghost?" Hornet asks inside the hot spring, while the knight sits on the bench.

The knight nods while opening their map and picking off one of those scarab markers, moving it to the bottom right of the map.

"Though I have underestimated your power, do you think you've got what it takes? To preserve the future of hallownest?" The knight does not know how to answer, they stand up from the bench and pack up their map.

"Exit's on the right, break the wall down to King's station," Hornet says while thinking to herself, could this one succeed? The knight swings their nail at the wall, breaking it open with a loud crack, and heads downwards.

Hornet sat in the spring by herself.

Guarding the cast-off shell is her job - she knows she has to fight the knight one more time, to ensure the knight is ready to finish their quest even after seeing their conception and past. She sighs, all rested, and stands up; knowing she's much faster than the knight in traversing the Hallownest, she raises her needle and swings out of the pleasure room, down to the Kingdom's edge she goes.

“Perhaps this one would be strong enough. They made it so far, don't fail me now little ghost" She quietly mumbles, before pointing her needle towards the entrance of the arena,

"So you'd pursue the deeper truth? It isn't one the weak could bear. Prove yourself ready to face it. I'll not hold back..."

With the wind blowing harder and louder in the edge of the world, the fight begins, the sentinel of a fading land and the vessel to save Hallownest.

-------------------------------

By @potentialforart

-------------------------------

By @starstress

They crouch, body full of tension, and they stare on ahead at their target. The platform is right there, waiting for them like a pedestal.

They jump.

Soaring through the air, quick and steady, they reach out, claws stretched and yearning.

There, they think. Right there.

And as the edge comes right by them, confidence blooms inside their chest, sure that they'll reach it. Their outstretched claws brush by a single tiny pristine leaf, one in a dozen, green and lush. It bounces right back into place as they are claimed by gravity.

They fall onto the lower platform, the moss softening their landing. They look up, and disappointment is a small bitter ball in their stomach, but they brush it aside. The stone edge they were aiming for now looms above them unforgiving. They will not let it discourage them, they will try again.

They want to know. They need to know. Who that red-clothed bug was, and why they felt such a pull to her.

----

Through stretching lush highways and seeming ceilingless and bottomless caverns, they push onwards. They’re spurred ever on by glimpses of rushing red, pale horns and swishing silk.

They would have expected the constant green to become monotonous by the time they reach a bench locked behind a gate, guiding them ever higher, but the shrub and moss-covered land surprises them still. From keeping them on high alert constantly and mercilessly, to undeniably charming them through towering leaf-embroidered architecture and statues, simple but beautiful blooms filling the air with glittering pollen, and soft chimes of birdsong, Greenpath has carved a spot in their heart that they can’t believe can ever be topped.

Still on they go, for though they wish to properly explore, they know that that can wait. They heal themselves, fill in the map with all the paths and twists and turns that they have crossed, put on the few charms that they have gathered, and stand up. They look ever upwards and hope they’re drawing closer to wherever the red-clothed person might be leading them.

----

There--

They rush forward, into the air and off the moss-covered stone ledge, eyes locked onto the red figure. Behind them, a gate slams closed, but though the sound echoes in the small clearing, they pay it no mind.

They land on steady feet, leaf softening the sound of their fall.

There she is--

They've found her.

The red-cloaked bug, in all her stern and decisive figure.

She is encompassed by engraved and moss-covered pillars of stone, but still she towers over them, despite only being about twice their own height.

Her dark eyes, but not as dark as theirs, no one with as dark as theirs, never, track their every move, ready to act, ready to cut down. They stare at her and she stares at them, a contest of wills.

She raises her blade - her needle - and they rush to mirror her.

Soft light streams down, from in between greenery, though they not know not its source, and halos her in pale light. And though this is their first proper encounter with her, the red bug feels familiar, like they know her mask, the shape of her eyes, like they once gazed, even briefly, upon those features in a past life.

Nevertheless, her stance is rigid and unforgiving.

No further, her eyes scream even before she deems them worthy of words, no further I will allow you, until you prove yourself.

They tighten their grip upon their nail, and shove back into their void all pangs of sadness. This is a fight for their life, and, more than ever, a fight for their existence.

Maybe, after they defeat her, they can ask her why she feels like family - lost, but found again.

-------------------------------

By @dovalore

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By @jonsilverstone

https://soundcloud.com/jachym-hajek/vanilla-1-july-21-jon-silverstone-hornet-v-hollow/s-8IcY8UIzrtg

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By @alaska-ren-works

“Do you want to just fulfill the wyrm’s standards or do you want to make me proud, Princess of Hallownest?”

Hornet tightened her needle’s grip and lowered her stance. Heart calm and mind steady, she didn’t feel the rise of a subtle smirk on her face. This was her moment she had trained for in the Hive. Not to be the pale wyrm’s spawn, but to be the Daughter of Deepnest.

“You will see my answer soon, Mother.”

Weavers and bugs alike stood in solemn excitement as Herrah, Beast and Queen of Deepnest, circled the princess. Her white mask hid her emotions, but Hornet could more than feel the queen’s wide grin. Herrah twirled her own needle in her hand, a feat that impressed Hornet to no end as that very needle was longer than she was tall.

“Very well.” With a final step, Herrah faced Hornet with her needle at the ready. “You know the rules and so do I.”

Hornet nodded. As the lower-ranked of the two, Hornet must make the first move. Everyone and everything turned still. Watching. Waiting.

With a resolute bang of a drum, Hornet yelled, “Garama!”

The crowd roared with the start of the duel, but Hornet only heeded her opponent. She speared her needle forward and as Herrah jumped away, she reeled it back. Herrah dodged the attack and closed in on Hornet. The young spider darted away right before Herrah’s needle slashed through the space she just left.

When it came to brute strength, Hornet would lose in an instant. But she was smaller, faster, and more agile. If she could avoid a direct hit, she might have a chance at winning this.

Hornet rolled away as another strike whistled too close for her liking. She slashed her needle upwards, forcing Herrah to jump back. Taking this, she jumped into the air and released a storm of silk.

When her feet landed, Herrah slammed into her. Her breath wrenched out of her chest as she flew then skidded on the floor. It was a miracle she was still on her feet. With her head bent, she did not see the pride glimmer in her mother’s eyes before the queen composed herself.

Herrah’s head turned when the ravelling of silk sounded above her. The whistling of an incoming needle alerted her and the Beast parried Hornet’s thrust.

In Herrah’s moment of distraction, Hornet covered the arena in sticky silk traps. Now, this was where Hornet shines. She darted between the silk

strands and rushed at Herrah, the bigger spider now pressed for space. Strikes and slashes were landed and blocked, and Herrah growled. The next second Hornet rushed in, Herrah took hold of her and used her momentum to throw her far. Hornet flipped in the air but stumbled on her landing. Looking up, Herrah’s needle swung in a wide arc, destroying the nearby threads.

Mother and daughter studied each other from opposite ends of the arena. Hornet felt fatigue settle in her bones and her lungs struggled with big gulps of air. Herrah stood tall and her giant nail held steady, but Hornet could see her chest moving quickly.

“What do you think about heading over to the hotspring after this, huh?” Hornet’s eyes widened at Herrah’s invitation.

“Y-yes, Mother!” Hornet reddened at her stuttering voice. She cast out her exhaustion and readied her stance.

Herrah grinned as she raised her needle once more. “Then let’s make this worth it.”

#hollow knight #hollowknight #telephoneknight #vanilla #hornet #ghost

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nhinxsworld · 3 years

Text

If I had to give Naoya kinks that aren't stuff like breeding and being an misogynist.

Yeah I totally peak him as the breeding type, and talk about it obsessively. Definitely also the possessive type to claim you, making you his. Degradation and humilation kind of things. Hmmm fucking your housewife.

But!! I want to be creative, I feel like all the breeding and claiming is like every naoya nsfw fic so imma walk the extra mile and be a siMp.

my list

Naoya x reader

Predator and Prey

Naoya is fast, ridiculously fast. You won't escape his grasp so easily once you're tangled into his family's mess, as a servant, as a wife or whatever. You're not getting out once he has set his eyes on you, he won't allow it.

What he does allow it for you to try and run, but only when HE allows you to.

When beloved Naoya is bored, he'll take you to the woods, or to any deserted area "Would you like to play a game with me?"

No, you're fucking scared. Why is Naoya taking you out to a deserted forest?? He isn't going to kill you, is he?

"You're free to run from me." he tells you as he looks at the time "I want you to hide and run, if you manage to escape me, I'll let you go."

You looked at him strangely and he chuckles sitting down on a log "I said if you manage to escape."

A soft nod "...and if I don't?"

His amusement often meant your misery, you didn't like the grin on his face at all "I'll punish you."

"Hmmm, I'll close my eyes for...let's say 5 minutes, and you get to run and hide anywhere you want. Then we'll count down hm...15 minutes, if I don't find you in that time, you win, if I do find you I win." He explains and you nod again.

"Okay..." you weren't sure why he wanted to play, or what he'd gain from this game, but you're willing to try. Willing is funny, Naoya will find a way to force you and play with him. You're here for his enjoyment afterall.

"Good, now go run a little and hide little one, or I'll come and eat ya~" he says and ushers you off, placing a timer on his phone putting his hands over his eyes with a smile on his face. He seems enthusiastic about the game "Alright 5 minutes."

So you started to run into the woods, your legs carrying you as far and deep into the woods as possible not caring about the loud sound of leafs beneath you.

You ran and ran until you couldn't see him anymore looking around the forest to find a place to hide or run to.

Meanwhile, Naoya was still sitting on the log waiting for the 5 minutes to be over, curious of where his little plaything could have run to.

He feels excitement bubbling in him getting to hunt down his little prey. Breathing in the forest air he truly felt closer to the nature. Naoya adores the scent of the trees and everything these woods had to offer, he can hear little birds chirp.

When his phone beeps signaling for the 5 minutes to be over he takes his hands of his eyes, re-coordinating where exactly he is adjusting to the light.

He yawns walking towards to the direction you had started to running, assuming you're stupid enough to just keep running that direction, after all you were pretty loud.

After a minute or two of him just taking a walk through nature, he's just enjoying himself. Maybe he should have taken a calming stroll with you before he ruins it.

Time wise he still had more than enough time, so it didn't matter to him all that much, he'll just take his time.

You on the other hand was given a false hope, Naoya is just playing with you.

Where is he? Isn't he taking too long to find you? How much time has passed? Is he close?

Could you win?

Your heart pounds at that though, being able to escape Naoya? Being able to escape the Zen'in? Your heart is beating out of your chest, a nauseous feeling of anxiety creeps up as you continue to walk, he should be around now, so you should be more quiet and move on until you find a good hiding spot or are just out of his range.

Oh pretty, you're too easy, aren't you? Naoya has been following you for the past minutes, and you haven't even noticed.

He chuckles inwardly as he just continues to sneak after you, his pretty little prey so obvious to the fact that he is right there.

The way you're walking, careful yet loud steps, looking around so anxiously and unsure, with your hands close to your chest to calm your loud heart, is just so adorable.

Little prey doesn't even know the predator is right around the bush ready to pounce on you.

Looking at the time he smiles, 10 minutes left. Did he give you a glimpse of false hope?

Can you taste your freedom?

He sure hopes you can, because he wants to see the crushed look on your face, the fear when he comes for you.

Deciding it's enough he made sure his steps are louder, he made himself visible to your hearing again.

Oh, how cute you're already shaking just from hearing steps. Getting anxious yet?

10 minutes is still too much, he'll hunt you down in less than a minute, he wants to enjoy this.

He'll make sure you can hear him coming closer and closer, yet pretends to be obvious about it, as if he could see you hiding behind those trees.

Naoya just adores the look of fear, it's so delicious. You're so scared, aren't you? He's right behind you, somewhere you don't even know. He could come out any second and catch you, take away all this freedom he offered again. Drag you back to his house and don't forget about the promised punishment, by him.

Wonder what he has in mind for you? You'll find out soon. How much time has already passed? You've been running and walking for a while, how far have you gone?

"Little one, I feel like you're really close~" Naoya calls through the woods "It's just a couple of minutes left. Shall we bring this to an end?"

When you start to sprint for it, he laughs, such a good little prey, make him run for you. Make him hurry, make his heart race too.

"Haha!! Good, run, run faster little one. Don't make it too easy for me." he smiles your eyes locked for a second when you turned around.

You felt paralyzed for a second, he is playing, that amused smile on his face, he is definitely playing with you.

Closing your eyes you look forwards and continued running, you can hear his hurried steps behind you as you're running.

You can feel ache step each branch as you're running in the cold air of the woods, your heart is beating out of control as you run.

"Hurry up, or I'll catch you my little prey~" you heard Naoya sing-song behind you.

Feeling yourself sweat and your body burn, you're exhausted, but can seem to stop running scared of what he'll do once catches up.

Begging internally to continue to run faster, you're scared, so scared you don't even want to look anymore closing your eyes, but that's your mistake.

Closing your eyes in the woods not watching where you're stepping falling forward into the dirt.

For a second you didn't even feel pain, just the shock, the slowing feeling of time setting in before you try to get yourself up.

Get up.

Get up!!

Everything is so overwhelming, your body suddenly so tired and exhausted, your breath so heavy and uneven, you felt your temperature raise, from the stress of the panic.

Before you could even fully get up you feel a hand tugging on your clothes "Oh how unfortunate, did my little prey trip?"

Turning your head you meet with the ends of Naoyas all the familiar light hakama.

"Look at me" he commands, and you look up to meet his eyes, he leans down and cups your face in his hand.

"You're so pretty." he wipes tears you didn't even notice are falling from your eyes "My pretty little prey, falling back into your captors hands hmm?"

He brings you closer to him and kisses your lips so softly before he bites "you're shaking."

Holding your shaking hand he hums "so cute, I just want to eat you." You felt him licking along your face tasting your tears.

You felt so hot in his cold hands, you're so warm, you're body emitting a sacred heat, yet you're shaking, feeling almost dead cold in your hands with a rising heat in your face.

It's so precious, the rawness of your emotions is just so pretty to him, his pretty, pretty little prey, doesn't even fight back, submitting to their predator.

Begging silently for mercy of their captor, a quick and painless death perhaps? No, Naoya isn't that ruthless and at the same time not that merciful.

He doesn't want you dead, and if he did, he wouldn't want it to be quick.

Naoya is a man, who wants to see you scared, he wants to see you suffer.

Are you really that surprised when he is groping you under your shirt? Are you surprised he is biting and moaning against your neck?

No, not really.

"My pretty little thing." he praises as he lowers you to the floor tugging at your clothes.

You weren't even sure if you're able to perceive the situation at hand. Too much is going on, the completely out of control of your body, Naoyas hands on you. Your wild thoughts that are still too confused and anxious of what has happened, the feeling of failure that you didn't manage to escape. Your exhausted body and the stinging pain of your wounds?

An electronic ringing sound plays ripping you out of your thoughts as the situation finally sets in, Naoya had tugged of your shirt exposing yourself chest to him fully, you're laying on the dirty ground in the woods, and he has a wicked smile on your face "That's the 15 minutes." He showed you the timer as he puts a pause to it putting his phone down "Means I won our little game."

His fingers find your bleeding knees and rolls his eyes simply tying a piece of fabric over the wound "Wouldn't want it too dirty hmm?"

Flipping you over your face pressed to the dirt of the ground he chuckles "Such a good little one, you tried didn't you?" he kisses your back biting and nipping at your skin leaving his mark.

He claims his prey in the mids of the empty forest with only the birds, trees and insects to witness.

The birds chirping so happily in the distance without a care of what's happening in their beloved forest.

Your cries echoing through the space with no human soul to witness. The slapping of skin, the grunts, everything, every degrading word that leaves Naoyas lips "My pretty prey gonna submit?"

"Pathetic little lamb." he coos watching you whither underneath him "I'm just claiming my prize, having my meal."

You're beautiful teary eyed expression fills his hunger, you're shaking form underneath him, is his prize.

"Let's go back home little lamb. How about you'll call me your Alpha from now on~ After all I've claimed you as mine. Marked you and breed you ♡"

#naoya zenin x reader #naoya x reader #naoya zenin #naoya jjk

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amonrawya · 3 years

Text

The Greatest Gift of All

youtube

(Inspired by^ for the people who asked :D hope it was worth the wait!)

Long before the war, before Captain America or the Winter Soldier, there was simply Bucky and Steve. At least, that's what history says. But they missed out one very important person, a girl called Y/N.

Women in those times often found themselves with little opportunity, and only two easily attainable pathways in life: wife and mother. But Y/N carved out a life for herself that defied all expectations, and it all started in Brooklyn.

She dived headlong into scuffles, usually next to Bucky in defence of Steve. Regardless of the opponent, Y/N stood by them both, and often held her own quite impressively.

Her dress style borrowed from more masculine cuts, and Y/N was never seen without her cap. A lot of people had a problem with this, but she shut them up fairly swiftly.

Everything about this girl drew Bucky in, a battle he fought with little effort. They reveled in each other, flaunting their love at every opportunity. More than a few were jealous that the rough and tumble girl got the best looking boy in town.

In a way, before even coming of age, they started an adult life together. The three of them moved into a flat. Y/N and Bucky took hard labour jobs, or anything they could get. They had little room to be picky.

Both managed to hook steady summer jobs at the local docks. They used most of their money to keep a roof over their heads, buy food, and pay for Steve's medical needs. He attended art school, and sold his work every now and then; but physically, he was in no condition to work.

The war appeared on the horizon, just as they started to pull themselves an inch above the poverty line. Y/N saw it coming, the inevitable. She treasured every second they spent together, and dreaded the day when the draft came.

A lot of the older women she worked with were disrespectful, looking down on her pre-marital relationship with Bucky. They claimed she couldn't possibly understand their grief, despite the fact Y/N had seen Bucky off at the docks that very morning.

In truth, they already planned on being married, but at the time, they simply didn't have the funds. Bucky promised, once the war ended, that ring would be on her finger.

Except, he never came home. Not properly. The person Hydra gave back to Y/N was damaged and jaded, angry at the world, angrier than she ever saw. But still, they loved each other. Though she never forgave them for stealing away his innocence, for trying to snuff out the light in his soul. A part of him would always belong to them, and she hated it.

Refusing to stay home while they risked their lives, never knowing, Y/N trained as an army nurse, working specially with the Howling Commandos unit.

Then one day, she went out to welcome them back from a mission. Every face looked devastated, but none more so than Steve. His eyes, red-raw and streaming, seemed incapable of rising from the ground. At first, the realisation didn't process, the idea simply incomprehensible. He promised.

Dugan was the one to finally break through and catch Y/N as she fell, holding her as the tears poured. Once he shook off his daze, Steve took his place, sharing in her grief.

Her world fell apart so quickly, with no warning and no mercy. Their commanders celebrated the capture of Arnim Zola, while Y/N and Steve sat, staring at an empty place at their side.

Everyone mourned Bucky, and swiftly after, began to mourn Y/N, too. The loss took a part of her...the sparkle, the happiness, the laugh that lit up her face. It all vanished. She worked hard, looked after them all, but only Steve was able to make her smile. Even then, it looked pained.

So when Steve went down with the plane, the very last shred of Y/N died with him. No tears left her eyes, no screams ripped up her throat. A cold numbness took over, freezing the woman from the inside out.

V-Day came and went. The Commandos stood and drank to their lost comrades, and Dugan silently drank another...for the loss of a bright, fiery girl who had virtually nothing to lose, and still lost everything.

She spent her days as a robot, doing nothing but going through the motions of badly imitating life. The flat was empty and quiet, yet somehow, bursting with the ghosts of her loved ones. Nightmares plagued her, terrible images of Bucky's body, forever trapped in a freezing hell, nothing but food for the birds. And Steve, his body...was it cast adrift in the ocean? Or destroyed, burnt to ash in the belly of a metal beast.

They were simple folk before the war turned them into soldiers, into weapons. Before symbols and flags stole away their names, driving them to sacrifice their lives for a greater cause.

Y/N knew their fight against Hydra was important...knew the honour behind their sacrifice. But when it's you left sitting at an empty dinner table, it's much easier to be angry and bitter.

She never married, never settled, bouncing around countries working as an army nurse. The Commandos slowly died around her, each one fading to grey as the curtain drew the show to a close. Each death, each funeral ripped open her wounds, bigger and deeper each time. Until eventually, Y/N let the blood flow freely.

Or at least, that's what would have happened. But one choice, one decision, made by a boy she thought dead in the far future, changed it all.

Bucky Barnes struggled to find himself again. His memories were mostly all returned, if a bit hazy and fragmented. He had Steve there to right any wrong recollections, and connect with on their shared experiences. But something always seemed to be missing, a piece of the jigsaw that hadn't been found.

He remembered Y/N. He remembered her clearer than anything. She was glowing like honey in the sun when Bucky closed his eyes and brought her back to mind.

Face covered in muck, hair tousled and streaked with grease from the boats, soot on the very tip of her nose and a cap perched jauntily on her head; wearing the deepest expression of concentration as she aimed a hanful of rotten fish guts at the sleezy Connell boy from Fifth, who decided his opinion on her backside mattered. The image shone crystal clear. Her laughter, rolling out from between curved lips, beautiful and full of mischief.

It never failed to make him smile. Or cry. Or sometimes, both. He missed Y/N than he thought possible for a human being.

Bucky often wondered about her life, whether she went on to marry, or maybe even have children. Was she happy? Did she bury him and move on? If they met today, would Y/N even recognise the man he was now?

More importantly, in his mind, something he both feared and longed to know: would she still love him?

Unbeknownst to Bucky, Steve saw all this. Understood, to a degree, his pain. But he and Peggy never got the chance to bond so strongly. He knew Bucky needed him, but Steve also knew he needed Y/N more.

So once his goodbyes were said, he looked one last time at Bucky, and smiled beneath his suit as he vanished into time.

The living room looked exactly the same as he remembered. Bucky's coat, slung over the back of the chair, his sketchbooks strewn around the desk. Every rip and chip. His heart swelled with nostalgia, and pain, thinking of the life they were supposed to have.

What must have been in their heads...running off to fight, so eager to throw everything away. And who was left to stare at empty beds and eat breakfast alone every morning? Y/N.

His chest constricted, hearing the keys in the door, the lock rattling three times before letting her in. His nerve faltered for the briefest second, wondering if he was ready to see her again.

"Who the hell are you?!"

Time's up.

Slowly, he turned, and watched as Y/N's eyes widened, all the bags in her hands falling to the floor with a crash.

"...Stevie?" The name came out as a whisper, nearly inaudible.

He grinned, laughing as tears stung his eyes. "Hey, spitfire. Long time no see."

"Steve!" She launched herself at him, arms wrapping around his neck and clinging on for dear life.

Catching her by the waist, he swung Y/N around, burying his face in her hair. They held onto one another as if they might vanish if they let go. But after a minute, Steve gently pushed her back.

"How? How are you here? What are you wearing? I don't understand, Steve, they said you died! Your plane went down in the ocean," she stammered, hand on his forearm with a grip like a vice.

"I survived. The serum kept me alive in the ice for seventy years," he said, questioning his own sanity momentarily; standing in the flat again made everything that happened seem like a distant dream.

Y/N frowned, brows knitting together. "What? Did you hit your head? Steve, this is 1945."

"I know, I came from 2023. I'm alive," he said, and saw her mentally backing away, so added, "I'm alive, and so is Bucky."

Her head snapped up, eyes immediately filling with tears. A dozen emotions whizzed through them in a second; disbelief, pain, hope. It shone clearly in her face as she stepped closer.

What did you say?" She asked, voice choked as she brought her shaking hands up to her mouth.

"Bucky's alive," he repeated softly, "and I can send you to him, in the future. But we don't have a lot of time. You need to listen to me, carefully, and do what I say."

She spluttered, struggling for words. "I, but...what about you?"

"I've made my decision," Steve said, and gently took her hands in his, "now, please, listen."

Bucky watched the machine, feeling a wave of numbness wash over his insides. Nothing was a better deal than the pain, the cruel sting of betrayal fighting to be felt. But he beat it back, unable to allow those thoughts validation.

Steve gave up so much for him, he fought for years to get him here. Steve deserved this. And no matter how wrong those words sounded in his head, he resolutely stood by them.

The seconds ticked by, noted by Bruce's countdown. A flash of guilt almost made Bucky explain what was going to happen, explain that Steve left them. Left him. But he possessed no energy to speak, they'd see in a second, when no one appeared-

Zap. A blinding flash of light.

There's someone there.

Bucky frowned, hands falling from his pockets. Did Steve change his mind? Did he...

All the thoughts in his head stopped as the figure stepped down. Too small, too lithe for it to be Steve. Bucky's heart rate quickened, something in his unconscious already registering his recognition.

The suit fell away, and if he weren't frozen in place, Bucky wouldn't have been standing. A quiver shot through him, nearly buckling his knees. Shock, fear and pure disbelief all delayed his reaction.

Y/N looked around, amazed, but turned to stone as she set eyes on him. Her face went utterly blank, a strangled sound leaving her lips.

Wearing her yard slacks, with a small bag on her shoulder, her face covered in dirt, hair streaked with grease, cap perched on-top, slanted to one side...she was everything he remembered, and his heart tried to leave his chest to go to her. To be whole again.

But fear held him back. She didn't know the things he'd done, the person he became after the train accident. What if-

"Who is she?" Sam asked, glaring as he stalked towards her, an accusation rising on his lips.

Bucky answered without hesitation, or thinking; the question had been asked countless times over the years. It always recieved the same reply. "My doll."

Sam stopped short, glancing between them, the way neither took their eyes off the other. He nodded, brows still closely knit, and backed off.

Slowly, Y/N approached, encouraged by the sound of his voice. She reached out carefully, when she got close enough. Trembling fingers brushed his cheek, and a shudder ran through her.

"My Bucky..." She said quietly, eyes roaming over his face, a small smile tugging at her lips, "...you're here, in front of me. Alive."

He swallowed dryly, heart thundering away beneath his skin. "I'm different...you don't know..."

No sooner had the words left his mouth that her eyes found the cold metal where his flesh used to be. In reaching to hold it, she'd been taken by surprise.

Gently, Y/N took the hand in her own, examing the limb with a careful gaze. Moments passed, and she met his eyes again. Bucky steeled himself for rejection, for the disgust and horror.

Her hand went back to his cheek, and he involuntairly leaned into it. The warmth seeped into his blood. She stood on her tip toes, the smile on her lips blossoming into a bright beam of sunlight. "You've always been my Bucky, and always will be. Metal appendages and all."

He fell apart and dove down to capture her lips, clutching her to him with the hunger of a starving man. She pulled herself in, hands tangling in his brown locks, and both tasted salt on the others' lips.

So filled with joy his heart could burst, Bucky revelled in the feeling of holding his girl again. Laughing through the tears, he buried his face in her neck.

Thank you, Steve, for the greatest gift of all.

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subwalls · 3 years

Text

i simply think a sensory deprivation curse on c!dream would be like. hm.

raising a world seed into a full-blown server requires some negotiation. it’s not hard, because the universe loves each and every player that exists, but the voices are pickier about it, so it’s still a process.

dream is very good at it. he has to be, to spawn so many little worlds for manhunts and the like. this time, though, he’s asking for a lot more than he normally does: every natural feature the universe has to give, enough room for those he loves, every barrier to keep out those he does not, and enough power to administer justice as he sees fit.

the universe sings in eager delight. the voices twist closer, curious but skeptical. the starlit glimmer of their speech curls around him, staying just clear of the wishing seed he cradles between his hands.

now, hold on. the structures you seek are many. whose eyes will it be to appreciate them, even if they lie at the edges of the world, even if their gifts are not worth the trek taken?

mine, the player says.

the vast space you seek is heavy. whose shoulders will it be to hold the weight of it, when the world becomes too burdened to sustain its own place in the universe?

mine, the player says.

the protection you seek is unyielding. whose hand will it be to carve every permitted callsign into its most protected chambers, to tame the roaring blaze of its defense so that some may pass unharmed?

mine, the player says.

the power you seek is heady. whose body will it be to anchor the soul that must bear that responsibility, which will cave to the rebellion of the world against the will of its soul, if it must?

mine, the player says.

there is silence as the voices contemplate this. they drift away and draw near again, intelligible static moaning quietly from their unseen throats as they discuss amongst themselves. and then, at last, one addresses him again.

this is much to put on you and only you. but you have accepted this. do not forget.

you make this for the joy and laughter of your friends—this is easy to see, young dreamer. do not forget.

a server world is a world that serves. it will serve your friends. we will not tolerate anything less.

we will not tolerate oathbreaking. the world will not tolerate abuse.

you are its vassal.

you are its to punish.

dream says, i understand.

and the universe says, i love you, and the seed cupped in his palms pulses gently, and then fiercely, boldly, life blooming under the sworn promise of someone who will tend to it, and—all at once, the void is forced back. land shudders into existence in a rushing wave that reaches far and wide, and the core of it purrs to life into dream’s heart.

the wind whistles along the plains, laughing through the trees and their countless leaves. lakes lap gently at their shores at the base of mountains that stretch up to the sky, high and waiting.

and dream has his server. he inhales the sweet air and runs his fingers along the grass, curling his fingers along the soft petal of a flower and feels nothing but love and anticipation for what the server is and what it might become.

he lifts a hand and the protective borders of the world roar to him, walls of flame rushing past his senses before a shimmering white list coalesces before him. it is empty until he carves a few callsigns into it. just three, for now, but there is room for many more.

his friends arrive, after that. they play, and they relish, and they ask for more. who is dream to deny them, in a world meant to be theirs? he carves more names into the list. they arrive, they play, they ask. he carves more still, and then more, and more.

there is as much room as dream needs.

they skirmish and play-fight. it’s an easy thing, running rings around each other while shrieking for mercy or blood, building ugly things of wood and faith and cobblestone and friendship, playing pretend without a care in the world.

at least, it was easy, up until—

wilbur soot says, “this is a different server, independent of dream smp.”

wilbur soot says, “you and yours are forbidden from stepping foot here.”

wilbur soot says, “this is l’manburg, and this is mine, and we will stand our ground.”

wilbur soot, whose father is the winged angel of death, who could nearly call the blood god his own family, whose bloodline is so entrenched in the dealings of voids and voices that he must know what dream had to do to turn a world seed into a haven of a server, this wilbur soot is the one who meets dream’s mask with a wide grin and an open taunt, daring him. mocking him.

and dream, remembering the responsibility he swore to take on as his own and no other’s, the word mine in echo through his soul, says, “no.”

and they war.

(you know this story.)

but it’s odd. it’s odd because after dream’s arrow sinks into tommy’s heart and dashes his soul against the rocks, he tastes ash in the back of his throat. it does not go away when he rinses his mouth out in the clear rivers of his land, nor when he gulps down a bucket of milk, nor when he bites into the cake his allies make to celebrate their victory.

the pastry melts on his tongue with what must be copious amounts of sugar, but he cannot tell that it is meant to be sweet.

dream tastes nothing but ash.

he laughs past it. there is an inkling of fear in his gut, but compared to the rib-shaking thunder of his heart when he’s low on health on a manhunt, it is easy enough to overlook. especially when tommy comes to him.

tommy offers a trade and dream is intrigued enough to accept. he figures that if tommy was willing to give up his most treasured items for this, for what is little more than a name and an toothless claim, then maybe this nation deserves a... chance.

in name, at least. not true independence—no more than a flower can be independent of the land it is rooted in—but there is no need to overreach his control when he’s already proven that they cannot do anything to him and his.

he lets them play. that’s what this server is for, in the end.

(the end. that should’ve been the end, but it’s not.)

not long passes before the fake nation festering like an unwelcome cancerous growth on dream’s land suddenly wants to make itself realer than before. it turns words to action with an election that goes sideways at its peak and buckles under itself. by the close of the day, its new leader has driven out its founding members, lighting the fuse to its own destruction.

dream, overlooking the chaos of it all, sighs.

this nation will never be anything more than a mistake, it seems. whether it is l’manburg or manburg does not matter; it binds its population by excluding something else, and thus by definition is a sin against a world made to be shared.

in the aftermath, dream curls a little tighter around his family, but it’s too late. the first crack has already been made and everyone is all the more fragile for it.

when a few more decide to take leave of the heartland, they do not tell dream. he finds out by the empty houses and unfamiliar flags, and he...

they...

... it’s fine. they did not like the fighting, is all. of course they would rebrand and skirt the violence.

it does not mean abandonment, surely.

dream does not raise his sword against his inner circle, no matter where they place their allegiances. he instead focuses on the one he’s certain is rotten to the core, and he’ll sing l’manburg’s praises if it means that piece of land will finally stop inciting war after war after war.

“its name is l’manburg, not manburg,” he says in the dark ravine of pogtopia, and wilbur cheers and tommy raises a brow and dream feels sick to his stomach.

tommy mumbles something about carbon monoxide poisoning and complains about the smoke from all the torches and campfires and lanterns they use to light up the place. wilbur rebukes that they cannot ventilate the smoke without giving themselves away, and so they bicker, but it occurs to dream that he hadn’t noticed the difference.

the stale smoke-tinged air smells the same as the fresh winds outside.

he’s handed a baked potato as he leaves. he holds it to his face for a beat before tentatively biting into it.

ash. dust.

the lack of taste, he’s grown used to. but his sense of smell is gone now as well, and that inkling of fear strengthens.

he remembers what he promised to the voices. his body will cave to the rebellion of the world, should he stray from its intended purpose. but he has yet to break an oath or abuse his powers. he doesn’t understand.

is it the side he’s on?

if the server vies for him to join manburg, then of course he will flip sides for it. of course he does. he even conspires behind their backs, ensuring that if pogtopia wins l’manburg still does not win.

he was right to, because the day of reckoning comes with the failure of manburg’s leader.

he was wrong to, because dream’s fingers go numb on the handle of his axe when he brings it down on his rival’s shield, and the feeling never returns. something in his chest sours with frustration.

(something cracks, deep inside, ripping apart hairline fractures into something more serious, more troubling. his soul quakes. the universe wails, but nobody has touched the server’s End by law decree, and the void goes unseen.)

dream rips off his helmet and lets time run out the invisibility running through his veins. he yields to pogtopia’s glaring victory with ease, because it was never the nation he fought for but his responsibility to the land it sat on.

and because he still wins, in the end. the ground ruptures as a blast consumes the remnants of manburg, and yet even then dream is the last to move away from it.

he knew it was coming, but reacted last, and not only that but overbalances along the way. he nearly tips sapnap into line of fire when he meant to pull him free from it.

they laugh it off later, but. sapnap looks over his shoulder more often. dream does not meet his gaze, instead contemplating the ground and how he did not feel the rumble of the earth before it blew.

he needs to sort this out. so he goes to find an open field.

he spends hours and then days in that field, figuring out how much he needs to pull back a bow to loose it swiftly. how tightly does he need to hold a weapon before he cracks its hilt? how roughly can he handle his own armor before the thorns bite back at him?

(elsewhere, an entity realizes it can touch, and it does. it uses that touch to kill those who kill on its sacred lands. the rules of the world must be followed. it does not know anything else.)

later still, a mushroom house burns.

dream looks to the smoldering remains with something tight and knotted and insufficient between his ribs, and then he looks to george, upset by the loss but upset more by dream taking back his crown, and he says, “it’s to keep you safe.”

his words leave his mouth, and the world falls silent.

dream blinks.

it’s not silent. he knows this because he can still feel the flames that should be crackling behind them, because george’s jaw is moving, because sapnap is nodding in agreement.

but they are silent. the world is silent.

no, the world is not silent. the world louder than it has ever been in its rebellion and his body is caving to it as he promised it would, and dream—dream does not falter, despite the sudden knowledge that the server he raised loathes every step he takes. he does not stammer.

he repeats the words he cannot hear but knows have left his lips, turns, and leaves.

he does not look back. he does not know that sapnap is calling after him, that george pauses mid-turn, that among the vitriol thrown at his back there is also a worry and a question. but there is no way for him to know, not with the server itself in uproar, devastatingly loud in the utter silence it inflicts on him.

fear claws up his lungs and he breaks from a walk to a jog to an outright run, and he runs and keeps running past all the structures he knows and built until it just forest and land and silence. safe, far, and alone, he digs his hands into the grassy dirt and says is this not what you wanted? is this not what i swore to do?

why do you hate me?

selfish, his precious world accuses. it is not a sound because there is no sound he can hear, but it is a hiss in his marrow, a keening in his soul. selfish, selfish. you leap for control you oughtn’t take and will burn them for it.

they burned me first.

did they? what did they do but till the fertile land? speak. speak. what did they do but flourish as you bid them to, wished them to?

they took from me and would not return it and struck back when i came to them. you are mine. i raised you.

and did you not freely give? is that not the purpose this world serves? do not forget. do not forget. do not forget.

dream does not so much pull back from the foundations of the world so much as it throws him out with teeth bared in warning and talons pressing down over his ribs, the ever-fragile beat of his heart cowed in its cage. it is a thought rather than a feeling, thankfully; just as it is the force of an arrow nearly knocking him down that makes him aware of the two others sticking out from his shoulders, once he lifted his arm to see what it was that had bumped into him.

his blood trickles down his arms as he yanks out the arrows, unfeeling.

fine, he thinks.

and dream, creator and administrator and player who cares too much and brought too much on his own shoulders, takes the injured confused uncomprehending thing so soft in the back of his mind, and puts it out.

enough is enough. his world is his server is his, and it will be brought to heel. even if it does not want him, and he does not want it, it is his to raise or raze and he will not have this haven ruined at the hands of the clumsy and unknowing.

who do you love, he asks it bitterly, yanking a netherite axe out of the air.

all of you.

who do you love, he asks again, and this time he finds his own answer in the way the events churn around one person, one survivor, one person who moves the server with a word and turns it against itself with another and leads every storm that rages: tommy.

all of you.

if you will not be mine, he says, then you will be no one’s. and he knows that this is a dangerous line to walk, and he has seen wilbur walk it to its bloody, deadly end, but he has right where wilbur had only words and songs. dream made this server for a reason and he will not give that up.

so he walks back.

he walks back, and he thinks, sourly, that maybe this is a blessing. the world takes his senses but he is stronger without them, really. who has need of taste or smell on a battleground? he can fight better like this, unfeeling, unburdened by pain.

it is easier to talk over their protests when he cannot hear them to begin with.

“exile tommy,” he tells tubbo, carefully shaping the words on his tongue, “and i will forgive you.”

and tubbo sputters and tommy rages and the world claws at him from the inside out, no, no, why are you doing this, this is not what was wanted.

he is calm, because their words pass over him without ever reaching.

he is calm, because they’re running out of time, and they will agree to him or die failing to. night is coming; shadows fall over them.

and then:

—nothing.

(nothing?)

nothing.

dream blinks. the void stares back at him, unblinking, stars aswirl and dancing, and just as he realizes that maybe night hadn’t come and maybe the void is not rising around him and maybe it’s just that his last sense is failing and maybe the world has rejected him for the last time and maybe everything he swore to do thinks he’s broken them and—

the silence breaks.

why why why why did you break what you swore was yours to uphold why did you lie why do you hurt and abuse and break. you were warned. you were told.

i didn’t.

you did. a server serves and you got in the way. do you not do this for your friends. why give them a beach to build on if you’re only going to punish them for using what they have. why. why why why.

... ,,uhhh honestly i don’t. know where this would go from here but because dream gets stopped early he still gets a chance to be better. the exile arc doesnt happen because dream just like collapses mid-negotiations lmao and even tommy feels kinda weird about stabbing him while he’s unresponsive. but i think i would like for the conclusion to be something like—

the universe says, i love you.

the world says, i love you more.

but it’s the the players holding him to their chests, hearts thumping in syncopation, tugging him from the brink of an edge that might have killed his love in a month’s time, who say, “i love you most. come back to us. come back.”

#my fics #dream smp fic #dream smp fanfiction #idk it's just a concept to toss around

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tenderdean · 3 years

Text

i was talking to @andromedaskyline about how we just know whatever this ending is gonna be will be—well, a punch to the gut at best, but then it got us thinking about what kind of ending we want for dean and listen. listen.

when all is said and done, dean is alive and well, and he drives off into the sunlit horizon, and at the end of that road after however much time he needs to recover—

he starts a halfway house.

a halfway house for hunters, yes, but mostly for kids.

kids like claire and krissy and josephine, and alex and patience. kids that fell out of their normal lives and into hunting, with no feasible way back out. kids like dean.

it’s a place to crash and recuperate, where there’s a roof over their heads and a bed to call their own and a food-stocked pantry (it never runs low. dean never lets it run low.) but also: a waypoint.

dean’s still got sonny’s number, and if there’s one person who can help a kid find a future or a family or a purpose, it’s sonny. (it’s also dean—but he’s not used to advertising himself; it’ll always feel like overselling.) he sits up late at night working through college applications, scholarship applications, to help these kids through the nightmare that is lying convincingly on paperwork. he teaches these kids all the things he had to learn by his lonesome: how to cook, how to clean and mend clothes and treat wounds and hustle pool without getting decked in the face. and if they’re set on hunting—and he gets it, he does, because retiring was never an option for him when there’s lives to be saved, and he knows how—then he rolls up his sleeves and he teaches them.

hunters are a special kind of people, too rebellious for their own good, but he knows not to push. anyone can leave, but anyone can also stay. and when they do, he’s got things to tell them: the fastest way to decapitate a vamp and torch a wendigo, where to park their getaway car, which weapons to always have on hand and which to leave in the motel room, never to leave a case too early to miss something or late enough for the cops to get you. who to call when they do. basic skills, survival skills, but there’s nothing basic about them anymore when they’ve amounted to his entire life and he’s perfected them, had to perfect them to stay alive through it all.

he’s seen things, butted heads with things that go unmentioned in even the thickest of lore books, and he makes sure they know how to take all of them down, or else how to sweet-talk it back where it came from. he makes sure every kid knows the vampire antidote by heart. he also tells them about purgatory, and to think hard before mercy-killing anything into an existence of blood-slash-blood-no-rest-no-peace. some things can save themselves: if they want to, let them, but make sure they follow through. it’s about the saving, not the killing, and if the two of them become muddied you have to save yourself first.

dean has a bed for you, in that case. a bed and a mean burger and an ear tilted in your direction.

sometimes, sam calls: dean lets it go to voicemail, and that’s a gift to them both. dean will leave a voicemail of his own, in time. he’ll talk for however long he wants to, about whatever he wants to, answers the questions he likes and doesn’t answer those he doesn’t. talks about the kids, all the time, about how much he wishes he could’ve done this for kevin. there’s no interrupting in voicemail, no pointed glares, and the new routine is maybe the healthiest they’ve ever had.

he still goes out on hunts, as a teaching outing with the kids or to let off steam or because it’s an all hands on deck sort of thing. he can’t let himself get rusty, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t indulge: memory foam on his bed, a monthly road trip in the Impala planned and followed through with, a nice, slim pair of new boots perhaps more often than he needs. it’ll take a while, but someday in the future, he even goes to the beach. leaves the united states to do it, and comes back toasty and bug-bitten and about fifty tons lighter by way of his soul.

it evolves, as kids leave and new ones come in, because no one can leave dean’s house without his number. it becomes a hub. dean makes sure there’s a weapons arsenal in the garage, stakes of various obscure woods and silver bullets by the thousand and machetes besides. they’re all for borrowing—he’ll get new ones if some don’t return. the rest of the garage is divided: the impala and all that’s needed for her upkeep, and a workbench, a visor, a torch. he works on side-projects. lets his inner inventor out to play. EMFs that can detect hex bags, glasses that fracture the light just weirdly enough that no ghost can slip past the wearer unnoticed.

that’s how, in ten years, he’ll reinvent the Colt. he makes as many bullets as he can, and it’s expensive, slow work, but it’s the largest ace any of them have ever had up their sleeves and he wants it to be available to anyone who needs it.

knowledge isn’t something to hoard, not when it can save lives. and fuck if holding the world together with his bare hands more than once, more than twice, didn’t leave him with some unconventional wisdoms, some hard-earned truths and bits of trivia that could never end up being useful but also very well could. he’s prepared for that. makes sure his kids are prepared, too.

it’s not just the kids anymore, though, not when the hunters among them have branched out and met other hunters and the world knows his name, anyway, for all kinds of reasons, good and bad. his is not a name that slips someone’s mind when it’s mentioned in passing. hasn’t been for a long, long while, and that was never a good thing until this: until it just grows around him, not murder-plots or resentment or a heathy dose of fear of being associated with him, not like a snare drawing tight but a garden. (he keeps one, out back. hasn’t really got that much of a knack for it, but some of the kids like ripping roots out of dirt, and hell, so does he.)

it’s not replacing bobby. he doesn’t pretend to be the FBI superintendent or social services or someone’s lawyer, not when he’s not out there in a suit. when a phone rings, the person on the other end always knows his name.

it starts out messy, and it’ll always be messy, but it becomes more structured as they go. a demon case comes in: they’ve got people specializing in that, send them out. a rugaru: the same. and if it’s something that’s truly Out There, they send dean, and he’ll handle that. when he comes home, he’ll make sure that next time, it won’t be just him who knows what to do.

some kids start penning down comprehensive lore books, his dad’s journal with the volume turned up, with only the stuff that’s true and none of the fluff, the muddied waters. dean contributes to that more than he expects, at first, and suddenly they’re crowding and crawling around him, eager for his input. turns out he has a lot to say.

not enough for the kids, though, it seems, because they keep sneaking carver edlund’s books into the house when he has banned them, has made it a bold point on his penned-down list of house rules. he finds them stuffed under mattresses and as pdfs on phones. he burns what he can. but he also says, okay, all right, i’ll write a fucking memoir if that’s what it takes to get you people to stop smuggling this trash in. and he lays down the basics: azazel’s plot and meddling angels, an apocalypse or two, what’s there besides the earth and how to make sure you never go there. nothing warranting gaudy pulp covers with half-naked men on them. if anyone wants to know which brother did what, they’ll have to be damn good at reading between the lines, because dean’s too over it to point fingers, especially not when his words might stick around for other generations to read and judge and point their own. he doesn’t put his name on it. leaves it anonymous.

what he doesn’t count on are the notes in the margins, the whispered conversations after dinner or the glances he’ll get: that he’s the hero of that story, he’s just too humble to write it down.

he only yells about that once.

in the end, it’s like this: there’s no american men of letters, but there’s people of action, and they all cluster around the heart of the country where the drive is about the same to each coast, and at the heart of that is dean.

in the very, very end, it’s like this: his memoir goes into print, and there’s a preface telling his name in bold letters, and clarifying the details he had made sure to leave extra vague. if you’re in a roadhouse bar somewhere—and there’s more of them now, run by those who wouldn’t stay but wouldn’t leave, either—there’s a solid chance you’ll run into a dean or deanna or ten, and they can tell you exactly who they were named after and why.

but right now, it’s just a chance, something to build out of nothing, something he wishes he had back when. something to turn his north towards, to pour all his strengths in that have grown from pain and weakness. they do always say the best leaders are those who never wanted to lead. out of all the rubble, something that’ll hold up without him there to keep it together, though he’s the heart that beats in it, anyway. he’s the home it grew up in.

#dean winchester deserves better #we both spitballed this into this huge wonderful thing #and it helped so much. so had to share #text #prose #fic

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dawn-of-tomorrow · 3 years

Text

shoutout to @punishing-gray-raven-ocs for this ask game!! (didin't expect to be tagged with one so soon lolol but i'm overjoyed~~ ｡ﾟ(ﾟ´Д｀ﾟ)ﾟ｡❤️❤️)

1) What made you even think of trying Punishing Gray Raven? What made you stick with it?

Funny story actually-- I've long heard about PGR, way back when it was first released even, but I just didn't give it a chance back then mainly because it was in CN and I couldn't understand shit (rather ironic given how I am now lmao).

As for why I decided fairly recently, a couple of months give or take, to give PGR a shot? It's mainly due to the fact that I heard that the Global version would be out very soon, so I thought why not dive into what I've missed so far... not knowing that I'd become THIS obsessed with the game, aha~.

The most obvious thing that made me stick to this game are the interesting cast of characters, the "fun" story, the amazing yet simple game mechanics, and etc. etc.

2) What problems, if any, do you have with PGR?

Honestly speaking, the thing that most VEXES me at the moment about PGR, specifically PGR Global, is the wonky translations. It feels like a group of half-assed fan translators and one official translator who's not doing a good enough job with reigning everyone in instead of feeling like a group of professional translators who know what they're doing. Hell, I've seen better translations from some of my twitter mutuals!

3) Who is your favorite Construct, and why?

Lee. There's no question about it, Lee is my most favorite Construct at the moment (and forever perhaps ohoho~). As for why, god, hold that mic for a bit, I'm gonna go on a fucking rant. Ehem.

First of all, let's start with the most basic of things, like his appearances; As Palefire, he looks like this suave, very aloof, super serious, unapproachable, and "gets shit done efficiently" type of person, and while that description certainly isn't wrong, it's also hiding more layers of Lee's overall personality; as Entropy, he certainly looks and feels bit more casual than before, along with feeling somewhat more, even if a tiny bit, more honest with his feelings and easier to approach than before.

Despite being a serious, no-nonsense, grumpy guy, he's prone to occasionally quip and snark at anyone at their own expense especially if they get on his nerves (see his interactions with Kamui, not even the Commandant is spared from this!). He's also not as cold and distant as he may come across, given that, early on, he quite literally jumps in front of Liv to take a hit that was meant for her with absolutely no hesitation whatsoever, he's almost always the first person to make comments on the Commandant's state as well as express his undiluted feelings (though not without hiding it on occasion behind anger/annoyance, thus making it a case of "anger born from worry").

You can also easily tell if you pay close enough attention to his dialogue and actions that he's not good with expressing his true feelings even to the people he cares about (thankfully Murray, Skk, Lucia, Liv, Kamui, etc. can usually pick up on what he really wants to say), is the type to often be misunderstood due to him being the kind of person who believes in "actions speak louder than words", that he's used to taking care of others instead of prioritizing himself even to his own detriment; while making it clear that he prefers to think and act in a logical and practical manner, he's not exempt to having emotions/feelings, as such, he can be pretty empathetic towards other people even if he doesn't look like it (he's even the first one in the Gray Raven squad to point out WHY EXACTLY the people they come across in Echo Aria refuse to leave their homes even with high risk of the Red Tide washing everything away, and fully understanding as well as getting it).

Alrighty I'm gonna cut that segment short now before this becomes too long for anyone to read through, ehe~!

4) What made you think of designing PGR OCs, instead of making yourself into a self-insert?

.... Actually, truth be told, both of my Skks are, in some way, self-inserts~. It's just that they start out as one before eventually developing into their own characters with only hints/traces of their self-insert origin. Though my Construct OCs are definitely not self-inserts, that much I can certainly say so!

I made them mainly because I really enjoyed the official cast so much I wanted to make characters that would get to interact with them somehow, though I take great care in making sure they aren't TOO out of character with how they're canonically portrayed.

5) What's your thought process behind creating your OCs?

Honestly, it usually starts of something like this--

"lol wouldn't it be funny if I made this type of character? Oooh, what if they interacted with this character? Or this character? Or that character? Let's see, what's missing... Backstory and profile, check. Appearance, I'll sketch one in a bit. Hmmm... I know! *drowns the OC in mountains load of angst*"

6) What's your favorite chapter from the main story?

If I'm limited to talking only about the main chapters currently released on Global then it would have to be Fallen Star, mainly because it's Watanabe's time to shine~. (*´∀｀*)

However, if we were to look at the overall chapters, then, I would have to say Imprisoned Sight.

7) What do you think of the new Liv shown in the latest stream? Where do you think the story is going with her? What do you think happened to Gray Raven?

With Liv, I have a really bad and somber feeling about what Kuro Game has in store for her, given how she looks almost complete different than what she's looked so far, as well as the vibe her new look gives off.

Fuck, I wouldn't be surprised if they decided to thanos snap her memories away as well like they did with Lucia, or worse, infect her with the Punishing and turn her into an actual enemy (for a while before we get her back).

As for Gray Raven, considering what happened at the end of Evernight Beat, wherein the Skk is in a fucking coma with a chunk of the Mother Structure lodged in their abdomen, while Lee and Lucia are in repairs along with Liv, and, if I recall correctly, the Merciful One managed to reach Babylonia and is now onboard the space station as well-- I have a feeling that the despairing Liv will be approached by her and be given a new frame.

8) Have you seen the animated shorts? What do you think of them?

If you're talking about the Panini anime then yes, I've watched them already! Still ripping my insides open from laughter everytime I watch them lol. Favorite episode has got to be the toilet episode, next to that would be the episode where Chrome takes Kamui to Karenina and Liv for training.

9) So do Constructs eat or not? (I'm really confused, especially since I saw Karenina sipping a drink in one of the shorts)

Oh they most certainly can! Fuck, it's even explicitly stated that Camu likes to eat and sample foods whenever he can (revealed in his secrets, as well as his affection stories).

As Camu explains, while they don't get nutrients from human food, they most certainly can still enjoy them and use them as a type of fuel.

10) Do you think Kamui and/or Camu will be a really pivotal plot device at some point, considering how the information on Kamui is so top secret?

Hmmmm.... unless the story at that point is revolving around Kurono Ops and how shady they're being, then personally speaking, the chances are slim.

11) Do you think, at any point, any of the Gray Ravens will die off?

Naaaaaah. They won't do that. Sure, they TECHNICALLY killed off Lucia, but she's still "alive" in a sense, so it both counts and doesn't count.

Besides, sometimes death isn't the worse thing you can inflict on someone/a character~.

12) Who is your least favorite Construct, and why?

I don't really hate/dislike any of the Constructs if I'm being honest. Though I hate how shitty of a unit Sophia is, and that it's kinda pitiful that she's become even more useless now that the new S-Liv is here; but I am in no way saying you should stop using her, keep using Sophia if you really like her! It's your choice after all, and I'm not about to contest you on that part, after all, everyone's enjoyment is subjective.

13) What part of PGR's lore really holds your attention?

The part of the lore that really holds my attention are the characters, and seeing how they react and act to the situations happening to and around them, especially concerning the Punishing and forces out of their control~.

#punishing gray raven #pgr #战双帕弥什 #戰雙帕彌什 #パニシング #パニシンググレイレイヴン #mun speaks #mun yasu #mun ramblings #ask game #ask #ask box #ask box open

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sondrawr · 3 years

Text

Where Monsters Dwell

“What kind of place is this?” “The kind of place where fairy tales live and monsters dwell.” —Smoke Bitten

Adam Hauptman is intimately acquainted with fear. It was born in a jungle in Vietnam and never quite left him. Even in his happiest moments—of which there were many, especially recently—it lurks in the fringes. Lying in wait.

When he sees Mercy broken on the burnt grass, seemingly dead, he feels that fear claw up his chest and strangle him. He blacks out for god knows how long, his worst fear playing like a feedback loop in his mind. It isn’t until Samuel, still wolf, bites him in the arm that he finally comes to.

That’s how Adam finds himself, naked and half covered in blood, cradling Mercy’s body. His pack huddles around him, worry creasing their faces. He feels the stink of his fear billowing out of him like smoke, choking everyone around him.

“She’s alive, damn it!” Gary finally manages to gasp. He is panting, voice raspy. How long had he been trying to tell him?

Adam reaches down into himself and feels for that thread-thin bond that connects him to his heart’s mate. It’s there, flickering. He grasps it in both hands, wrapping it around his wrist, anchoring himself to sanity. To her.

Mercy survives that night, like she has done so often before. But one day her luck will run out; his fear whispers the words he knows too well. She’s not like Coyote—damn the man—who resurrects like the sun every morning.

Adam hates beyond telling that her unconquerable spirit is wrapped in such an insubstantial thing as human skin and bones.

:::

Adam first met Mercy Thompson in Montana when she was about thirteen years old. He was up on business, Alpha of a New Mexico pack and newly engaged to a blonde, 22-year-old coed named Christy.

Mercy at the time, before the deaths of her foster parents robbed her of childhood, was still all scraped knees and awkward arms of adolescence. Jutting chin and slumped shoulders—defiant and bored.

There was a ghost of a bruise on her face from the accident where she wrapped Bran’s brand new sports car around a tree. He had heard of that incident within hours of it happening, as he suspected most wolves did, even across the ocean. Mercy’s antics were already famous.

She sat on a chair outside Bran’s office, the scuffed toe of her sneaker knocking into a leggy console table nearby. Looking at him sidelong, she had the air of someone waiting their turn at the principal’s office.

When the door finally opened to let him in, he asked, “What did she do this time?” He stepped around Bran to enter the office.

Bran’s mouth pressed flat in an irritated line, while Charles smirked in the corner. He was the one who answered: “Something about chocolate Easter bunnies.”

“She poisoned a group of boys at school,” Bran snapped, closing the door a little too roughly behind Adam.

“Really?” That seemed a bit extreme for the young girl, whose reputation for pranks were mostly harmless, if effective.

“She injected several chocolate Easter bunnies with ipecac,” Charles explained. “And then warned the boys not to steal them, or ‘they would pay.’ They, of course, did not listen. Apparently the boys had been in the habit of stealing the younger kids’ candy for a while.”

Adam laughed despite himself.

“She wants for discipline,” Bran said with a frown.

“Mercy has plenty of discipline,” Charles answered. “It’s the focus of it, that’s the problem. Her interests are too narrow and she has an overdeveloped sense of justice.”

“And her foster father can’t do anything?” asked Adam.

Charles smirked. “If Mercy were a wolf, I wouldn’t be surprised if she outranked him. Any good she does is out of love for Bryan and his mate, not because of fear or intimidation.”

That was, Adam realized, the principle by which Mercy lived her life. It was the driving force of all she did for her family and friends—the pack she forged for herself, not with magic ties but by fierce loyalty and reckless love.

:::

It has been months since she recovered from her devastating injuries. Injuries that Samuel said at first would be the end of her. Her survival is nothing short of a miracle and, Adam suspects, a bit of Coyote’s magic.

Now night holds new terrors for him. He lays in bed at night just listening to the steady beating of his mate’s fragile, mortal heart. Dreading the day when it would inevitably stop.

:::

Mercy was twenty-three when he next saw her in the middle of a Washington desert. Alone in the world but still causing trouble. The first order of business for his newly arrived pack was eliminating the rogue wolves who were harassing her. Saved without so much as a thank you.

Was it coincidence or conspiracy that brought her to the Tri-Cities when Bran had ordered Adam to move his pack north from New Mexico? Coincidence on her part probably, but definitely not Bran’s, whose machinations were wide reaching and infamous.

That Adam bought the property behind her trailer was pure, ornery spite on his part.

She had marched up to him on the first day of construction and stuck a finger in his chest. “Tell Bran that I don’t need a babysitter,” she told him, eyes flashing. “I’ve done fine for eight years without his help—I’m done with wolves.”

“Good to know,” he answered, because he knew that response would drive her crazy, and turned back toward the construction of his pack house. He imagined her making faces at the back of his head and smiled.

:::

He kisses a line down her body, pausing at the shiny-pink of each new scar. Scars she earned in defense of his pack—in defense of him.

And he knows his love is killing her.

Oh god, would her life be better without him? Yes, the fear—the monster—inside him says. Yessss. We will kill herrrrr.

Panic like bile rises in his throat, and he gulps it down. Beneath him Mercy tenses, sensing his change of mood. He murmurs quietly, nuzzling her, lulling her back into softness underneath him. His lovely Mercy. His mate, for who he would willingly lay down his soul, let alone his body.

Whom he would kill for. Without question.

This. This will be his goodbye, then.

He presses a kiss to her inner knee, to her neck, and then presses into her, drawing a sigh from her lips. With his own he continues his careful ministrations, whispering a benediction against every mark on her skin that dares to be there because of him.

:::

His touch is a disease. His touch is a curse.

He can’t bear lying next to her and not touching her, so he doesn’t. He stays late in his office. He sleeps in the spare guest room. It’s killing him, but every day she’s alive, and it’s worth it.

It’s killing him that she wanders the house with those empty eyes, a line of concern between her brows, the hurt and confusion that clearly marks her face.

But at least she is alive. And soon, it will be over.

:::

Adam’s favorite memory of Mercy—the one he thinks of before he puts the gun to his head—is of her in the wedding dress too fancy for the church reception that his pack and daughter put together. She’s dancing with Jesse, at the heart of the people he loved most in the world, swaying to a country song blasting from the church’s ancient speaker system. And she turns to him and smiles.

He can see it as clear as if it were right in front of him. There was so much love in her face then. How different are those faces, the one from his memory and the one Mercy wears at this moment, when she finally sees him for the monster he is.

But she is not disgusted and horrified, as he feared she would be. She is furious. She throws a barrage of words against him, her unfettered anger like a battering ram.

In the years Adam had known and loved Mercy, he has become intimately acquainted with her many moods. Sneaky, playful, worried, content. They were as familiar to him as the feel of Mercy’s calloused hands in his.

Her white hot rage was something entirely new. And through clenched teeth she seethes a truth so utterly profound, that in that moment it shatters the madness that grips him. He lowers the gun in his hand.

Three simple words they had spoken to each other again and again. Whispered in passion and in play. Promised—sworn.

“You are mine.”

:::

He believes her. And for now, so does the monster.

You are mine.

He follows her home, to bed. And though he can’t make love to her like he wants, he worships her body with oil and hands and mouth.

It isn’t until she is completely sated and asleep when the monster rips through his body again. A monster that he now realizes is the ugly marriage of his own fear and self loathing, and Elizaveta’s death curse.

But instead of hurting his mate like Adam fears, the monster scrabbles out from beneath the covers and huddles in the corner of the room. It sits there watching his mate, the covers rising and falling to the rhythm of her breathing.

Within a few minutes, the even breaths stutter and stop. “Adam?” she calls, voice rough with sleep.

It’s the monster that growls in response, and Adam waits. It didn’t work, he thinks. The monster is still here. Will you finally leave me like you’re supposed to?

And still he remembers her promises: You are mine. You are mine. You are mine.

“For fuck’s sake,” she says sounding annoyed. “Get back to bed. I’m cold.”

Oh, my Mercy.

After a moment, the monster cautiously approaches the bed, and it creaks under the sudden weight. It wraps itself around her, tucking her head under its chin. She draws up the covers over them both, and they settle to sleep.

For the first time in a long time Adam prays. Let this be enough. This love. Let me be enough to keep her safe.

If God is kind and he is lucky, maybe it will be.

Maybe the monster will love her, too.

#mercy thompson #mercyverse #Mercy Thompson fanfic #my writing #sondrawr writes #adam hauptman #mercyverse alphabet series

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spookyboywhump · 3 years

Text

YEAAHAHAHA PART ONE OF WREN’S BLINDING IS HERE

This got longer than I expected so the follow up will contain the aftermath >:3c I’ll be real I do not care if this is at all medically inaccurate, I’m sticking to it because I love it so much. This is in fact the canon timeline, I’ve decided this is canon and shall be that way from here on out

Word Count: 2,011

CW: EYE WHUMP. EYE TRAUMA. Pet whump, dehumanization, (nonsexual) noncon touching

***

He had no way of knowing how that night would end. He had no way of knowing what his mistake would lead to, what one poorly thought out action would cause. He had no way of knowing, but he’d end up wishing so, so badly that he could’ve predicted the agony he’d be in by the end of the night.

He was tense with fear and anxiety after being separated from Zander. They were forced to follow Cain to one of those awful gatherings, several other owners and colleagues of his there. Zander had gotten led away by Vanessa, and Wren found himself alone, surrounded by a small group who seemed to take interest in him. He didn’t see Cain anywhere among them, he wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad thing though.

“Don’t look so scared, pretty puppy.” One of the men said, crouching down to look at him. Wren instinctively tried to back away, though it was hard when he was sitting on his knees, he only ended up backing into one of the other men, who almost affectionately ruffled his hair.

“He looks more like a frightened rabbit than a dog.” He snickered, and Wren jerked away from him, glancing between the men fearfully. In the back of his mind he knew he was breaking a rule, he knew he was never allowed to pull away, but he couldn’t help it. Without Zander there to protect him, without Cain there to call them off, he was terrified.

“P-Please…” He whimpered, his voice cracking, though it only caused the men to laugh. The one who crouched down with him grabbed his face, tilting his head side to side.

“I wonder how much Cain would want for you… the bastard probably has a high price but I think it would be worth it.”

“You think he’s going to part with the pup? I hear he makes him good money, there’s no way he’d give him up.”

“Y-yeah, uh, m-my master doesn’t want t-to get rid of me…” He said, reaching a hand up to push the man’s hand away, though he’d barely touched him before the man had drawn back and slapped him, his head snapping to the side.

“You’d better keep your hands to yourself, mutt.” He snarled, reminding Wren just how angry these people got over being touched.

“Aww, you made him angry.” The other man said, sounding amused. “How are you going to make up for it, hm puppy?”

“I-I don’t…” He glanced around nervously, almost desperately searching for Zander. He didn’t know what he thought Zander could do, despite his best efforts things often ended poorly when he intervened, but still, his presence was safe and comforting, and right now, Wren needed that. He flinched when the man who had touched him grabbed his arm, getting to his feet and forcing Wren to do the same. He quickly scanned the room for a familiar face, Zander, Cain, even Vanessa or Nicholas would be welcome right now, anybody he knew who he could beg for help. He had a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach, a feeling like he had to run.

“If Cain hasn’t noticed your absence by now then he won’t notice if we sneak off for a little bit.” The man said, hand slipping down his arm to grab his wrist. He tried to pull him away from the small group, but Wren dug his heels into the floor, refusing to move.

“I-I’m not going with you!” He snapped, trying to sound less scared than he felt. “I don’t-I don’t know you, a-and Cain- my master wouldn’t let you do this anyway!”

“And your master doesn’t have to know as long as you keep your pretty little mouth shut. Now be a good boy and come on.” He pulled harder and Wren stumbled a few steps, only to pull back again, trying to keep from being dragged off. He was prepared this time, hand clenched into a fist, and when the man turned to snap at him, he swung. His fist hit him dead in the eye and he was finally let go of, stumbling back as the man swore in pain. It wasn’t like him, he knew that, and he knew he was in trouble so he had every intention to run, only to be grabbed by the collar and harshly yanked back by one of the other men.

“You shouldn’t have done that you little bitch.” The man he’d hit snarled, before Wren could throw up his arms to defend himself he was cracked across the face, falling to the floor as he was finally let go of. He was used to being attacked this way, instinctively trying to curl up to protect himself, but before he knew it he was being grabbed, forced onto his back and held down as the man straddled his waist.

“S-stop!” He cried, breathing frantically. In a last ditch effort he tried to call for help, hoping to be heard over the growing crowd, but a hand was clapped over his mouth, quickly silencing him. He still struggled to get free but his arms were pinned at his side, rendering him completely helpless.

“Misbehaving pets have to be punished, you know that don’t you?” He said with a sadistic grin, Wren watching him with wide eyes. He hated how quickly these people flipped, how the smallest thing could make an annoyance into a threat. His instincts told him to defend himself to avoid the worst possible scenario but he knew it was a bad idea, he knew it couldn’t have ended any other way than this.

“What’re you going to do to him?” One of the men asked, sounding intrigued. “Give him a black eye to match the one you’re gonna have?” He snickered.

“He’s a fighter, a black eye is nothing to him.” He said dismissively. “No, he needs something more… memorable, make sure he doesn’t make this mistake again.” He said. Wren cried out behind his hand, struggling and kicking his legs in frustration.

He was looking around frantically while they discussed what should be done to him, desperately looking for a familiar face. He wanted Zander, he knew he’d help but he was alone, completely at their mercy- and his one shred of hope came from the last place he expected. He never thought he’d be relieved to see Nicholas of all people, but he pushed through the crowd, coming to get a look at what was going on. He hated to ask Nicholas for anything, but he knew what he liked from him, and as he finally shook the man’s hand off his mouth, he gave it one try, a final attempt to escape this unscathed.

“S-sir, sir please h-help me!” He cried, as pathetic as possible, hoping that looking at him with big, tear filled eyes would win him over.

“My, my, it looks like you’ve gotten yourself into some trouble, hm love?” He said. “I’d expect this from the mutt, but not from you.”

“I-it was- It was an accident-“ He insisted, only to be interrupted by the man holding him down.

“You little fucking liar, you know you did that on purpose!” He snapped at him, slapping his hand over his mouth again.

“And what’s going to be his punishment? Cain is a bit caught up with somebody right now but I don’t think he’ll mind if I give the okay.” He said casually.

“I’m not sure yet, why? You got any suggestions?” He asked, and Nicholas seemed to think it over, taking a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from his jacket pockets as he did so.

“You could beat him. Cane him maybe if you can find one on hand.” He said, holding a cigarette in his mouth and lighting it. He took a drag from it before continuing, “You could always whip him with a belt, or carve him up- I even have a knife with me if you need it. What exactly did he do to cause this again?”

“He fucking hit me, the stupid fucking mutt.” He said bitterly.

“Break his fingers then.” He said calmly, Wren’s breath hitching in his throat. “If you want to be creative, you could rip his nails off, but you may not have the tools for that just lying around.” He suggested, and Wren whined pathetically, tears already streaming down his face. The man seemed to be considering his options, Wren knew he wouldn’t like any of them but he certainly hoped for one of the easier ones. After a moment of studying Wren’s face, he looked up at Nicholas.

“Your cigarette- give that to me.” He said, holding his hand out, and though he looked irritated at being ordered around, Nicholas obliged. Wren was almost relieved, he could handle a cigarette burn, even if it was on his face. “Right or left, puppy?” He asked him, taking his hand off his mouth. Frankly, Wren didn’t care which side of his face he burned, but seeing as he already had a scar on the right side of his face, he made his mind up quickly.

“L-left…” He whimpered, taking a shuddering breath as he prepared for the burn- but he swore his heart stopped at the next words he said.

“You,” He said, directed to the other man who’d been harassing him, “Hold his eye open for me, will you?”

“W-wait- wait wh-what?!” He stammered, his eyes going wide as the other man knelt down. He tried to squeeze his eyes shut but he easily pried his left eye open, being as rough as possible in doing so. The man straddling him held his face still with one hand, the cigarette held in the other, and a sense of panic crashed over him like a wave. “N-no, no please, you can’t!” He cried. “I’m sorry- I’m sorry, I-I’ll do anything but-but please, don’t!” He begged, looking to Nicholas for help again. “S-sir, please- please don’t let him do this, I swear I’ll be good, I-I’ll do anything you ask, *please* stop this…”

“Oh love, I’d like to help you but then you wouldn’t learn your lesson now would you?” He said, faux sympathy in his voice only making Wren sicker, he cried out in frustration. He looked around frantically, all he saw was the smug looks of the men holding him down, and the fascinated and curious faces of the crowd that had gathered, drawn to the sight of an unruly mutt being punished.

From his left eye, that would be the last thing he would see.

He didn’t take his time, there wasn’t an agonizing buildup, he quickly jabbed the hot end of the cigarette into Wren’s eye and the boy shrieked. He fought against the weight holding him down, his hands clenched into fists, nails digging into his palms until they bled, but the man just further ground the end of the cigarette into his eye, wringing more screams out of him.

“S-stop stop stop please!” He shrieked. “H-help m-me, p-please some-someone help me!” He shouted, praying somebody would have mercy on him. He screamed it over and over again, begging for help until the man finally got off him and the other let go of his eyelids, but even without the crushing weight and the cigarette against his eye, the pain was still there, he brought his hands up to cover his eye as he curled up on the floor, shaking and sobbing as he listened to the murmurs of the crowd around him.

Beneath all the pain he was hit by a familiar feeling, one that twisted him up inside and made him sick. It was just like the brand- it never should’ve happened, nothing this permanent should’ve happened to him, somebody should’ve helped him and they didn’t, a further reminder that he didn’t matter to these people, he was an animal, an object, and he’d be lucky if he ever made it out of here alive.

#whump #my writing #my oc's #wren #nicholas #unnamed whumpers #eye whump #eye trauma #pet whump #dehumanization #tune in next time for Cain and Zander's reactions!#along with Wren's aftermath uwu #this is fantastic i was so damn excited for this im AAAAAAAAAA #wrip wren's eye

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tickles-tea · 3 years

Text

The Cycle of Temptation

If me busting out a fic in time for Izaya’s birthday doesn’t show how much I love him, nothing else will.

Izaya’s impeccable aim was not limited to knives, it seemed, as the ball of fabric hit its target straight on. The target being Shizuo Heiwajima’s face, of course.

Izaya cackled at the dull smack his coat made. “Hahaha! Where are those monster instincts of yours, Shizu-chan?” He taunted with a grin from where he was perched on the roof of a small bakery. Standing above the crowd and backlit by the sun, he almost appeared like an angel descending from the heavens. A kind hand granting humans salvation from their sins as if he hadn’t been the snake tempting them into depravity in the first place.

And poor Shizuo couldn’t help but chase the forbidden fruit.

From below, he skidded to a stop and ripped the jacket away with a snarl. His cheeks were tinged red with rage and what Izaya could bet was embarrassment. “Izaya, you bastard!” His gripped the jacket in a trembling fist before his face lit up with inspiration. What kind of thing the protozoan thought up, Izaya couldn’t say, but it was sure to be undoubtedly stupid. “Get down here so I can strangle you with this shitty coat!”

There was a beat of silence.

Ah, I was right, Izaya thought to himself. That is stupid.

“Eh? Are you five?” He drawled patronisingly, lips quirked on a pitying smile. “You have to work hard for what you want~” And with that, he was off again, running and jumping around like the flea Shizuo claimed he was.

The chase went on for another few minutes-leaving an impressive level of property damage in its wake-before it came to a standstill once again. At Izaya’s unspoken command, of course. They were in an alley now, shadowed from the sun and out of the way of any one who might intervene. Not that anyone was stupid enough to try. Their squabbles were frequent enough for most people to continue on their way without a second glance. They’d catch their trains and go to work and return to their everyday lives.

Just as Izaya was living his.

“It seems you’ve caught me, Shizu-chan! Whatever shall I do~” Izaya purred, turning around to face his pursuer with open arms. Shizuo was just as-if not more-pissed off as he’d been a few minutes prior, and surprisingly, still had Izaya’s jacket clutched in his left hand.

Izaya blinked. He hadn’t expected Shizuo to actually hang onto it.

“Oh? You still have that? Don’t tell me Shizu-chan is one of those people who gets off on sniffing clothes,” Izaya laughed, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back on his heels.

“Shut up! I’ll kill you!” Shizuo shot back, but there was no denying the blush coloring the tips of his ears. He stomped forward, fists clenched at his sides, until he came face to face with the most infuriating man on the planet. “I’ll kill you,” he repeated, voice softer. Perhaps now that he was actually faced with the decision, his brain took a turn, because instead of wrapping the coat around Izaya’s neck as a makeshift noose and killing him once and for all, he turned Izaya around and pushed him up against the wall.

He breathed harshly against the back of Izaya’s neck, all the while Izaya grinned like the cat who got the cream. “Oh? Like this, it almost seems like you’re more interested in a little death than a murder,” Izaya purred, voice as smooth and silky as the prize. His palms pressed against the rough surface of the wall, bracing himself for what was to come. Teeth digging into flesh, strong hands pressing bruises into his hips. The thought had his lashes dipping with want.

Shizuo grunted behind him, still for a moment. Izaya could feel his warm breath fanning across his nape, and his skin prickled in anticipation. It was strange for Shizuo to hesitate like this. He was a man who ran purely on instinct-acting first and facing the repercussions later. And they were far past the point of caring about repercussions.

He grabbed Izaya’s wrists suddenly, pulling them together behind Izaya’s back and tying the sleeve of the jacket around them. Izaya blinked, obviously surprised, but he hardly seemed to mind even as his cheek pressed into the wall. “Ha, who knew Shizu-chan was into this kind of thing?” He purred with a snicker. It was a tight bind, but he knew by now that if Shizuo really wanted to hurt him, he’d be dead.

“You’re a piece of shit, you know that?” Shizuo grumbled into his ear, leaning in oh so close. His voice was impossibly deep, more of a growl than anything, and it shook Izaya to the core.

Izaya smirked. Even as vulnerable as he was, he still teased and taunted, hoping to push Shizuo into action. To make him bite the apple. “What are you gonna do about it?”

This time, it was Shizuo’s turn to grin. Animalistic and wild in the way Izaya loved. “This.” Strong hands latched onto Izaya’s sides and squeezed with just enough pressure to make him want to crawl out of his skin. Izaya’s eyes widened in realization, and he started struggling to get away. However, he was literally caught between a rock and a hard place. There was no way to squirm free, pressed against the wall as he was.

“Uwahaha! Y-you monster! Nahahahaha!” Giggles burst past his lips as Shizuo pinched up and down his sides, tweaking at his ribs every so often to make him jump. His hands flexed uselessly behind his back as he tried to stop the attack, but every time he twisted to one side, the other would be targeted. “No! This isn’t what I wahahanted, you protozoan!”

In all honesty, Izaya had expected less humiliation and more making out. And Shizuo, the bastard, probably knew it too.

“Yeah? Well, I didn’t want to have to chase you out of my city today, so I guess we’re both out of luck,” he countered with a cruel grin, hooking his chin over Izaya’s shoulder and pulling him close against his chest.

Venturing fingers explored further and found their way under the hem of Izaya’s shirt, teasing and tickling the soft skin of his belly. “Ah! No, no, nahahaha!” Izaya squirmed frantically, throwing his head back with the force of his laughter. His muscles jumped with each brush of calloused fingers, but with his arms bound and his body held steady in the grip of the beast, there was no reprieve.

Shizuo chuckled at the way Izaya bounced and jerked and danced around, jumping from one foot to the other in his futile attempts to wiggle free. He seemed to take particular joy in the squeal Izaya let out when he scritched at his belly button; it was loud and embarrassing and promptly followed up by a stream of high pitched giggles that were far too innocent to be coming from a man like Izaya.

“Fahahaha! I’ll-! I’ll kihihihill you! Stahahahap!” Izaya gasped out a curse when Shizuo pressed into an especially sensitive patch of nerves on the side of his stomach. He was practically folding in on himself, knees jerking up to protect his midsection before he lost his balance and had to steady himself again.

His legs were growing weak-from the struggling or from the tickling itself, Izaya didn’t know. Nor did he want to. It was mortifying enough that he had let himself be caught in this situation in the first place. Being tickled like this in public, by Shizuo no less… it would take awhile for his pride to recover.

For how often Izaya was seen as the sadist, Shizuo showed little mercy as he skillfully honed in on the spots that prompted the strongest reactions. He massaged his fingers into the soft give of Izaya’s lower belly and was rewarded with loud frantic laughter and desperate squirming. Tracing along the sensitive rim of his navel earned him squeaks and giggles and lips stretched in a helpless grin.

It was only when Izaya’s laughter became wheezy and his lashes wet with tears that Shizuo finally relented.

Izaya sagged in his arms, residual giggles falling from his lips and shaking his sore shoulders as he tried to catch his breath. His legs felt like jelly, and he was sure he’d crumble to the ground if not for Shizuo’s steady hands holding him up. Those deceptively brutish hands...

Shizuo could be surprisingly gentle at times despite his inhuman strength. While Izaya loved the way Shizuo could lift him and hold him up against a wall for hours on end during their late night trysts, there were times when his touch was so light Izaya could barely feel it at all. A comforting brush up his thigh, a careful touch on his cheek. Nothing like the violence and destruction that came from his clenched fists.

Shizuo could be gentle.

But Izaya would prefer broken bones over this torture any day.

With his breathing now somewhat even, Izaya looked over his shoulder to level Shizuo with the most aggrieved glare he could muster. “Shizu-chan…,” He murmured, voice low on irritation as he tugged on his still bound arms.

Shizuo-who had been sporting an oddly soft smile-chuckled and set about untying the knot he’d created with the coat’s sleeve. “I take it we’re not heading back to my place this time?”

Incredulous and more than a little outraged, Izaya reeled back, mouth already forming around a barrage of insults before he paused. His expression evened out then, any trace of annoyance leaving his face in an instant. But what replaced it was not kind or understanding. It was wicked, mischievous, a red light flashing danger. And the words that he spoke as he rolled his shoulders and held up the wrinkled coat sent an uneasiness down Shizuo’s spine that almost seemed to seep into his bones.

However, with the uneasiness came a certain excitement, a thrill.

“We should go. Since Shizu-chan seems to like this so much, it’s only fair he gets to experience it as well, right~?”

#Durarara #shizuo heiwajima #izaya orihara #shizaya #tickling #Ticklish!izaya #my writing #In time for Izaya’s birthday~#Barely lol

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deijnar · 3 years

Text

The only one who makes me nervous

Incredible but true - I wrote something! And am posting it!

This is my piece for the great @mysme-rbb and I got to collaborate with @braincellbank, definitely check their artwork out! The CMC used in this is theirs ^-^

You can also find the fic on Ao3!

So here goes a lot of fluffy, cute Jaehee pining~

╰⊱♥⊱╮●╭⊱♥≺

With suspicion, Jaehee squints her eyes at the ingredients on the countertop of her and Lila's brand new cafe. After months of preparation and an almost breakdown when she asked them to become her partner for this adventure, Jaehee's dream finally comes true - a cute, domestic yet elegant cafe that she owns with her best friend.

But…

"There was more chocolate."

Lila's eyes widen and they furrow their eyebrows, looking at the potential crime scene as well. "Huh? What do you mean?" They check the scale. "It's the exact amount we need for the recipe."

Jaehee shakes her head, looking at the pieces in the bowl. "I could have sworn I put more in there…"

"You're probably just nervous! We're about to bake our very first cake for the cafe, isn't it exciting?"

The way they beam at Jaehee makes her chest feel warm and her knees go a little weak, causing Jaehee to forget what she was just thinking about entirely.

"That must be it, I'm sure you're right. This is what I've dreamed of for a very long time, I feel all… fluttery inside." To hide her soft chuckle, Jaehee turns her head away a little and shields her mouth with one of her hands. Showing emotion is still… foreign to her and she is still shy about it.

Lila clicks their tongue in disapproval. "Now come over here and let me see that stunning face of yours, we have work to do! I'm all excited for this too but I'm waiting for the proper view." Demanding, they motion to the space across from them, followed by a little wink.

As all of Lila's teasing does, their comment makes Jaehee's heart hiccup in her chest, a too familiar heat already painting her cheeks in a soft blush. There’s only one way to deal with them when they get like that…

Speaking Korean, especially if the sentences are long and spoken fast, is the only way for Jaehee to feel like she is still somewhat in control when she is around Lila. Given that Korean is not their first language and they’re still learning, they tend to get really sheepish when they don’t understand something. And, for Jaehee, it’s the only weapon she has to not let Lila’s boldness knock her out.

Normally, she speaks English around them or slow, easy Korean. But not in moments like this.

“If only you knew what you’re doing to me with such behavior…”

Jaehee keeps her voice low and talks fast, even a fluent speaker would have had trouble to understand her.

“What was that?” The cocky grin on their face immediately shrinks to a shy expression and Jaehee can’t help but feel a little guilty, although relieved.

Of course she hates it to make her friend feel insecure, she wants to make them feel just as strong and support them just as much as they do for her. But sometimes she has to do this, only to not combust due to the hidden feelings in her heart.

“Oh, nothing. Let’s start baking.” With a somewhat apologetic smile, she walks up to Lila and stands on the other side of the countertop, looking at the instructions in front of her. Now, she has to fire Lila’s confidence in themself again. “How about you start with the dough while I try out these decorations? Your doughs always turn out amazing.” The proud gleam in Lila’s eyes that Jaehee likes to see so much is back immediately. “They do indeed. What are you making?” Curiously, they get to their tiptoes, trying to get a peek of the picture she is holding. “Some flowers.” Calculating, she leans her head to the side, inspecting the pictures as well, lowering the piece of paper so it's easier for Lila to see. “I’ve never tried to make these before but I wanted to set myself a challenge. Hopefully, they’ll turn out fine.” “I’m sure they’ll turn out perfect. Like you.” One of Lila’s hands lands on Jaehee’s cheek, presumably for encouragement, and Jaehee can practically feel their chuckle as she straightens as if the touch burned her skin. Which it really seems to do, given how hot she feels all of a sudden. “Y-yes. I… Maybe. Yes, I’ll do my best.”

Not knowing what else she could possibly say that wouldn’t give away how fast her heart is beating, Jaehee gets to work. She presses her lips together and tries to ignore Lila’s gaze she can clearly feel on herself as she begins to knead and color the fondant.

Luckily, Lila decides to be merciful and not make any more comments that get Jaehee out of her concentration, maybe so they can get to work as well.

It doesn’t take the young woman long to forget everything around herself as she fully focuses on the task at hand. She gets lost in the thrill of trying new, challenging things and the rewarding feeling when an experiment with one of her utensils works out, giving the flowers as they are described in the instructions her own twist. One petal after the next is formed and, after some time, Jaehee finds a routine, the activity having a quite calming and almost meditative effect on her.

Her thoughts wander.

And, as they do so very often, they wander to the wonderful person standing in front of her right now.

It’s been a few months since they’ve met, got to know each other and even ended up as close as they are right now. Not much, in Jaehee’s opinion, and yet she can barely recall a time where Lila hasn’t been in her life, much less can or does she want to imagine a future without them. They have saved her from her monotone, stressful life that never would have gained her any kind of happiness and turned it upside down. They have turned it into an unpredictable, exciting adventure, the only goal being to chase their dreams and find joy. Together.

Never again does Jaehee want to be without Lila’s stirring presence that doesn’t only bring spice but also light into her life.

Of course it hadn’t been easy for Jaehee to admit to herself that she’d fallen in love. Of course she had been scared of rejection, of the possible heartbreak. Of the risks that come with loving someone so deeply, even after such a short period of time, only falling deeper for their captivating soul more and more with every passing day.

But no matter how strong her fears had been, by that, they only became the evidence for her feelings for Lila. And finally, after multiple sleepless nights, Jaehee had not only faced the truth that she’s helplessly lost her heart to the best friend she’s ever had, she also came to the conclusion that all of this turmoil is worth it. That the nagging fear is nothing compared to the exciting tingle that runs from the center of her stomach through her entire body as soon as Lila walks into the room. That a possible heartbreak is a price she is willing to pay, as long as she gets to feel the way she does for a little while longer every time Lila smiles at her, only her.

And now, they’re working together, they’re partners. Maybe they’ll never be more than that, friends and partners, but Jaehee knows that, at least, they will always be together. Even if she should slip one day - Lila won’t just leave her for the way she feels. In that, Jaehee trusts unconditionally. In Lila, she trusts unconditionally.

Before she knows it, she’s used up the last bit of fondant, has created the last flower for the day. Proudly, Jaehee looks down at the decorations in front of her, all kinds of blossoms in many different colors, shades and sizes spreading out on the table.

"I did it!" The excitement in her voice is very clear and maybe, normally, she would try to conceal it to keep her countenance. But right now, she's way too happy and feels way too safe and comfortable with Lila to even care.

"I knew it!" There's some flour on Lila's cheek as they grin at Jaehee. "I told you they'll look perfect. You did it!"

Far from sick of looking at her own creations, Jaehee smiles down at the sugary decoration in front of her again. Then, she turns her head up to look at Lila again, unaware of the fact that her friend had just started leaning forward to peck her cheek.

Lila's lips land on the corner of Jaehee's mouth and she freezes. Time seems to stop and so does her heartbeat.

As to be expected, Lila isn't fazed by it at all. On the contrary, they seem to enjoy it quite a lot judging by the amused grin on their face and the fact that they stay much closer than they'd need to. They're not even saying anything and yet Jaehee feels like she will be reduced to an inarticulate, blushy mess in mere seconds.

There’s nothing she can do but pointedly look to the side to stop her brain from short-circuiting. No matter how much she wants to look at her stunning friend, she can’t, knowing that, if she would, she couldn't rip her eyes off the lips she so badly wants to feel on hers.

And at that moment, there's just one thing Jaehee can do.

"While investing in the stock market, it's very important to maximize the possible outcome for your transaction while simultaneously minimizing the risk you take."

Although she's speaking her native tongue, Jaehee stumbles over her own words with how quickly she is saying them. Also, she's not even sure if what she just said actually makes sense.

Yet, the words have the effect she was desperately hoping for - Lila softly shakes their head, the threateningly teasing expression on their face making way for utter confusion as they subconsciously draw back a few inches.

Jaehee hates it as much as it makes her feel relieved.

"What?"

"Nothing!" Quickly, Jaehee turns to face the table again, unnecessarily starting to sort the flowers still laying there by size. If she's confronted with that gorgeous face any longer, she won't be able to hold back anymore. "We should-"

Before she can bring up her suggestion to give the cake more layers than they'd originally planned, Lila gently places their hand on hers on the table between them.

If she is honest to herself, Jaehee knows that she wants nothing to be between them anymore, to separate them.

At first, she still refuses to look at Lila. Even without getting lost in those lovely eyes of the person that saved her from the miserable life she has been living - the speed of her heartbeat is already concerning.

But the light caress of their soft fingers on her skin makes her slowly, carefully, look up at them again, bringing her even closer to the figure she wants to embrace and never let go.

She really wants the piece of furniture gone.

"Do I truly make you this nervous?"

Lila's voice is low and raw, not hiding the emotions behind their words. They sound surprisingly hopeful and… a little scared?

Not trusting her voice to do what she wants, Jaehee just nods. Shouldn't Lila know about the effect they have on her? With how much they've been playing around with it, Jaehee has been convinced they know.

But Lila shakes their head.

"I mean, is it me who makes you nervous? Or is it the flirting, the teasing? Would you get flustered by anyone acting like this?"

Trying to calm down her rapidly beating heart, Jaehee shakes her head. She swallows, wanting her words to be audible and the truth in them to be apparent.

"I get flustered because it's you, Lila. It's not just the teasing. Everything you do makes me nervous somehow. But at the same time, you're the only person that can truly calm me down."

As to prove her statement, she nervously averts her gaze. She doesn't know much about friendship and how it works, she's worried she's said too much. And Lila is so close… Concentrating is impossible.

Time seems to be standing still.

This may be because Lila stands still, a thing they usually never do. It makes Jaehee feel a bit uneasy, she isn't sure what to think of this or what to expect, it's so atypical for her friend.

Her thoughts keep running, trying to figure out what exactly is happening right now and how to act further. Eventually, after not finding any satisfying answer, Jaehee decides to slowly turn her head back to look at Lila again.

The intensity in Lila's eyes keeps her in place as soon as their gazes lock. Now both of them seem to be frozen in time, just staring at each other.

(by @braincellbank)

Jaehee has no idea what this means or what step should be taken next, let alone by whom. She just knows that she doesn't want to look away.

When Lila finally moves, it happens suddenly and fast.

Jaehee's eyes widen when they suddenly jerk forward, and they widen even more as Lila presses their lips to hers.

It takes Jaehee's brain a moment to catch up to what's happening, to understand it. To understand that this is real, that what she's secretly dreamed of and fantasized about for weeks and months truly is happening, right here and now.

But as soon as it sinks in, her eyes flutter closed and her free hand, the one Lila isn't touching, finds their cheek.

The kiss feels like heaven.

Soon, Lila relaxes into Jaehee's touch and the frantic, nervous hectic of the firm pressing of their lips shifts into a soft, loving exploration.

In no time, Jaehee is entirely captivated, forgetting that the world exists around them and even if she would remember, she wouldn't care. All she cares about is Lila.

Lila's touch, their warmth, their scent. The fact that this kiss feels even better than she could have ever imagined it.

Her heart beats so fast it seems like it's trying to fly out of her chest to catapult itself into the sky to rejoice.

And Lila's lips taste so sweet…

Too sweet.

With a gasp, Jaehee breaks the kiss.

"You did snack on the chocolate! I knew it!"

Throwing their head back, Lila laughs, their earlier stillness nowhere to be found anymore. Their smile is just as wide as Jaehee's and they look just as happy as her.

Jaehee couldn't care less about the chocolate.

"Guess you've caught me." Another sly smile makes it to their lips. "Guess I'll have to make up for it…"

A quiet, displeased noise slips over Jaehee's lips as Lila draws back. But soon, they've made their way around the table and Jaehee finds herself in their arms, embracing them as well on instinct.

"I don't think I want to bake anymore today."

They're both grinning at each other before their lips meet in another kiss.

#mysmerbb #mysme #mystic messenger #mm #mm fluff #fluff #jaehee fluff #mystic messenger jaehee #mystic messenger fluff #jaehee kang #Jaehee Kang Fluff #mysme fic #jaehee fanfiction #mm jaehee fluff #collaboration #braincellbank #braincellsart

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samiralula01 · 4 years

Text

Jason Todd is the Anti-Batman

* A pointless rambling of the relationship and parallels between Bruce Wayne and Jason Todd.

Picture this opening scene: There are two boys in a dark alley.

One is dressed in an expensive suit with a tie his dead father helped him with only earlier that evening. His hands are stained red with the same blood now puddled on the grimy cement. His face is in shock.

The second boy is dressed in tattered jeans and hoodie. His hands are stained with tires grease and are clutching a tire iron. His face is in shock.

Decades later, there are two more scenes to consider.

A seriously injured man sits slumped over in his father’s study. Without warning, a bat crashes through the window, and everything falls into place. He now knows what he needs to do.

Elsewhere, an emotionally distraught teenager is curled up into a fetal position on a hotel room floor. Heart wrenching cries can be heard from him. But it is only momentary. He now knows what he needs to do.

These two individuals are Bruce Wayne and Jason Todd. While they are both broken and determined men, Batman is a hero. The Red Hood is not. He is the anti-Batman and this is why.

Two Boys in an Alleyway

Despite similarities in their stories’ early themes and elements, Bruce and Jason came to walk down very different paths. One of justice, and the other vengeance. Batman is determined to protect the innocent and Jason more so on punishing the guilty. Both their ideologies have intrinsic flaws, of course, and will naturally clash often. But this wasn’t always the case.

Before they became a father and son perpetually in mourning for who they once were and what could have been, Bruce and Jason were remarkably similar. The two are cut from the same cloth and Bruce knows this better than anyone else.

In the Dumpster Slasher three-part story line, (Batman #414, #421, #422) Bruce becomes emotional. Violent. He sits in the batcave alone that night and contemplates his emotions.

“Nearly blew it. I let it get too personal. Lost my detachment...nearly lost control. Almost beat Cutter to death. Wouldn’t have been any big loss.”

Only one issue later, at the end of this story arc, Robin is out on the streets and becomes angry when he happens upon a pimp is threatening a prostitute with a knife. Now, I want you to compare his line here to Bruce’s and note what Jim Gordon said to him as well.

Batman: "I think he’s had enough, Robin. What were you trying to do, kill him?" Robin (Jason): “Would it’ve been that big of a loss if I had?”

It is important to note here that Batman is not worried or upset just because Jason roughs up a pimp. That would be hypocritical considering his own earlier actions. If anything, it’s because one of the main reasons Batman even takes in these kids, these ‘robins,’ is because he doesn’t want them to be like him.

And Jason was acting just like him.

Jason can and has screwed up and failed due to his own actions, but it was never the reason Batman became upset with him. His reactions in the comics when Jason does things like running ahead and ‘jumping the gun,’ are more like this:

He either makes a teaching moment out of it or is attempts to understand Jason’s reasons in doing any such thing. When Bruce does become harsh in his discipline, it’s either when he feels as though Jason has endangered his own life or as I said, he acts too much like him.

While there are quite a few more similarities between Bruce and Jason that makes them alike, such as both being introverted and interested in obtaining all sorts of knowledge that they might not even feel is relevant, they are both, at the core of their characters, deeply caring and compassionate people.

The differences only start to show with how they act on it.

The Not-So Dynamic Duo?

“What happened to you as a child, the terror, the pain, the horrors (...) you were broken, and I thought I could put the pieces back together. I thought I could do for you what could never be done for me. Make you whole.”

Hot take. Jason Todd is a villain and is best written as a villain.

Not in that campy way like he’s written during Dick and Damian’s Batman and Robin run while wearing that stupid pill-headed hood, (although, I grant he has a few lines that are enjoyable to read) but in all his serious, vengeful and downright brutal motives.

The Red Hood is the perfect Batman villain because he’s so different from what the widely perceived perfect foil to the controlled and disciplined Bat is...the Joker.

The Red Hood was vengeance at its purest. It is justice without being tempered by mercy. It is the rage of victims who were forgotten to become statistics. While other vigilantes wait for a cure, hope for rehabilitation, and pretend their system works, the Red Hood is a man of no such faith.

And this makes him a villain. And a damn good one.

During the Red Hood’s time as a crime lord in Gotham, he goes around blowing up buildings. He throws grenades into trucks. He mows down his competition with gunfire. Batman comes upon the bloodied hanged corpse of a man he was finished interrogating.

But what is so compelling about this all is that before all the murder, all the guns and explosions, Jason Todd was a very different little boy. And all the great and memorable villains start that way.

The Joker is not someone you’re meant to sympathize with or even understand. In fact, I find him more terrifying because he’s unknown. He has no backstory (unless you want to believe the one he gave in Killing Joke, but the clown has a new story for every face he meets) and seemingly does what he does for a laugh of all things.

Jason Todd is in pain. He’s traumatized. Betrayed. Buried. Replaced. He is no one’s son because his father abandoned him.

Once upon a time, Jason Todd was a boy who saved himself. One of the biggest lies that Batman himself perpetuates is that he saved Jason from a life of crime. He tells Alfred that Jason was always dangerous. Bruce simply took him off the streets before he could be any worse.

But I don’t believe that’s true.

Jason grew up surrounded by crime, poverty, substance abuse and yet this amazing kid saved himself everyday by making a conscious choice to be kind and care about school, care about keeping his mother alive for over a year when he was just a child himself. That amazing kid was magic.

Jason Todd as Robin was magic.

“Jason smiles. A bright smile. The kind Robin, the Boy Wonder should have.”

A good portion of his character’s assassination was in order to push the Tim is the perfect Robin idea. It was editorial decisions. The same ‘suits’ who insisted that Tim Drake be the Robin in the New Adventures cartoon despite having Jason’s backstory and personality. But I digress on that.

Jason Todd was an introverted, studious, and emphatic person. He wanted to make friends with other kids his age even though he was a loner at heart. He joined the school baseball team and was a class officer, even if his training kept him from most social interactions.

He was also very much in tune with non-verbal cues and small changes in the environment around him. He was a thoughtful person who could be found admiring the stars or passing by scenery. When he teams up with the New Teen Titans, we get to see these aspects of his personality:

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so beautiful before. We’re actually riding above the clouds.”

“Every so often, I notice you become awfully agitated...like something was going on you didn’t want to be part of. Something’s wrong, isn’t it?”

It didn’t take Bruce long to fall in love with this boy and ask to legally adopt him. He found him to be smart, thoughtful, quick at learning and funny as hell. Their first meeting opens with Batman laughing in the very same alley his heart was ripped out decades earlier.

Even in the Rebirth canon, (RHATO #48) we see that Bruce is already set on taking in Jason while he’s still with Ma Gunn’s school. He likes this kid. A lot.

“Butler, actually. You’ll meet him someday, I’m sure.”

Jason Todd was happy. Most of the time. Unfortunately, he still wrestled with depression and would sleep all day on occasion and could be found crying hidden away on his own, withdrawn from the concerned Bruce and Alfred.

In A Death in the Family, Alfred and Bruce sit down and discuss Jason’s worsening mental health, particularly after the Diplomat’s Son where Jason becomes witness to sexual assault, suicide and the failings of both Batman and the GCPD to protect innocent people. Barbara, his tutor, someone he cared about and got along with, is also shot a few months earlier.

Bruce thinks Jason has become suicidal. Alfred does not disagree with this theory and supplements it with things he’s observed himself about the ‘lad.’

“I’ve come upon him, several times, looking at that battered old photograph of his mother and father, crying. When he’s seen me, he’s hidden the picture and left the room, refusing to talk.”

It is then that Jason discovers the truth about his mother at the worst possible time, when he’s not even thinking straight, and thus leads way to the tragedy that will be his murder at the hand’s of the Joker.

The Curse of Jason Todd

“Do you have any idea what you have done?! Do you? You have no inkling of what you’ve created -- what you have unleashed! You have set free a curse upon this world!”

Red Hood: Lost Days, which depicts Jason’s dark post-resurrection origin, opens with Ra’s al Ghul bellowing this line, the steam from the Lazarus Pit still rising off of him.

I’m not going to analyze this line, I’m just using it to supplement a point of mine I hope I’m getting through well enough. The Red Hood is a compelling, tragic villain. He is similar to Batman in ways that Bruce always knew and may have even feared because of how intimately he knows his own deepest, darkest thoughts. Jason is the perfect foil as an antagonist for him because of what he represents to Bruce.

And it’s not his anger, or his rage, or even his brutality.

It’s his compassion. His caring. His emotions. And how they can open up the worst parts of themselves.

Both are motivated by preventing whatever trauma happened to them from ever happening to anyone else. They both trained for years with this motivation. And they’ve both acted out on the very person who inflicted their trauma onto them.

Here’s where their paths start to differ, however, and what separates them with a line of morality.

They both get angry. They both care so damn much. About Gotham, about innocents, about each other. They both get too emotionally invested and deal with consequences related to that. To manage with that, Bruce shuts down. He creates all these choices, rules and symbols. He uses every ounce of his self control to keep them.

Bruce Wayne is not a good person. He forces himself to be with discipline and will. He chooses to be a good man and constantly pushes himself to live up to that. Because it’d be too damn easy to be just like the Red Hood.

Jason doesn’t understand that. Because no matter what Bruce had done or will do, he doesn’t hate him. He can’t. Despite his denial of the fact to different people, he still thinks of Bruce as his father. This great figure that so many others revere and are even intimidated by.

He’s not the only bat-kid to think of Bruce in this light despite the fact that the man is not. It took Dick years to overcome that perception. Tim only just started to begin understanding this true nature after his own father was murdered.

But even if he did understand his (once)father, he still became the complete opposite of him despite so many early parallels. He doesn’t hold back his words and emotions, he doesn’t go into a state of controlled dissociation or emotional disengagement.

Jason Todd—the Red Hood—is Batman without all his rules and control. In a way, he’s what the darkest part of Batman himself wants to be. Jason does what Batman can’t do when it’s needed.

Because in Batman’s book, life beats out justice. Even if he could take down abusers and murderers, he won’t. He will choose saving and protecting lives over the apprehension of killers...he always does.

Batman is justice. Red Hood is vengeance.

Jason is a victim’s fantasy. He punishes and kills the guilty. Something Batman won’t do.

He is the anti-Batman for better or for worse.

#jason todd #bruce wayne #comic meta

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angelicichor · 4 years

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We really really really need a pt 2 nsfw slasher hc’s , maybe this time include Jason aswell ? Only if you want to of course 💋

more N//SF//W it is.

Don’t worry the yearning is strong today so I’m more than willing to continue.

Starting soft:

Bubba Sawyer:

• Fight me on this, but Bubba is ABSOLUTELY ADORABLE IN EVERYTHING HE DOES.

• He’s an obedient boy, always looking out for you, be it during the day or at night when finally, FINALLY his brother/s leave you alone.

• And then you’re sitting on the bed, he’s below you, doing his best eating you tf out, that sloppy tongue making you a wet, slippery mess. And be sure that Bubba goes DEEP.

• He’s a strong man, so his hair is your driving stick, pull him in when you want him deeper, tug it when he’s going too fast, growl at him if his teeth touches your sex, you’ll soon find out that he’s very, VERY responsive.

• He’ll worship your body, from your magnificent hair, through your beautiful face, your waist, your fingers, even your feet if you want him to, he’ll make you feel like a divine being with his shaky touch, his unsure hands that have touched you so many times but still feel like you’re going to disappear if he touches you wrong. Gosh, he’s adorable.

• Ride him, for god’s sake! He’s a mess underneath you, squirming, whining, moaning something that sounds like your name and when you smile at him, replying to his call, he literally melts.

• Through all this adorable stuff it’s often difficult to remember that this man is an absolute beast if you let him off the leash.

• The last time you told him it’s okay to take the lead he was groping you in a heart beat, trembling hands squeezing your curves through your clothing, making you bend under his weight, the room just filling with his arousal as he ripped your poor shirt from your chest and you squeaked in surprise. Well, there goes that.

• He grabbed your hands above your head, keeping both in his one, as the other palmed your face, exploring it’s features closely and if you didn’t know better you’d think he was thinking of making a mask out of you.

• He wasn’t, but he thought it would be absolutely stunning if he did and he’d never make another because you’re just too perfect for him.

• Soon enough his tongue’s over your nipples, licking, sucking and biting, taking in your smell and taste, his hand squeezing onto your thighs, awestruck at how soft they felt in his calloused hands.

• He’s a messy lover, that’s for sure, but his hot breath makes everything just so much better.

• You felt more of his weight moving onto you as his hips grinding against your leg, the tent in his pants way too obvious to be ignored and you couldn’t help but whimper, wondering what he was going to do to you.

• He’s quick to answer your mute question, as he rips your pants off you and janks his own belt and clothes down, pushing your legs apart before him, a nervous yet aroused giggle leaving him just before he slips into you, taking your breath away.

• Excuse him, he isn’t that well versed in preparing a lover for his adoration. Good thing you were already horny as all hell.

• His thrusts are fast, uneven and heavy, with every move you can feel yourself sink into the mattress, his weight crushing your frailer body and it’s just too fucking good. He’s so big, so damn warm and smells so goddamn sweet and the way he squeezes your breast is so hungry you’re afraid he’s going to bite it off.

• He doesn’t but his teeth find their way onto you anyhow as he moans and grunts with your neck in his mouth, leaving a big, fat mark and drawing just a tiny bit of blood. It’s adorable that he’s afraid to hurt you even when he’s allowed to.

• When he’s about to cum he cups your face and whimpers nervously, asking for your allowance. Nod and he’ll have you dripping with his head, shake your head and he’ll pull out with a cry, heartbroken that he has to abandon your warm insides and leaving a hot, thick trail of cum on your belly.

• He quickly perks up watching you breath heavy underneath him, covered in his come. Bubba will never get over how beautiful you are, NEVER.

Jason Voorhees:

• Fight me on this, but I believe Jason is actually less reserved about sex than what people often think. I believe he understands what’s the main focus of the activity and what is means for the people involved, his mommy was a smart woman, she most likely explained to him all the stuff about birds and bees.

• But tell me you wouldn’t feel like murder if a group of unattended teenagers/young adults invaded your place of death and started fucking? It’s the worst thing and after that is somebody screwing on your front yard. In Jason’s cause, it’s both.

• Still, he’s definitely a virgin, so starting off everything is pure instinct.

• That’s a good thing though, because instinct is how he learned to kill, to hunt and to survive, that and probably some books.

• Starting off he’s gonna fuck like he hunts - Holding you in his iron grip, squeezing your body tight, his gaze focused on you and you only, it’s as terrifying as it is arousing, and his relentless thrusting ain’t helping nobody.

• Good thing he actually cares about your consent and instructions before, preparing you with his long tongue and thick fingers, following your every demand, not breaking eye contact, so he can see that he’s doing it right, that man rarely blinks, get used to it.

• By the way his tongue is AMAZING?? If you gave him a cherry he’d definitely be able to tie a knot, it’s just that goddamn good and once it leaves you it’ll leave and empty, needy void that he’s more than happy to fill with his enormous cock.

• And here’s the bad thing - no matter what, you’re gonna be so sore after your first time. Jason’s a tight fit, probably not even coming in fully, because as the slasher community is well aware of - Momma’s boy is one of the biggest guys around.

• So you’ll be definitely moaning and screaming his name into the woods, overcome with joy, pleasure and sweet pain.

• Don’t worry, he WILL carry you to bed. It’s his fault that you’re outside anyways, he just couldn’t handle you being so close and so adorable anymore, so he hopes his jacket is thick enough to counteract the harsh wood behind you.

• Once he learns that you can enjoy a slower pace too, he’ll make sure to take his time with you, teasing you lovingly with a bright smile on his face, it’s really unfair, but don’t complain, you love it.

• While he’s a good boy™ don’t expect him to be as submissive as Bubba. He’s well aware of how strong he is and isn’t afraid to use this strength to overpower you and make you shiver under his touch.

• Jason isn’t a sadist, at least he swears he isn’t, but there is a certain glint in his eyes when you tremble as he closes his huge hand around your neck, aware that he could snap it in a second, but trusting him not to do that.

• Don’t worry, he’d never hurt you without your consent.

• Still, Jason’s a playful boy. Rough house with him and if you win (aka. he takes mercy on you and let’s you win) he’ll give you a bit of control. You lose it as soon as his dick slips into you though, but enjoy the moments of glory he’s happy to provide you with.

• His biggest kink though, which he’s a bit ashamed and disappointed with himself to admit, is hunting. He’s been literally resurrected to hunt and damn it if it doesn’t make his cold heart beat faster when he sees you put on some more comfortable shoes and look at him to start counting 5 minutes, giving you a head start. You’ll need it.

• You can’t see his amused head tilt as he cheats a bit and watches you run into the thick of the forest, but not following you yet, it’s always more fun when you think he doesn’t know where you are.

• It’s during those hunts that you remember that he IS the Crystal Lake Killer. Everything about him scream terror as he scans the surrounding for you, his heavy steps completely silent, how, you have no idea. He’s tall, muscular and dressed to kill, if he took of his jacket you can see how his muscles shift under each breath he takes. You realize how powerful his arms are when with one swift motion he hurls a bunch of boats down to see if you’re not hiding under one of them, his senses sharp enough to catch a small crunch of leaves under your foot as you shift towards a building and he follows.

• The wooden boards creak in complaint under his weight and you hide in a closet in alarm, your breathing quick and uneven, you can feel your whole body tensing as he passes the old piece of furniture and moves onto the beds. There’s a quiet squeak as you can hear him lifting one of them, letting it fall down with a loud thud when he realized nobody’s there.

• But the sound was just loud enough for you to let out a silenced squeak. Don’t worry, he heard that.

• You can see his shadow in front of the wardrobe and you’re trembling, fear mixing with excitement, part of you screaming that you’re going to die and the other adding “in the best possible way”.

• And that thought makes you whimper almost silently, but his quiet laughter let’s you know he heard, knocking onto the slightly open door politely, mocking you for losing. In a fit of rebellious spirit you stand up and pull the wardrobe closed, there’s a moment of silence.

• There’s a huff and before you know it he has pulled both doors open, leaning inside with a small head tilt, eyes smiling devilishly.

•“Not fair…” you whimper and his body shakes under his voiceless chuckle. He knows, you little cutie, you!

• He takes you right there and then, making your clothes nothing more than garbage with the precise cut of his machete, the cold metal making you shiver, arousal building even more as the realization that you’re at his mercy hits you, hard. “Be nice… okay?” you ask and he lifts his mask up just enough for you to see him mouthing the word “no” and smashing his lips into a heated kiss with you, squeezing your ass in his huge hands, lifting you up onto his cock.

• You tear up at the sheer size of this thing spreading you open and you know you’re in trouble. He knows it too, but in his attempt to humor your wish just a little bit he lets you adjust, pushing you back into the wardrobe and pressing his hand onto the old wood to stabilize himself as he still held you, warming you with his length, pressing his masked forehead against yours, watching as your eyes flutter closed and then open, gaze filled with lust, but don’t worry, his is exactly the same.

• Once he can feel you getting wet around him there’s no more mercy, he thrusts into you, relishing in your offended gasp, his eyes sparking with amusement, before he starts fucking you senseless.

• You ain’t leaving until cum’s spiling out of you, darling.

• When he’s done with you, however, you can expect a load of kisses, hugs, nuzzles and gentle caresses in the cabin. He’ll make you tea too and once he’s sure you’ve calmed down he’ll go around the camp looking for books for you to read. You ain’t gonna be walking tomorrow.

• Once you can walk you can go to his momma to tell her that her son is a BULLY.

• How rude.

Trigger warning for the next boy: blood play, bdsm, abuse??, some might call it that, cutting, hitting, Mikey is a nasty fuck ok?

Michael Myers (OG)

• When I think about the original Shape of Haddonfield all I can think of is one word - Beg.

• Mikey is the definition of a dom, rough, cold, decisive, unshaken. Some may argue you’d be better of if he just killed you, but one way or another you ended up as his fuck toy obsession.

• Call him Daddy, Master, Sir, any of those will get you on his good side during sex, but even his good side is BAD.

• This man has barely any limits when it comes to using you, sure, sometimes he’ll just push you onto the bed and lazily take you, his hips hitting you like an iron pump, but that’s rare. Most of the time he comes to you is to ruin you and you’re lucky if you live alone.

• He loves fucking your face, tilling your face back and making you choke on his dick repeatedly, only giving you seconds to breathe or to swallow back puke if it comes to that. If you see him grabbing a knife in the morning or just notice on of your missing, don’t eat that day. Just a precaution.

• No matter how he takes you choking is a must and not just lightly gripping your throat, no, he will make a mark, you’re his and the world needs to know. Nobody else is allowed to touch you, he’s even showing mercy by letting people talk to you when he’s around. You threw a fit about it at one point and while he made sure to leave you bruised and used as punishment, he understood.

• There’s just no back talking him, ever.

• While he’s well capable of destroying you with his bare hands a knife is Michael’s best friend and some friends are worth taking to bed.

• There’s many scars on your body and only one or two are from before meeting him, you can’t count the sheets he ruined when something in his head sang for you to bleed, his hands painting you in red, pushing your blood deep down your throat, a raging bliss in his eyes as you cried underneath him, getting dizzy, weak, cold. That man doesn’t know how much blood you can lose and honestly he just doesn’t care. If you faint he will patch you up, but most likely not because of concern, he’d just hate to lose a grateful toy like you.

• Speaking of which, he LOVES it when you thank him for fucking you, when you beg for him to fill you up or to let you finish, if you don’t beg, you ain’t getting anything.

• He’ll make you sit on all fours before him, gripping your hair tightly, forcing you to look him in the eye and slapping your face if you dare turn your eyes away, but don’t worry, the slap is almost loving, your face is the only thing he won’t scar or bruise, he actually likes it, well, he likes all of you, won’t admit it though, but you can’t make those adorable expressions if your face is all swollen, right?

• His biggest kink is fucking on corpses and YES, he has forced you to do that, you should know what you’re singing up for when asking MICHAEL-fucking-MYERS to be your mate. Yeah, mate, that man ain’t boyfriend material, I’m sorry.

• Surprisingly he isn’t that much into tying you up - why waste tame on that when he can keep you still with his hands and a simple knife?

• DON’T EVER ASK HIM TO BE SUBMISSIVE. This is a threat.

• Bitting, hitting, pushing and pulling his hair are forbidden. He can accepts scratches though, they feel pleasant. Also if he ever get’s high or drunk you might get to cut him. He’s a daredevil when intoxicated and seeing how much pain his body can handle sets something off in him. Still won’t submit to you though.

• To be honest the most docile you’ll ever see him is from the morning in the kitchen. He’ll laze up to you, enveloping you in his arms, pressing you firm against his powerful chest so you can feel his body rumble in a sleepy purr.

• While he never takes time to do aftercare with you (unless you get a panic attack, then he’ll just pin you down until you calm down), at those times you can sometimes hear small, caring phrases like “mine”, “you okay?” and “darling”. I know, shocking, but there’s SOME human in there still.

•“You okay?” he asks, voice deep and hoarse form the lack of use, but so damn handsome. You stop breathing, unsure if you didn’t accidentally die and go to heaven, but no, the way he grips you makes your bruises from yesterday hurt, this ain’t heaven, darling. “Y…yes, I’m fine…” you murmur back and all too suddenly you can feel his nails digging into your skin. “I’m fine…what?” he growls and you search your head for an answer, panicking lightly. Finally something clicks. “Yes, I-I’m fine… Sir.” you say and he hums in approval, letting you go for a second to turn you towards him, his mask lifting for a millisecond so he can kiss your forehead. “Adorable.” you hear him say, before he shifts away, grabbing one of your knives and leaving.

• And all you can think is - ‘but… my hips are still dying…’ Because you know damn well what will happen when he comes back tonight.

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