#I!! BLOCKED!! ALL THE FUCKING TAGS!!! AND I STILL SEE THAT GARBAGE!!

[mrmxlemons]

Funeral Cake (1/5)

Art the Clown x gn!Reader / Original Character | AO3 Link

EXPLICIT 18+ ONLY, this is a black comedy but it will feature heavy content. I would recommend checking the tags more thoroughly in ao3 if you want a forewarning of future tags to avoid triggers/squicks. Warnings at the beginnings of the chapter are only for that specific chapter.

Chapter 1: Wash, Rinse, Repeat

summary: Sometimes the best way to handle murderous demon clowns is to not handle them at all.

warnings: gore and blood, magical lore elements, demon Art the Clown, stalking, implied murder, minor wound kissing, minor sickness

It was Halloween, and you were dressed up as a clown. Albeit a sad one.

The frown on your face was exaggerated with blue finger paint, a tear immortalized on your left cheek in the same shade. The ensemble was the cheapest you could find at Party City, complete with Pom-Poms and a jester hat that jingled with every motion.

Not your best work, but by far from your worst. It was, however, one of those investments that you had to wear all day just to break even how much you paid, which meant picking up your clothes from the laundromat in full makeup and costume.

You’d had to throw a couple of things back in to cycle for a few more minutes, somehow still not dry despite having gone through a total of three times now. It was quiet except for the tumble of clothes and the soft pop music crackling through the speakers from the local radio station. Outside you could hear the bus taking off, the sound overshadowed by the soft gurgles of the child staring at you from over it’s mother’s shoulder.

The baby didn’t seem deterred by your appearance in its ogling. There was still a minute left on the timer. Bored, you look back to the kid and muster your best silly face, feeling as though you owe it a performance for attentively watching you, only for the chubby cheeks to screw up before a wail came pouring out.

The mother turned and affixed you with a scalding stare for destroying the peace as she pat the child, cooing to calm it down. You had enough dignity to turn away, blushing under the waxy white painted across your cheeks.

Sheepishly you shuffled to the machine, hastily swiping out your socks and throwing them in the basket you’d lugged with. Should’ve just hung them up back at your apartment. Now you have to walk two blocks with a bag full of laundry dressed like a clown, feeling like a clown. Whatever.

The makeup hides the way you mope after being silently tongue lashed, but it doesn’t stop you from staring abashedly at your shoes as you jerk for the door. Even when you see another pair enter your vision, black and huge, you can’t manage to stop yourself. It’s too late.

You collide with someone, and it’s like running into a brick wall. You make a sound of fear and shock and nearly collapse, barely managing to stay on your feet. The person you run into is oddly silent. If it weren’t for the sound of the plastic garbage bag in their hand shifting you wouldn’t be sure if you touched someone else at all.

The jester hat was akimbo on your head, you righted it. Luckily nothing had spilled onto the floor, but the person you’d run into sported an expression of annoyance that rivaled the scorned mother. He was, however, ironically enough, also dressed like a clown—just a far more menacing, creepy, and fucked up looking one.

He was a lot more committed to the look, edging equal parts into sinister mime territory with a cap that finished where makeup couldn’t reach, and a suit that glimmered as though it were made of silk. If you weren’t standing close enough to see the grit of the threads appearing in the basic cross stitch you might’ve thought he was a professional.

Even the makeup was clean. The eyebrows were penciled in, thin and looping in a tall arch, and on the tip of the long prosthetic nose was a single black dot. All of the lines were starkly separated, strong cuts of black and white that framed the whites of dark, soulless eyes.

The heavy gaze pinned you in place. For all of your attempts of quickly leaving, getting out of dodge had seemingly completely escaped you in that moment. You felt weighted down by the heavy, oppressive stare and the snarl on tar-black lips. And the teeth—

You really, really didn’t want to have to think about the teeth. You really, really just wanted to get home.

The words tumble out of you. You’re not even sure where they came from. “Nice clown costume,” you say, “lot funnier than mine.”

You don’t find anything about his costume funny. Somehow you’re sure he can tell, with the way his eyebrows raise and lips start to slowly curl in a spine-chilling, too wide smile. His shoulder opens, and you can see the door behind him.

It feels like permission, and while you don’t necessarily need express permission from a complete stranger that you can leave, you feel better hastily sweeping past him with it.

You don’t look back.

Your cheeks are red. But you don’t look back, and you forget it all happened before the night is over.

—

You head back to the laundromat three days later. You’d gone out Halloween night and lost your hat, spilled a drink down the back of your shifty Halloween costume. So much for returning it.

Figured you’d at least try and wash it out before throwing it in the donation bin. But the laundromat was closed, there was caution tape all around the front door and the inside had been torn up. Weird, it hadn’t looked like it was about to undergo construction when you’d been there, what, less than a week ago?

You also didn’t remember the tiles being red, but you also had a really shit memory these days.

The nearest laundromat is another ten minute walk in the opposite direction. Not ideal but you’re already out, so you resign your fate and start making your way there.

The place is actually cheaper than your old mat of choice, but only by twenty five cents. And it’s completely empty. You push the change in and wait until the clothes start tumbling before you head for outside. Might go get a pack from the corner Bodega. Might just get some candy. You should really, really quit smoking.

You don’t make it to the door, and thankfully you don’t run into him like last time. You’re not sure your stomach could’ve handled it.

He stands in the doorway steadily dripping a thick, miasmas liquid that was so dark and pungent you nearly mistook it for something else entirely. Something that wasn’t very clearly blood.

The smell was unmistakable. You could taste it in the back of your throat—the tang of iron rolling gently down your esophagus until you choked on it.

And there is—there is so, so much of it. An ungodly amount. The black and white suit that you had only glimpsed before shines a bright and lurid red, staining the front and up the side in a wide gash. An arc. You almost forget if he had truly ever been a black and white thing, or if you had somehow missed this when you’d run into him the other day.

You hadn’t. You would’ve noticed this. Red splatter on his cheek, turning his hands a muddy brown. You wouldn’t have been able to run away from the smell without noticing, wouldn’t have been able to forget such a distinct, awful smile.

You hadn’t forgotten about running into him, no matter how hard you’d tried. He hadn’t done anything besides weird you out, but it was Halloween. Weird shit happened on Halloween. You chalked it down as that and got plastered, pushing him from your mind (even though he kept swinging back, a steady pendulum of obsession).

And he appears in front of you so suddenly, so starkly, that you almost wonder if you’d somehow summoned him. As though he was a figment of your imagination, a manifestation of your paranoia drenched in all the gory possibilities of what hid behind that horrifyingly exaggerated expression.

Panic courses through you like lightning, but instead of pushing you away it pushes you towards. Your feet move until you are right in front of him, hand outstretching.

“That’s a lot of blood, man.” Your voice is quiet when you ask, almost besides yourself, “Are you alright?”

You reach out against your better judgement, against any judgement, and touch a particularly deep bruising of crimson on the white costume. It looks clotted, and it doesn’t occur to you until the tacky, cold red touches your fingertips that all of this blood might not actually be his.

The realization makes you freeze. The sheer amount of blood on him would be enough to make any grown man go into shock, if it was, in fact, his blood. Yet here he stands, unshaken, with quiet and even breaths that make your own rapidly speeding heart rate feel like a drum in your ears.

Your eyes flicker up. The point of contact between you harrows at the hooded, knowing stare the clown gives you, the grotesque menagerie of black and white twisting into an inhuman smile with too-dark gums. His eyes are black, eclipsed of their humanity as they pin you into place, dead and starless. A void that rivals the night.

You stifle the urge to run as you withdraw your hand. Somehow you know as you look at him that if you turn and high tail it you’re going to enact a chain of events with consequences you’re not ready to consider. Set yourself up to be the perfect unwilling prey to a waiting, hungry hunter.

“Are you hurt?” More words spoken out of thin air, these far enough that you wouldn’t be sure you said them if the other party wasn’t mute.

The dead smile falls into a considering look, the eyebrows furrowing as if to say, do you think I’m hurt?

You know he’s not. You’re shocked when he nods his head in ascent that he is.

‘Liar’ sits on your tongue. Instead you ask him where, waiting on baited breath in and out of your mouth when he raises a single, bloodied finger.

It’s almost funny. No—it is funny, and you laugh. Just a little bit. Not enough to be mocking, but enough to show that hey, you get it. You get the joke.

Beneath a layer of dirt and grime on the very tip of one of his fingers is a small cut, barely big enough to qualify as a paper cut. When he holds it up there is blood beading along the seem, welling and waiting to get enough viscosity to pour down his finger. Become another inconsequential marking on the canvas of horror that is the rest of him.

The implication is nauseating. If that is truly the only place he is hurt then the rest of the enormous amount of blood painting him really isn’t his, and that warrants so much more concern than you’re willing to offer. Willing to consider.

“Does it hurt?” He doesn’t give you a response, he just pokes his finger up again, pouting in a way that reminds you of the clown face you’d worn no less than a couple of days before. “What, do you want me to kiss it better?”

You try to swallow the sick feeling even as you ask. Maybe you shouldn’t have, because the clown’s face splits into an enormous grin, surprised but happy, and then he nods.

Of course he doesn’t know what a rhetorical question is. But also, of course you aren’t going to be the one to tell him. If he wants you to kiss his finger you’re very damn well going to do it.

You look at his finger again. Gross doesn’t even begin to describe it. There is a definite red-brownish hue to the skin that looks too deeply caked on to be anything less than revolting, and a stain of similarly haunting color clings to the palm of his gloves.

Apprehension swirls in your tightening chest. You feel as though you are toeing a very precarious line between playful and something else by making him wait, but you can’t help but stare at your fate and wonder if there’s some other way.

You force steel into your spine and, without thinking more of it, you take his hand and press a firm, solid kiss to the cut. You can feel his blood and whatever else smearing across your lip, and before you can stop your tongue’s reaction it flickers out and catches the rest.

It tastes like rust, and rot.

Regret is the acid rearing in the back of your throat. You can hardly muster the ability to keep yourself from gagging as your face screws up in disgust. “All better?”

You can’t hide the expression from him, as hard as you might try to. Thankfully he seems positively tickled by the way you play along, his shoulders shaking and mouth falling open in silent glee.

The clown nods enthusiastically. You mimic the nod in a much less enthusiastic manner. Fuck quitting smoking, you really needed a cigarette now.

“Well, I’m just going to—to go around the corner, get a sandwich and some cigarettes.” You clear your throat, hiding the urge to gag. “Do you want anything?”

You don’t expect an answer, you only ask so that you can sidle past him without cause for alarm. The clown let’s you, though the cheerful countenance withers as he watches you curb around him.

Something painfully snags at your leg, the sound of plastic shifting pulling your eyes down to the large trash bag plopped nonchalantly at the clown’s side. Somehow you hadn’t noticed it before but now that you look you cannot unsee all the possibilities it’s presence infers.

Blood rolls off the large black boots and onto the linoleum floor. You can’t imagine why a clown would be carrying around a plastic bag brimming with things that poke sharply and rattle eerily when moved, and, to be frank, you don’t want to know whys or whats. You don’t want to know what’s in the bag or what caught on your pants.

You tug yourself free, unable to hide the terror lancing up through your tensed shoulders and stiff neck. Why would a clown covered in blood carry such a mysterious bag of things that poke and prod in the most painful way? Better not to know.

You hope, at least, that the acquiescence shines through your eyes. The clown tilts his head, the amusement slipping for a slippery and prying emotion you can’t pinpoint, but you can feel it trying to pin you in place.

“I’ll be back.” You say.

The pencil-thin eyebrows pinch together, the eyes glinting sharply. You’d better, they respond.

You walk past him, but it’s a farce. You’re not escaping. He’s letting you get away.

Why is he letting you get away?

He knows that you’re aware of what he’s done. Even if you managed to keep your cool well enough not to break down in front of him there is no way he couldn’t detect the apprehension rolling off of you. The pure, rancid fear.

You feel like a ghost, his eyes hollowing you out from behind until you’re out of sight. Then you’re leaning on the nearest brick wall, knees shaking so badly you nearly cave to the ground.

It takes every ounce of strength in you not to break down right there, to not start sprinting in any direction and never look back. To get the fuck away—wherever that may be. But even the minimal distance you’ve put between yourself and the clown brings no relief, and miles would do no different. Because the fact remains that you haven’t gotten away.

You have to go back. There’s no choice. If you don’t go back to him he’ll come to you, and with him entails an entirely new set of rules to abide by. Rules that he sets.

Rules to live by. Rules to die by.

You don’t walk to the closest station, even though you know it’s less than two blocks away. You don’t try and dial the police. You definitely don’t look behind you.

Somehow you’re sure that if you change the course of your actions because of him then he will suddenly become real. Right now he is just something you’re encountering, but the moment he enters your world, the moment you let this shift from a chance meeting to a confrontation, is the moment you go under the knife.

Fuck, this is so fucked. You couldn’t even think of eating a sandwich anymore. How long did you have before you had to get back to the laundromat? How long before he’d come looking for you?

A part of you fantasizes about this being something you’ve deluded yourself into thinking is real; the clown is really just a harmless, if a bit creepy man that doesn’t see a reason leaving Halloween to be the only day to dress up. Who knows, he could be a professional clown.

Its the same part of you that fantasizes telling the lady at the counter what you’ve seen. ‘There’s a clown covered in blood at Al’s Laundromat, he’s got a bag of tricks and I don’t think it’s the fun kind. Yeah, Al’s, right down the road.’

You ask for cigarettes instead, the long ones. It’s a lot easier to say that, a lot less words. Besides, you know he’s expecting you. You know what will happen if you don’t show up.

Your hands tremble as you light the tip against the struggling wind and make your way back to the laundromat. You want the life of the cigarette to be lackadaisical, to last you longer than the walk back to the laundromat, but you chase the buzz with quick steps. Antsy to get back.

Not eager. You don’t want to go back, but you don’t want to keep him waiting. It makes the buzz fade quicker than you’d like, the numbness slipping through your fingers before it can fully set into your spine.

You can see the sign of the laundromat gleaming in the sun, dim and dusty and likely filled with mosquitoes. People were walking by the murky panes of glass. None of them looked in. You almost prayed they would, just so you wouldn’t have to go inside. Likely they’d be better people than you and call the cops after seeing a murderer drenched in blood sitting inside, but who knows these days.

The panic trapped in the rib-woven confinement of your chest doesn’t ease as you take the final drags of your cig. The moment you’re in the line of sight you feel the eyes back on you, and it makes the end almost burn brighter, as if the cigarette is also too impatient to wait for you to return to the clown.

“The fuck has my life come to,” you grumble, stepping on the lit butt until it dithers out.

When you look up he is, of course, staring straight through you. You wave pathetically as if to affirm ‘hey, I’m back. Just like I promised!’ but the clown doesn’t look like he feels any particular way about it. In fact, his gaze is cold enough to make your stomach curdle, the hot ball of anticipation inside your gut hardening into the choking weight of fear.

Your fingers are slick with sweat as they press on the door. The clown is sitting in a chair conveniently close to where your outfit is still tumbling away in the dryer, and leading to him is a grossly vibrant trail of blood in the shape of comically large footprints

His expression doesn’t change as you drag you feet over to where he’s lounging, the black trash bag lopsided at his feet. Decay drips off him and onto the plastic seats, pooling in the curved bottom before dripping down the backs.

You change the clothes from the washer to the dryer. Thirty five minutes. How the fuck are you supposed to survive thirty five minutes with this guy?

If you sit right next to him you’ll get a proper whiff of his sins, if you sit too far maybe it’ll be your blood spilling on the floor. Not great options either way. Maybe it’s better to butter him up, though it’s hard to tell which he wants with the way he’s staring at you like he wants to skin you.

You choose what you think is the lesser of two evils and sit next to him, casual. You try not to let the look he levels you with steal your voice, not with the way his brown gunk-covered fingers tap impatiently on his thigh. Waiting for something to happen. Waiting for you to step over the line so he can do something.

The time left on your machine reads thirty two minutes. Fine.

“You got a name?” You ask after looking back at him.

He bats his eyelashes playfully, why, little ol’ me? The expression warms up as you enter the arena of the game again, his game, watching as he digs through the bag before pulling out a square piece of paper.

It’s a business card. Your breath stops in your chest when, for a moment, you wonder if you really had read this whole thing wrong—was he just a really convincing mime that you’d happened to run into twice, eager to share his business?

The thought is short lived. When you take the card you can see the printed text is scratched out sloppily with a crayon. In the margins is the scratch of sloppy, childish writing:

“Art the Clown,” you read out loud, voice quiet.

Art folds his hands in front of himself and presses them under his chin, once more batting his eyelashes at you as though to say, guilty as charged.

It’s a mockery of sweetness, especially with such disgusting yellow teeth baring themselves at you like a shark. At least he doesn’t seem angry anymore.

You hand the card back to him, careful not to touch where the blood soaks through his gloves, before sitting down next to him. You try not to make it too obvious that you’re sitting as far from him as possible on the seat, but Art seems completely unaware of personal space as he leans in, thigh touching yours.

Wetness seeps through the place of contact. Iron is rich and burning in your nose.

You dig through your pockets and start talking as soon as you have four quarters in your palm. “Well, Art—if I were you, I’d wash that. Otherwise all the red is going to stain.”

You place the quarters into his palm, lean back in your seat, and close your eyes. You’ve got thirty more minutes, might as well try and fit a nap in. It’s not like anyone is going to bother you while Art is here, though that thought doesn’t bring you much comfort.

You count backwards from ten, breathing out of your mouth, and try to let the vibrations of the machines lull you to sleep.

#Art the Clown #art the clown x reader #art the clown x you #slasher fandom #slasher x you #the terrifier #gore

[dimonds456]

Howdy!

I'm Dimonds456, and welcome to my garbage pile. I'm a bat who stays up way too late and cannot decide whether or not to be productive. I draw, write, animate, play/write music, and I'm also insane so watch out for that.

I'm neurodivergent, disabled, queer, white, a singlet, fictionkin, and a proud cat papa. I am a cartoon character who is way too bouncy for their own good lol.

They / he / xe!

This is my main blog, but my ADHD ass also has a bunch more.

@dimonds456-art - my art blog! Almost all art gets rbed there!

@dimonds456-but-only-hlvrai - my HLVRAI sideblog! Because yeah why not. This is one of me current hyperfixations lol it's bad

@rubberhose-roy is my sideblog used to gush about 1920's-40's aesthetics, music, culture, ect., as well as an animation blog! All my animations specifically will be reblogged there, as well as any animation rambles or gushes I do.

I have more but those are the main three.

My fandom-specific blogs are:

@dimonds456-but-only-hlvrai (again)

@hlvrai-stuck-together - HLVRAI AU I run!

@halfnautica - Half Life / Subnautica AU!

@a-second-chance-su-au - Old SU AU that has been discontinued, but the blog is still there!

@batim-rewritten - a Bendy and the Ink Machine rewrite I'm working on

@cuphead-contract-au - A Cuphead AU where Mugman makes a deal (discontinued)

And, I have my own OC story, Follychromatic! I reblog all that stuff here, but its main blog is here!

@follychromatic

To see pictures of my cat, check the #Checkers tag! :D

Okay great. Now, DNI, trigger warnings, disabilities, special interests, and more below the cut. Make sure you read at least once, k? Thanks.

Welcome to my cave!

DNI

Trigger Warnings

Do not FUCKING interact if you are:

- A proshipper

- A bigot

- An LGBTphobe / transmed / ect

- Trump supporter

- Nazi / fascist / conservative

- Weird about furries or furry art

- Weird about fandom headcanons (specifically trans woman headcanons)

I will add more if anyone wants me to, or we can come up with a custom tag, like what I do for one of my friends! (#dimond don't look)

I will tag as much as I can, and if you want me to tag something specific, let me know! But as a general blog cover, things that appear on this blog often are:

- Current events

- Talk of / discussion of sexuality (sometimes boardering on NSFW but not usually)

- Blood

- Guns

- Flashing

- Talk of proshippers (I try to be respectful but also I don't stand for them and I don't support them. I block and move on, and try to explain why proship is bad, but eh. I've only been listened to like once lol)

- Swearing / swear words

- All caps

- Bugs

- Suggestive content / NSFW (RARE DONT WORRY)

DISABILITIES

Hiiii I'm disabled! Both mentally and physically. I talk about being disabled a lot and try to generate positive talk about it. I also vent about it. I've had quite a few of these, and I also try to reblog as much about others I don't have as I can to increase awareness and understanding. So yeah! These are just the ones I have, but they are not the only ones that appear on my blog!

Hyperthyroidism

Graves Disease

Graves Eye Disease

Astigmatism

Athsma

Audio processing disorder

ADHD

Autism

Trauma / PTSD

Brain fog / disassociation / memory loss

Anxiety

Depression

Cane user

Weak / trembling limbs / trouble walking / trouble holding onto things sometimes

More to be added lol.

This is also a meds/treatment positive blog, a self-diagnosis positive blog, and my general attitude is just "if you think something is wrong you're probably right, you know yourself the best, even if you don't know what exactly is wrong." This attitude has saved my life and other people I know. You don't need a diagnosis or medication to be disabled.

THIS IS A SAFE SPACE.

If you are Jewish, black, brown, Muslim, indigenous, any religion, any race, any sexuality, any weird gender, anything at all- I love and support you. I'm still learning, and I try to learn as much as I can, but I'm not perfect. If I say something offensive or something adjacent, it was NOT on purpose. PLEASE, PLEASE tell me what I said wrong. I will make an effort to improve in the future.

I directly support:

- All races

- All religions*

- All sexualities (except pedos, y'all aren't LGBT, I'm sorry. You're actively hurting children. I've seen it again and again. Stop.)

- All genders and pronouns

- All "weird" identities outside of that as well (I'm fictionkin myself)

- Protests and protesters

- Neurodivergent people of all types (and yes, this means NPD, schizo, and all those other types that are often seen as bad or evil. I love you, I see you, and I support you.)

- DID & OSDD systems

If I have reblogged or said anything that aligns with the bottom list, that was a mistake. PLEASE let me know and I will fix it as fast as I can. You reading this right now, I love you. I hope my blog can help you feel welcomed and like you have somewhere to go if you need it. /gen

I DO NOT support:

- Antisemitism

- Genocide

- Cults (*stuff like Jehova's Witnesses. I support the members, as they are victims, but I actively dislike the people on top who perpetuate the cycle. Not just JWs, but those are the big ones who come to mind. Hearts out to all the victims, I hope everyone gets to a better place soon)

- Racism in any way, shape, or form

- Religious discrimination of any way, shape, or form

- Israel specifically

- Trump, conservatives, Nazis, ect.

- Endo systems

MY FANDOMS / INTERESTS

I HAVE ADHD AND AUTISM AND I'M MAKING THAT EVERYONE ELSE'S PROBLEM /silly

The current special interests are HLVRAI and Half Life, current hyperfixations are Half Life and Poppy Playtime.

SPECIAL INTERESTS:

- Minecraft

- HTTYD

- FNaF

- Undertale / Deltarune

- BATIM / BATDR (unfortunately)

- Subnautica

- Biology

- Steven Universe

- Cuphead

- 2D Animation

- Writing

- HLVRAI

- Half Life

theres more but my brain is an egg :/

HYPERFIXATIONS (interests but not the special ones):

- Little Nightmares

- Hello, Neighbor (unfortunately)

- Petscop

- Portal

- Freemanverse (HELP ME)

- The Amazing Digital Circus

- The Owl House

- Gravity Falls

- Monster High (very first from what I can remember! I remember nothing though! But it's there!)

- Poppy Playtime

- Half Life

- Wild Kratts (I didn't even know there WAS a fandom until very recently, hi guys)

When it comes to ✨me,✨ I have a couple of original works as well! Specifically, Follychromatic! I won't get too into it here (bc shy) but it's 2D animation, rubberhose animation, magic, character-driven, action/adventure, mystery- yeah!

Outside of fandom, though, my special interests are biology, 2D animation, and writing. I am an animator and I suffer for fun.

YOU MADE IT! Have some Checkers for your time! :)

#dimond speaks #intro post #bout time i made one of these huh #dni #pinned post

[piduai]

queen idk if it works but maybe blocking x reader tags will work to not see them in the tags? i dont go in tags so idk tho

i haaaaave them blocked and blacklisted and filtered it's just that there is no be all end all term that everyone universally uses to be able to sort by it :( like you go into this guy's tag and the third post is this

and it's tagged as this

x male reader? are you fucking kidding me?? like the problem is that they all use different tags/terms for their garbage and you can't possibly filter ALL of them lmfao. i've blocked all erwin x reader stuff i could think of for example and yet each time i go into his tag it's still half of it. and it's only a shounen thing lmfaoooo idk what it is about teenage boy cartoons that inspire the most lust. and i block the blogs themselves all the time but they're endless it's like beheading a hydra

#anon

[thisismysecondrodeo]

Idk if you're taking requests at the moment but the way you write for Ted is amazing and I'm stuck in bed feeling like death because I've got the most brutal sinus infection rn. I was hoping you might write something about Ted helping his partner feel better when they're sick or in pain. Be it joint pain, headache, cramps, flu whatever strikes your fancy. Thank you xx

🐝

AN: Omg this is the biggest compliment and I will always take requests when I think I can do them justice! Luckily I ADORE sickfic (and I’m sorry you feel awful!), hope this cheers you up and please forgive any typos!

Rating: Teen

Tags: Minor appearances of other Ted Lasso characters, Romance, Sickfic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gender Neutral!Reader

Fic masterlist

It was Sunday morning which you knew was Ted’s absolute favorite time of day. You’d only been living together for a few weeks but you’d already grown accustomed to the sunlight streaming in through the windows and the sound of Ted’s “Easy Like Sunday Morning” playlist drifting in from the kitchen as he made pancakes or french toast or any other complicated breakfast recipe he’d saved during the week. 

But this Sunday morning wasn’t just any Sunday morning, as Ted had been reminding you all week. This Sunday, Ted had planned a full day of fun for the two of you. It had been in the works since the day you moved in. 

“I don’t want us shackin’ up to mean we stop lovin’ on each other,” Ted had explained when he laid out his plans over dinner at the Crown & Anchor. “I’ll block out the day and we’ll do some stuff we always planned on ‘round London-town!” 

You smiled at his enthusiasm, “We’ll never stop loving on each other just because we live together. In fact, I think we might be insufferable.” Ted laughed and brought the back of your hand up to his lips for a gentle kiss. 

And now that your jam-packed Sunday had been planned, tickets had been purchased, and dinner reservations made, you sat up in the warm, morning light of you and Ted’s shared bedroom…and you felt like garbage. 

You felt like more than garbage, actually. You were shivery, your eyes burned, and your head felt like someone was driving nails into it.

“Fuck,” you whispered, trying foolishly to rub sleep and sickness from your eyes. There was no way you were missing out on the day Ted had planned so thoughtfully. You’d just have to fake it. 

Ted must have heard you rustling because no sooner had you decided you’d just power through, Ted was tapping on the door and bringing you a cup of coffee. 

“Mornin’ sunshine!” Ted was still in his pajamas, hadn’t yet combed through his bed head and he looked soft and rumpled and perfect. You smiled and accepted the coffee, sipping quickly to hide the fact that you felt terrible. Ted sat near your feet, one hand resting lightly on your knee as he looked at you.

“So, I made cranberry orange muffins so we have some breakfast we can take with us on the road. I’m thinkin’ we can hop in the shower, and then…” Ted paused mid sentence and tilted his head at you, his gaze analytical. You went to take another sip of your coffee and realized at the same moment that he did that your hand was shaking. “Orrrr we could tuck you back into bed and have Sunday Funday another time.” 

“What?! No, why would we do that,” you sat the coffee aside and made to get out of bed, but Ted quickly put a hand over yours to keep you under the blanket. 

“Honey, are you going to look me in my eyes and tell me that you’re not sick? Because I can see it all over you.” 

You sighed, dropping your face in your hands. “I’m not THAT sick. I…don’t feel great. But you went through all that work for Sunday Funday, I can rally.” 

Ted smiled at you before standing up and walking around to his side of the bed, sliding under the covers. “Baby, I’d plan a million Sunday Fundays and lose money on it a million times before I let you do anythin’ but rest when you don’t feel well.”  Ted wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you back down into the bed and against his chest. “Now, tell me what’s hurtin’?”

You groaned and shut your eyes, relishing in your boyfriend’s warmth. “What doesn’t? I’m cold and hot at the same time, my head aches, my eyes burn. I just feel like shit.” 

Ted chuckled, not unkindly. “And you thought you were gonna rally? I love you so much that you thought ya should, but jeez baby.” Ted kissed the back of your neck. “You get some rest and I’ll go get you some para-whos-a-whatsit—”

“Paracetamol,” you laughed.

“Right, that. And some water and crackers, and we’ll hole up here and maybe watch some movies if you’re feelin’ up to it later.” 

Ted moved to get up, but you grabbed him quickly by the wrist. “Wait! Wait, don’t… don’t go just yet. I’m sorry to be clingy—”

“Hey, hey, look at me.” You rolled over, and looked at Ted who brushed his knuckles gently over your cheekbone. “You don’t owe me a single sorry for wantin’ me around when you’re not feelin’ well. I’ll take care of sick-you every day of the week as long as it means ya ain’t sick o’ me.” 

You smiled, tucking your face into his neck. “Never. I’ll never be sick of you, Ted.” 

You didn’t know how long you slept but when you woke up again, Ted was sitting next to you, reading a book and stroking a hand through your hair, and there was paracetamol and water on your nightstand. An extra blanket was thrown over your shoulders, and a cool towel was on your forehead. 

You sat up slowly and took your medicine, and Ted immediately sat his book down, tugging you gently into his lap and kissing your temple. 

“How ya feelin’ darlin’? Anything I can do for you?” 

“Oh, you’ve done plenty, my love. I’m definitely feeling better. Not good enough to make it to any of our plans, but maybe good enough to shower and move this sick day to the couch for a movie?”

Ted grinned. “Well alright! That’s definitely an improvement. I’ll go get it set up while you hop in the shower. I’m thinking popcorn and maybe a little soup for you? Get somethin’ on your stomach?” 

You were already heading into the bathroom but you turned quickly, a mischievous look in your eye. “I see your soup and raise you one of those cranberry orange muffins you made this morning.” 

“Are you trying to bargain out of your sick food?!” Ted laughed with faux offense and you grinned. 

“Are you going to tell me no?”

Ted shook his head with a smirk and kissed you briefly on the lips, “Never.”

#ted lasso #ted lasso fanfic #ted lasso x reader #ted lasso blurb #ted lasso fanfiction #ted lasso reader insert #sickfic

[thedeliverygod]

a message/warning

I understand tumblr is something people often use to vent and I do that sometimes as well

but imo if you're going to post about something as serious as self-harm in any way you need to tag appropriately (not using symbols) and preferably you should keep it on a private blog that's only for you so that not just anyone randomly scrolling by on their dash will see it because it's extremely triggering

if its a 'joke' you're posting about something like that then you're a garbage person honestly

all in all unless what you're posting is HELPFUL and providing resources or words of support for people going through things, I'm going to block your ass instantly

I am working extremely hard to improve myself both medically and mentally but at the end of the day I am still passively suicidal (meaning I'm not actively looking to hurt myself but there are moments where I just really do think it would be better if I was not such a burden for everyone)

I am so fucking glad that I'm strong enough today that the post I saw didn't cause any overwhelming effects

tl;dr: think about the consequences of your words, people who are recovering or working through hard times in their life can easily go down the wrong path just by seeing something from a friend/mutual.

#suicide mention #self-harm mention

[vampyrsutton]

ShIzaya~Cream Pie

Summary:

Izaya really needs to be put in his place.

Ao3 Tags:

Creampie, Light Bondage, Enemies With Benefits, Izaya Being Izaya (Durarara!!), i love that's a tag, Insults, they hate each other but they also Fuck each other, Kinktober 2020

“Oh, Shizu-chan~!” Was the ear grating sound that greeted the debt collector from an alley on his way home from work.

Brown eyes glared into red as he stopped and what little foot traffic was left on the streets vanished. “I thought I told you to stay the hell out of Ikebukuro, fucking flea.” 

“Hmmm~ Just coming to collect from last Tuesday, Shizu-chan.” Izaya hummed from where he was leaning against the alley wall.

“You have my number for a reason, dumbass.” Shizuo snarled, looking around to make sure there weren’t any civilians stupid enough to still be in ear shot.

“You’re so much more fun when you’re pissed off, though. Now are you coming or not? I’m getting bored, Shizu-chan~” The brunette smirked.

‘This fuck bastard.’ The blonde felt a vein throbbing in his forehead. “And why would I give you what you want for being a bastard?”

“Where else is a brute like you supposed to get any?” Izaya laughed. “Who else is going to be kind enough to take pity on a protozoan like you?”

As if on cue, Shizuo’s patience snapped as he stalked past the brunette and grabbed him by the hood of his infuriating jacket to drag him away. Izaya smirked in triumph, but struggled for the effect of pissing the blonde off more. 

“My point exactly, Shizu-chan.” He sighed as though the other was hopeless.

“Be happy I’m even giving you the dignity of dragging you back to my place instead instead of leaving you in the alley like the garbage you are.” 

“Oh how kind,” Izaya laughed. “What’s this? The monster has an ounce of understanding about human kindness? It must be the end of the world, aye Shizu-chan~?”

“If I couldn’t feel the knife at my thigh, I swear to go I would kill you right now, stupid flea.”

They continued like this the few blocks back to Shizuo’s apartment and by the time the blonde literally threw the info broker through the open door, Shizuo was as pissed as Izaya had hoped.

Shizuo had a brief moment of realizing he had brought the flea to his house before brushing it off. This was one of the best info brokers in the whole of the underground in possibly multiple countries if the Russian was anything to go by. He could have easily met the blonde at his own door if he wanted.

“Let’s just hurry this up so I can throw you out.” Shizuo growled, beyond pissed as he undid his tie and worked on his vest. “Fucking flea.”

Izaya just grinned in a way that was supposed to appear innocent, but even he knew anyone would read as trouble. “What if I don’t want to anymore, Shizu-chan~? That was a pretty long walk after all.”

Shizuo stopped halfway through the buttons of his shirt to glare at the flea. “If you’re just wasting my time then get the fuck out. I’d much rather go to sleep.”

Izaya just snickered, unfazed by the glare he was shot. “Just kidding! I didn’t waste an hour just to piss you off and go home after all.” He hummed, tossing his jacket on the couch he had been thrown at. 

“It wouldn’t be the first time, flea.” Shizuo huffed, finishing the buttons on his shirt. 

‘Well my house, my rules. I’ll put the bastard in his place.’

“Hurry the hell up. The assholes today kept picking fights.”

“My my, awfully bold today aren’t we, Shizu-chan~!” Izaya hummed, throwing his shirt onto his jacket with his pants following quickly after. “Or maybe you actually want to fuck me today?”

Shizuo sneered in disgust as he got his belt off before he thought of something and held onto the belt as he tossed his pants off as well. “Not even if you were the last bastard alive. Now come on. My couch isn’t as big as yours.”

“Oooh~! I get to see Shizu-chan’s bed? How exciting!” The brunette laughed as he followed, toeing off his socks along the way. 

“Shut up, stupid flea.” Shizuo growled, pointing to the bed. “Just lay down, bastard.” 

Izaya, for once in his life, did as he was asked, though it still had as much dramatic flair as he normal as he bounced a little when he landed.

Shizuo just rolled his eyes as he dug around in his nightstand for lube before finally finding it and moving to hover over the flea.

They had set up a few rules when they ended up in this agreement. Kissing was fine, but no leaving noticeable marks. Avoid clawing if it could be helped otherwise don’t let it show. Cuddling depends on the mood. No knives involved unless pre-discussed. Lube always. Condoms depended on location since they were both clean. Listen to safe words always. No using kinks as blackmail. No letting it get out that this was happening, and lastly, no catching feelings.

Shizuo thought the last rule was stupid because fat chance, but he took advantage of the first rule now in order to distract the flea so he could follow through with his plan. He knew that was secretly Izaya’s favorite rule from how easily it shut him up, and he did just that when Shizuo leaned down and cut off whatever sarcastic comment was about to leave the brunette’s mouth. 

While he had Izaya distracted, he moved his slim arms above his head and bound them to the slots in his head board with the belt. Shizuo was honestly shocked to find that Izaya didn’t even seem to notice, too caught up in receiving gentle affection for once in quite a while. 

They really were touch starved weren’t they?

The flea’s lips were surprisingly soft so Shizuo decided to throw him a bone, giving the brunette a few more gentle kisses as he ran his fingers in his hair. Shizuo smirked into the kiss when Izaya seemed to realize the situation he was in and made a confused sound before nipping at Shizuo’s lip.

Shizuo leaned back with a chuckle. “Something wrong, flea?”

Izaya was pouting when he whined. “Shizu-chan~!”

“Somethin’ wrong, flea?”

“Why are my hands bound by your stupid belt?”

“Pretty sure this was on your Green List.” The blonde laughed, picking the lube back up to move down the brunette’s body. “‘S what you get for being a bastard. What? You have something to say about it?” He hummed, giving Izaya the chance to safe word if he needed to. 

Izaya continued to pout, but didn’t safe word out. “You’re so mean, Shizu-chan.”

“Rich coming from you.” Shizuo shrugged as he lubed up his fingers before slipping one in.

“Ru- ah! Shizuuuu-chan~!” Izaya whined.

Shizuo just hummed in response, sounding unphased as he slid his finger in and out, drinking in the flea’s moans and whimpers. 

It didn’t take very long for them to work up to two then three fingers, Shizuo making sure to spread Izaya open enough for neither to be too uncomfortable as the brunette continued to struggle with his restraints. He had this thing about clinging to Shizuo as much as possible, but with his knives left in the living room, it looked like that wouldn’t be happening tonight.

“Mmm~ Shizu-chan~ I’m good. You can stop prepping. Just get to the fucking part.” Izaya was panting, and that was probably the closest thing the blonde has heard to begging out of the smaller man since the drunken night that started this. Never will he ever trust a drink Shinra makes ever again. 

“Which one of us is bound again? Really don’t think you’re in any position to be making demands.” Shizuo smirked as he lubed his cock now. 

“What was that? The protozoan can think?! My what a mira-Ahhhh~ Shizu-chan~!”

Shizuo, in his annoyance, may have thrust in slightly more than he meant to but waited until he could see the flea was ready for him to move before moving any further. Once the brunette’s thighs started twitching, Shizuo inched in further little by little until he was eventually bottomed out. 

“Ooooh~ Shizu-chan~ Full...Move, Shizu~”

‘He needed fucked that bad, huh? That has to be a record on him dropping the ‘chan’.’ Shizuo hummed as he gave a few shallow thrusts before properly doing what was asked of him, pulling out almost all the way before thrusting back in fully and picking up the pace as he went.

Izaya moaned loud, locking his ankles around Shizuo’s waist to try to get him as deep as possible. “Shizuuuu~ AhhhhAhhhh~ More~!”

‘He’s just as blunt in the bedroom as outside of it.’ Shizuo chuckled to himself as he leaned down to kiss the brunette again. He was slightly addicted to that part okay? For such a sharp tongue, Izaya had a really soft mouth and it was hard for him to hide any noises when they escaped right into the blonde’s mouth.

“Ha-Hey, flea? Do you ha-have any assignments tomorrow?” Shizuo panted into the smaller man’s mouth. He smirked when the other shook his head in response. “Perfect.” His stamina wasn’t just for chasing the flea after all.

Izaya looked up at the blonde in confusion before crying out when the blonde finally found his prostate  and continued to hit that spot almost every time once he did. 

“AAAhhh~ ShizuuuUuu~! Ahhhh~!”

“Always so loud, Izaaaya.” Shizuo chuckles, drawing out the other’s name similarly to if he was chasing him around the streets.

This seemed to have an effect because Izaya shivered and his cock jumped.

“Like my voice like that, huh?” The blonde smirked.

“Release my hands so I can cOver your mouth.” Izaya glared at the blonde, trying to be as intimidating as possible with his arms bound, precum on his stomach, and a dick in his ass. 

Yeah, not intimidating at all.

Shizuo just raised an eyebrow, giving him a chance to actually stop it but when all the brunette did was pout more he just redoubled his efforts instead.

Izaya tried to hide his face with a bound arm as he cried out, squeezing around the brute’s cock as he tried not to come too soon. He only outran the brute because he was fast, unlike Shizu-chan, stamina was not his forte and that was becoming embarrassingly obvious right now as his own dick practically drooled precum. 

“Ahhhh~ Shizu~! Slow down~ Gunna cum!” Izaya whined into his arm. 

Shizuo just responded by smearing the lube still left on his hand on Izaya’s cock and stroking it with his thrust.

“Shizuuuu~ N-AhhHhhh~!” Izaya came with a shout, splattering cum all over his abdomen before whining in overstimulation. “Shizuuuu…” He slurred.

Shizuo chuckled, pulling out to get a washcloth so the flea’s cum wouldn’t get on his comforter. After cleaning up a whining Izaya, he undid his belt from the headboard to help him rub circulation back into his wrists. 

The brunette made contented noises before realizing Shizuo was still hard and eyeing the blonde’s dick suspiciously. “We’re not done are we, Shizu-chan?”

“Nope.” Shizuo hummed, popping the ‘p’ at the end. 

Izaya groaned in annoyance. “Where do you want me, brute?”

Shizuo was honestly surprised Izaya even agreed to continue but thought about this for a moment. “All fours?”

“This is why you asked if I worked tomorrow.” Izaya muttered as he maneuvered himself into position, grabbing one of Shizuo’s pillows and putting it under his stomach. “Stupid, Shizu-chan and his stupid monster stamina.”

“I’ll choose to take that as a compliment,” Shizuo huffed, moving back behind Izaya to slide back in.

Izaya whined, still a little oversensitive, but the sooner they both finished the sooner he could use the over sized human heater so he just buried his face in Shizuo’s other pillow.

Shizuo didn’t really waste time taunting the brunette this time, knowing what he had planned would annoy him enough so just reapplied some lube and resumed the previous pace of fucking into the info broker hard and fast. 

Izaya clawed at the pillow he was clutching, moaning into it whenever Shizuo found his prostate again.

Shizuo just kept it up, pulling Izaya’s head up by his hair a bit so he could hear the brunette’s sounds that he was blabbering into the pillow. “...Are you speaking Russian?”

Izaya flipped the blonde off from where he was still clutching the pillow, but didn’t stop his rambling even as Shizuo laughed. 

“Fucked you so good you forgot Japanese, huh?” The blonde teased, a few grunts interrupting him as he neared his own climax. “Fuck....I’m close.”

Izaya muttered something in Russian that roughly translated to, “Then cum already.” Shizuo had no clue what the info broker said, but shit it sounded hot and Shizuo pulled out almost all the way and came hard, a decent amount dripping out of the informant’s hole as he did and more following him as he pulled out slowly. 

Izaya apparently wasn’t as annoyed as Shizuo thought he would because a shiver wracked his small frame as he came again with a low moan.

‘Fuck, that’s kind of hot.’ Shizuo groaned as he collapsed next to the raven, reaching for the washcloth on the nightstand so Izaya wouldn’t have to lay in his own cum. 

Izaya basically hissed in oversensitivity when Shizuo touched him, glaring at the blonde as he swiped the cloth. “No more touching until I’m ready to leech your body heat.”

Shizuo just smirked. “So you admit that you’re a leech.”

This just earned him the middle finger as the informant stubbornly used the walls and furniture to make his way to the bathroom.

“Stupid, Shizu-chan.”

“Back at ya, ya damn flea.” The blonde yawned, pushing the soiled blankets aside as he began to doze off. 

Come morning he’d wake up to an armful of unnecessarily adorable informant and a crisis, but that was a problem for future Shizuo. Right now, he just wanted to sleep. 

#durarara #shizaya #drrr #shizuo x izaya #izaya orihara #shizuo heiwajima #kinktober #kinktober 2020

[hislittleraincloud]

Are you familiar with the concepts of ship and let ship? Don’t yuck my yum? Don’t kinkshame? It’s okay to vehemently disagree with other fandom pairings/scenarios/etc., but posting screen shots that openly shame other users for their preferences is very unkind.

I’m genuinely sorry that you were triggered. It would have been easier to use the block button than to create a post saying “Wyler people are gross” and specifically calling the screen-shotted user garbage.

At the very least, please keep any shaming off the general fandom tags. I would have preferred to not see any of this and I don’t even ship Wyler.

It's not kinkshaming to call someone who said that they hoped that a beloved character in fandom was "ripped to shreds" 🗑️.

Context, hun. Did you completely miss the part of the post where I said I had no hate to the OP/the potential for that story? It'll be a good story if real justice is served. The little screencap was served not against its OP, but to the sentiments that it incurred in the comments. Violent stalking/murdering someone else's boyfriend is acceptable to that person, and that's just rank.

I've posted before that I cannot stand Wyler. Fuck That Monster is my 'vehement disagreement' with that, and I am open to that story... I'm not open towards shitty comments about murdering Joel just because Wednesday was dating him. I would love to read that stalker story for justified comeuppance, but I can't say that's what it'll be about given the comments. The real diff there is that my hope as a reader is for real justice to happen while there are people like the 🗑️ poster who hope, as a reader, for INjustice to happen (since there's a real injustice towards two characters being happy only to have one other be gross, inappropriate, and threatening to their happiness). I would have said that poster was 🗑️ regardless of their chosen ship for having posted comments like that, but so far I haven't seen anyone in the popular ships who post 🗑️ like that...because they don't tend to be 🗑️.

Thick skins only grow in the face of adversity. This fandom is full of the thinnest skins imaginable because somewhere along the line, people got the idea that no one's ideas or comments are open to any criticism; that 'staying in a lane' is the way to drive, even though we're seriously all on the highway to Hell here together (especially in this fandom, let's not sugarcoat that). Why do you think that I don't give a flying 💩 about what anyone says about Wenovan and can defend it (maybe not to everyone's liking since they cannot conceive of AB Wednesday having such strong agency at her age/regurgitate whatever the moral line is atm)? Because I've been through that war before. It's nothing new to me.

Senseless death is already happening in realtime in this world. Don't be 🗑️ and wish death upon...how did the Millennials call it before Gen Z became teens...a precious cinnamon roll like Joel just because Hunter Doohan [in a role that was, by general real world consensus, a milquetoast character] makes your panties wet. Yeah, sure, write whatever the Hell you want, it's all fiction. But it still isn't immune from crit, just as the show itself isn't at all immune to crit.

My story isn't immune to crit either, but not one greyface anon has actually read it to criticize WHY things don't work within or don't make sense to them (those are actually in the comments at AO3, and I've responded to them... like the fan who didn't like AB Wednesday in love, even though that's...what she's been LOL). It's just all general "ew gross" or "it's illegal!" or some inane broad brush about the premise with nothing to react on its substance. "But I don't have to read it to know that it's wrong!!!" ... 😐 ...If I am willing to read a Wyler with the above premise to see where it (hopefully) ends up, I think others could be as open minded.

But anyway

If you seriously yum a murderous stalker over love--even while that's 'cute' in this fandom given the solidly frozen misanthrope that is our favorite heroine--then I can't help you. There's something broken there. 🤷🏽‍♂️ Wenclair and Wavier are at least based on 💕 love💕, so I guess that we've got that to be thankful for.

As for tags, for real? As if the tags on this shit app actually work? 💀 You said you don't even ship Wyler, but I'll give 'em a new tag anyway: Wyner/Wyners. Because that's what it all sounds like rn. Wyners whining about why they can't have nice things because ✨Hunter is so dreamy✨, and no one should ever be called 🗑️ just because they hope for a universally loved character to die a bloody death.

#wednesday #wednesday addams #shipping #whining #greyface qs #anons #wednesday shipping #waaaaaah don't tag us 😭😭😭 #these fucking tags are shit to begin with #what the fuck are you complaining about #wednesday ships #wyler people #wyners #do NOT come for joel or i will come for you #joel glicker #bullying joel #actually this is bullying joel on steroids #yes let's bully the nerd because that's cool

[jazzforthecaptain]

Building on the post I just reblogged because tags got long. I used to hate it here for fandom. I felt bullied. I don't enjoy the super popular things that make the rounds in my primary fandoms, and because in the old days there were no filtering tools except block, I felt like I couldn't get any peace. The popular stuff kept invading my stuff. It made adding tracked tags to my feed impossible - tumblr would chuck the stuff I didn't want to see right on my dash.

In reality, almost nobody was pushing things at me on purpose. But it was so inescapable, it felt targeted. And here's the interesting thing - I used to like this stuff. But when I had some issues with it in canon, and there was no way to interact with my fandom that didn't force me to interact with the stuff I was struggling with, my hurt turned into absolute fucking hatred. I still loathe it with an irrational heat, and I know it's because I remember how fandom made me feel. But fandom wasn't actually (mostly) doing anything to me. It was just being a big noisy fandom, and in years past in other fandoms I'd taken part in that excited chatter. You know what would have helped a ton? Blacklisting tags and terms. But that didn't exist then.

I came from livejournal fandom. Communities were pretty great - they were 100% dedicated spaces to whatever thing you were looking for. Not perfect, but definitely not the disaster area that the average fandom tag is here. I made the mistake of thinking of tag searches here the way I thought of communities on lj, and they are not that. Tags collect whatever is tagged. My first taste of that over ships pales in comparison to what happened when the entire site decided they'd had enough of my crossover fandoms. My ersatz community spaces were suddenly drowning in horrible crap - horrible, horrible crap. I have about 5 saved drafts of rants about that, because every time I see a chin-stroking post wondering why my fandoms suddenly disappeared I feel the need to scream, "did you see the amount of garbage in the tags?" But it wasn't all targeted to attack people using the tag. Some of it was just tumblr having drive-by opinions on current events, as it does, and using the tags because that was literally what their post was about.

I learned a lot about human behavior, specifically humans in group contexts, and I finally started blocking people - sometimes 10-20 accounts a day - to cut down on the noise. I realized that they didn't know who I was, would never know, and if they were saying this out loud, this site was not going to be a place we could find common ground. I have hundreds of accounts blocked from that point in time, but I want to stress that they weren't all actively trying to bully people - they were just gawkers trying to talk about a unique thing happening on the periphery of their universe. And I don't think there needs to be some sort of threshold on how bad a person someone should be before I push the block button. It's not there for me to pass judgment. That conversation didn't need to have me in it, even as a passive witness. It certainly didn't need my voice or my emotional energy.

I'm so glad we have more tools now to filter our experience here - blacklisting tags and terms has lessened the necessity of blocking and allowed me to keep sharing connections with people who are into the stuff I don't like - which is quite like how it used to be with dedicated community spaces elsewhere. But blocking is still a useful tool to cut down on noise and sort out the occasional actual trouble in a fandom tag. Experience has taught me that someone targeting the tag is doing it for attention, and they don't deserve yours. It's also taught me that a significant number of negative, (totally subjective here) bad take or poor taste posts on your tags aren't there to be irritating. Their creator is just kind of careless, using tags and terms without thinking about who will see it, which may feel personal but really isn't. I block those folks, not out of any negative feelings, but just because it's clear we're here for different reasons and we don't need to connect.

Bottom line: your attention and time is valuable. Don't feel bad about using the controls you have to stop giving your time and attention to the things here that make you uncomfortable or angry. If it costs you your peace, it's too damned expensive.

[taniushka12]

bro literally what is the fucking point of blocking someone if i gotta still see their garbage everytime they post on the tag like, thats literally all i want

#RAGE and SUFFERING on PLANET EARTh #'blocking ppl will stop them from interacting w/ your work :)' the ppl i wanna block know i dislike them #and they know better than to interact w/ my stuff. cmon. idiot #rage hatred violence etcetera #tani's personal shit #oh ok thats the muting feature that still wasnt implemented yet. i wont see peace until that happens :/

[gcldfanged]

teasing  kiss. [From Ruluf-- monstersmade]

[WHY DID TUMBLR RUIN TAGGING, I DON'T UNDERSTAND-]

nonverbal prompts [ACCEPTING]

He never quite sat well with how some fat, scummy little shit like Corneo managed to take over the criminal underworld- The fucker had a mean streak, sure, but it was the same way you'd look a kid who gets off on burning ants with a magnifying glass or ripping the wings off a pinned fly.

The man was disgusting and crude and had no sense of decorum or tact- Yoon supposed that's what happened when you gave the keys to the castle to a miserable little fool jingling his merry way across the floor. Always sweaty and sporting a half chub of a midget's thumb between his stubby little pug legs, prone to piss all over the place just to show he owned it like his own personal little pile of garbage to roll around and luxuriate in.

Jae never disrespected Two Guns, maybe because they both could smell the same lousy stench around each other- Stale tobacco, dirty water spiraling around a guttering sewer drain, years upon years of grime and blood caked all over their souls like old yellowing streaks of crusty jizz splattered against peeling wall paper.

They'd both had to kill and crawl and scrape their way through the shit to survive, the blinding neon glow burning sallow from the gaudy Wutaitown Pavilion sign replacing the actual sun- which you couldn't even see because of the damn plates blocking it out.

Somehow, he just couldn't see Ruluf being genuinely scared of anyone. Especially not a hopped-up little roach of a man like the Don.

He wondered if maybe there'd been collateral levelled against him, like blackmail- Corneo threatening his family, assuming the other Turk even had any.

There was gossip, especially about the auditions. Whispers of honest to god branding women, like they were nothing but livestock.

Did Corneo leave his little stamp of ownership on his goons, too?

How badly did Two Guns want to kill the guy? When a man's hunted down like an animal, that kind of hate stays with him- Back a guy into a corner and you could see how quickly the well-read and put together gentleman shifts, grows fangs and bristles his fur like a rabid jackal.

When someone beats you down hard enough, it doesn't matter what muddy shade of gray your morals happen to flip-flop into, it feels... good. Makes you wanna see what you did to 'em. Watching the raw-black blood pool in their empty eyes as the last few spurts of a pulse keep their corpse animated like a jerky marionette on twisted strings.

He wasn't expecting Ruluf to turn and smile at him, like some fresh-faced, dewy-lipped idol forces himself to when a freaky fangirl gets a little too scream happy. Jae could practically see the fucking sparkles popping off around his face, it was so ridiculous.

"You wanna take a picture? You know, for posterity? Been looking at me so hard, your eyes are burning holes through your sunglasses. "

Just to wipe that smug little smirk off his pretty face, Whip jams the heel of his shoe into his upper thigh just a inch or so to the right of his groin- yanking the other Turk forward by the loose lapels of his dress shirt and jacket.

"Fuck you, Two Guns."

He's still smiling as Jae tilts his head a little differently and brushes their lips together, dark eyes locked in a kind silent commiseration.

#ceaselxss #◈ WRITING #this got away from me but i was on a roll baybee #oh no they're kinda cute #monstersmade

[shinxistudio]

Studio Thoughts 2024MAR01

I've been thinking a lot since first finding out about the MidJourney deal Tumblr is taking. I've been wanting to make this post for just as long. (This sounds ominous, but it's not.) (Cut for a giant wall of text. Massive rambling.)

I don't know what to do. I've made an infinite number of new accounts across all the different social media I can find. I had to make a sheet to keep track of all the different websites I've joined. The thought of trying to post and maintain 20 accounts minimum to cover myself depending on where people flee to is overwhelming. I'm already averse to updating the accounts I have now. It takes too damn long as it is. (I need to set up PostyBird for the love of god. It doesn't work on a lot of mainstream sites, though.)

I want to share my art, but I don't want that to mean that I'm giving up my rights to it so some fuck can shove it into his dataset to create images and act like they're superior to something made by a real human and the human experience. I've opted out of the 3rd-party sharing option that they gave us, but I know that doesn't mean anything without proof. If they were giving data over that they shouldn't have from private conversations and password-locked blogs, they're not going to give a shit if someone toggled a setting. The whole issue with these datasets is the lack of consent to begin with, so why would they stop Now. I don't even know why they plan to pay Tumblr for the data in the first place because how much of it has already been scraped before they decided to tie it up in a bow for them?

I hate that people just parrot "Nightshade and Glaze!!" as if they're not open-source software that the tech bros can reverse engineer with the available coding. (As well as being easy to remove/get around in the first place.) Not to mention the stupid amount of processing power to use them, if they even work on the type of art you're putting into it in the first place. Even if they worked for your art, they're not accessible to everyone. That's not fair to artists who don't have or can't afford the highest-end PC parts. And even if they Worked to prevent AI it would only be a matter of time before they Didn't, like the constant fight UBlock is having with blocking YouTube's new coding to prevent ad blockers.

I'm just tired. I'm tired of feeling that the modern internet hellscape is just not meant for artists because the algorithms expect you to post as much as possible in order to get seen. I'm tired of artists finding a place to settle only to feel the need to move again and again because they just want their work and themselves to be respected. I miss old DeviantART when it was still a giant hub and community for artists instead of the shell it is today. I still see a lot of people still posting when I check in every now and then.

I don't know what the answer is, because I know data scraping for generative models isn't going away. I can only hope that it cannibalizes itself into hot garbage by taking in generated images that weren't tagged as AI. I would love it if all the wild shit people post on here could make the dataset completely unusable.

At the moment it looks like the only thing I can do is continue to watermark my art heavily and post low-quality versions. I've never had a large enough following to worry about art theft, but I can't control an all-consuming bot scraping everything.

I've been toying with the idea of making my own website and it's seeming more and more appealing. I've seen that you can make your own Patreon-adjacent subscription setup and have a pay-to-access feature. I don't know if that could help prevent scraping or if there are methods to get around that, too. Can bots scrape Patreon itself?

I'll need to update my LinkTree with all the other hundreds of sites that I'm on I guess. I was hoping that this long-ass post would help me come to some sort of conclusion or peace. I think I just gave myself more work to do. I also feel bad that my only other text post here is so hopeful, only to be slapped down immediately in this one.

TLDR: I'm gonna keep posting but like, I'm Not Gonna Like It. MidJourney Sucks. Tech Bros Suck. Ya'll can eat my entire ass.

#shinxispeaks

[smores100]

Hi! I just wanted to say your tags on the recent I/P conflict were really good, and that it must feel strange as a fandom blogger to see so many horrendous takes floating around a supposedly innocuous blogging platform. Sending you lots of love 😘❤️

Oh sweet anon, if only you knew how much I love you for this….are you jewish by any chance? you don’t have to answer, it's just that anytime someone is nice to me, and/or says something positive about ~controversial~ takes such as mine about the i/p conflict, I immediately suspect they're jewish bc this is something I'm only used to seeing from the (very small and tiny) jewish side of tumblr. 99% of the posts on this site are garbage and so full of hate (and at times antisemitism) it makes my head spin, they're clearly not written by jews, so. how sad is that, huh? immediately assuming nice and not hateful = jewish bc this is the new reality for jews now? 😔 I digress tho, not the point!

Back to the point, thank you so much for sending me this. 'strange' doesn't even begin to describe it tho, most times I'm either depressed or just sad. this used to be my happy place, my escapism (even more so now with my deteriorating health), I loved being in fandoms, I loved reading people's meta and funny tags, I loved looking at pretty gifs, I loved the community….it was so much fun! now it's just….hate everywhere. no matter how much I try to avoid it I still see some of it and it's just not fun anymore. people here are so desperate to prove they're the best social justice warriors that ever were bc being a liberal progressive leftist is the trendy thing rn and everyone wants to pat themselves on the back for their awesome activism in clicking 'reblog' and tagging 'fuck isr*el' (well done! thanks to you world peace is just around the corner! 🕊️), and it's all just one big echo chamber of truly horrendous takes as you say, which is something I never expected to see on this site I used to love so much. at this point I've had so many people unfollow and block me that I'm pretty much just following myself on my dash lol. sad.

So thank you very much for your kind words at this time and your support, sending you lots of love right back!!! ❤️😘

and now here it is, your moment of zen (aka tumblr personified) --

#anonymous #replies #love u anon <3

[k8rgrl]

More kate venting. Israel/palestine shit below the cut. If you're here to argue, go fuck yourself. Show some damn compassion.

I'm legitimately tempted to block tags related to this shit at this point. It is so fucking exhausting hearing about it constantly. Yes. I know it's a fucking genocide. Yes. I know the idf is commiting countless warcrimes. What the fuck is signal boosting going to do??? Everyone who follows me fucking knows already!! We all fucking know!

I don't have money to throw at charities, I don't have the energy or time, or resources to volunteer, I can't do jack shit!

Can't even go to protests!

I live with my dad, my grandmother, and my grandfather.

I was raised jewish, both sides of the family. I'm not anymore, I'm pagan, but my granddad and gma are still.

My grandfather is an incredibly passionate, and caring guy. He saved me from a lot of really bad shit, and goes out of his way to help people who need it.

He even tried to be a good leftist. He doesn't know that, but he's got most of the right ideas.

Except he's a fucking zionist. And not even out of bigotry. It's out of primal fuckin fear and trauma that he would rather die than address.

It's so exhausting. He's got this weird fucked up idea that being critical of israel in any way what so ever is antisemitic. It's this absolutely mind-numbing thought terminating cliché.

Any time the slightest hint of the continent comes up, he becomes the most obnoxiously staunch Israel supporter.

I know he has no hatred in him. He just genuinely cannot understand that supporting palestine isn't the same as wanting every jew dead.

I'm not kidding, that's unironically what he believes. I don't have the heart to tell him I'm pagan when he's yelling with legitimate fear for his and my safety that pro-palestine people want me dead.

He's even admitted that the only difference in our stances is where the line is as to what's supporting palestine and what's supporting hamas.

And he's said if he ever caught me going to a "pro-hamas" protest he'd kick me out without hesitation.

That's already tiring enough, but I don't go to protests, so, fine, whatever. Not taking the risk now, that's for damn sure.

And then there's the fucking internet. Gods I hate how the internet has handled this shit.

Especially in leftist spaces. At least I can comfortably call right-wingers garbage takes for what they are and discard them.

And then, people on here have the gall to say shit like "i don't want to see any white people ever again say how china, the middle east and many others asian countries are censored and that people there have no rights, don't you dare to make fun of north korea when your president wants jail for people who deny the state of isr*el" (they censored it, not me)

How fucking dare you minimize other people's suffering because one group has it horrifically bad right now.

Where were you when yemeni people were being wholesale slaughtered? How about the Uyghurs?

Lemme guess, didn't have the energy? Didn't have any way to meaningfully help? JOIN THE FUCKING CLUB.

And for those of you degrading and mocking people who say vote, or contact your reps, fuck are we SUPPOSED to do?

Grab a plane ticket to an active warzone, and get murdered for a cause it would take a lifetime of traumatic horrors, or a phd to fully comprehend?

Riot in the streets for the sake of awareness, and get labelled a terrorist and ignored?

I'm not some fucking anarchist revolutionary. I'm a transfem barely able to self-motivate, who barely finds spoons for her productive hobbies, much less genocide awareness advocacy, while living in a household with a nearly 70 year old man who is so traumatized he'd rather call his granddaughter antisemitic than accept that being critical of israel isn't wanting him and every other jew in a fucking camp.

So yeah, I sure am just going to live my life like I was. What else am I supposed to do? Uproot my life and become yet another victim of a vicious cycle of colonialism? Become another voice yelling blindly into every void I can, in the vain hopes I convince someone of something I barely understand, after hours of research?

Support and advice appreciated, anything with an aggressive tone or call me something… dude, get some sunlight. Even just through a window. Go play with your pet, if you have one. Call a friend. Do anything except yell at a stranger on the internet.

[fangedfaefreak]

TW: Going to rant about Christianity for a hot second, fyi. I will be quoting verses. I just don’t want to put this on my main in case the guy I argued with sends his buddies after that account bc I really shouldn’t have argued but I did, so🤷🏻 Call me a chicken for blocking them, but I am already triggered and on edge and I’m not about to make it 20x worse. Religion is sooo fucky for us and I really don’t need to keep surrounding myself in that pile of garbage. Putting a read more bc I definitely get blasphemous and I know some religious trauma folks follow our sys account and could see this AND some Christians follow us there too. (I love you, I know you’re not like the ones that hurt us.) This post is made by Vivian, btw. Duh, it’s my account lol.

Got in an argument on main with a Christian🙄

“My book of fables that I often take as absolute truth and completely out of context despite it being written and mistranslated so many times it’s not funny AND I will only use the parts that will further MY agenda and ignore the rest. So here you go: witches are evil.”

Okay. But you wear cotton blend shirts, I’m sure? And have eaten shrimp?

And man, I sure know that Christians enjoy ritual prostitution! That’s literally considered ritually offensive! (Kings 14:23) Doesn’t stop them though! :))) Because why would it?

Not to mention in Christianity it literally says that the Old Testament, while it should still be considered, should not be followed. Rather, the New Testament should be followed. That’s why Christianity has the New Testament rather than just the Old like Jewish folks.

“But Vivi! The New Testament talks about witches too!”

Yeah, they sure do.

In Revelations 22:15 it says that witches will not receive eternal life. (Which…why the fuck would they care about the Christian eternal life anyway lmfao) “Outside are the dogs, those who practice magic arts, the sexually immoral, the murderers, the idolaters and everyone who loves and practices falsehood.”

Weird, I sure know a lot of Christians who fall under that category^^ And yet they still preach and use their religion to get what they want. Fucking disgusting!

And this is not bashing on every single Christian ever, there are a lot of good Christians that don’t use their religion to push their own agenda, but it’s just so gross to see these people on tumblr of all places, especially since they tagged their original post as witchcraft rather than fucking Christian tags. Like I’m sorry I don’t wanna see that on my dash, you’re not going to magically convert me by calling me a heathen and saying I’m going to hell and that I have daddy issues.🙄 Get a grip on your fucking ego holy shit.

I can cherry-pick verses too. Easy peasy. We studied the Bible obsessively for years. Then we realized how fucked it all was and how much hatefulness comes from people misusing it. No thank you.

Gonna try to tag the religious trauma tags and tw tags but I’m turning off reblogs in case any assholes try to clown on this vent post.

-Vivi

#religion tw #religious tw #religious trauma tw #personal post #vivian #🦷 #gonna avoid the x tian tags as much as possible because I don’t want to get shit on here either #do not interact #likes okay I don’t want comments though #this is a rant and a vent through and through

[flatstarcarcosa]

okay anyway like

i’m glad i’ve grown enough as a person and gained enough self awareness to know when something i’m feeling or thinking is genuinely just a me thing, and that it’s irrational at best and outright paranoid at worst, and that i know how to like

not make that other people’s problems. like, me interpreting something wrong or incorrectly and feeling bad about it, is not the fault of the other person. like, if you want to maintain meaningful friendships, it’s important to know when YOU have to be responsible for your OWN emotions and not dumping them on other people.

there was a time i struggled with that, and i AM glad of the work i’ve put in.

but at the same time, i fucking hate that having awareness alone isn’t enough to make you stop actually feeling certain ways about things.

especially when it’s really fucking goddamn stupid!!

i know i don’t talk about him much in a ship context on here but like, m*rbius has been a big comfort character or w/e for a really long time and the fucking memes are actually just fucking bothering me now lmao.

i knew the movie was going to be shit as soon as the casting news broke so i’m not mad/upset about THAT or people being like ‘holy shit this is awful’, that’s not what it is.

i guess i just figured that the pay/trade off of the movie sucking shit would be that it would drum up interest from people to like, genuinely want to know more about the context or see HOW badly the movie fucked up the source material, and people would come out of it a new appreciation for mike, and by extension, the legion of monsters and co on the whole, and maybe be more people interested in the actual fucking comics and not just whatever garbage sweatshop cgi production disney/marvel has done this month.

and instead we’ve just got all these fucking memes that makes me feel like it’s going/gone from ‘holy shit this movie and j*red l*to suck so goddamn hard’ to ‘this entire character and concept is so stupid who would ever like this anyway’

and like i led into this with, i’m not saying that’s how people are approaching it bc logically that’s an insane fucking way to look at it,

but regardless, it doesn’t change that i just feel like the fucking weird kid sitting in the corner that doesn’t get the joke because i don’t realize i am the joke.

i’ve seen multiple posts on like every fucking app i open right now with people dunking on something from the movie and then finding out that’s actually from the comics and/or people commenting they can’t believe people knew about mike/liked him before the movie or whatever

and i don’t know if it’s just that something ELSE is what’s actually got me upset but my brain is just latching onto this instead for some reason but i’m fucking tired. norman’s the goddamn blorbo of the week w mcu fans (derogatory), slade’s tags and spaces can’t go more than a week without the same fucking discourse with a dash of “um you’re basically a [select reason of the week] apologist if you still like him so fuck you die” (that, by the way, is NOT actually me being paranoid about it, that shit grows my block list faster than anything else rn.)

it’s just frustrating that the like, main cycle of any of my f/os either have no content at all, shit content, shit takes/discourse, or are just the butt of fucking jokes that i’m stupidly taking personal for reasons related to me being stupidly fucking insane lol

and i guess maybe it’s also bc mike’s always been a more obscure f/o that i never dealt with people making him/people liking him the butt of jokes like i have w any of my other boys. anyone previously that made jokes about mike were part of the like, 12 people on the internet that genuinely like him to begin with, which makes it different.

it’s like, idk the difference between your dog pees on you by accident because its excited to see you and someone else’s dog randomly hikes its leg all over your bag just because it felt like it.

you’re not going to be happy either way but at least when it’s YOUR dog you know it was harmless, but if it’s a random dog, who knows what it wants or what its doing!!

#txt.txt #'reese can you not do an analogy with piss-' #i am bad at analogies and have nothing but piss to offer so no

[gaiuswrites]

Original Sin | Darksaber!Din

Pairing: Dark!Din x fem!Reader

Rating: Explicit (18+ older for the love of all things holy)

Word count: 3.4k~

Summary: Things change after Grogu leaves. People change. No one is exempt.

Warnings/tags: DUB CON?¿, masturbation (m and f), inappopriate use of darksaber, sex toy (...), Dark!Din, Dom!Din, sacrilegious references, really dark shit, i am so sorry

Update: This should go without saying, but as it turns out, it’s in need of being said: every word written in this fic is my own; any likeness to any other work is coincidence, regardless of how bizarre. I don’t mean to offend anyone or raise suspicion, as I am certainly not a plagiarist (literally couldn’t be even if I tried: I am equal parts too incompetent, too busy, and too lazy to steal from someone else. Fellow writers can attest, I’m an absolute garbage reader and fall behind on almost everyone’s work. There’s an embarrassing amount I haven’t read.) Please reach out to me personally if you have any concerns. I respect everyone here like you wouldn’t believe. Sending love to you all. Be well. ✨

Notes: When I go to hell (it really is only a matter of timing, and not so much a question of if anymore), this fic will rank number one on the list of reasons why I’m sent to my eternal timeout. This... I'm twisted. I have issues. God help us. Seriously, this is basically a horror show. I bow down to the Darksaber!Din content creators who came before me, and the original artwork that inspired me to write this— thank you for lighting this (descending, dirty) path. I HAVE TAGGED A FEW PEOPLE HERE WHO MAY OR MAY NOT BE INTERESTED but really— REALLY— there’s absolutely no pressure. Cheers friends x ( gif credit: @skyshipper )

Masterlist | Read it on Ao3!

The days stretch long like morning yawns—hours passing on creaky bones, slow and congealed inside the metal womb of the Crest.

It wasn’t always this way.

They used to be filled with pitter pattering— with wily antics and vanishing acts that could baffle even the most veteran of illusionists— with prying frogs from tiny, green hands and giggling as blocks and baubles floated through the hull. Laughter. There used to be laughter here.

But that was then. The child is gone now. The Razor Crest is quiet.

Time fills itself like this; there’s little for you to do now but wait. Wait for the dusk to blur into the dawn. Wait for your food to cook. Wait for the shower to warm. Wait for the parts you ordered to arrive at the port. Wait for Din to come back—to come home.

Home. You used to be so certain—you’d bite the head off anyone who questioned otherwise— but you’re not so sure this is home anymore. Its not that anything has changed. No, the galley, the carbonite pods, the cockpit, the deck—it’s all still here. The scuffed walls, the durasteel, the littered crates and packed arsenal. But—

It’s different. It feels different. Something is...

off.

You can’t quite put your finger on it. Its intangible, but it’s everywhere—like gas. Invisible to the naked eye, but encircling you all the same. Choking you.

Killing you.

There’s no good explanation for it. You feel eyes on you when there are none. You find yourself glancing over your shoulder, knowing full well you are alone. Something keeps snagging you, pulling at an unseen thread. The corners of your peripherals tugging at you. Beckoning.

Was that a shadow? No.

Is someone there? It’s just you.

There is a tickle at your ear - a constant - dancing along the shell of it. Wherever you go, it follows.

Home home home. It only feels like home when Din is there, safe and sound at your side. But even then, even Din—in all of his plated exterior—even Din has succumbed. Even Din has

changed.

The truth is, Grogu left and a part of Din left with him. There’s less of him now— more, too: there’s less where it matters, and there’s more where there shouldn’t be.

You don’t remember when it started—when he first disappeared. When the spark in him died, and he was reignited anew.

When this Other became.

On multiple occasions you’ve caught him murmuring into the bellied dark of the Crest with a bent spine, hunched over himself as if he’s shrinking—enveloping in in in as far as the beskar along his chest will allow him to cave. You can never pick up what he mutters, but you catch the sounds of his teeth and lips brushing together, hissing. It’s not Basic; you’d recognize it if it were. You don’t think its Mando’a either. It’s too sharp— too vile. There’s none of his language’s elegance in it.

“Did you say something?” You asked once, poking your head around the doorway, eyes resting on the shine of his helmet.

A beat—and slowly, he unfurled, rearing to his full height and like a sentinel he swiveled, pivoting to face you.

“No.”

Your throat bobbed. “Oh, I-I thought I heard-”

“Come here, mesh’la.”

And you did. You always do.

The darksaber appeared on his belt one day, shortly after the child went away. It came, only once, and there it stays. Indistinguishable - inseparable - there is no dismembering the two. It accompanies him in all things; when he pilots, when he hunts, when he eats. It sleeps by him.

By you, too.

Din has always been stoic—of scant words and physical timing—but now he is a golem. A silent, shrouded figure. His Creed is broken, and you wonder maybe - briefly - if Din is broken as well. He is never unkind to you. He is never threatening. But he is never him. His eyes— the oaky comfort you once found in them— have blackened. He is a pit.

Din Djarin is a pit of a man.

And within that pit he has born rage. Immaculately, it has sprung from him as woman did by Adam’s rib. Like mold growing upon stale fruit does he have this—this wrath. It crept through him. It stalked along his soft flesh— his tawny hide—and it waited; patient, there in the shadows, it waited for him. Waited for him to turn his back, to close his eyes and drop his guard— leeway, an entrance— as to slip in undetected.

To inhabit.

The virtue and love that once thrummed within the heart of him has burned away. Charred. Only this of him remains; this insatiable lust— for blood sport, for the promise of split knuckles and fractured bone, for you.

For all of you.

Now, Din goes out on bounties like he needs it—like it’s oxygen. He lives off it. He’s sustained by the rush, by the adrenaline laced chemicals pumping through his arteries. He’s gone for days and weeks on end and when he returns, he fucks you like he’s been starved. Out in the wilderness without a morsel to eat, he devours you. He’s ravenous as he tears his way across your body—all too pliant for him, all too willing—letting him feast on the nectar dripping from your heat.

You can feel it in his foot steps as he storms the ship, the bassy echo of it. You can see it in the pitch of his visor. You can feel it in his cock as he slams into you, night after night after night—ceaselessly. Tirelessly. Unnaturally. The number of orgasms he wrings out of you is countless—his need so incurable, you have to fight to stay above it all; you have to war against your urge to slip away completely.

Din is one grey choice - one hair trigger - from coming undone.

And you should be scared. You should be terrified—he should terrify you. Like scalding water, you should flinch away at the mere sight of him—at the warning steam that rises from his pauldrons. This predator, unhinged and off his leash—a great, crushing beast at which you are at the mercy of.

But— you aren’t.

You couldn’t place it at first: the gnawing. The gnawing at your insides like maggots festering upon a grizzled carcass hanging limp at a wet market. You couldn’t name the tremor in your gut. You gave it epithets as best you could, you gave it placeholders - fear, worry, intrigue - all until one day it spilled. One day it seeped past the tremble of your stomach and sank lower, lower,

lower.

It settled in your cunt—the gnawing. And you named it Want.

You want him. You want this—you’re addicted to it. This sin like led-lined velvet, you want to roll in it until it poisons you, until you’re smothered with it, just like it’s smothering you now— blanketing you as you mewl naked in your bed, knees knocked together. Your eyes roll back into your skull as you frantically work circles into your clit with the all consuming thought of him: his teeth at your shoulders, his hand around your windpipe.

You’re nearing your finish, the promise of that tight coil unraveling there - there - right before you. You’re so enrapt in it—in this dizzying, wanton act—you don’t register the ramp lowering. You don’t hear the carbonite chamber whir, his quarry freezing over, or his foot falls sounding their way to your bunk.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

You gasp, frightened eyelids wrenching open as his baritone timbre crackles through the hull. The Mandalorian stands there, backlit by the glow from the galley and he looms—expressionless. Haunting. You blink at him rapidly, batting away the desire that’s glazed over your eyes.

“Y-You’re back,” you stutter lamely. You try to smile. You try to distract him. “I uhm, I didn’t hear you come in. I thought you wouldn’t be back until, u-until..."

Your excuses fade, mouth parched dry. The film of his visor gives you nothing. He is unknowable, but you feel it - sense it - that energy—unbridled and rippling off of him in sick, suffocating waves.

“I’ll ask you again,” Din starts.

“What-" he steps towards you, darksaber hanging heavy at his hip, “do you think-" you shimmy up your cot, shoulder blades digging into the steel sidings, “you’re doing?”

Your heart thunders against your chest, beating until you’re sure it’ll burst.

“I’m-"

I’m sorry you almost say, and you have to force yourself to gulp down the apology. You know he doesn’t want it, and he knows you wouldn’t mean it even if you offered it to him.

Your brow wavers. “I-"

He rips away the sheet you had drawn up over you and reflexively you jerk back, revealing the gloss on your fingers and the patch of hair above your mound, shimmering shamefully—exposing you, mocking you under the dim lights.

“What’s this?” he asks, and fuck he’s patronizing you. He’s smirking—you don’t have to see it, you can hear it in the curving lilt of his voice as he drinks in the sight of your very obvious indiscretion, laid bare before him. You can’t bring yourself to answer him—you can hardly look at him—and you bristle, hair on your arm prickling up.

“You fuck yourself speechless, little one?”

Your cunt throbs, burning and contracting around the orgasm that was snatched away from you and fuck, you’re drowning in him. Din is tar—he’s an oil slick, and you’re plummeting through it—gasping for air, for the surface, for sunlight. He’s everywhere—his broad frame, his voice, his scent like copper and smoke. You can barely breathe through the thick of him.

“Answer me,” he growls, leather croaking at the clench of his fist.

“Yes—yes,” you utter, proceeding with honesty, no matter how pathetic. “I missed you,” you squeak out.

Din cocks his head, a smug look scowled onto his visor. “You missed me?” he purrs through a sneer and you nod, precious and small, worrying the inside of your lip.

He sinks one leg and then the other onto your bedroll, just between your parted feet, kneeling before you. The flimsy spring mattress squeals under his weight—all of that armor, all of that boiling soot trapped within him.

“How much?”

For a moment, you must look confused. Puzzled. Your eyebrows furrow as Din unclips the saber from his belt, rolling it over in his hand. You rake your gaze up from it, dilated pupils landing on the unforgiving black panel there.

“You claim you missed me. Prove it.”

Your cunt bottoms out.

He crouches over you, tracing along your inner thighs with it's steel shaft and you bury your fists into the cot. You don't know which to look at: Din or the rod in his hand. “Tell me you want this. Tell me you trust me.”

Fuck, it feels like you’re going to rattle apart. There isn’t an inch of you that isn’t humming—isn’t seizing up wild. “I-I trust you,” you mouth softly. And you do, whether you should or not—you trust him with your life, to make or ruin.

“Fuck, you’re wet mesh'la,” he appraises darkly, leaning in to run a leathered digit through your seam, parting your curls. Your legs twitch, heels of your feet digging into the bed. “So ready for me. So eager."

Your eyes dance frenetically down to the handle and back up to him as he aligns the saber with your pussy. The blunt end of it touches your lips and you shudder, instinctually fidgeting away from it. Din splays his hand on your knee, anchoring you in place. “Shh,” he coos, rubbing a thumb soothingly into your skin. It doesn’t feel sweet. It feels sickly, cloying— like arsenic.

You don’t dare breathe as he prods the shaft into you, inch by terrible inch. It doesn’t matter how slicked and wet you are from touching yourself, your walls strangle the foreign intrusion. Your body resists.

“Fuck,” you sob. Your throat, your pussy, all of it— it’s all compacted. It feels so fucking tight, both words and air fighting to get out and in all at once—everything inside you constricting.

“Show me,” he grits through clenched teeth. “Show me how much you missed me.” He drags his gloved digit over your clit, pressing down onto it until you see stars, fizzing in front of your vision. “I know you can take it, sweet girl. Be good and show me.”

Be good. Be good for him. Be his only vice.

He continues to swirl at your bundle of nerves and you’re nearly thrashing with it— with all of this— hair fanned and mussed against the pillow as you writhe, swallowing his saber to the hilt. Fuck, you’re so full. Maker, you’re stuffed with it; with the cold, uneven edges, the ridges woven into the grip of it— and he slowly - tortuously - delves the handle in and out of you, hitting against your cervix with every thrust.

You can only mumble. Your lips have gone slack, your mind is cavernous. All you can do is quiver and beg— beg for release. Beg for it to end.

Beg for more.

“Oh gods, oh g- Maker, please—”

Your bleary eyes shoot open as you’re silenced by the grip of his gloved hand.

“No.” Din pinches your jaw in the web of his palm, fingertips dimpling your cheeks. “No, your God isn’t here,” he seethes, low and deadly, graphite venom dripping from his lips. “Pray to me.”

Fuck.

Trembling, your lips pucker ugly and sloppy as you babble uselessly in his stony grasp, chin crinkling with a whimper. “D-Din.”

He inhales sharply, mouth snaking into a wicked grin behind his helm. “That’s it. That’s my good girl.”

He’s deboning you as he would a fish. Practiced, he plucks you into messy pieces—gutting you through your open maw. His ministrations are crawled. They’re slothed and carnal with arrogance and pride and it’s not enough—its all together too much, but still—it’s not enough. You’re hungry. You paw at him, scraping over his breastplate.

“Din, please—more," you gasp feverishly, eyes blown wide.

A blip of static huffs through his modulator. “You want more, you filthy little thing?” He gives you another squeeze, indenting scorch marks into your face.

You nod—you try to, his grasp is too firm, rooting your neck to still. “Yes.”

Din groans, all but obliging you as he begins to fuck you harder, pistoning through you as he thumbs your nub with his rough pad.

“Din-”

You’re whining now, tinny and depraved. It’s wrong. Every part, every second of this, is wrong. Immoral. But you can’t stop the way your body convulses at his every touch—you can’t stop the heat roiling in your core.

“Din, Din baby- fuck fuck fuck-”

It’s like he’s trying to split you in two—all of you. Your pussy, your mind, your soul—he’s bisecting you. Divvying you up to bits of nothing. It’s only then that horrid realization occurs to you, winding through your addled haze as he fucks you deep and splintering: you’ll never be whole again.

And scarier still—you don’t think you want to be.

No, you want to be these loathsome shards. You want to be broken glass. You want to draw blood.

You want to be possessed by him.

“Fuck yourself,” he pants, his cock straining violently against his trousers, begging for relief. “Be good and fuck yourself. Let me watch.”

Be good be good be good

He leaves your clit and you whimper at the loss. Your face is stained with tears. The salty trails cascade down to mingle into your hair, into the sheets. You’re vibrating, but you do as he says and you reach down, recoiling when you touch the chilled metal tip. Tentatively, you pad along it, settling on the end that’s peeking out from you.

A pained sound rumbles through Din as you wrap your fist around the saber, and your eyes flit up to meet his, hidden somewhere behind his helm. Hurriedly he unbuttons his pants in a flourish and removes himself from his constraints. He’s pulsing and proud, flexing up against his stomach, the veins choked to bulge along the angry, silken shaft of him.

Finally, you begin to move the hilt—finding an aching, undulating rhythm and he can’t fucking take it. He rips his helmet off, letting it clatter to the floor.

“Din,” your pray, “Din, I think I’m going to-”

You’re wrecked – fried like a livewire– as you look for him, as you search and search—for that warmth, for a trace of him left there. The Din you knew, the Din you agreed to fly with all those months ago, the Din you love. You think you see it sometimes—in the slant of his mouth, the bridge of his nose— but here, now, he is gone.

He is a pit.

Din Djarin is a pit of a man, and you want nothing more than to fall. Standing on the ledge of him, staring down into the abyss—you want this. You want to fall. You want to jump.

“Tell me you’re mine. Tell me, sweet girl— tell me.” He’s fucking his fist raw, humping into his palm as desperate as an animal.

“I’m yours,” you mewl. Furiously rubbing your clit with one hand and spearing yourself on the rod of his saber with the other, your hips buck and spasm. You snap. A blinding light sears through you, ricocheting off every scrap of muscle and tendon sewed up in your body. “Just for you,” you cry, “I’m yours I’m yours I’m yours—”

Your ragged sobs mix with the lewd slaps of skin as Din pumps himself, hot ropes of his release spitting onto you— painting your pussy, the divot of your navel, coating along the slope of your tummy.

“Look at you—fucking, look at you,” he moans throatily, easing through his rough strokes as he softens.

Your chest is heaving and you feel dumb, empty—like a puppet, arms and legs moving on phantom strings. Din removes the handle from you with a wet squelch; a viscous strand of your juices clings on, obscenely connecting your pussy to the base of it, and you rasp—the wind punched out of you with its gaping absence. You gush. It dribbles out the slit of you, leaking past your abused hole and soaking into the bedroll.

When he unsheathed the saber from your scabbard, he took a part of you with it. You’re so fucked out—you’re practically a parsec away— it went unnoticed.

Undetected.

It brushed past you. You didn’t feel it—you didn’t recognize the whisper that has slithered in in it’s place, nestling within your swollen folds.

Breeding there.

“Beautiful,” Din murmurs, placing it on the mattress beside your head, the chrome of it gleaming with your slick. He bows his head to lick a path up your cunt, laving you clean as he climbs higher and higher, tonguing off his seed from your stippled skin. “Fucking beautiful, mesh’la,” he growls. “Mine—all fucking mine.”

You’ve gone heavy. You’re too heavy to keep your eyes open—you’ve been hollowed out and you’ve got nothing keeping you tethered here. You start slipping under in slow motion—intervals between languid blinks lasting longer and longer. You’re spooled in a knot of tangled limbs with Din’s mouth, fervent and needy, flaying you open as he sees fit— with his hot mouth and teeth, suckling your breasts, biting at your nipples and bruising your pretty neck.

It’s not long before you hear it again, as you have before— as you always do: the faint caressing of speech, of lips forming language you cannot understand—made indecipherable in your strung out high.

“D’you say something?” you mumble, half conscious—half dreaming.

Din laps a long stripe up your throat, his stubble sanding your skin. “No.”

You sigh, breathy and girlish, as his fingers find your mound, dipping into you once again. He makes you cum twice more that evening. You barely have the strength to watch him do it.

/

Finally, when he’s satisfied—when he’s spent with driving you mad, making you rile— he grants you respite. He permits it – generous, charitable - and you sleep like the dead, soundly through the night until—

until you don’t.

Eyes. You feel them somewhere— there are eyes on you. You stir, stuttering in your sleep to squirm in the dark. You don’t know what you’re listening to at first. It’s a sound of some kind, a noise. There is a hiss—

A frigid hand seizes around the bloody organ pulsing in your ribcage.

No, not a hiss—it’s a voice. It’s— no-

You pat around for Din beside you but he’s gone—he’s long gone and his vacant spot has grown cold without him—and your nails dig into the sheets, desperately clawing into the fabric.

Inside you.

The voice, the sharp hush of it—it’s inside you. It speaks from inside your own mind, its forked tongue fluttering against your ear.

‘Wake up, sweet girl.’

/

Tags (IM SO SORRY): @djarinsbeskar @pedros-mustache @krissology @keeper0fthestars @read-and-rec

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