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silkscream · 19 days

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pure smile snake venom

ੈ✩ suguru geto x reader

ੈ✩ cw: smut (minors dni, ageless + blank blogs will be blocked), unprotected sex, dom!suguru, emotional manipulation, fingering, dubcon, blood, yandere behavior, edging, multiple orgasms, choking, loss of virginity, religious imagery

ੈ✩ wc: 5.1k

ੈ✩ a/n: oooo i am soo normal about cult leader suguru. art by @/wonowono__3 on twitter

He finds you unconscious.

He feels you before he sees you – your cursed energy permeates the air with dread. He can feel it in his throat, as if the hand of his past self materialized to strangle him, reminding him of desperation. It wasn’t a feeling he was used to, not anymore.

It also felt like death.

When he finds you, your body would have easily been looked over, small as you were compared to the vastness of the forest around you. Insignificant, left to rot.

When he’d looked at your face, there was recognition in his chest despite not seeing you before. He hadn’t been drawn to anyone in a while. He barely had anyone that wasn’t at arm's length to him, even his closest devouts, yet something about the delicateness of your face enticed him. A predator finding lost prey.

He finds it mildly sacrilegious to touch you when you’re in this state, but your shirt was saturated with so much blood that it took him a bit to realize that the color of the fabric was supposed to be white and not merlot-red. He lifts your shirt, grimacing at its dampness, and finds a wound that looks fatal.

He looks at it and feels the residuals of a nasty curse. By the time he tracks it down, he tortures it with all of the energy inside of him.

You wake up on a futon you don’t recognize. You don’t remember a thing.

You wince as you attempt to rise, clutching your side. You’re topless, clothed only by gauze covering your chest and ribs.

You exhale, closing your eyes. In the darkness behind your eyelids, you see a face with a vacant smile. You are met with that very smile when you open your eyes again.

“Welcome back.”

You blink. He must be the stranger that saved you from — well, what did he save you from? You were used to spirits, took years to adjust to that fact, and have even killed a few yourself. But when you feel the pain in your side, nothing comes to mind.

“You… saved me?”

“I suppose so. It was pure luck that I happened to stumble upon you.”

“Where — where am I?”

He tells you it’s his temple, then he tells you his name. When he asks for yours, you’re reluctant. Eventually, you tell him. If he was luring you into his trap, you suppose you had fallen into it against your will by pure chance. It was probably better than bleeding out in the middle of nowhere.

“Do you have anyone who will miss you?”

You don’t say anything. You think of the dingy studio apartment you’ve been subletting for a few months. You try to conjure up a narrative of belonging in your head that would give you any reason for you to leave. Nothing comes.

You shake your head.

Geto Suguru is the first person to tell you that you’re magic.

You knew that, in some way, ever since you were a child. Your intuition made you a strange child, always slightly cryptic with a sense of maturity that made you seem like a vessel for a sad ghost. Your visions would only get stronger – small bursts of light whiplashing through your mind into images, rapid like a supercut. The things you saw would come true.

This is what makes you a good weapon. Ironically, you had always thought of yourself as weak.

He was captivating the way a cult leader should be, and you had fallen under his spell. It was his robes and the regal way he carried himself, maybe. You don’t think he’s bad — he’s made you important, and you’ve never felt wanted before. You were a recluse before Suguru found you. Barely the shape of anything, so he found it appropriate to mold you into something to call his.

Suguru doesn’t tell you much. You know that he probably lies to you.

He holds too much power for you to question it. His cursed technique is daunting and his grace is enviable, but he’s mostly kind. You help him when he finds curses, usually the more powerful ones that could threaten him. Able to see into the near future, you can sense their next move each time. It makes it easy to subdue them to Suguru’s advantage.

You also find that he is regarded as something of a saint to non-sorcerers. Something twists in your gut when you watch his exorcisms, seeing the immediate relief in the faces of his followers. They look at him with so much adoration that it makes you self-conscious that you share the same disposition.

He tells you you’re his favorite and the feeling dissipates.

You like how ritualistic living in the temple is. Breakfast at the same time each day. Tea in the garden. Rolling in the gross with bruised knuckles.

You take a liking to his girls. They remind you of yourself, but they lack the meekness you had as a teenager. The twins adore you almost as much as they adore Suguru. They are endlessly fickle, as most teenage girls are, but their devotion is worn candidly in the way they carry themselves. You wonder how they can be so obedient, but you realize that they have known nothing else.

It’s a quiet luxury. You like to pretend that you’re some sort of priestess, sometimes. You had never been as reverent as your mother, but you think that there is peace in serving a God. If not Suguru, then some higher power must’ve granted you another chance at life, even if your new life meant mundane piety.

You liked routine – it fit you. You did your part in the temple and Suguru would reward you with gentle praises. You were only one of few sorcerers in his current entourage, so you felt special.

Despite this, something felt messing. You often wish Suguru could cast out the malaise inside of you, but you’ve carried it in the pit of yourself for as long as you could remember. Even in your pious bliss, you start wondering if the curse that nearly killed you left a part of itself within you. Each day is the same until you wear thin.

When the string finally breaks, you find him with blood on his hands in the temple’s omoya.

It’s not the blood of a curse, either. It’s dark crimson, such as the same blood that is inside of you, and on the tatami mat lies the lifeless body of a servant.

Shin, his name was. He wasn’t much younger than you, but he had the spirit of a boy, always able to make you laugh before he served you breakfast. He had arrived only a few months after you had, citing suicidal ideation as a catalyst to seeking Suguru’s services. Once treated, he had felt larger than life.

And now, his face is frozen in time – the look of sheer fear.

“Useless monkey,” Suguru tuts, wiping the blood off his face. You’ve seen that look on his face before — when he’s cruel and callous in battle. When he snaps the neck of a special grade curse before he eats it.

You run to the bathroom to vomit.

When you emerge, one of the twins looks at you curiously. Mimiko. She smiles at you serenely, her eyes flickering with taunt.

“Is everything alright, Y/N-san?”

“Y-yes,” you nod. “Just a bit under the weather.”

“Are you feeling sick?” Her eyes light up for a second. “Oh, could you be pregnant? Nanako and I really wish there was another kid around—“

“No, no, I’m not pregnant,” you cut her off, shocked. Did she think you and Suguru were… together? Did she think you were his concubine?

“Ah. I can get the servants to prepare some ginger tea for you.”

“No need, Mimiko,” you shake your head, smiling sheepishly. “I just… need to get some air.”

She leaves you alone as you walk towards the pagoda. You feel another wave of nausea when you remember Shin’s lifeless eyes. The blood on his throat.

You stare at the sunset. It’s been a long time since you’ve left the temple of your own volition. Suguru keeps a tight leash on you nowadays, blaming the unpredictability of your power. Bitterly, you realize that you’re only ever in town alongside him.

Sometimes, you miss being a stray.

His presence is immediate. When you turn, his long hair sways in the breeze as he flashes you a cat-like smile.

“Thought you were trying to run away from me,” he murmurs, walking towards you. “But you’d never do that, would you?”

“Just… enjoying the view.”

He looks at you, amused. It feels belittling.

“I apologize. I thought Nanako had locked the door.”

Your blood stills. He saw you.

“I thought you only killed curses,” you stammer. For the first time, his presence makes you feel unsafe.

“I never said that, sweet girl,” he chuckles. He plays with a loose strand of your hair. “Humans are beneath us, you know that. Humans are the reason curses are created. Curses just like the one that nearly killed you.”

You don’t have it in you to protest. He’s gotten closer to you now. A hand on your waist. His lips kissing your hairline in a way that makes you feel like a child again.

“I— I liked him,” you stutter.

“Mm,” he hums. “He liked you, too. A bit too much if you ask me.”

You stay silent. Only the sound of cicadas fill the air.

“It’s not your fault,” he grins. “You charm anyone you meet by default, you know. But sometimes, these followers… they want to threaten our mission. Sometimes, they’re paid off by sorcerers who are targeting me to gather intel. And darling, when there’s a target on my back, there’s a target on yours.”

You pull away from him with wide eyes. His face is neutral. So naive, you are. He was only doing you a favor, but a sheltered girl like you trusts too easily.

“Just remember. I will be the only one to protect you.”

He finds you in the garden.

You’re surrounded by wildflowers, your yukata loose enough on you that it falls off your shoulder when you sit up to greet him. The sight of your bare skin tokes the fire in his stomach. He’s dressed more casually tonight, in a plain kimono as opposed to his usual gojo-gesa.

“Enjoying the fireflies?” he asks.

“Yes.”

He notices the dark circles under your eyes. Your smile is tired now. You stare blankly as if you’re in a trance.

“You’ve been a bit off lately,” he muses. “Something on your mind?”

You blink at him in surprise, almost regretting it once you make eye contact. The hint of a lazy smile is there while his eyes scrutinize you. It always feels like he can see right through you, observing you just before he eats you whole.

“No, Geto-sama,” you shake your head.

He laughs, rubbing your shoulder. “So formal with me.”

“Shouldn’t I be?” you knit your brows. You had been at the temple for less than a year. You weren’t intimate with him enough to warrant that. You weren’t intimate with him in the way your heart longed for.

“Not with me. Never with me.”

“Suguru.” You mull over the taste of his name on your tongue. The shape of it in your mouth. “I’m okay, Suguru.”

You feel pathetic under his gaze. You can tell he’s waiting for you to say something, sensing the apprehension in your voice. The slight quiver of your bottom lip as you avoid his face.

“I’m just… recovering. From my technique, that’s all,” you say hoarsely.

It’s not a complete lie — the intensive training with Suguru led you to discover that you could bend time and space to your will in small aspects. Teleporting short distances became a new tool for your arsenal. It was still difficult to manage and exhausting to exert. The other day, your nose had bled so much that you almost thought your membranes would burst completely.

“You’re exhausting yourself,” he says gently, rubbing a hand to the small of your back. “But you’re improving rapidly. I’m proud of you.”

Warmth floods your body at his praise. It was too easy for him to wrap you around his finger, and you were starting to hate it.

“Thank you,” you mumble.

“Do you feel powerful?”

You take a moment of reprieve when he asks this. Powerful? Despite being a sorcerer and wielding the ability to exorcise the monstrous manifestations of human suffering, you did not feel powerful at all. You never have. If anything, you only felt useful.

“Not really.”

“You should,” he smiles. “You’re getting stronger. We’re untouchable together, you and me.”

You and me echoes loud in your brain. Stitches itself into every crevice unwittingly.

“Ge– Suguru,” you swallow thickly. “Is that why you saved me? Because you wanted me to get strong?”

“Yes,” he nods without hesitation. “I saw potential in you.”

“Is that all I am? Potential? I’m just– just a vehicle for you?”

He leans over to brush a strand of hair behind your ear. His own hair is down, for once, and you can smell his white tea shampoo as his shoulder touches yours. It almost soothes you.

“You aren’t just a tool to me, you know that,” he sighs, looking at you with intent. “I like taking care of you.”

You nod slowly as you look towards the sky. His words aren’t enough to fill the emptiness inside you. His proximity to you makes your chest constrict in the slightest bit, creaking the floorboards of your ribs inside a haunted house body.

You shiver when he pulls down your yukata and presses a chaste kiss to your collarbone. It must feel the same as when humans get their curses exorcised by him. Lightness in their being instead of dead weight. Blessed by a god.

“Come inside,” he purrs. “You’re getting cold, yeah? I can see your goosebumps.”

No. His hands were just colder than you expected.

He gathers his hair into a half-up bun before he brings you to his room for the first time. It’s rather bare, save for the kotatsu across from his futon and the talismans that are hanging above it. The calligraphy is messy, unintelligible, as if the text was written manically.

He sits you down at the kotatsu and pours you bergamot tea. You cough nervously in anticipation.

“Suguru.”

“Yes?”

“Um.. how long do you intend on keeping me here?”

He raises a brow. Looks at you like you’ve asked something stupid.

“You have somewhere else to go?” he asks sarcastically.

You triple-blink at his bluntness. He isn’t taking you seriously.

“Well, I have a friend or two in my hometown. I was thinking about—”

Your breath hitches when he grabs your chin. His gaze bores into your face, his lips in a hard line.

“You’re unhappy,” he says plainly.

“No, I’m just not sure if I can completely fulfill the purpose that you—”

“Do you think anyone else will take you in?” he spits. “You told me yourself. You have no family. You were barely scraping by when you lived alone. With the amount of cursed energy you possess, you think you’ll be able to protect your friends from all the curses you’ll attract?”

You sink into yourself. As if a switch is flipped, his expression changes completely. There’s that familiar softness in his eyes again. God, the tea was making you feel so warm, too. One look from him and you find yourself melting. Even the Devil would swoon.

“Don’t you think fate brought us together?” he whispers. “Don’t you know how valuable you are to me?”

He almost sounds like he means it. Your rabbit heart speeds up when he strokes your collarbone with his thumb. A heady feeling consumes you and you force yourself to tear your gaze away.

“Look at me,” he demands, grabbing your chin again. He crowds your space, not leaving you any room to breathe. Your gut aches from sudden heat.

“God made you for me. Don’t you know that?”

Your mind goes blank as you nod slowly. He looks at you like he’s starved. No one’s ever looked at you like that before. No one has ever really looked at you before him.

“I’m— I’m sorry, Suguru,” you whisper.

He caresses your cheek, his breath tickling your jaw as he leans in.

“It’s alright, sweetheart. I understand what it’s like to feel a little stir-crazy. I’ll take you out more often, yeah?”

“O-okay.”

He grins and it comes off as sardonic.

“Such a spoiled girl. Only the very best for my girl, hm? I clothe her, feed her, make her stronger. And what do I get in return?” he scolds, thumb swiping over your quivering bottom lip. “She tries to run away from me.”

“I’m not,” you pout.

“You’re not?” he scoffs.

You don’t know what to do other than apologize. You were weak like that.

“You’re so good,” he sighs. “And you want to keep being good, is that right?”

“Yes,” you mumble.

You shiver again when he runs his fingers through your hair, his other hand undoing the ties of your yukata. You sharply inhale at the cool air hitting in your nipples, the rest of you trembling at the prospect of being so bare in front of him. God or prophet, you didn’t know. All that you know now is that there was no coming back from this.

“My good girl,” he whispers, nipping at your earlobe. “My best girl.”

You whimper when you feel his tongue on your jaw. His kisses are tantalizingly slow. Teasing. He marvels at the flutter of your lashes in response to his touch.

He had tried to deny those feelings in the beginning, but he couldn’t help it anymore. He feels as though he’s created you. He liked you delicate, lace winged. A butterfly caught in a jar.

Suguru thinks this is fair. He has always believed in fairness, and although one might argue that his philosophy is a direct contradiction to that, he could beg to differ. Different people had different values, that was all. You just happened to have an advantage in the hierarchy he holds in his head. A precious thing, his treasure.

When he turned his back on Jujutsu society by becoming a curse user, he would avenge the suffering of the sorcerers around him. Years of adapting to the taste of shit and vomit would eventually earn him something that made it all worth it. He’s convinced that something was you.

He was your savior, therefore you were his blessing. It was only fair that he could take you the way he wanted. You were meant to be found by him. You were meant to be kept.

You barely put up a fight.

You whimper when he parts your legs with his hands and finds you embarrassingly wet. Every stroke of his hands on your inner thigh has you twitching involuntarily.

“Oh,” he coos. “Look at that.”

You look away in shame, trying to close your legs, but he forces them open with a bruising grip. Your heart drops to your stomach.

“What’s wrong, baby? You want to be good for me, right?”

You nod without a word, trying to control your breathing. Your brain is telling you that you want this — you’d wanted to be his from the moment you saw him. Your body tells you the same, but dread creeps up your spine.

You gasp when he grazes your clit with his fingers. He plays with it, stares at your cunt through your underwear like it’s a prize.

“Let me see you,” he murmurs. “Don’t be afraid. I’m the only person in this world you can trust.”

He slips your panties off easily and you wince at the sound of your wetness sticking to the fabric. He applies more pressure to your bud, distracting you with his mouth on yours. You mewl into his mouth without realizing and he grins against your lips, slipping his tongue inside.

When you feel a finger push into your walls, you convulse in surprise, though you don’t pull away like he expects. You merely clutch him harder, your hands wrinkling the sleeve of his haori.

“Shit, you’re tight,” he rasps. “No one’s been here before, is that right? Just me?”

He groans when you look at him with innocent eyes and nod meekly. Of course he would be your first. You were nothing but a wounded dog when he found you, barely had a life of your own before he took you. You were pure and the world was keeping you for him. It was meant to be.

“S-Suguru…” you breathe. He’s pulled you into his lap now, your cunt getting his kimono wet. The slick of your cunt around his finger is enough to make blood rush to his cock.

“So pretty,” he mumbles. In one fell swoop, he takes you in his arms and carries you to the futon. You squeak in surprise at being lifted off the floor so quickly and so easily.

He takes the pause in his actions to undress himself, slipping off his robes, and when you see the thickness of his length prodding against his toned stomach, your mouth goes dry.

“C’mere,” he beckons. You obey.

He kisses you sweetly on your mouth and then down your jaw, squeezing your breasts. Your breath hitches as he takes the time to rub his thumb over your nipples. Suddenly, his teeth graze your chest. Biting, tasting. Forbidden fruit.

You let out a quiet moan and he chuckles. “So sensitive.”

Without a warning, he plunges two fingers into your cunt and you nearly cry out. There’s a choked noise, something in between pleasure and resignation. It’s all too much. When he adds a third finger and feels much less resistance, he laughs.

“Taking me so well. You’re doing so good,” he encourages before lapping at your chest again. When his fingers curl at just the right angle, your vision starts to get fuzzy. His thumb on your clit only intensifies the feeling.

“I c-can’t—”

“Hm? Use your words.”

“I’m… I’m gonna…”

His movements still and you nearly scream. He pulls back to see tears brimming your eyes and he kisses them away gently despite his cruel smirk.

“Nonono, please—”

“Please what?” He feigns innocence.

You bite your lip, your face too hot to feel comfortable expressing what you want. You feel the ghost of your curse wrap around your throat again. Once again, you find that the ticket to salvation has silky black hair and snake eyes. The artillery of a fallen angel disguised as something pure.

He can tell you’re frustrated but too afraid to voice it. You’re as pliable as he knew you would be. Endlessly easy to coax a reaction from.

“Do you expect everything to be handed to you? Just because you’re mine?” he taunts.

His. His. His.

You shake your head, whimpering.

“Then ask nicely, baby.”

Your cunt is on fire even though he isn’t touching you. When he strokes your lip and pushes his thumb into your mouth, you let him. Your tongue tickles his fingertip.

“Ah, so you still have a tongue. You can still speak.”

He laughs when you pout.

“Please touch me,” you say, your voice as quiet as a breeze.

“What was that?” He grins even wider.

“Pleasetouchme,” you whimper, your voice light as air.“Please… please make me cum.”

“Good girl,” he chuckles, licking into your mouth. His fingers fuck you in earnest now. You feel so full that your eyes roll back. It’s cute.

Poor thing. Suguru is a patient man, but he’s not sure if he has it in him to wait. He could make you cum three more times so that you’re truly ready for him, but he doesn’t want to. He supposes that if he breaks you, you’ll thank him anyway. No one else wants you more than him, you had to understand that.

His cock throbs at the sight of you coming undone. It’s nearly animalistic, like provoking violence from weak prey. Cataclysmic like a falling star. He’s consumed with it, with the fact that he can do this to you and no one else can.

He fingers you through the aftershocks, too, until you sob loud enough that his other hand has to cover your mouth. You squirm underneath him, shaking your head in desperation.

He admires the slick of sweat on your chest, your glowing figure. When he releases you, he thinks briefly that you’re on the verge of passing out. But you tremble, rapidly breathing, eyes unfocused as your lashes flutter.

Suguru licks you off of his fingers and you stare in horror, returning to yourself. It makes him giddy, how even your spirit is infinitesimal.

“You taste so sweet,” he purrs. He kisses you roughly, tongue prying your mouth open and making you moan. “See? Sweet. You’re perfect.”

He likes seeing you all flushed. Glaze on your cheekbones. He thinks he should make you his wife, memorialize your fucked out form with a commissioned painting and hang it above his bed. A good luck charm among the talismans. You look too good to ruin with his cock, but he knows he’d already taken all of you anyway.

He’ll put you back together after. Pamper you with yuzu slices in a hot bath. Play the part of a boyfriend instead of a master.

He pins you down even though he doesn’t need to. You let him settle in between your thighs, his aching cock slapping against your stomach.

“So cute when you’re scared,” he chuckles at the look on your face.

“It’s… big,” you say meekly.

“It’ll fit. It won’t be so bad, yeah? I changed my mind about punishing you for trying to run away.”

Panic paints your features.

“I wasn’t trying to run away! I promise.” Your lip quivers again. Maybe he should make you beg.

“Is that right?” He leans in, precum spreading on the skin above your cunt, tip grazing your clit just slightly. You bite your tongue so you don’t moan from the sensitivity.

“Yes. I want to stay.”

“And why’s that?” he jeers.

“Because— because you’ve given me everything.”

He waits for you to elaborate.

“Because I’m yours. I’m… your good girl,” you slur through tears, voice above a whisper.

“Poor baby,” he hums. “Of course you are. Always will be.” Whether you like it or not.

You moan at the same time he prods his tip inside. When he sinks in even further, right to the hilt, he becomes delirious with need. It takes everything in him to not pound into you recklessly.

“Pretty fucking cunt,” he groans. “So warm.”

More hot tears, but your dread is replaced with rapture. He fills you up, already poking at the most sensitive spot inside of you. Your body ripples with pleasure as he moves and digs into your guts, an ocean of tender heat.

It’s a branding. You don’t exist if it isn’t for him.

“Suguru,” you moan.

He kisses your neck, teeth hard on your flesh. Pulling it taut while his tongue rolls in it and leaves mouth-shaped blessings.

His hips drive into you with more force, cock reaching places that your fingers could never reach. You shut your eyes and phosphenes float through the static of blackness. They linger when you open them again, Suguru’s face illuminating in grainy color.

It takes you a bit to realize his mutters, the way he’s babbling through moans.

Good fucking girl. All mine forever. I’ll die with you.

You let out a pitched moan as Suguru wraps his fingers around your throat. Every part of your body feels like it’s bursting. You cum like that, your walls outstretched by his thickness carving you out in the shape of him.

“Take it,” he grunts. “Take my cock. Fuck, I think I’ve been waiting for you my whole life.”

He’ll probably obsess over your cunt for ages. The face you make when you’re being used. Your ragdoll body.

His bun had come undone. Even if his cock wasn’t in you, your stomach would ache from how beautiful he looked. Eyes focused on you, nearly deranged at the way he was blistering you raw. The cascade of tears down your cheeks. It made him impossibly hard.

He pulls out quickly to flip you onto your stomach so he can rut into you from behind. The angle makes it so that his cock is even deeper.

“Oh, Suguru—”

“Yeah, baby? Gonna cum again?”

You whine, all high-pitched and girlish.

“Tell me you’re mine. That you’ll never leave me,” he grunts.

“I’m yours,” you hiccup. “I’ll n-never leave you.”

Your cunt was starting to burn, even with how wet you were. Suguru cums with a rough thrust at your words, nose buried in between the lovebirds littering your shoulder. You’re full of him. He doesn’t stop, his dick still hard inside you.

“Shit,” he hisses, looking down to see his cum oozing out of your pussy, all mixed up in your arousal. “How are you still so fucking tight?”

He grits his teeth when he feels you squeeze around him. You can barely form words now, crying as you can feel yourself about to cum again.

“That’s it,” he pants. “Cum for me, princess. Cum on that cock for me.”

You’re twitchier this time. Your moan tapers off into squeals as you bury your tear-stained face into the pillow. He follows after you with a gasp, his large body covering you like a cocoon.

He kisses the nape of your neck. Between your shoulder blades. His cock stills inside you, but he doesn’t pull out until he softens completely. When you stop shaking, he turns you over.

“There’s my angel,” he says fondly. “Thought you passed out on me.”

You shake your head. He smiles lazily, leaning to kiss you all over your face.

Your bones feel like jelly, but you still switch your positions with intent, and to your surprise, he lets you. Naked and breathing heavily above him, you examine him with his hair spread out on the pillow, cheeks flushed and cherubic. He almost looks innocent.

He groans at the way your leaking cunt grinds on his crotch, prompting him to get half-hard already. He grabs your hips at the same time you grab the base of his throat. He laughs.

“Do you feel powerful?”

You blink twice and your eyes glaze over.

In your vision, you see Suguru’s face flashing you his usual grin, this time showing all his teeth as blood drips from his chin. When you look down at your hands, they’re saturated in the same red. He kisses you despite it all and you understand.

“Yes,” you breathe. “I do.”

#geto suguru x reader #geto x reader #geto suguru smut #geto smut #jujutsu kaisen smut #geto suguru x you #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jjk fanfiction #jjk smut

553 notes · View notes

gilbirda · 1 year

Note

For the prompt thing?

Jason has spent the last year trying to keep his brothers from finding out he needs reading glasses.

*taps mic* Uhhhhhh, anybody there?

heheh..... Yeah, took me a while, but here you go

----

“Huh, I didn’t know B changed his glasses.”

“He uses glasses?”

“Yeah, to read.”

“I didn’t know?”

Dick chuckled, the sound getting closer to a strangled chicken. “B is getting old, but don’t say it in front of him.”

Tim smiled, storing the piece of information next to the rest of blackmail material he always had on hand. It was moments like these when Dick was glad his little brother was on this side of justice.

“So these are his? Weird place to forget them.”

True. They were in the Manor, but it was an unspoken agreement that the library was Jason’s territory. Everyone would come and go, but this particular part with the cozy sofa and Wonder Woman blankets was Jason’s corner.

Dick opened his mouth to make a comment about it, but rushed and heavy footsteps interrupted his thoughts.

Jason’s face was red as he walked between his brothers, picked up the glasses, and turned to leave.

“No fucking comment.” He threw over his shoulder, his boots stomping on his way out.

Dick and Tim looked at each other, making the split second decision to follow the quickly retreating figure of Jason making a swift exit.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Tim ran so he could block Jason’s way out. “You need glasses?”

“I do not.”

Dick looked down at the fist circled around the cute round metal frame glasses. “Looks to me that those are yours.”

“They aren’t. Roy forgot them here.”

Jason was a good liar, but even that was one of his worst attempts.

“Sure. In your comfy corner.”

“Don’t call it that.” He growled.

Dick and Tim looked at each other, smirking. Forget blackmail, this was going to the family group chat.

----

Great art of Jason with glasses!

#gil answers #ignotussomnium #what was the tag for this thing?#1 sentence prompt #prompt fill #dc #jason todd

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elexuscal · 5 months

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Fic prompt: after it becomes clear that Holism is going to adopt Three, MB finally bites the bullet and gives them each some advice on the situation.

[Hellllllo,] Holism practically purred the moment I made feed contact.

[Hi,] I said, which I know, awkward. I pulled Three into the conversation too to help.

[Hi,] it said. Okay, yeah. That hadn't helped.

What also wasn't helping was ART's attempts to strangle my connection with the other research transport.

Holism executed some sort of block to ART's attack, essentially insulating me in a bubble of its own feed. Its fascination was intense and overwhelming. [It's so good to finally speak with you,] it said. [Have you decided that you would like to stay behind with Three and I?]

[No.] Even knowing that it was (probably) joking, just to needle its sort-of-sibling, it came out sharper than I meant it to. [I just wanted to--]

To what? Give advice?

That sounded stupid. Even if it was technically true.

[Say goodbye?] Three suggested.

[What? No.] I wasn't even sure I knew how to do a goodbye, not really. I feed glared at Holism. [Don't threaten to delete Three's brain.]

[What? I would never.]

[And you,] I told Three. [Don't let Holism push you around.]

And with that, I dropped out of Holism's feed, back into the constrictive claws of my own overly-protective, overly-tuned hyper-sapient research ship.

The two of them could probably figure things out from here.

#murderbot diaries #system collapse #system collapse spoilers #i'm sorry i tried to think of some advice but LITERALLY couldn't think of anything but this

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heich0e · 1 year

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splintered - drummer!osamu miya/f!reader (haikyuu!) tags: band!au, pining, angst, high school friends to ?, unspoken feelings, mentioned semi eita/reader and osamu/groupies, here is some lovely drummer!osamu art by @/tnkisu if u want to pine for him like i am! word count 1.6k

Osamu replaces his drumsticks, on average, about once a month.

It's less frequent now than it once was, thanks largely to the fact that he started buying better quality sticks since the band has been gigging regularly and he can afford it, coupled with the fact that he'd gotten old enough to outgrow that adolescent ignorance of his own strength or frenetic enthusiasm while he’s playing. Still, every time he breaks a stick, he hears his mother's voice in the back of his mind, furious that for the second time in as many weeks he was begging her for more pocket money so he could replace them.

(She would always buy him new ones, anyway.)

Osamu has broken three sticks this week.

He tries to pretend that he doesn't know why. Tries to pretend it's no big deal when yet another stick splinters in his hands on a particularly violent rap against his snare. Tries to pretend he doesn't see you in the bright red of the first aid kit each time he has to bandage up his bloody fingers—the first aid kit you'd bought him to keep in the studio space that the band rents in a block of office buildings, for when he injures himself by practicing too much.

But there's something more pressing he's pretending not to notice now. Something more real and tangible looming over him.

Literally.

Because you're standing next to his drum kit with your arms crossed and a scowl on your face, and he's beating away at the drum kit and acting like it's totally normal that he hasn't so much as acknowledged you since you came in unannounced.

Finally, like the three sets of sticks Osamu’s thrown away this week, you snap.

Your hand shoots out and Osamu panics, aborting whatever motion he was in the process of following through and flinching away from you.

“What the hell are you doing!” he exclaims angrily, drumbeat silenced, as your hand wraps around the stick in his right hand and you wrench it out of his grip. “I could’ve fuckin’ hurt ya!”

“Oh,” you say, chucking the drumstick across the cramped little studio, your expression twisted into something a little meaner to match his own, “how nice of you to finally notice me.”

“I’m practicin’,” Osamu grunts, pushing himself up from his seat behind his drum kit, “or I was before ya interrupted me.”

“I need to talk to you.”

Osamu pauses as he moves to cross the room towards where you tossed his stick, his broad back facing you.

“I’m busy.”

You make a strangled noise of frustration.

“Well then make time for me, Samu,” you snap. “You’ve been ignoring me for days!”

Osamu crouches down and starts searching for the wayward drumstick among some sound equipment stacked up in the corner, tucking the one you hadn’t pried from his hold into the back pocket of his jeans. He doesn’t reply to your demand. Doesn’t even acknowledge it.

“Why would you try and ban me from your gigs?” you ask—and he’s sure you mean to sound furious. Osamu’s known you so long that your intent is as clear to read as your words. But your tone breaks just before the anger can rip through it, a lilt of disappointment—of hurt—wavering in the question.

Osamu is sweaty from the hours he’s been banging away at his drum kit, but suddenly the perspiration on his skin feels cold. Still crouching down, he grabs the hem of his t-shirt in his hands and lifts it to wipe at his face.

“‘Cause.”

It’s not a justification in the slightest. It’s barely even a fucking word. But somehow it’s all that he can muster in reply.

“‘Cause?” you echo incredulously. “What kinda bullshit is that? I had to find out about this ‘ban’ from fucking Suna, of all people—Suna, Osamu!—because Tsumu refuses to get involved in our shit, and I’ve gotten radio silence from you all week. So, mind telling me what the hell is going on?”

Again, Osamu opts for silence in response, shifting a busted amp when he spots the tail end of the stick you’d sent flying peeking out from under it.

“Samu, would you please just talk to me?” you plead, all the strength bleeding from your tone.

He uses the tips of his fingers to fish the end of the drumstick out, and once he has it in his grip he twirls it around his fingers instinctively before clutching it in a white-knuckled fist. It’s painfully quiet in the soundproof studio, the foam sound insulation on the walls almost makes the stillness more stifling.

“What was up with you and that Semi guy last weekend?”

You're quiet.

“Are you serious, Osamu?—”

That same fight, all bitter resentment and defensive hostility, has made itself known again in your voice.

“—You banned me from your gigs because I hooked up with some guy?”

“So you two hooked up, huh?” Osamu’s tone is dry as he muses out the rhetorical question.

“God!” There’s shuffling behind him that he doesn’t turn to see, but it sounds like you’ve knocked something over. Maybe the first aid kit. “You’ve got to be kidding me!”

Osamu finally risks a guarded glance back over his shoulder towards you.

You’ve dropped your bag on the ground at your feet, your hands tangled in your hair in frustration.

“You know Eita. You’re friends.”

Osamu sniffs. “Don’t really know him. Just run in the same circle ’sall. He’s a city boy.”

“You’re being unfair,” you say to him, your eyes whet with fury. Your hands fall to your sides and clench into fists. “You hook up with little groupies at your shows all the time. I meet one guy and all the sudden-“

“It’s distractin’,” Osamu says, rising back up to his full height to face you head on. “I don’t wanna spend the entire gig worryin’ about what scumbag yer cozied up to.”

“I’m not your responsibility to worry about!”

Osamu feels something sharp and blisteringly sour pang in his stomach.

“I can’t just not worry about ya,” Osamu snaps, frustration sharpening his words into a blade that he never meant to turn on you, but that he fears he’s lost control of.

“I never asked you to do that,” you reply—lips, shoulders, hands all quivering. You’re trembling as you stand before him. Furious and bewildered. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

“I’m not babysittin’ ya,” he replies tersely, knowing that nothing he’s said is what he means. Nothing has gone according to the plan he didn’t even have to begin with. “And I know ya didn’t ask, but I can’t help it; I’ve been worryin’ about ya since we were teenagers. Practically kids. And most of the guys hangin’ around those gigs are slimy fucks. Dirtbags. Worse than that, even.”

Your upset is plain on your face, and all Osamu wants is to touch you. To fix the pain he’s caused. But his anger won’t allow it. His ego. He’s too proud and too deep in his own delusions to admit to the real reason why seeing you and Semi Eita cozied up near the bar while his band was playing on stage last weekend made him feel something close to feral—the thrum of vicious adrenaline in his veins had nothing to do with the performance he was in the middle of.

“You’re a liar.”

Osamu freezes. You’ve said the words so quietly and yet they still somehow shake him to his core.

He wants to say something, ask you what you mean, but the sight of tears pooling in the corner of your narrowed eyes stops him. Immobilizes him. Disarms him completely.

The drumstick in his fist slips to the floor, clattering at his feet.

“Hey-“ Osamu panics, taking a step towards you with his hand outstretched. You flinch away from his touch, and the movement pierces his chest.

You laugh, watery and mirthless, and fix Osamu in the coldest glare he thinks you’ve ever turned on him.

He knows he fucked up.

God, he fucked up.

Really bad this time.

You stoop down and grab your bag off the floor brusquely, yanking it up over your shoulder again. You whisk past him towards the door, tilting your body away from his so you don’t have to brush him as you pass, but he still feels your warmth fleetingly.

Osamu smells your perfume as you go. The same one you’ve been wearing since he met you in high school. The same one that clings to his jackets after you borrow them because no matter how many times he tells you, you never bring your own. The same one he’ll turn his head towards when he catches a whiff of it in public, but it never seems to smell quite as good on anyone else as it does on you.

His chest aches.

You stop at the door, your back to him—shoulders rigid like you have your hackles raised.

Your voice is flat when you speak, but you don’t turn to face him.

“Just because Semi wasn’t too fucking afraid to make a move doesn’t mean you get to take it out on him. Or me.”

Your words ring in Osamu’s ears like a crash cymbal, his heart plummeting in his chest.

The door slams behind you on your way out.

#osamu x you #osamu x reader #miya osamu #osamu miya x you #osamu miya x reader #osamu miya #hq drabble #hq writing #writing #tw angst

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heljay · 6 months

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Set number three of my FNaF gijinkas getting proper refs: the Toy Band!

I've always set the Toys as young relatives (mostly children) to the original band, because that's always made the most sense to me. Also just think how devastating it is for the OGs when, after being traumatized by the murders of five human rando brats, they lose their own kids as well only like a week later.

Very minor updates to the boys and Mangle here, otherwise largely the same as I had them before. Also, I put this on art sometimes but I mean it here: if anyone rbs this with shipping tags between the Toys and the Originals I will strangle them. (By which I mean block them with extreme prejudice.) Once bitten, twice shy.

- 1 SLOTS OPEN FOR COMMISSIONS, COMM. INFO IN PINNED

#FNaF #Five Nights at Freddy's #Toy Freddy #Toy Bonnie #Toy Chica #The Mangle #gijinka #artondorf #Furry Hell Trash

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bugeater101 · 1 year

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Y/N is a fashion designer who lives next to Jeongin the horny college boy Jeongin offered to be a male model for Y/N for which she gladly accepted, but little did he know that Y/N imagines him naked to design clothes for his crotch area and thighs. You are asking me how she knows? Well the poor boy wanted to touch himself so bad that he forgot that his window was open Y/N can see him clearly through her bedroom window

Word Count: 794

Taglist: @scribblemetae @mygsis, @9900z @taekbokki,@imtoooyoungforthisshit, @jihanlovic,

LITerally YOUR MIND ANON 💥💥💥 this has been in my inbox for like a month so I'm finally getting around to responding to it :) Thank you anon and sorry for the late response!

---

Jeongin was always curious as to how your clothes fit him so well. He was still in college and was bound to grow or shrink here and there. Yet, your clothes always fit him perfectly: the oversize clothes hung just so over his lean figure while tight-fitting shirts cinched beautifully at his slim waist without strangling his muscular arms. It was like you were magic.

You weren't. You were just observant.

The clothes had originally fit slightly weirdly and justifiably so. Though you were a professional designer, you still had your faults and not every article of clothing could fit everybody perfectly. So, in the first few sessions where Jeongin modelled your designs, you adjusted the clothes with pins and clips before taking the photos, then marked his measurements to make sure that your designs fit properly the next time he was to model for you. And, inevitably, the clothes would still not fit absolutely perfectly.

Jeongin didn't mind, however. He just enjoyed being around you. You, whose hands would linger on him to shape his clothes and manipulate his body for the sake of art. He wouldn't be lying if he said it didn't turn him on as you tugged and pulled his clothes, begging them to fit better while he tried to think of anything but how your hands felt on him. You would fiddle with the seams and pin his clothes so they fit snugly, running your hands over his thighs and whispering at how good they would look if they would just fit right. Jeongin would practically shake under your touch. After each session, he would leave sweating and blushing, rushing home just to relieve himself. He would strip bare and let his skin breathe before fisting his cock and choking an orgasm out of his exhausted body. He thought of how you touched him, how you praised his poses, how you complimented his perfectly proportioned body, how your hands lingered a little too long on sensitive spots. Every session was like this: slightly-off clothing, lingering touches, and poor Jeongin thankful to finally be alone so he can cloud his mind with thoughts of you.

However, this all seemed to end on your tenth modelling session. At this session, Jeongin's clothes suddenly seemed to fit him perfectly. His shirt didn't smush his shoulders but was tight in all the right places and his pants practically held him. Though he missed the way your hands would run over his legs and crotch, trying to find where they could be better fitted, Jeongin was also so proud of you for making the perfect clothes for him. Somehow, you had broken through a creative or technical block or something and now every shirt, skirt, pair of pants, and jacket you handed him didn't just fit well, it fit perfectly to his body.

To him, it was magic. He didn't know how you did it and he decided not to say anything, thinking that it might've been a fluke and that the next session would be back to normal. But, when the next session came, the clothes fit perfectly again. Every session after, he was more amazed at how well they held him and how even the tightest fitting pants accommodated his "well-endowed" nature.

In his amazement, he would end every session with blushing compliments to you, telling you how talented you were and begging you to tell him how you were able to do it. But, like all magicians, you never revealed your secret. Plus, you didn't want him to know how you knew his body so well.

You didn't need Jeongin to know that you had started to notice he was fidgety after every session. You didn't need him to know that you could see the outline of his cock when his pants fit him too tightly and that there were precum stains on the lining of some of the pants after he soaked through his boxers, tarnishing the fabric. You didn't need him to know that you lived in the apartment building right across from his and that your studio was just your workspace. You certainly didn't need him to know that after every session, you had the pleasure of returning home to see him fuck himself dumb, swearing you could hear his moans through the glass as he came.

Little did you know that Jeongin had secrets of his own. Just as you had your own voyeuristic secrets, he had some too. Jeongin didn't need to tell you that he didn't volunteer to be your model simply out of his goodwill, he just hadn't been able to get you out of his mind since he saw you touching yourself from his apartment window all those weeks ago.

#skz smut #stray kids smut #yang jeongin smut #i.n. smut #stray kids x reader #jeongin x reader #jeongin x reader smut #jeongin x y/n

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iamafanofcartoons · 3 months

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You don't spam comments on non-canon fanfics complaining about what should be canon yet you always harass people when they try to rewrite RWBY? Sounds like a hypocrite if you ask me.

On reddit , you literally confessed to strangling your cat and assaulting your mother with a steel chair. Then you go harass me for trying to get people to give RWBY a chance. I block you. So you go onto my fanfic https://archiveofourown.org/works/47226424/chapters/118994818

And start insulting the decisions of the writer. You exemplify the malice and hatred of the rwby critics. Now...let me explain the difference between a fanfic? and a rewrite.

Fanfics? can be anything. Basically mean to be "I like this media, here's some fun ideas I had for a story based on its materials" Can be canon-compliant, or AU. Blacksun and Hummingbird would dbe AU. Though more often than not, the people making them often insult Monty's friends and the voice actresses, so respect is kinda a lost art.

Now that's not to say there aren't AUs made with respect. Dust Queen and Evermorrow for example.

Many of us are excited for these AUs , myself included, especially since they're made with RESPECT to CRWBY.

But rewrites? Where somebody goes "I don't like what's going on in this show, I'm going to fix it, here's how, respect me for it, don't criticize me"

The same people amongst whom ONE actually made a rewrite of RWBY Volume 9 the very day after Chapter 1 of that season came out...WITHOUT even watching the episode?

We're supposed to respect willful ignorance and insulting the writers?

The same people who spew criticism like a river, but when criticized, are vengeful and unforgiving towards those who give them their own brand of "Valid criticism?"

No. I respect people whose fanworks respect the writers. People who don't have an ego to claim they're fixing somebody else's work, and most importantly, people who can accept criticism of their own criticism.

People who use rewrite while talking about how they are fixing rwby or saving it from its writers? They have my contempt.

Now...why don't you go apologize to your mother and your cat?

They've shown you more love and care than you have shown anyone here on the internet.

#rwby #rwby discussion #rwby dust queen #rwby evermorrow

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theclowngod · 7 months

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I made (NON-CANON) human designs of the cast

They help me with Art block but now I wanna strangle them alive

Pomni was really easy Ngl

Idk how old is everyone but Kinger has been in the circus longer so I made him old

Raghata was also easy, I just made her colors a bit realistic

Gangle is my favorite and originally gonna have red hair too but I change it to black and have her a red ribbon bow (she’s a cutie)

Zooble also change from what I intended them to be as they were gonna have dyed dreads but I friend told me it looked weird so I put most of her colors and on her clothes

Someone on reddit thought I made Human Jax a girl for some weird reason but I just gave Jax the stereotypical “Bad boy with scars” design with a bunny pendant on him

Hope you guys enjoy these designs :)

#the amazing digital circus #glitch

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cookies-super-secret-blog · 6 months

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something something grow a pair and state thoughts on ai?

So, funny story, I made a post about this before, whenever the topic tag for it was trending. And like, I still stand by that, sans the part where I call the AI itself a form of art under my definition. A little bit after that, I saw a post, while definitely not in response to my own post, made the point that while we should hate AI art for the rampant theft of jobs and content, that its somehow bad to dislike it as Bad Art or Not Art because "gatekeeping art is baddd". Which like, in the context of someone drawing stick figures or painting giant blocks of color, is valid; we shouldn't gatekeep art from people. I still think AI doesn't deserve that privilege. Like, not to try and define art again, but, like hold on ket me grab something.

This is an ai generated adoptable from deiantart. Now, I have to ask, what's being expressed here- besides "cute girl in big hoodie (despite the one on the left not having a hoodie)"? Like it's easy to take these apart mechanically, but conceptually? It's somehow easier. Like, part of character design is visually communicating stuff about the character. There's nothing here besides anime girl in big outfit with minor armor details maybe? Like nothing else here is coherent! Like she looks sampled off of genshin and honkai characters but that's it. Like the cutains are just blue, and its dull and boring because of it. Why is the jacket neon green? The prompter wanted it that way. Why does she have the shoulder pieces and the case she's holding? Because the prompter likely put "battle girl" and/or "solarpunk" into the prompt. And it's not bad to have design elements for the sake of it, but the ai can't do anything but that, and the content it generates suffers because of it. There's no artistic value there, imo.

Now, not to toot my own horn, but here's my take on this design:

This is still a "cute girl in a big lime green jacket", but there's more to it. It's a high visibility jacket, with stripes reminiscent of construction vests. In the other doodles on the page, this high visibility theme is expanded to a theme of her being some kind of rescue personnel, and/or an angel (see; the halo in the bottom right). While it's fairly easy for me to point these themes out- it is what I intended- I'd still argue an obersever would be able to point out similar, or other themes and motifs that bring this character together.

No ammount of prompts and generation models can recreate that. Even if the prompter had the exact same intent I had when making the og ai content, that intent doesn't come across whatsoever. Because AI cannot replicate human intent and artistic processes.

These image generators register to me as the miserable end point of the sad, art-illiterate belief that art only is, and is only meant to "look pretty". Every time modern art is decried as "ugly and pointless", another prompter gets validated in their shameless attempts to assert their narrow-as-fuck vosion of what art is.

Art is human. Art is messy, art is intricate, art is sloppy, art is beautiful and art is ugly.

No machine on earth can comprehend or replicate that. And the ceasless attempts to commodify and capitalize on art have made some people forget that fact. The kinds of people who prompt really only see art as a gimmick product, pretty knickknacks that will make them rich quick.

For lack of better terms, the dehumanization of art itself is disgusting, and so like hell am I going to consider AI's mass-produced, slot machine-esque, drivel as art.

And I will not be guilted by other people on this hellsite who think its a moral failure to call mindless content what it is because its dressed up in distorted frills and anime girl boobs.

Art is human, and AI is not human. And what a sad world it is, that we're automating and strangling human creation, instead of letting it thrive.

Thank you for reminding me to share my thoughts.

#bit speaks #ai art discourse #anti ai #ai art discussion #ai art debate #old man yells at cloud

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columboscreens · 1 year

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What's your headcanons for Columbo?

Does he have a wife? Does he have over 10 murderer boyfriends? Etc

part of what makes columbo so fun to watch is that the showrunners essentially wanted you to make headcanons about columbo. much of the intended fun and mystique of the character is thinking about his personal life and what makes him tick.

now as for me, i'm completely nuts, so asking me about my columbo headcanons is like opening pandora's box. it's overwhelming. i have headcanons about what the man wears when he begrudgingly remembers to take out the trash at 11 pm. so i'll try to keep it short with my more sane and general ones:

his name is francesco

his wife is real. it's fun to imagine him single, but the wifeless theory doesn't hold much water. as time went on, the writers made a conscious and overt decision to make columbo's wife a real entity. between private phone calls and cruise trips, it becomes an active effort for one to ignore her presence, despite the fact that you never see her. in fact, they came close to showing her:

my headcanon for them is that they're like most interesting couples: similar in important ways, but complementary. e.g. columbo clawed his way out of high school, she finished postgrad summa cum laude. he's messy, she's clean. he loves gourmet cooking, she burns water. she's a techie, he couldn't hack his way out of a paper bag. she has her series 7 license, he kind of knows what a stock is. etc.

he reads. constantly. even if it's just the newspaper

he's more refined than he lets on. columbo may be a self-proclaimed chili-eating mark twain louis armstrong cream soda kind of guy who confuses HVAC ductwork for art installations, but i think he's someone who cares about the integrity of the things around him. he has taste. he's realistic, he values simplicity, but he's not a rube. he appreciates quality items, good food, good music, and fine traits in people.

he's more introverted than he lets on. he can be garrulous and friendly with strangers, but lots of times we find him silent and/or lost in thought. he largely works alone and we often see him alone off the clock.

his job affects him more than he lets on. i mean kind of a given, right? he's seen it all, but he's still human. aside from being perpetually tired and hungry because he's hyperfixating on his work, i imagine he has some degree of post-traumatic stress. in my head columbo wakes up sometimes in a cold sweat thinking about the girl who jumped off a balcony or the guy strangled to death at the gym

he was a troublemaker as a kid. i love imagining him as an agent of the law born out of his chaotic, delinquent upbringing. i sometimes entertain the theory that he's killed or had someone close to him killed as an impetus for the sheer drive he has for his work. i also think he was definitely the most annoying motherfucker on the block as a kid and his brothers bullied him for it so hard he turned it into a strength

his fashion sense is actually good. more of a gripe i have than a headcanon. it irks me when people diss columbo's fit. young columbo clearly knows how to dress, and stock standard columbo changes subtly throughout the show. but the basics--the tan raincoat, grey/reddish/brown suit, white/creme button-down, dark green tie, brown chukka boots--are very well-coordinated in color and material. they're baggy out of necessity, not sloppiness. he moves around constantly and thus prioritizes comfort in a job and milieu that require a suit and tie in sunny southern california. it makes perfect sense that he'd eschew a sharply tailored worsted wool getup and opt for roomy linen! he dislikes overly tight clothes. which leads me to...

...he's a certified Freak and he gets "weirder" with age as he grows less and less concerned with how he comes off to others--"masking", so to speak. related to this is that the raincoat is his safety blanket, as he's sensitive to textures and levels of pressure/constriction. just look at him trying to think in the Wrong Coat:

he's got a thing for belly dancers:

sometimes he'll swing by the grocery store at 10 pm to pick up something for the wife and when nobody is looking he rides his shopping cart through the store like this

he has a strategy when he goes to buffets. the little old lady in front of him may be piling noodles and rice onto her plate but columbo's got so much steak and shrimp on his that they're about to ask him to leave

#columbo #ask #misc #longpost #text #headcanons

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kermiekermie · 1 year

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btw heres some tumblr etiquette for the new twitter folks (feel free to rb):

yes, your likes can be public, but things you like wont come up on your followers' dash. ALWAYS RB ART AND CONTENT YOU LIKE!!

tags are just for rambling, usually. you can add tags to help people find your stuff (ex: #____ fanart, #character, #fandom, etc.) but you dont need to do that on rbs and just random shitposts. YOU CAN ADD SPACES TO TAGS! also, click enter before adding another tag orherwise youll get one big long tag

YOU DONT NEED TO TAG THINGS AS tw//___ LIKE ON TWITTER! add it in the tags as #tw ___ or #____ tw, then people can just filter that tag! (some people may also have ____ dont look tags that they filter for their personal triggers, use those if theyre your mutual as it makes things very easy imo)

for long posts (like in-depth explanations and arguments, analyzing content, etc.) use a read more divider. this makes scrolling a lot better bc you arent constsntly scrolling past massive walls of text. (on mobile, simply do :readmore: and press enter, and on desktop, click the 3 dots and add it!)

oh my god please fucking tag x reader fics if youre gonna write them i want to strangle the people who dont tag x readers

if u think ppl on twitter block a lot get ready for this! if you have a blank blog, blocked, youre a bot. if you post anything someone doesnt like, blocked. curate your experience! people (me included) arent very lenient with blocking and tend to check blogs much more here bc its easy to do, so just be careful if u dont wanna be blocked.

please respect dnis. its not that hard like actually

you can send asks and submissions anonymously! for asks, click the "send anonymously" button (not everyone has this feature turned on though!) and for submissions, log out and send your submission, and your url will not be attached!

arguing and discourse here is much more civil and in-depth than on twitter, because we dont have the character limit. yes, some ppl will still send you d34th threats instead of articulating themselves, but thats not nearly as common!!!!

don't tag mcyt posts with #minecraft or #mineblr. those r for pretty builds and minecraft updates and stuff. if u do this u are committing a cardinal sin and mineblr WILL deal w you......

genuinely, just be yourself! yes, "tumblr humor" is a thing that exists, but people will follow you for you and your content specifically, so dont feel pressured to talk and respond a certain way. i did that at first and tbh i didnt like it!!!! youre you!!!! express that!!!

i may add onto this post as things come to mind, but thats just what i can think of that i struggled with and others ive seen have struggled with, hope this helps!!

tumblr can be hard to use, and theres not really "big accounts". everyone is just roaming and doing their own thing. there can be a learning curve, and thats ok! its hard to discover new blogs here, but after a while you can get a hang on it and its a lot less toxic than other social medias imo!!!! its very easy to curate what you want to see.

#mcyt #ranboo #tommyinnit #tubbo #aimsey #billzo #tagging this w random shit so ppl see it bc i wanna help out #idk man .#dream smp #dsmp #uhh #allium duo #bee duo #glow duo #bones duo #giggle duo #clingy duo #ignore these tags its a lot ik

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darkkitty1208 · 1 year

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Hello there, may I steal a bit of your time? I recently reread Defender Strange's comic and couldn't get this idea out of my head, so I'm asking ya out, can you please write something regarding this- Stephen was gathered from a battle field and SIMTony takes him to Tower with him after kicking the bad guy's ass and takes care of that worn out.

That's it. Thanks ya for hearing me out. Lots of love!

Thank you for the prompt, lovely! 💖 Super sorry it took quite a while. (I say, knowing full well it took longer than just 'quite a while' for me to finish this. *stares at my towering pile of WIPs and prompts sitting in my ask box that I've yet to finish*)

I feel like I've sort of lost touch on my writing style (and writing as a whole) a little bit but, hey, I finished this! Haha.

Disclaimer: I haven't read the defenders or SIM comics yet, so this whole thing is just based on my assumptions of their characters. I'm only familiar with MoM's Defender Strange, and prompter seems okay if I'd write him instead, thankfully, so yeah. ^^ Feel free to point out anything that stood out, though!

TW: This fic contains NON-CONSENSUAL TOUCHING but NO RAPE.

Stephen stumbled back with a grunt, but quickly managed to catch himself before his back could land on the ground. Dodging the whip Mordo sent his way, he conjured twin mandalas over his wrists that glowed a bright blue.

"It's not too late, Stephen!" the man called out, and slid his feet away from Stephen's attack. He took rapid, calculated steps towards the other sorcerer, getting close enough to loop his arm over the man's neck in a tight grip.

"You can still join me," he said, "we can work together."

Stephen struggled against him, clawing at the arm that constructed his breathing.

"Like hell that would convince me," Stephen huffed out, strangled, and knocked Mordo's stomach by his elbow, who stumbled back, enough to let go of him. He panted, readying his next attack as Mordo stood back up. His limbs worked almost on their own volition as they danced their familiar dance in battle, and for a moment the only sounds echoing in the air were their grunts and puffs of air, the way their boots slid against the ground, the swish of their robes flapping at each turn, the way each new band and shield and mandala they conjured emanated familiar sparks.

Just when Stephen thought he had the upper hand, one slip of his feet and a kick to his chest had him toppling to the ground with an 'oomph', and quickly found himself wrapped around bands. He let out a yelp as his hands were squeezed against his body, and struggled against the constraints. But it was to no avail, as it held a tight, inescapable grip around him. Struggling against it only proved to make the pain worse.

It was useless, he thought, as he stopped his ministrations and settled on glaring at the eyes staring down on him. Mordo's stern eyes, looking straight at him, suddenly shifted at the sight, turning almost… soft, to his dismay, and Stephen hardened his glare in return.

"We could've been so good together," Mordo breathed out, almost in a whisper. "I didn't want it to end this way, Stephen. But you must know I have no other choice. You must know that this is for the greater good."

Mordo lifted his hands, and Stephen knew that, at that moment, despite his panicked struggling, he couldn't do anything as the spell was about to be cast on him. It was a simple spell, really – even a novice could cast it – but it was a deadly one. It would render any sorcerer useless if cast against them, blocking their access to channelling interdimensional energy permanently, reducing them to what they once were before being introduced to the Mystic Arts. Mordo always had great capabilities, especially in terms of magic, but to think that he had managed to master that spell for such purposes was… beyond Stephen, to put simply.

The spell wasn’t meant to incapacitate him, he knew that much. Mordo needed something more permanent – he couldn’t risk the possibility of all else.

The spell, he knew, was meant to break him.

“You should be grateful, you know. Many sorcerers have died at my hand in my quest to rectify what they have meddled in the natural law,” he remarked, and Stephen scowled at him. “I do not wish for you to fall in the same fate as they do, Stephen. You are like a brother to me. And perhaps… Perhaps so much more.”

His eyes flickered away for a moment, before they resumed their steely gaze towards him.

Stephen turned his head to the side, clenching his eyes shut and taking in ragged breaths as he braced himself for the inevitable pain. His mind swirled about in a million ways to think of an escape, but he knew there wasn't any counterspell to this, knew that hoping would only lead to nothing.

Mordo sighed.

"It was the only way I could think of that would be quick and painless, Stephen," he said, "So please, consider this a mercy."

Before his mind could process the words, he felt a hit over the side of his neck that made him let out a choked sound. Just as he was about to lose consciousness, there was a sudden, almost electrifying flash of blue that blasted somewhere from beside him to hit against Mordo's head, and the last thing he heard was a familiar, menacing voice that drawled in a way that had always made the hair on his nape bristle.

There was only one thought that flitted through his head as he finally lost consciousness; Tony.

*.~ ◇ ~.*

Mordo stumbled to the ground as something blasted against him, head whipping about as he quickly looked around for its source.

He heard heavy footsteps thump against the ground, and it took a while for him to regain his footing to face whoever – or whatever – it was. Once he adjusted his vision, he noticed there seemed to be a sharp blue glow emanating as the smoke dissipated away from the shadowy figure that was stepping towards him. Mordo wasted no time and automatically went on fighting stance, his defences up in case the man prepared another surprise attack against him. He looked to the side, finding Stephen's unconscious, prone body on the ground a few feet away.

"You really thought it'd be that easy to get your hands on him, did you?" The low voice said to the air.

"Who are you?"

The smoke cleared out. A very light blue, almost white, sort of liquid danced about to then solidify into an armour, its helmet forming around a grinning face.

"C'mon. Everybody knows me," he said, a toothy smile on display but no emotions found in his eyes, his arms spread out. The smile dropped suddenly, and the next words were spoken in a way that could send shivers down anyone's spine: "Now back off. He's not yours."

Mordo's eyes flicked hastily to Stephen's body, back to the man, trying to think of a quick way out.

"Tony Stark," Mordo frowned, "I should have known Stephen had gained… unexpected allies. I didn't know he was so desperate."

There were no possible ways to escape this, he thought, and begrudgingly decided to face him. Mordo conjured a band that whipped through the air and towards the man, but failed to have any intended effect as Stark flew up to avoid it. He conjured a couple of more blasts, which were easily avoided as Stark twirled about with little 'Woah!'s and an 'Oh! Almost got me!', occasionally forming a shield around him but ultimately left unscathed at each attack, as his laughter rang in Mordo's ears. Mordo continued to grunt at each conjured attack, getting irritated by the second. At some point, the laughter ended with a nonchalant sigh.

"Okay, it's getting boring now," he said, "My turn."

He thrusts out his repulsors, whining a short warning before an electric flash of blue striked right ahead to send Mordo flying backwards before he could think of a way to dodge it. And then he blasted another, and another, slowly floating down to the ground as he did so, playfully experimenting different positions on each blast, humming a tune meanwhile. When he was satisfied, he took his time to step ever so slowly towards Mordo's body, which was lying on its side. He turned him over to lay on his back by nudging his side with a foot. Tony stared down at him, and then tilted his head to the side, huffed, and let a menacing smile slowly form on his lips. When Mordo tried to lean up and land a punch on his face, quite successfully, he clicked his tongue, wiped the blood trickling down the slight cut on his face, huffed again, and then carded a hand through his hair. He kicked the man then, straight in the stomach, and repeated so just a couple times. Just enough so that moving any muscle would hurt. And then he pressed his foot down over the sorcerer's chest, delighting in the pained wheeze and the cough that sent blood splattering about. He pressed his foot harder down, twisting it just so that he could hear another one of Mordo's wet, ragged cough, and made a sound that was intended as a delighted giggle but came out sounding like a huff as he leaned down to whisper: "Now let that be a lesson for you to never touch what's mine ever again."

He gave the body a last kick, turning around just as Mordo's body rolled helplessly on the ground.

"Well, that was easy," he huffed, dusting his hands off, and turned to look at Stephen's still unconscious body. "Now to claim my lovely prize…"

The smile returned, but this time, something glinted in his eyes.

*.~ ◇ ~.*

When Stephen came to, it was to the sight of bright, blue lights assaulting his eyes and vague, muffled sounds of what sounded like whirring machines filtering through his ears. His eyes shut closed against the onslaught of light almost on its own accord, and he quickly regretted shaking his head as it did nothing to lessen the pounding in his temples – if anything, it grew much worse.

Gently, he fluttered his eyes back open, squinting as he adjusted to the lighting. He looked down on himself, noting the wrapped up and bandaged wounds over his body and the absence of his robes.

“Ah, my sleeping beauty has finally awoken.” Stephen barely suppressed a flinch at the voice. “How was your sleep, sweetheart?”

He tried to make out the blurry figure walking over to him – even though he already had a solid guess from the voice he had heard – and when the shifting blur of the man finally came to a focus, he lifted himself by the elbows.

"T–" he tried to croak out, and then coughed when he realised his throat was dry as a desert.

Tony sauntered over, grabbed a cup of water from a nearby bedside table, and gently lifted it to his lips, making a gesture with his head to urge Stephen to drink. Stephen stared at the cup, glared up at the engineer, and then snatched the cup with his own trembling fingers. If Tony saw the shaking in his hands and the way he tried desperately to look casual as the water splashed onto his fingers (and if anything, was failing to), he didn’t say anything.

He did, however, huff out in amusement.

Stephen downed the rest of the cup, and then placed it carefully upon the table Tony had taken it from. He felt the bed dip as the engineer sat beside him, and resisted the urge to scoot over and distance himself from the man.

A calloused hand sneaked its way to a loose strand of hair on his face, tucking it over behind his ear in unsolicited gentleness. The same fingers – again, ever so gently – gripped his chin, leaning his head down to face the man. Tony traced a thumb over the cut on his lip, and Stephen tried not to bodily shiver.

The smirk he earned, coupled with the intent stare of the man's steely blue eyes on his own, told him he had probably failed to do so.

Tony’s eyes were a sharp blue, and now that Stephen was looking directly at it, he noticed there seemed to be something in it he couldn’t quite put his finger on. There was something buried in them, something sinister and twisted and wrong in a way that made him feel unsettled.

"You cut your lip…" Tony mumbled, "Does it hurt, sweetheart?"

"Stop calling me that," he spat out.

"I can call my sweetheart whatever I want," was his response, followed with a nonchalant shrug. "Now, answer my question. Does it hurt?"

"Not if you stop touching it like that."

Tony hummed.

"He hurt you…" Tony said, a sudden sternness in his voice, a sudden shift in his expression, a silent burning in his eyes. The grip on his chin tightened, and Stephen had to stifle a wince. Tony's face gentled at that, thumb moving to rub (not) soothingly over his jaw in apology.

"What did you do to Mordo?" Stephen asked. If and whenever Tony was involved, nothing really ended well. Mordo was his business, after all – Tony had nothing to do with it.

"Took care of him." was the only response he received. The hand gently made its way to card over his hair, pulling out his tie and settling over his nape. Tony pulled him forward, breath inching closer to each other. "And now, I just need to take care of you."

Stephen's breath stuttered as he exhaled.

"Stop touching me."

"But you aren't pushing me away."

"I still don't want you to."

Tony smirked.

"You can continue to deny yourself, sweetheart, but I know you want it."

And that was the last straw for him. Stephen lifted his hand, tried to call upon his magic, but barely managed to create sparks before he realised the ever present tingle of magic in his fingers had faded. There was… something blocking his access to channel energy and conjure magic. What previously felt like a steady stream was now blocked by some sort of unbreakable dam.

He inspected his hand, finding what seemed to be… a bracelet, of some sort. A quick check over his other hand confirmed that a matching one wrapped around his other wrist, effectively blocking him from channelling any of his magic.

This wasn't any worse than Mordo's spell, he thought, and a sour expression took its place upon his face.

"Like it?" Tony asked, hands finally pulled away. "Made them just for you."

Stephen grunted in frustration, and attempted to swing a punch towards the man, only to find it unable to move.

A chain formed from his wrist from what seemed to be nanites that crawled its way to attach to the headboard, the other following suit. Stephen tried pulling himself forward, only to be pulled back harshly as the chain suddenly shortened itself. He struggled against the constraints, for only God knows how many times in how many occasions he had that day, and tried not to growl in frustration as Tony just chuckled at him.

The hand snaked back towards his chest, rubbing back and forth in a way that made acid burn in the back of his throat.

"Look at you," he said, "I like it when you struggle. It’s cute. I like having you like this, baby,” Tony smoothed out Stephen’s hair again, fingers tracing the lines of his face and down his cheekbone, thumb tracing his lips as those blue eyes flickered down on it. “Now be a good boy and stay still."

Before Stephen could protest, his words were quickly cut short as a sudden, heavy feeling clouded his head.

"Shh, it's alright. That's it, darling. That's it," he heard Tony murmur, voice slowly morphing away.

"Wh… 've you d…" his tongue felt heavy, his voice felt far away. His vision was blurring out at the edges, eyes drooping, and Tony's voice sounded muffled when he spoke.

"It's okay, sweetheart, it's okay. Just go back to sleep for now. Go back to sleep.”

Stephen: Fuck off. Don't touch me.

SIM:

SIM: Denial is a river in South Africa. You love me

Stephen: I literally told you to fuck off???

Once again super sorry took a while to get back to you, prompter. My writer self is not The Best at the moment and needs some time to get back to my past writing rhythm. There's no guarantee I'll be as active as last time?

But I really do hope you enjoyed this. <3 Despite the whole… 'lowering Defender's capabilities and overpowering SIM for plot purposes' thing. I really couldn't think of another way to write it without it seeming like that. :P

#ironstrange #fanfiction #stephen strange #tony stark #defender strange #SIM!tony #superior iron man #tw #non-con #non con touching #no rape #my fic #my writing

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