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ddejavvu · 9 months

Note

Do you think you could do Sirius Black with the “I hate everyone but you.” Personality.

James is immediately alerted to your glum mood when you sit down without so much as a greeting, and he leans across the table with narrowed eyes.

"What's'a matter, Y/L/N?"

"Sirius is mad at me." You reveal drearily, wrapping your hand around the fork set at your place even if you don't feel like eating.

"Oh," James's brow scrunches, "Don't take it personal, babe. He's having a shit day, he heard from his mum. Nothing nice, I bet. Wouldn't let me see it. Just- he's grouchy with everyone today, don't let it bother you."

"But he told me to come back tomorrow," You recount, "Like he can't stand seeing me for the entire day! What am I supposed to do, James, we're set to study in the library at three. And- and I could help him! I could be there for him, but he's pushing me away instead."

James's brows raise, and a pitying smile works its way over his face, "Love. You're the kind of person that wants to be around people all the time. You seek comfort out when you're sad; Sirius doesn't. If you love him, y'gotta let him sulk for a bit. Then he'll come to you. And-" His nose scrunches, his brows wrinkled, "And all he said was 'come back tomorrow'? That's nothing. He told me to get my bespectacled arse out of the room before he shut the window on my head."

Your face contorts in horror, "James! James, that's so mean, are you okay?"

"I'm fine, darling." He snickers, "That's what I mean, that's just what Sirius does."

"Not to me he doesn't," You frown, "That's not okay, James, he should treat you better than that."

"He's having a rough time," James shrugs, "Doesn't bother me. He's all talk, he'd never do any of it. Just needs to blow off steam, y'know? And I think we both know why he tones it down for you, Y/N."

"I'm not special," You snap, reigniting the age-old argument between you and James that Sirius totally does not have feelings for you, not one bit.

"Right," James gives you an overexaggerated roll of his eyes, curls bouncing as he does so, "That's why he threatened to behead me and all he did to you was kindly shoo you away."

"Maybe you just piss him off more than me," You stick your tongue out at him, and turn to Remus for support as the boy sits down beside you.

"Morning," James takes the lead, shooting you a smirk out of the corner of his eye, "Talk to Sirius today, Moony?"

"Little shit told me if I didn't stop talking to him - which I only tried once, by the way," Remus groans, "- he'd 'mess me up' so hard my transformations felt like reprieve."

James's eyes widen and he tries tamping down a snort, tucking into his breakfast instead. Remus turns to you and your once-more incredulous gaze, scoffing lightly, "And I suppose he just told you to come back tomorrow?"

"That's exactly it!" James slams a fist on the table, a chunk of egg flying from his mouth that Remus shakes off of his hand with a grimace, "Moony, tell her she's special."

"I'm not special," You desperately try deluding yourself, shoveling your own forkful of food into your mouth as soon as you're done speaking, so that you don't have to answer to their protests, "He just hates you both."

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nyerusnova · 8 months

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Glad to see that Tim being a giant Dick Grayson fanboy is finally being highlighted again, and sparking more discussion especially on their early relationship! (Please gimme more!!! I love them so much, augh!)

Probably as a result of that surge, there seems to be reciprocal chatter on the topic of how young Tim actually felt towards Jason, too. It's honestly pretty interesting, because it's more nuanced than it appears at first glance.

Which means it's very fun to dissect! ✨

There's a degree of subjectivity to keep in mind, because readers are going to have different interpretations of the same scenes, or will pull from entirely different scenes than one another to form their individual view on this topic. That's just how it is in comic book fandom, for many things! Regardless, in this case... if the scale ranges from the extreme of "Jason was Tim's Robin" to the other extreme of "Tim actually hated Jason [as Robin] or thought he was a loser that got himself killed" — the actual truth is closer to the middle, as is often the case.

At least, in my opinion.

Mainly I want to focus on those relatively early days with this post, to highlight Tim's initial(-ish) feelings towards his heroes, and touch on the point at which they really begin to change. This turned into a very long post, though. Brevity is beyond my skill, so grab snacks and water lol. Transcripts for each image will be posted at the very end under the cut.

So, the two storylines I want to cover are "Rite of Passage," which is rolls into "Identity Crisis." (NOT to be confused with the major crossover event "Identity Crisis™" which came years later, and is where Jack Drake dies.... But it sure is an interesting coincidence that Tim deals with the loss of each parent in two similarly named stories!) These take place before Tim is even Robin, and I'll be considering them as one arc for this post.

Detective Comics vol. 1 #618 (July, 1990) -- Pages 1 & 2

"When Gotham needed him, he was there. When the Batman needed him, he was there. He was a hero."

"One day, I'll be as good as Jason. One day I'll wear the suit."

To start off, we have this opening from "Rite of Passage." Tim is still in training here, mainly helping Bruce with minor stuff from the cave. His parents are off traveling, alive and well as of these next few pages. He's still bright-eyed and full of wonder. An extraordinarily weird but ultimately innocent kid.

So his view on Jason is positive and fairly simple: a hero, and someone to look up to as Robin. Clearly, Tim here doesn't think Jason was deficient in his role, either as a protector of Gotham or as Batman's trusted partner.

Moreover, Tim already held Dick in very high regard because he was amazingly skilled before he became Robin. To Tim, that's not something he'll ever be able to achieve. Meanwhile, Jason wasn't like that. He was a regular kid without crazy acrobatic training since practically birth. Yet he still went on to be a hero—which is obviously motivational for Tim who finds himself in similar shoes.

It's true that Tim only ever knew or thought of Jason as Robin, and idolized him in that regard. But that's kind of all that mattered to him at that point, because he was this kid who was utterly star-struck by his heroes. Even if he's technically aware of their shortcomings as people, it's overshadowed by the hero-worship.

It was kind of the same with Bruce as Batman at first. (Which was still enough for Tim to risk life and limb to help his beloved hero, before Bruce even knew his name.) Dick was the only one Tim had any sort of "personal" relationship with beforehand, so there is an extra level of attachment—and hence why it was the nidus for his obsession with Batman. Yet even then, it wasn't like he actually knew anything about Dick as a person until later. Until then, Tim's ideas of him were all he had, too. With Jason, Tim just didn't get to know him at any point before his return (oof), apart from what he heard over the years secondhand (also oof).

Ultimately, it's the loss of innocence—along with the ricocheting bullet that is the unresolved guilt of those around him—that begins to change Tim's perception. Not just of Jason, but of things in general.

Batman vol. 1 #455 (Oct., 1990) -- Page 13

"I know why they do it now. Why they put on the suits, and the masks, and go out into the night. They're angry, they're full of rage. They want to hit back."

Losing his mother was a major shift for Tim, obviously. This is right after the previous storyline, and Tim's had the worst week or two of his life (so far). His monologue here is a reference to what happened to both Dick and Jason. The unbearable pain of loss, the rage masking the grief underneath. And importantly, that he feels both of them were justified in their anger. (And Bruce too, indirectly.)

The major theme of the aptly named "Identity Crisis" is to mirror aspects of Dick and Jason and Tim's lives—to show how they converged onto the same tragic road. It's something that Tim notices early in the story, and was frightened by. Now, horrifically, it's become a part of him as well. His parents are gone, and he was entirely helpless to do anything about it. Dick was the same way, Jason was the same way. The cycle is repeated.

In particular, the part about him wanting to go to Haiti for revenge—for his mother—sort of struck me as being an intentional parallel to Jason and Ethiopia. It's a bit of a stretch, especially in isolation, so others may see it differently (e.g. the angry ramblings of a grieving child that does sound like something anyone might say). But it always stuck out to me because of how much Tim is compared directly to Jason in this arc. More on that below.

It's not something I can really give an accurate feel of because it's a lot of subtle things that begin to add up, so I'd encourage folks to read this arc themselves to see what I mean. (Or maybe you'll still disagree which is fine too lol.) Again, many things are in reference to both Dick and Jason in relation to Tim, but it's weighted more on Jason's side.

Batman vol. 1 #455 (Oct., 1990) -- Page 18

"You think my anger will boil over, the way Jason's did. I can assure you, it won't!"

Tim's grief has begun to pull away the veil of idealism that enshrouded his heroes in his mind. It doesn't apply only to Jason, but to the rest of them. Plus add the fact that Tim's keenly aware that he's being managed, even if the adults around him are careful to not outright say certain things. He still knows.

Bruce, Dick, and Alfred are all worried about Tim potentially turning into "another Jason." They (and mainly Bruce) caution Tim to not ignore his emotions, but they're still concerned that he may be overly eager to prove himself in order to cope, and could get hurt or killed as a result. While they aren't wrong for their caution—especially at how unsettlingly similar all the circumstances are—they aren't very subtle about the elephant in the room.

Imagine how that would affect Tim's perception of his predecessor, especially when he's in the midst of a traumatic event he hasn't had time to fully process. The negative association is pretty much inevitable.

Tim's known from day one that he's walking in Jason's shadow, and now it's become inescapable. Tim went from seeing Jason as a goal to reach, to feeling that unless he surpasses him, he wasn't going to be taken seriously by anyone. However, as of this arc, Tim doesn't even fully come to that point yet.

Batman vol. 1 #456 (Nov., 1990) -- Pages 14 & 15

"Drop-outs don't make it. And dead heroes are no use to anyone!"

It's really easy to take away "Tim totally thought Jason got himself killed" as the main thing here, but I think that's missing the forest for the trees.

First some context: Bruce has gone out on a mission to get Scarecrow, and expressly forbade Tim from doing any shenanigans. Meanwhile, Tim is grappling with wanting to prove himself and trying to help Bruce from the cave, all while trying to deal with his emotions. At some point, he falls asleep and ends up having like... exhaustion-grief hallucinations of Dick!Robin and Jason!Robin who confusingly caution yet encourage him. The main theme of this part is facing your fears.

Depending on how you want to interpret the intent of Jason's dialogue here, you could go several ways with it. Ranging from "writer's feelings towards Jason" to "a peek into Tim's mind as his fears manifest as visions of his heroes" or some mixture thereof.

Though Tim argues with Bruce that Batman needs a Robin, we're shown that Tim is understandably scared of joining Batman's "war." He's still not willing to let Bruce go it alone, though, and that's something he feels more strongly than his fear.

Meanwhile, hallucination!Jason's warnings are a lamentation of what happened to him in a way, but it actually exactly describes Tim's current situation even more so. Unlike Jason, Tim is under-trained, under-experienced, doesn't even have a suit of his own yet. But like Jason, he can't sit by and do nothing while someone he cares about is in danger. Tim knows that if he goes out there, he will probably get himself killed, and it will be his own fault. So he's about to disobey Batman's orders, and fly right into danger. If that got Jason killed, then Tim—who is in a way worse position experience-wise—has every chance of ending up the same.

Like... it's about Jason, but it's also about Tim. It's Tim's worst fears made manifest, via the representation of why he is even here in the first place (Jason's death).

That's my theory anyway, but perhaps this is an overly charitable reading of this scene on my end. (Not that I think that makes me wrong lol.) However given that Grant wrote both parts of this arc, and the beginning of which is especially favorable towards Jason, it certainly is something to ponder. I have a lot of thoughts on it I can't expand on here tbh but perhaps that'll be another post.

Anyway, returning to the point of the similarities vs differences between Tim and Jason: since this is the arc that solidified Tim as the next Robin in comic continuity, it makes sense that the writers really pushed the comparisons between the two of them, specifically. (Even though Dick was pretty similar, as going against Batman's orders is the Robin thing to do, it's not his shoes Tim is directly filling.) So making Tim's "debut" story arc mirror Jason's "swansong" is an obvious narrative choice.

To drive home the parallels, I wanted to include this panel from just a few pages prior to the "daydream":

Batman vol. 1 #456 (Nov., 1990) -- Page 9

"The suit is magic."

That so distressingly close to Jason's famous "being Robin gives me magic" line (Batman #385, page 6). Given all the previous context, it's hard for me to just dismiss it as pure coincidence. Even if it is, the point still stands. Tim is shown having the some of the same heartbreakingly naive views as Jason once did, right in front of Jason's memorial, just as he's about to go and run off into the night against orders.

I think that speaks for itself. There's a lot to take away from it, if you so choose. Especially given the context of that specific Jason arc.

Alright, back to the main course:

So in the end, Tim actually goes out in civvies and a ski mask because if he fails, then at least he wouldn't bring shame to Robin's legacy™. When he gets fear gassed saving Batman, it's once again both Dick and Jason that he hallucinates encouraging him to push past his fear. (Shout out to the fact that he's literally more afraid of tarnishing the legacy of Batman & Robin than he is of dying.... I'm sure this will not be a recurring thing for him in the future.)

Tim's ideology is shown to be similar to Jason's, and the actions Tim ultimately takes are similar to Jason's... but the outcome is different. And it really isn't just "Tim succeeded where Jason failed." At least, that's not what I took away from this. Rather, Tim had no reason to succeed any more than he had to fail, just that he did. Luck combined with caution because he knew what happened to his predecessor, and the fact that Batman was there to finish the job all made the difference.

You could say (and I know some will) that it's just classic Jason character assassination and the writers trying to implore readers that this new kid is different we promise pls don't hate us look how much better he is! But in this case, that feels like it undermines the whole point of this story. It doesn't fit with what the characters actually say.

Thus, we return to the question of how Tim felt towards his predecessor. And the answer is different from where we started, because Tim is different. Not that different though. Because even though at this point Tim—like all the adults around him—has probably attributed Jason "going off on his own" being what led to his death, Tim still thought of him as a hero to look up to. It's about Robin, first and foremost, yes. But Tim is fully aware of the people who made that suit mean what it does, because it's all intertwined.

Batman vol. 1 #457 (Dec., 1990) -- Page 20

"I mean--Dick made it into a symbol the whole world knows. Jason gave his life for it."

Even further, Tim thinks of it in terms of Jason having given his life for what he believed in, for the legacy that now falls to Tim. There's a sense of gravitas there. He's afraid of failing both the Robins who came before him.

Ultimately do I think Tim adored and loved Jason on the same level as Dick or something? No. It's not comparable. (Dick was like part of some of Tim's earliest memories and everything! They have a really unique bond ok.) Yet Tim was also far from thinking poorly of Jason so early on. Frankly, it seems that Tim thought of Jason as a noble hero and a cautionary tale. Yes he took risks and sometimes went too far, generally stuff that Tim doesn't want to repeat and all that. At the same time, Tim still saw him as someone whose legacy and memory was worth honoring.

It's complicated, which is why I like it so much—because it feels real. Having conflicting feelings towards someone is... so human. Especially someone you never got to know, yet who plays such an integral role in your life via the shadow of their death. How can you feel anything but complicated towards them?

It has to be said that, yes, Tim's views—even before Jason's return—change over the years. He becomes more jaded as a person and is surrounded by people who are even more jaded than him... and who often mention Jason as the "failed Robin." It's something that's hung over Tim's head all the damn time. The curse of the Robin mantle.

So it shouldn't come as a surprise that Tim's idea of him becomes more akin to "sounds like a skill issue" as the years go by. All bets are off after Jason's return, and the Titans Tower Incident™. At that point it's firmly "I am better than you, loser" lmao.

And... that's all without getting too into things like authorial intent and general "moods" of different DC writers towards Jason at a given point. Or retcons that played a role in his characterization and how other characters talk about him, depending on what "era" you're reading. That's way beyond the scope of this post though!

TLDR; even though young Tim Drake was obsessed with Dick Grayson as Robin, he still looked up to Jason Todd as well. He didn't think of Jason as a cringefail loser until later. :)

(image dialogue transcripts under cut ↓)

Dialogue Transcript for Image 1 (Detective Comics vol. 1 #618 -- Page 1):

Narration box (Tim): When Gotham needed him, he was there. When the Batman needed him, he was there. He was a hero.

Dialogue Transcript for Image 2 (Detective Comics vol. 1 #618 -- Page 2):

(Scene continued from previous page)

Narration box: But he was nothing special, really. Just a boy, who was taught--trained--brought to his full potential by someone who knew how. Just a boy... like me. I know I can do it. I know I can. One day I'll be as good as Jason. One day I'll wear the suit. One day I'll be a hero.

Dialogue Transcript for Image 3 (Batman vol. 1 #455 -- Page 13):

Tim: I hate him! I hate him! I know why they do it now. Why they put on the suits, and the masks, and go out into the night. They're angry. Full of rage. They want to hit back. They want to fill the hole that's burning inside them.

Bruce: There's more to it than that, son. Much more.

Tim: I know. It's just--I feel--like going to Haiti myself and strangling that creep with my bare hands!

Bruce: The Obeah Man will spend the rest of his life in a prison hospital. He's history. Forget him! But don't fight against your anger. It's natural. Accept it. Live with it. One day it'll be your friend.

Dialogue Transcript for Image 4 (Batman vol. 1 #455 -- Panels from page 18):

Tim: Because you think my mother's death has upset me too much. Well, it did. But I've taken your words to heart. I can cope. You think my anger will boil over, the way Jason's did. I can assure you, it won't. But that doesn't make any difference, does it? Why can't you have a little faith in me?

Dialogue Transcript for Image 5 (Batman vol. 1 #456 -- Page 14):

Narration box (Tim): Blast it! My head's starting to swim. I'm about ready to give up. I almost wish I'd never heard of Batman and Robin!

Vision Dick: Heroes never give up, Tim.

Vision Jason: You know that.

Tim: Dick--! Jason Todd!

Vision Dick: You're training to fight in a war, Tim. It'll last all your life. No matter what, you have to go on fighting.

Vision Jason: Drop-outs don't make it. And dead heroes are no use to anyone! I thought I knew better than Batman. I thought I could run before I could walk. I killed myself, Tim. Because I couldn't wait. Because I couldn't think it through.

Dialogue Transcript for Image 6 (Batman vol. 1 #456 -- Page 15):

(Scene continued from previous page)

Vision Dick: Think, Tim. Concentrate!

Vision Jason: You can do it.

Both: You can do it!

Tim, waking up: What--? Robin...?

Narration box (Tim): I must have been daydreaming. They're right, though. There's a solution to everything. I can find it! So here I go again... Whim. Caprice. Doing something without forethought.

Dialogue Transcript for Image 7 (Batman vol. 1 #456 -- Panel from page 9):

Narration box (Tim): The suit is magic. It gives you power. It hides your weakness. It makes you give it everything you've got. It makes you a hero. If only I could!

Dialogue Transcript for Image 8 (Batman vol. 1 #457 -- Page 20):

Bruce: Are you afraid of it?

Tim: No. It isn't fear. It's more... the suit carries so much history. I mean--Dick made it into a symbol the whole world knows. Jason gave his life for it. Failing them--what they fought so hard to build--that's what worries me!

Bruce: I appreciate that, Tim. That costume weighs a whole lot more than any symbol should... and I'd be failing you if I expected you to bear that weight. So... let me know what you think.

Narration box: A mask has a double edged, he said. It hides your own anxiety as it strikes fear into your enemy.

#tim drake #jason todd #dcu #dc comcis #batfamily #meta #I'm so sorry this post got out of hand fr #it was meant to be a quick drabble with some comic panels and instead i just...... kept going #this post is specifically for my one (1) bestie who cares and the like 2 ppl who might be as insane as me about Timmy #idk why I'm like this im just obsessed with Tim's relationship with early Batfam & co lately???#late 80 and early 90s comics my beloveds......#anyway if this gets more than 5 notes i'll be shocked and scared lol #nyerus.txt #text post #long post

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pupkashi · 10 months

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gojo satoru who is more than grateful to finally have you in his arms perfectly safe after a much too exhausting fight with the king of curses.

he’s breathless as he’s kissing you, chasing after your lips and not once wanting to pull away, pouting when you do.

“i thought you were gonna-” your lips are wobbling and he stops you before you can finish your sentence, pulling your head into his neck and shushing you gently.

“don’t say it love bug” there’s a small sob coming from your body and he’s holding you like you’re gonna disappear in front of him.

he doesn’t let his thoughts consume him, overjoyed at the thought of being able to order takeout and curl up on the couch with you. he’s all smiles when you’re playing with his hair, interlacing your fingers with his much more calloused ones, your heart falling a bit as you take note of the bruises on his knuckles.

it’s only when you’re in bed together, your faces merely inches apart that the reality of it all is hitting him.

when your eyes are studying his face, memorizing his every feature with too much love, he isn’t sure how one can have so much love in their body. he’s sure he sees the love from your eyes pouring into his body, making him feel warmer than usual.

it’s when you’re placing the lightest of kisses on his brand new scars, the ones on his cheeks, on his forehead, by his eyes. you’re kissing away the saltiness of his tears, swiping them with your thumb as you coo to your lover.

“I’m right here,” you’re holding him tightly as he lets go, his firm arms holding you in place as he cries into your neck, you’re rubbing his back softly, trying to decipher the words he’s muttering.

“I’m sorry for making you worry so much, all i thought about was coming home to you” his words hit you hard, only managing to hold him tighter and screwing your eyes shut. any words of comfort die on your lips before you can speak them, the only thing slipping past your lips are two words that bring enough comfort to your lover.

“I’m here” you mutter, pulling his face back and taking in his tear stained face, “everything’s okay” you smile, stray tears finding their way down your cheeks before placing small pecks over satoru’s face.

“everything’s okay” you repeat, unsure if it was for satoru’s sake or for yours.

the two of you don’t let go, your limbs intertwined with no intention of moving anytime soon. it’s quiet in your shared bedroom, only the sound of your steady breathing against gojo’s chest, your hair tickling him a bit with every inhale.

and gojo satoru is grateful. he’s grateful to be here with you, to be alive and know he can wake up tomorrow morning with you in his arms, giggling at his silly remarks and terrible jokes. he can spend his days hugging you from behind as you cook and helping you bake. he can pester you to buy sweets on grocery shopping trips and spoil you with things you’ve always wanted. he can turn the ac down a bit so that you cuddle him during movie marathons. he can wash the dishes as you dry them and put them away because you hate washing them. he can bring you breakfast in bed on days he’s up before you.

he’s grateful to be home, because home has always been with you.

a/n: ITS NOT GOJOVER WE ARE SO FUCKING BACK YALL

masterlist

#this was inspired by his face scars idk #it got out of hand #manifesting he is alive and well #my baby boy 😭#jjk spoilers #jjk manga spoilers #jjk 226 #(?) kind of ? idk 😭#gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru fluff #gojo satoru #gojo x reader #gojo satoru imagine #gojo satoru drabble #gojo satoru one shot #gojo satoru x reader fluff #satoru gojo drabble

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galactic-cumslut · 1 year

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the other side of paradise

sorry i’ve been kind of m.i.a. with writing i have so many rick ideas but couldn’t flesh them out…my horny brain doesn’t work normally. instead have a repurposed story from my main blog that fits rick so well

✰the usual rick warnings,spitting, wow he’s mean in this one, cheating, afab reader, rick is a perv, knife kink, dubious consent

“you’d never let a man spit in your mouth huh”? rick spoke, gripping her face tight with one of his large hands. “i guess we see how that turned out”. the grin he had spread across his face was down right maniacal.

“open up filthy bitch” .he snarls and she obliged, much too terrified to see what will happen if she were to disobey his command.

rick gathered saliva in his mouth and released it in her awaiting cavity. "you're such a good bitch. keep that mouth open for me slut,i want to see you swallow it".

less than an hour ago she was waving her boyfriend goodbye , eager to see him the next day. maybe she’d be bold enough to make a move on him next time. randy was her boyfriend after all.

but for now she flopped down and dealt with her thoughts on her own. the overwhelming idea of randy touching her in the slightest was enough to make her shiver in excitment.

before she knew it she was softly moaning into her pillows as her fingers abused her swollen nub.

so caught up in the ecstasy of her own doing she failed to notice the person outside her window.

as soon as rick loosened his grip she spoke. “randy..randy and i are dating”.

a maniacal laugh left his throat, scaring you even more. “i am well aware of that fact y/n”. he slams her head back down onto the fabric of your pillow and moves his face so close it’s mere centimeters away. “but tell me this? if randy is your little boyfriend why did i catch you touching yourself like a bitch in heat ? shouldn’t he be the one making you feel good”?

his hand roamed down her stomach , stopping at her lower abdomen. “i asked you a question bitch. answer me”! rick’s fingers were freezing against her skin causing her to shiver at the touch.

“i wanted our first time to be special”. she lied. in reality she wasn’t sure how to initiate something sexual with a boy so she hoped and prayed that randy would make the first move. “i want randy…to take my virginity”.

rick raised a brow. “a virgin huh? i guess i got lucky with you. stu is going to be so pissed when he finds out that i got to you first”. he laughed again , pushing your shirt up revealing your nipples to the cold air of the room.

for a moment he was mesmerized by the sight but it didn’t take long for him to have his hands all over you again.

by the time he got down to her panties it was evident how wet she was.

“god you’re soaking. i barely even touched you ,fucking slut. a guy like randy doesn’t deserve such a filthy whore”.

y/n felt her stomach twist at the words. she knew she belonged to randy. she loved him. but the way rick was making her feel right now clouded her brain.

it was evident how little he cared about her well-being though. she wasn’t sure why she felt so turned on by this.

he slowly teased your entrance with his slender fingers,slowly pushing himself inside. she watched his jaw clench.

“jesus christ you’re tight y/n”.

it hurt at first. the pain almost took over your body before the pleasure hit.

you leaned back against his chest panting heavily. all reason and control went out the window.

“look at the mess you’re making. filthy little whore”he spread your legs wider and forced your neck down so your eyes met the damp stain on the white sheets covering your mattress. “my pretty little slut gonna make a mess for me huh ? gonna cum all over the clean sheets”.

she nodded , whining in his ear “please ..i’m so close please rick”.

hearing her moan his name so prettily practically causes him to bust right then and there. oh how he wanted to be inside her but it all came down to patience in the end.

“i think i’d rather have you cum on my cock. how’s that sound”? he removed his fingers. “my dick is gonna ruin you for randy. he won’t want some ran through whore”.

again she nodded. “please just fuck me. i’ll be good…i’ll do anything please”.

now this , this is what he wanted. to see his neighbors pretty little girlfriend in shambles begging for him.

“that’s my good girl”.

rick was quick to get on top of her , wrapping his hand around her throat watching in glee as she struggled to breath under his grip.

“stop squirming so much bitch”.

she heard the sound of a pocket knife being activated right next to her ear. panic was finally setting in.

“relax. i wont hurt you i just want to mark you as mine..that’s all”. his face didn’t change. that manic look stayed in his eyes.

she didn’t have much time to assess her situation as rick forced himself inside her. a few tears sprang to her eyes.

“holy fuck you are tight huh? don’t you worry your pretty little head , i’ll be changing that”.

y/n wanted to scream for help, she wanted to claw at his skin until he released her but she was weakened by his repeated thrusts. “please rick. be gentle , it hurts”. her words were barely above a whisper.

“shut the fuck up bitch jesus. you were just beggin me to fuck you and now you want me to stop, make up your damn mind”. he did not slow his pace, instead he ran the blunt side of his weapon across her skin and quickened his speed. “you really piss me off”

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ghcstao3 · 11 months

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Once they’re old enough, Simon and Tommy form a band to spite their father—and after a lot of work, they find more success than their father ever had.

They make music to listen to, not only to be loud. It’s music with significance and some degree of relatability beyond the simple making of something, and it develops into something both Simon and Tommy are proud of. And despite the truth of their origins, they never attribute an ounce of inspiration of the formation of their band to their father—he doesn’t deserve it.

Near the beginning of their growth in popularity is when Tommy meets Beth. They get along incredibly well and marry only after a year of knowing each other. It’s sweet, Simon thinks. It’s something Tommy has needed, and earned. Unlike Simon. But he’s content to play bystander and brother-in-law.

Tommy’s the frontman, anyway. He’s the one meant to get the happy ending.

Then in the in-between of playing shows, Simon’s drum kit gets damaged in transport and he’s forced to buy a new one—so he wanders into a small, local music shop in his search. There isn’t anyone inside except for a man around his age whose far more interested in tuning a guitar than the fact that a customer has entered the sleepy shop.

Despite that, however, his smile when Simon approaches the counter is warm, friendly, blinding.

He’s extremely helpful in finding just what Simon is searching for. And maybe Simon asks a few more questions than necessary just to hear the pleasant lilt of the man’s Scottish accent.

Simon certainly doesn’t complain as the man helps load the parts into his car, either. But the interaction during is rather… odd, given his career.

That isn’t to say bad, however. Quite the opposite, in fact.

“So… whaddya need the kit for? You’re clearly no’ a beginner.”

“I’m in a band,” Simon replies easily. Usually, it’s that sort of statement that ticks someone off to who he is.

Yet instead of that flash of realization, the man just barrels forth, “Really? What’s it called?”

Simon tells him. And there still isn’t a hint of recognition.

“Haven’t heard of it,” the man says, not unkindly. “I’ll look it up, though. I don’t really listen to music.”

Simon blinks. He’s more than aware his face has probably contorted into some bizarre, astounded expression, as he notices the man’s smile falter for the first time since it had been plastered on.

“You work at a music store,” Simon says.

The man raises his eyebrows and glances back to the shop, mock surprise etching into his face. “Well, shite. Never noticed tha’.”

After a moment they both fall into easy peals of laughter, and Simon finds he doesn’t mind when the man seems to lean into him when another fit of giggles washes over.

Nor when the man presses a fist to his shoulder when they’ve both, finally, caught their breaths.

“Y’ken I can work here without listening to music,” the man says. “I just play it instead. And obviously I’m aware of the classics.”

Simon bites his cheek to tame the threat of a smile. “That so?”

The man nods solemnly. Simon’s smile breaks free the moment one is growing on the man’s own face as he holds out a hand. “I’m John, by the way.”

Simon accepts and shakes. “Simon,” he offers. “Do all your customers have to earn your name, then?”

He glances pointedly to where a name tag might typically sit for such a place of work. Though, granted, the rest of John’s outfit doesn’t quite scream uniform, either.

“Only my favourites,” John teases. “And by favourites I mean highest-paying with really nice brown eyes.”

Simon snorts. “Specific.”

“Very.” John grins. “I think you might be my top contender, actually.”

Unfortunately their conversation is cut short when they both hear the shop’s bell ring as someone else walks in, left only to quiet goodbyes and a promise see each other again in some future. Despite his craving to continue talking to John forever, Simon is still just as happy with what he’d managed.

He’ll make certain to see John again. He will. Especially after Tommy teases him about an unusual skip in his step as he unloads his new drum kit.

Maybe he, too, could get a happy ending.

(part 2)

#this got out of hand #anyway do u guys want a part 2 bc i might. i might write that #writing #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #ghostsoap #soapghost #alternate universe #drabble #ghost x soap #band au

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honeycollectswhump · 9 months

Note

for the bingo card: human furniture?

-🪷

thank you for sending this ask!! and i hope you don't mind my late reply :)) it was so fun to write <3

the bingo card was made by @gentlelittlehorrors (i hope you enjoy what i did with your prompt)

[masterlist]

CW: dehumanisation, pet whump, burns

“Up!”

It’s the first thing Ashtray hears, the first thing he understands, while laying down under the table, letting the noise of conversations pleasantly wash over him.

Up means he is needed, Up means he is going to be used and Ashtray is eager to be used. Recognizing a word makes his nerves tingle with happiness. Ashtray rarely gets talked to –of course–, and it's even rarer that he understands.

He gets on his hands and knees, crawling closer to the soft velvet voice of his beloved Mistress. From his point of view, Ashtray can only see her silky smooth dress, a slit revealing her elegantly crossed legs.

Careful of the leash binding him to the table, he takes his place, kneeling right beside his Mistress. Only like this, he is allowed to look at her, Ashtray has learned. He turns his head towards her, waiting for another cue amidst the pleasant waves of her voice.

Ashtray knows few words, short hints like Up and Down, Good Boy and Punishment, Hands and Back and Tongue, but he is very proud of his collection. It makes him a Good Boy, he thinks, that he has learned to recognise the otherwise strange sounds. Ashtray strives to serve his Mistress, in the way he was made for, and in any way at all.

“Hand out.” his Mistress says, and Ashtray is thankful he is such an attentive Good Boy to filter out the right words. He tries his best to copy her poise, even though it is so unnatural for a simple thing like him.

Mistress didn’t say which hand or maybe Ashtray doesn’t know the word yet. He can only guess what the most logical answer would be and sitting at her left side, he has an idea. Everything should always be elegant, so as graceful as possible he lifts his right hand to rest on her thigh, just like she trained him to.

He can feel the cigarette getting closer, even without seeing it directly, can feel it burning and sizzling against his skin. Despite this, Ashtray doesn’t flinch, just like expected of a Good Boy. His eyes never leave his Mistress’ face, drowning in the pleased smile she gifts him.

Other owners wouldn’t smile at their Ashtray like that, but his Mistress does. She is gentle, and loving, and so beautiful that Ashtray knows he’d let her hold his hands in a fire just to gain another smile.

Twisting the cigarette into his skin, his Mistress makes sure it truly is put out. Ashtray marvels at how responsible she is, even as it leaves an angry red crater that will surely leave a mark in the field of raised, almost perfectly round scars that coat his hands.

After fulfilling his purpose, Ashtray lifts his hand back down again, barely conscious of the way his skin seems to be lit on fire. This is what he was made for anyway. He resumes his position next to his Mistress, both hands in front of his knees, still and Good, bathing in her presence until she will inevitably send him under the table, only to come out when he is needed. Maybe then, she will call him a Good Boy again and Ashtray wants to be a Good Boy so badly.

If he continues to be a Good Boy, his Mistress will even provide Ashtray with cream so that the fresh wound won’t get infected. Another thing other owners wouldn’t do for their possessions.

Ashtray is so lucky to belong to such a kind Mistress.

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very-feral-lesbian · 1 year

Text

eddie was a fabulously extravagant person.

he was loud and unapologetically himself. despite the shit he went through due to his style and interests, no one was ever going to stop him from doing whatever the fuck he wanted.

it's a large part of the reason steve fell in love with him.

unlike eddie, steve had put on an act for a long time. created the persona of king harrington, the guy with the hair and the girls and the rich family. the guy with everything. but people didn't know him. hell, he didn't even know himself until the summer he met robin.

she managed to teach him so much about himself, their friendship allowing him to open up, to explore new parts of himself that he didn't know existed. like, he really liked cooking, especially for the kids and his friends. he enjoyed taking care of plants. he felt joy in being an older brother figure to the kids. he also liked boys.

the last one was by far the biggest discovery he made in 1985 (closely followed by secret russians underneath the hawkins mall).

so a few months later, when eddie came back into his life; hair wild, nails painted, and personality shining, he was a goner.

during high school, the confidence eddie had about himself was intimidating to steve. he never would've admitted it at the time, but looking back it was obvious. he was loud about loving dnd and his music taste and had absolutely zero shame about it. steve used to be jealous of it, now its the thing he admired most about his boyfriend.

steve loves how the kids admired eddie. loves that they see him as this glorious figurehead of everything they enjoy. he indulges them in their hobbies. he does everything he can to make them feel confident about their interests, to be this self-assured dnd master that makes them feel accepted.

he loves that when eddie walks into a gig or the club meeting room, he commands everyone's attention without even trying. steve was used to being that person in a relationship, the one people gravitate towards. but now, he finds his joy by watching eddie talk to crowds on stage. at eddie's shows, steve tends to stay toward the back. taking in how the crowd dances, and sings, and is entranced by him just speaking on stage. steve feels the same.

but what he gets that the crowd doesn't, is the quieter eddie.

the eddie who, after his gigs, will always want something sweet, usually pie. the two of them regulars at a small diner outside of hawkins. their waitress, diane, knows their orders by heart.

or the eddie that comes back to their shared apartment and recounts the night on the phone with wayne. they always spend a minimum of fifteen minutes on the phone, eddie's soft smile always present hearing wayne's compliments and congratulations (wayne always says hi to steve too. calling him his favorite son, which earns him a smack on the bicep from eddie).

the eddie who will curl up in the bed and immediately collapse on steve's chest. always falling asleep in seconds, exhaustion from the night taking over, body lax.

he's okay with sharing the over-the-top eddie with the world, but the reserved eddie is all his.

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irondad-defensesquad · 2 days

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“It’s weird, I feel like I can’t absorb compliments. I don’t know how to respond to them. I get so… surprised and awkward. Like, today Mr. Stark thought I was a genius for figuring out the bug in his suit so quickly. Tony Stark thought I was a genius. Like? Bananas.”

No one else is listening to this. Just Peter’s phone. And he isn’t sending any voicemail to anyone. He wouldn’t want Happy to listen to this, because then he would tell Tony.

“I just don’t get it. Why would Mr. Stark be proud of me? He thought my homemade suit was stupid. I still keep it, of course, but I look at it and I feel… I dunno. I-It’s not like I hate my current suit, I love it! I love that my… thing is still there, y’know. It’s Spider-Man! And I like that I can rely on Mr. Stark whenever I’m in trouble. It’s just… He’s the genius, not me. Why does he want me around? Why does he think I’m so… great? When I’m not? I’m barely holding it together and it’s like he has no idea. And I guess that’s a good thing? But what if I screw up again and he gets mad? What if he gives up on me again?”

Peter goes silent for a couple minutes, pondering his bedroom.

“I want him to be proud, but…” He sighs. “Maybe I don’t deserve it."

#smth that i also wrote that kind of got out of hand lmao #i'm the kind of person who records my own ramblings #so to me peter does the same thing #lotus speaks #irondad #fics #my fics #drabble

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serenescribe · 9 months

Text

so this fic came about as a result of @llondonfog's absolutely heart-wrenching post about overblot!silver, along with @olivebranch311's addition about his phantom. originally i wasn't going to write this, but... olive managed to sway me :')

(there is a slight reference to @admiraltdevanto's latest fic as well, mainly about the nursery and what lilia nearly did. it was just such a good concept, i hope you don't mind me plucking that for this!)

Time passes strangely when it does not actually pass at all.

The skies outside his window are blotted dark with shadows, thick tendrils of thorns enclosing over the sky from afar. The sight never changes; it is an eternal darkness here in Diasomnia, here on Sage’s Island, and it shall remain that way for as long as Malleus, overblotted and deranged, wills it.

All Lilia does is lie on his bed, staring up at the ceiling of his canopy bed, limbs frail, powerless to do a single thing.

He had awoken from his dreams some time ago — the specifics of why, he does not know. All Lilia had done was jolt awake in a sudden frantic panic, chest heaving as he sat upright upon his bed, gloved hand clutching his chest as he struggled to get his breathing back under control. Memories of the dreams he’d gone through — lost in the throes of a younger time, when he had been running wild as the feared general of Briar Valley, weapon in hand and soldiers by his side — had flashed through his mind, reminding him with startling clarity of every wicked word he’d ever said to his son, Silver.

And it had been in that striking moment, bile rising in his throat as Lilia recalled the flashes of hurt and misery on Silver’s face, that Lilia noticed him.

Silver, standing in front of his door, head lowered, a blade resting in his hand.

Silver, who dripped with armoured ink, the Phantom of a dress curling over him, its sleeves wrapped around his steadfast shoulders, a puddle of blot forming around his heeled boots.

In an instant, Lilia was on his feet, boots slamming against the stone floor as he sprinted over to— to his son. Who was overblotting — a sight that made bile rise in his throat, fear striking through him like a thunderbolt. Lilia had wrapped his hands around his arms, trembling as his eyes flicked over Silver’s body — the smears of blot staining his cheeks, the ink that dripped from his gloved hands, sliding down the hilt of his sword. Elegant carvings were etched into his armour — dark as night, a stark contrast to the pearlescent sheen of his sweeping hair. “Silver,” Lilia whispered, voice cracking as his hands moved up, thumbing over his cold, cold cheeks. “Silver, you—”

But before he could finish, strong arms wrapped around his shoulders, beginning to push him back with such a delicate gentleness that it made his words die in his throat. Silver slowly pressed him backwards, one step at a time, flowing Phantom dancing behind him, its splotchy dress turning fully pink, until finally, the back of Lilia’s knees hit his bed, and he tumbled back onto the soft mattress.

Before Lilia could push himself back up, he felt a hand brush against his hair. “I cannot allow you to leave, Father,” Silver murmured, an echoing tinge to his words. It had been accompanied by the sound of fabric swishing, and a gurgling shriek. “The castle is not safe.”

“Let me help you,” Lilia begged, hands reaching up to curl around Silver’s wrist. Blot dribbled from his son’s touch, mixing with strands of Lilia’s hair, and Lilia knew that his own clothes must be stained with ink, but he didn't care. What possible effect could an overexposure of blot have on him anyways, with his magic dwindling?

But Silver had only shaken his head, the barest ghost of a smile gracing his ink-stained lips. “No,” he says firmly, though not unkindly. Rather, there is a reverence in his words, a lurking fire that makes Lilia’s breathing hitch from the force of it — an unfettered devotion. “You will stay here,” Silver states, no room for argument in his words — not even saying that Lilia must remain where he is, but that he will. “And if he appears, then…”

Silver pulled back, his grip on his sword resolute. Behind him, the Phantom thrashed violently, flickering between shades of bright pink and azure blue, twin blades of its own emerging from its sleeves. “If he dares to appear,” Silver hissed, “then I shall stop him. I will keep you safe.”

And sprawled out against the bed, staring up at the horrific scene before him with wide eyes, what was Lilia to do?

The Phantom lingers with Lilia at all times.

He has never heard of them doing such a thing. From all he has learnt in the past, Phantoms typically trail after their overblotter, the two of them intrinsically connected at the core. But Silver is different — as he always is, in a way. His Phantom is not the snapping, snarling, garishly violent creatures that other people’s have been. His is a tender, twirling dress, who hovers over his bed, fabric tinting pink whenever Lilia glances at it. Its sleeves flutter over him, stroking him gently. And, strangest of all, it stays with him during the few times when Silver must leave.

Here, in Malleus’ thorn-enclosed dome of magic, time does not pass. Here, Lilia has neither hunger nor thirst, the lack of sensation jarring whenever he thinks too hard about it.

The only thing he can do is drift in and out of rest, his son’s Phantom always watching over him regardless of whether Silver is there with it. At times, when Lilia is drifting off to sleep, he stirs at the sound of a keening wail, eyes fluttering open the tiniest bit to see drifting sleeves covering a crest-shaped face as the Phantom sobs, so unlike the centuries’ worth of hostile Phantoms recorded in history books.

The sight of its face never fails to make Lilia’s heart skip a beat either, the symbol familiar to him. The royal crest of his former enemies from centuries ago — a lingering proof of a heritage Silver cannot deny.

The Phantom weeps and wails whenever it thinks Lilia isn’t listening, isn’t awake. The sound always tears at his heart; this creature is a part of Silver, stoic and resolute, locked into his role as a guard by the one-track mind nature of his overblot.

So what does it mean then, to listen to its harrowing cries?

With little else to do, Lilia thinks.

He thinks about the dreams he experienced, the ones Malleus so graciously gifted to him. His mood sours whenever he remembers them, lips pressing thin at the hazy memories of Malleus whisking everyone to sleep with an utterance of his unique magic, plunging them all under his spell. Lilia had done and said so many things that he now regrets, looking back in hindsight; he had not recognised Silver under the thick of the magic, treating him with a callous cruelty he laments to the very core of his soul.

The way he’d rejected the prospect of ever having a child, a family. The way he’d repeatedly told Silver to call him anything other than Father. The way he’d revealed the truth he never wanted Silver to ever know — that of his heritage, of the absolute hatred Lilia had felt towards him far, far in the past, loathing the child and all that it stood for.

He feels sick again.

The thing is. The thing is. Back then, when he’d broken into the nursery and held the screaming child by its neck, about to kill it, Lilia hadn’t known just what it would grow to mean to him someday. There is a distinct difference between the child of the Knight of Dawn, and Silver, his son, in his mind, even if they are ultimately one and the same.

He regrets it so badly, all of it, all of what he did in his dreams. Because even though his precise memories are foggy, Lilia is certain that his little show in the nursery had been the tipping point for Silver, the exact moment where Malleus came for him again and whisked him away, swallowing him into the darkness that trailed them all throughout their dreams.

If Lilia had not done what he did, real or not, Silver would not have overblotted.

But whenever he tries to breach the subject, tries to bring it up when Silver stands by his door, Phantom lurking at his side, he gets shut down. Lilia slings his legs over the side of his bed, and says, “Silver. About what happened in my dream—” before Silver’s head snaps up, and he immediately interrupts him.

“It is of no concern to me,” Silver always says. “It does not matter. It’s unimportant.” All the different variations of the same phrase: Silver does not care about what happened, dismissing it easily and leaving Lilia to stew in a steaming heap of his own miserable guilt.

And when Lilia tries to press even further, Silver leaves his post. He strides over, resolute and steadfast as always, as a prim and proper knight should be. And then, standing in front of Lilia, he rests his hand gently on his shoulder, shushing Lilia with the tiny gesture. “Please do not concern yourself with it, Father,” Silver always says, so kind, so gentle, even in his dire state. “It does not bother me anymore.”

It’s that last word that lingers with Lilia. Anymore. That there was a point of time where it meant something awful to Silver, except now, that feeling is buried, and the both of them are worse off for it.

Lilia still desires to speak with Silver about his dream, a thousand questions lingering on his tongue.

But Silver always dismisses him. He tells him it is insignificant. He coaxes him to rest. He promises to protect him from Malleus.

It only ever makes Lilia feel worse, in the end.

“I-I should be the one protecting you, Silver! You— You should not be doing this, you should not be overblotting for my sake!” Frenetic words that burst forth from his lips cut through the air. Lilia feels his grip on the side of his bed curl tighter, fingers trembling as he clutches the sheets hard. How long has it been? Time doesn’t move, never moves; there is no concrete answer, except that it feels like an eternity and beyond.

And Lilia is sick of it. He’s sick of seeing his son dressed as a knight, of the disgusting mounds of cloying blot forming the plates of his void-dark armour. He’s sick of waking again and again and again, and always glancing over to the door to see him still there, unmoving, always remaining in the same place, his Phantom swishing around his motionless body.

Silver tilts his head the slightest bit at that, glowing eyes peering over at Lilia, the barest glint sparking within those dull pupils. “No, Father,” he utters, voice calm — and Lilia hates it, hates the lack of emotion, the way his ability to read Silver has suddenly, abruptly, been cut off. “It is my duty to protect you from him—”

“NO, IT’S NOT!”

The scream erupts through the air, bouncing off the walls, circling around the room. Lilia shakes his head, over and over and over again. He stumbles off the bed, staggers his way over to Silver, the tornado of chaotic emotions tearing through him from the inside-out finally reaching its peak. Gloved hands clasp around Silver’s shoulders, causing the knight to still in his movements from where he was beginning to move, automatically heading to push Lilia back towards the bed.

“You shouldn’t have to do this for me,” Lilia whispers, and oh, he feels something wet sliding down his cheeks. His emotions have finally collapsed, it seems. He tilts his head forward, forehead coming to rest against the cool, blot-slick armour of Silver’s torso. “You… you’re my son. You shouldn’t have to guard me like this. I can take care of myself, Silver.”

Silence.

“Please,” Lilia breathes. “Please let me help you.” He cannot stand this anymore, cooped up in this room, awake from Malleus’ throes of unending dreams purely because of his son. Lilia is only spared from going back under because it is Silver who stands in Malleus’ way, barring him from returning and weaving the threads of dreams to cloak Lilia with once more.

And for a while, there is nothing. Nothing except for the soft sound of Silver’s breathing. Lilia can feel the gentle rise and fall of his chest, faint behind the thick metal of his ink-formed chestplate — he clings to it like a lifeline, proof that he is still alive, even with the way the blot has infested him, wrapping thin tendrils of darkness around his son’s mind.

Cool hands come to press against his chest, pushing him backwards the slightest bit. Lilia stumbles, only to be cushioned by light fabric. Twisting his head around, he spies the Phantom behind him, pink and flowing, its ghostly sleeves curling around Lilia’s shoulders, tangling around his neck in a knot.

“Silver,” Lilia whispers. “Silver, please.”

Silver only smiles. “You’ve taken such good care of me all my life, Father. You’ve protected me, even though you did not need to.” And oh, Lilia feels his heart fracture at that, splintering into tiny shards; it is the closest Silver, overblotted as he is, has ever gotten to acknowledging Lilia’s wretched dreams of his war-torn past, of the revelations in the nursery. Reaching for his hands, Silver guides him back to his prison of a bed with tiny hands, the Phantom pulling him along with its entangled sleeves trapping him in place.

“Just let me protect you now,” Silver murmurs, as the Phantom pulls away, still hovering over Lilia’s curled form, little keening cries spilling from the cracks in its crest-shaped head. “Just let me repay you for everything you’ve ever done.”

Lilia raises his head. His eyes flit to Silver, who leans down at his side, still so tranquil, as though he truly is at peace with the idea of serving Lilia like this — a shift in their dynamic that chills his blood. His eyes flit to the Phantom, at his other side, still burbling little noises, dress pink as a rose, basking in his presence.

His eyes flick to the opening before him, the gap between the two of them — the straight path ahead of him to the unguarded door.

And before he can even stop to think, Lilia is off.

In a flash, he’s sprinting over to the bedroom door. His gloved hand wrenches the doorknob, twisting it and flinging the door wide open with a loud SLAM! Lilia sucks in a breath, hand brushing against the jamb of the door before he rushes out into the dark hallway, thick, twisting throngs of thorns creeping all over the walls, eerie in the dim glow of green-lit scones.

“MALLEUS!” Lilia screams, lungs aching as he calls for the perpetrator of this entire bloody mess, and the one person Silver is guarding him from. His lips wrench into a snarl as he moves forward, steps hurried, trying to put a distance between him and his son; Lilia’s heart throbs in agony at the thought of abandoning him, of upsetting him, but he cannot stand to look upon Silver, loyal and devoted to the point of blindness, any longer.

He stumbles over thick vines, trips over slumbering bodies sprawled out all over the floor. Lilia grits his teeth, readying another screech for the blasted fae prince to appear, when strong arms seize him from behind. In an instant, Lilia is kicking, thrusting frantically, but it is to no avail. He hears the Phantom shrieking, can see droplets of blot fly through the air, can hear a frenzied swishing of fabric.

“Please,” he begs Silver as he feels himself getting dragged backwards, back to his room. “Please, Silver, you have to let me go. Let me talk to Malleus, let me handle this.”

But Silver does not budge, never budges, pulling him back through the open door and back to that forsaken bed. The Phantom shuts the door as Silver presses him against the mattress, face consumed by worry as his hands brush all over Lilia’s body, checking for any injuries with a featherlight touch. “You will stay,” Silver insists again, words that Lilia has heard so many times that he has long since lost count. “I can protect you here. I will protect you here, from him. So… please, Father. Please don’t go.”

Silver’s voice warbles with the plea, a vulnerability exposed in those shaking words. His hands grip Lilia tightly, as though terrified to let go.

And what can Lilia do but lie there, squeezing his eyes shut so he no longer has to see the absolute agony and betrayal swirling about in those auroral eyes, once beautiful but now so dull?

It’s awful. It’s loving. It’s a sickening caricature of devotion. Silver’s mind remains fully focused on one thing, and one thing only—

And Lilia hates it, all of it.

#my writing tag #tumblr drabbles tag #twst #twisted wonderland #twst spoilers #twisted wonderland spoilers #twst ch7 #lilia vanrouge #twst silver #twst writing #twst fanfiction #i originally wanted to write more than just this but 1) fell sick 2) this got out of hand (became longer than i anticipated)#which is kinda par for the course w ell serenescribe #blows a kiss at the people i've tagged. i hope yall enjoy #personal writing

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iliektehhaxs · 3 months

Note

ohhhh my god you have no idea how much clive looks like he needs to be pegged. the sad blue puppy eyes is everything. pull out the strap and mf is screaming crying barking like a fuckin dog on his hands and knees RAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH EJDHDKDHKDHDKSGKDDHKEHDDJD

THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU I AM A FIRM BELIEVER THAT CLIVE WOULD START CRYING INTO THE SHEETS IF YOU PEGGED HIM

Your husband is a chameleon, a talent you’ve bore witness to many a time. The red-blooded warrior, the man whose swordplay is only outmatched by the ferocity of his flame. The leader with a heart of gold, who fights to save Valisthea from itself and bring peace to the lands.

But to you, all you see is pink. The color of romance, the same color that fills his cheeks when you hold him, caress him, kiss him—

The same color that clings to his skin, adorning it in its rosy hues. The same flush that runs down to his neck, his chest, even the tips of his ears.

The same color of his cock as it ruts against the sheets. Aching and twitching, untouched save for the gentle touch of the fabric—a touch unlike the one you give. Warm hands glide against his spine, having him arch even further for you as he moans, the four walls of your room an audience to his debauched state.

“Darling, hells—“ he begins, unable to finish whatever he was to say when you roughly thrust into him, gently pulling him back by the nape as you coo into his ear.

“You should see yourself Clive, so cute,” you mutter, leaving the softest kisses against his neck even as you fuck him delirious. “Tell me how good I make you feel, hm?”

It’s almost incoherent, the way he sings your praise, desperately pushing his hips back to meet your almost violent thrusts. The contrast between your soothing words and biting movements makes him dizzy, makes him clutch into the sheets harder as an inferno spreads across his body. He’s reminded of your command when your free hands pinches at his nipple, awakening him from his lustful stupor.

“Come on Clive, say it,” you repeat, patience waning. The same hand at his chest now moves to massage his ever-so sensitive cock, the slick sensation almost bordering on painful, but yet his hips still thrust into your hands embarrassingly fast.

Clive gulps down a breath, sweat hanging from his brow as he speaks hoarsely. “So good, so fucking good—“

The slap of your hand against his backside rings loudly in his ears. You allow him to fall back onto the bed again, still whining your name as you reach lower and fist his cock with each movement, his body shaking with exhaustion.

“Please, I can’t take anymore,” he cries out, his tip steadily leaking pre-cum. “I’ve been good—fuckinghells—“

You fold yourself against his back, and for a moment you think to yourself how someone so large could fall so easily victim to you. Nearly double your size, and yet he’s begging for you to fuck him like a common whore.

A feral grin spreads out at the thought. A whore, but at the of the day, your whore.

“You have baby, I’m so proud of you,” you gasp, sensing how badly he throbs in your hands. “And good boys get to come.”

At the sound of your approval he buries his face into the sheets, shudders when your fingers trail from his shaft to his balls and lets out a heavy grunt as he cums, his cock bouncing against his stomach as he makes a mess below, the heat of it radiating against your fingertips.

For all the colors that your husband shows, his pink will forever be your most favorite.

#robo writes #clive rosfield #clive rosfield x reader #Clive rosfield smut #Another case of this wasn’t meant to be a Drabble #but as usual I got out of hand #🥴

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whump-in-the-closet · 9 months

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Villain and Vigilante

i got some writing motivation and bam here you go

cw: used for bait (yet again), major character death, death described in detail, lots of blood, lmk if i missed anything

“Villain!” The name was screamed, ripped out of a sandpaper-rough throat.

The doors to the warehouse swung open and a swath of light fell onto the recently disturbed dust of the floor.

Vigilante scanned the warehouse with exhausted, burning eyes. His sword drooped to the floor and then clattered to the stone with a rolling echo.

He’d found Villain. His stomach churned.

It took a moment later for his clouded mind to register the glinting weapons.

Warning signals went off in his mind.

Its a trap.

Trap.

He ignored them all.

He was already running to Villain, the world tilting underneath him. Tilting and spinning.

Villain gave a muffled cry, the sound choked by the cloth gag. Chains were looped around his wrists and ankles, keeping him on his knees.

Villain.

Vigilante crashed into the stone beside him. There was brown-crimson blood matted into his hair and one eye swollen shut, tear tracks cutting through the dirt on his face.

“Villain?” Vigilante’s hands were shaking as he grabbed his once-friend’s head, eyes catching on the gash in Villain’s forehead. With a sharp twist, he ripped the gag out of Villain’s mouth.

Villain groaned, trying and failing to get words to form properly, but before anything could be said, Vigilante pulled him close.

Villain stiffened– like the touch was a red-hot poker. Then he relaxed. The embrace was one that promised protection. Safety. An end to the nightmares. A sob built up in his throat.

Everything was going to be alright. And then Villain caught a glimpse of a shadow forming behind Vigilante.

He cried out, panicked, and Vigilante whirled around in time to see the rise and fall of the blade.

Vigilante crumpled.

The shadow shoved the blade in deeper. It had gone through Vigilante’s throat, blood spurting in violent directions. Most of it was on Villain.

Villain didn’t scream. He paled to the color of bone, bending over Vigilante and whispering his name over and over again at a frantic, mind-numbing pace.

The shadow crouched down. Smiled at Villain. With a corpse’s hand, they ripped the blade out of Vigilante’s throat.

This time, when hot blood splashed Villain, he screamed. Again and again and again. With an open mouth and cracked lips, the screams bleeding out of him.

Vigilante wheezed, crimson staining his teeth, and went limp.

Villain stiffened. At first, there was denial. “No, no no no–”

The shadow laughed. They walked behind Villain and bent over to study the body. With slow, exaggerated movements, they wiped the scarlet-dripping blade on Villain’s shirt collar. The red smeared. “He’s dead-dead. Say your goodbye.”

A noise crawled out of Villain’s throat. A noise like that of a trapped animal. A creature, howling through the bars of its cage. Inhuman and raw. He doubled over his once-friend’s hollow body, pressing his forehead against Vigilante’s.

“No, no, no, no–please no–”

He sobbed.

Denial first, now nothing.

There was a void inside him, and it was screaming.

#you can rip the ‘used for bait’ trope out of my cold dead hangs #hands*#sorry for how dark this got #it kind of got out of control #i am merely a tool for the words #whump writing #whump #whumpblr #villain whump #vigilante whump #villain drabble #whump drabble #cw major character death #villain

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blackjackkent · 4 months

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There are too many of them. Karlach has been through many battles, many wars. She can see the way the odds are turned. Balthazar, who would be a powerful foe even in his own right, backed up by almost twenty undead, each of them brought to life with only one course - destruction.

And almost immediately, everything goes bad.

Almost before they have time to blink, Hector is staggered - a burst of corrupting necromantic energy slams into him out of Balthazar's fingers. Karlach can see the pain rocket through him as he is knocked to his knees.

"Gods!" he cries out, and the agony in his voice tears at her heart. "My Lady...help us...please..."

But there is no answer. Even if the Moonmaiden is watching them, she has no power here in this land of dark.

Karlach finds herself moving entirely on instinct, lashing out in all directions as the undead begin to close around them. Higher up she can hear Gale and Shadowheart shouting spells, trying to knock back the tide of horror. But each chink in the oncoming wall lasts only momentarily, and then Balthazar's endless legions are back on the attack again.

Can we win this? Is it even possible? Is this the end, after everything?

The rage is coursing through her, each strike landing true, and she holds onto some hope, some certainty that perhaps they might do the impossible yet again...

And then Hector goes down.

"No!" Her scream is muffled in the noise of battle all around them. "Damn it, soldier-- get up!"

She isn't sure what hit him. One of the large skeletons, most likely, which is bearing down on him with its deaths-head grin, an enormous blade clenched in one hand. She staggers backwards, stands over his body - a furious lioness crouching over her fallen mate, all rage and love and terror.

But gods, gods...they are still coming.

And she can't fight them all, not even to save him...

The crowd of undead close around her and she feels despair grip around her heart. Hector, at her feet, spasms with pain; his breath rasps in his chest, a death rattle. All the fury and rage in her does nothing to change the fact...

It can't end like this. It can't--

Her eyes drift upwards, to the platform where Gale and Shadowheart are still standing, both of them equally battered, drenched in acid from one of Balthazar's attacks. Her eyes meet Gale's, and she sees the same despair she feels reflected back at her.

His wrist flicks, a ball of flame appearing between his fingers, and he hesitates.

She understands in an instant what he means to do - and she knows that he's right. And before she can second-guess herself, before she can reflect on what it means, she lifts her voice and bellows above the hissing of the undead.

"FOR GODS' SAKE, GALE, DO IT! DO IT NOW!"

Gale's head snaps back, and then he twists his fingers in a quick burst of movement and the fireball crashes across the platform.

Karlach is no stranger to the heat of fire; she has burned alive every day for the last ten years. But the explosion bursts through her like a thunderclap, the concussion hurting as much as the flames, and she is knocked sideways with a cry of pain as the fireball consumes her and all the creatures around her.

As she hits the ground, she hears Hector's scream as the flames consume him, and though she does not want to see it, she turns her head and meets his eyes as he dies.

It feels as if everything has gone completely still inside her for a moment.

She knew exactly what she was doing, of course. She knew he would not survive the blast, that she herself is barely hanging on through the damage it did. They have Shadowheart, they have scrolls of revivify, they even have Withers if it comes to it... he will come back to her. He has to.

But all that knowledge pales against the true, immediate agony of seeing the life fade out of him in front of her.

"HECTOR!" she screams, and it tears at the burned muscle of her throat. She wants to drop to his side, hold him, beg his forgiveness for causing this to be done to him, but she can't. The fight isn't over, though most of the skeletal force has been decimated.

Balthazar still lives, and it is on him that her rage can expend itself.

In an explosion of movement, she leaps across the platform trailing flame off her armor and out of her hair. And for a moment she almost thinks she sees a burst of fear in the necromancer's eyes before her blade crashes through his skull.

Blood splatters around her and she swings and swings again, all the rage in her coming to bear on this one target. And she screams with grief and fury and all the pain they have all suffered and do not deserve.

It is a long time before the storm in her cools and she realizes that he is dead.

-----

She comes back to herself knelt at Hector's side, gathering him into her arms. She realizes she has been sobbing; the boiling heat of her tears sizzles on her cheeks. Gale and Shadowheart are standing at a slight distance, watching, each uncertain how to break the silence.

"I'm sorry..." she whispers, pulling his still body against her, running her fingers desperately through his hair, across the burns on his face and shoulders. "I'm sorry... I'm sorry... I love you... I'm sorry..."

Cautiously, Gale lays a hand on her shoulder, and flinches feeling the now-unusual heat under her armor. "I'm sorry as well," he mutters. "But you were right. It had to be done...we'd never have been able to take the upper hand otherwise."

She shakes away the attempt at a comforting touch, leans forward and presses her forehead against Hector's. Her breath comes in short, stuttering gasps.

Shadowheart steps forward now, crouches at her side. "If... you can give me a moment to prepare a spell... I'll revive him," she says uncertainly.

Karlach lifts her head and glares at the younger woman fiercely, feeling oddly defensive against anyone else's offer of help. "I'll handle it," she mutters. "You just... do what you came here to do..."

#bjk plays baldur's gate 3 #hector carlisle #drabble #bg3 drabble #bg3 fic #baldur's gate 3 fic #karlach x tav #this got completely out of hand and i'm not sorry at all :)))))#this moment played out completely by accident as i pushed through the fight and i knew i had to do something with it #then went back and recreated the moment in order to get better caps XD #also messed around with freecam for the first time although it didn't really work very well bc everything inside the flame was very blurry #but anyway everyone gather around while i obliterate myself with feels thank you

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legendslugia · 5 months

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What Ingo’s not expecting, is for Emmets glare to soften and for him to sit next to him on the bench.

“I am Emmet… and I have been unreasonable towards you.” Emmet isn’t looking at him, instead staring down at the floor, studying the cracks in the tile. With the way he trails off, Ingo knows he won't elaborate unless prompted, but a stranger wouldn’t, so he waits. Emmets eyes flick briefly in his direction before meeting the floor again. With a deep sigh that shakes his frame, he starts again.

“You must have noticed by now. I have treated you with suspicion for quite some time. Not for any fault of your own. With… everything that was happening, your arrival was, in a way, perfect timing. I was in need of a scape-gogoat, or else I’d be overwhelmed.” As he spoke, Emmet has slowly slumped forward, burying his face in his hands. “For that, I must apologize. It was never fair of me to pin all my problems on you.”

He lets out a sound that Ingo can’t differentiate from a choked sob or laugh. “Ingo would be furious with me if he knew what I was doing…”

Ingo can’t help but ponder how fast the living bastardize the dead.

“The accidents have been happening for some time now, correct?” Ingo finally speaks up. “There have been a number of deaths, I can see how that would take quite a toll on you.”

He can see Emmet grimace. “Still, that is all they were, accidents. No one's fault. Especially not the blame of just one person. If anything, it is my own fault for neglecting the safety of my passengers.” Ingo feels a twinge of guilt in his heart. Technically, Emmet had been on the mark with his accusations. Ingo’s been told otherwise time and time again, but every death he causes still feels like his fault. Once again, the note with little more on it than an address and time feels like it's burning a hole through his pocket.

“Well then, please do not concern yourself with me. I have not been bothered by any of the ways you have treated me. I hadn’t even noticed if I had been singled out.” Ingo lied.

Emmet finally looks at him, sizing him up. He probably doesn’t believe him. “You are a strange man.” he says bluntly.

Ingo chuckles, he wonders what his new face must look like. “I’ve been told as such before.”

“Sorry. I am sorry. I do not even know your name, and I am being rude. I… Ingo would have been better at this.” Emmet took off his hat, rubbing at his temples. “I just… I have been missing him. A lot. It has been such a long time now. I wish he would come home.” With so few words, Emmet has effectively taken Ingo’s heart and crushed it. He wanted to come home, he wanted so much to tell Emmet everything and apologize for taking so long. More than anything, he wanted to take that little paper in his pocket and tear it to shreds.

But that’s not what he’s here for.

“The passing of a loved one is a hard thing to-”

Emmet cuts him off suddenly, “He’s not dead! Do not say things like that. When Ingo is found, things will be better. I won’t give up on him. He will come home and things will get better.” His volume dropped off after the first exclamation, and it seems that he is looking to reassure himself more than convince a stranger.

Ingo tries to keep the grimace off his own face. “I see, of course… My apologies.” It's quiet between them for a bit, Emmet having gone back to staring at the floor, tapping his foot anxiously. The ticking of the clock above them felt deafening to Ingos ears, so little time left to dawdle.

“Thank you.” His voice is soft, softer than it has been. Emmets shoulders are shaking slightly, and he sniffles before wiping under his eyes. “For listening. It has been hard, without my brother. But the best thing for me to do is have hope. He would want that for me...”

“Of course he would. I’m glad I was able to help you, even minimally.” Emmet hates the touch of strangers, Ingo knows that, but a reassuring pat would be the best way to lay a hand on him at this point. Despite not wishing to bring any more distress to his brother, he gives Emmet's shoulder a small squeeze. A light unseen shimmer trails from his fingers as he removes his hand.

Emmet groans, “I appreciate the attempt to comfort, but I ask you refrain from further touching, please.” Ingo nods, not like there will be much of a chance for that in the future.

Finally, Emmet stands, taking a deep breath. He looks in better spirits, better than he’s been for the months Ingo has lingered around the station. “It is time I take my leave. The trains must be on time and mine surely cannot leave without me. I wish you a good day, sir.”

“Thank you. I wish you the best, truly…”

With a familiar point and call, Emmet takes his leave. Once he's out of sight, Ingo breaks. He cries as the time ticks away, making no effort to hide his tears or quiet his sobs in the empty halls.

Why should he hide his grief when his brother is about to die?

There’s a loud crash that echos out from the direction Emmet left. It’s shortly followed by someone screaming. Not screams of pain, just shock. Only one person was dying here today after all, and that’s not his voice.

Ingo wipes his eyes and stands. He needs to be there to help his brother cross. The work of a reaper like him can be painful, but it must be done.

#submas #pokemon #subway boss ingo #subway boss emmet #Dead Like Me au #Another random au drabble that got out of hand

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