tw theme

So I’m considering a group AU.

I don’t have details planned out, but I have this dark!tf2 verse in mind, and I’d think it’d be interesting to play out.

Basically, RED and BLU no longer work under the same umbrella company. MannCo as it is ceases to exist, and far more devious people take over each company. They’re rich enough to expand on their companies, growing them and turning them into rival corporations. It goes beyond that – they are large enough to expand worldwide. They have secret documents that could end the world, or cause war. Security forces are top notch. World is falling into chaos as RED and BLU grows. Friendships are tested and/or ordered to be terminated. Any hostility that existed between the opposite teams is increased tenfold. Friends and family are torn apart, and mercenaries become more than just mercenaries, they become part of their companies. A hivemind.

Brainwashing, positive reinforcement, and even a bit of torture is used to ensure loyalty. Blackmail is also part of the picture. However these new leaders can ensure complete obedience and loyalty, they will use it. They don’t want people, they want puppets. They want people to defend their teams, their lives with as much enthusiam as can be mustered up.

Our mercenaries are subjected to all of the above. Some may have succumbed and given in. Some may be held prisoner. Some may be escapees on the run. The world is on the very precipice of a dystopia. Can former friends reconnect? Can they save their friends from themselves?

I had this idea swimming in my head for a few days, and I had to write it out. Even if it’s not a group verse, I still think it’d be interesting to play out with one or two or more people. It’d be interesting to see how each merc/class handles a mass scale war, along with copius amounts of psychological and physical torture.

It would definitely be a dark verse, so anyone with a faint heart or sensitivity to such subjects should probably steer clear. 

10

pansexual and promiscuous isaac lahey is the best isaac lahey accept no substitutes (ノ◕ヮ◕)ノ*:・゚✧ (½)

tropetastic meme → anon asked ‘isaac lahey + q for queer’

part 2 here | inspiring posts by me and amorremanet x x

One thing I just love about Stucky fanfiction is that it’s basically just universally accepted that Steve and Bucky don’t know how to be normal fucking friends. Like, they’ll be just bros™ and they’ll cuddle and hold hands and move each other’s hair from their foreheads and they’ll rest their head on the other’s shoulder and stare at each other and sleep in the same bed and all of this is completely normal to them because they grew up with this fucked up mutual pining as their focal point for friendship and have no idea that they’re actually just fucking in love

Billowing Smoke

Prompt: AS REQUESTED BY ANON:
Hamilsquad x reader where they have been friends with the reader since they where kids and the reader slowly starts to grow more distant until she kinda disappear for awhile and they get worried so they stop by her home and they knock on the door and she refuses to let them in telling them she’s fine and after a while of them persistently begging to be let in she finally opens the door and she stands there with a black eye and covered in bruises cigarette burns (her boyfriend had been using her)

Pairing: starts out as Charles Lee X Reader, IS REALLY POLY!HAMILSQUAD THOUGH, BLESS TF UP

TW: Abuse, violence, description of blood, beatings, domestic abuse, verbal and emotional abuse, cursing, death of a character, reference to sexual assault and rape, smoking

A/N: hey y'all! I hope you enjoy this piece! I know I didn’t follow the anon completely, and I’m sorry, I got carried away with my writer’s brain. I tried my best, and i hope you love it! Thank you for all the requests! I’m doing my best to keep up! If you want me to tag something, please let me know! I want you to feel safe when reading my work! I love you!

If you need help, please reach out. My ask is always open, tell someone you trust, or call a hotline! I love you, and I want you safe!
Hotline for Victims of Sexual Assault: 877-995-5247
National Domestic Violence Hotline: 1-800-799-7233

Word Count: 2498

You never bruised easily. You fell out of a tree in the fifth grade and damn near broke your body in two. A week later, you had a small, purple bruise on your hip, but a fairly bad limp for two weeks. You knew people that bruised like melons, but you weren’t one of them.
You were standing on the balcony of the hotel floor for a smoke, black, thick curling tendrils that snaked up into the cold night air. You had on a man’s white dress shirt, clumsily buttoned, and no pants. Your hair was in the messiest bun yet. You leaned on the railing and looked out at the stars. You used to love them. Now, they just reminded you of smoldering cigarette butts and dead dreams. Disgusted, you looked away. You put your cigarette out on the metal railing, a satisfying “tsss” sound reaching your ears. You reached into your thong and pulled another cigarette and a lighter out from the band. You lit up and kept smoking.
Across the parking lot, you saw four figures get out of a car. You’d never been good at identifying cars. All you knew was that it was black, and it looked like a box.
They made their way across the lot, and you watched them, mildly disinterested. They climbed the stairs, level by level, and when they didn’t stop, you felt your stomach clench with uneasiness. You didn’t remember four boys on your floor.
You held your cigarette away from your mouth between two fingers as you watched them approach you, the dark shrouding them completely.
Then you heard it. It was a quiet whisper, barely carried on the wind, and delicate like a butterfly. “Y/N?”
The boys reached the top and froze, down the walkway, staring. You knew them, and you felt shame burn your stomach.
“Y/N?” John whispered as he was the first to approach you. He reached out for you, but you cringed away. His eyes were filled with tears. You put the cigarette out on the railing again, letting it fall to the cement below. John caressed your face, turning your face to his, lightly running his fingers over your bruised and swollen cheek. “Sweetheart… Why didn’t you tell us? Why didn’t you let us help?”
You turned from him, unable to meet his eyes, and the others had slowly flocked around you. There was no escape, you realized.
“Where’s that son of a bitch? I’ll kill him!” Herc shouted, his hands clenched, but you shook your head with a small smile.
“He’s not a problem anymore, Herc. I promise,” you felt your lips curl upward, then winced at the twinge of pain you received.
“Don’t lie for him, Y/N! This has to stop!” Alex spoke up, then he noticed you shivering. He shrugged off his coat and draped it over your shoulders. You hugged it around you as the boys stared you down.
“Well?” Alex persisted, and you shrugged.
“If you really wanna see him that bad…” you mumbled before you led them to your room. You unlocked the door with the key and shoved it open. It was a small room, but it got the job done. The chair was overturned. The bed was nicely made, though. The small, wooden table was in splinters. The curtains were drawn tight over the nice view. A lamp was knocked over, and the bulb was shattered. The room had a safe to keep your stuff safe in the corner. Your bag was sat on the bed, but some of your clothes were in tatters on the ground. There were soothing paintings above the bed.
“Where is ‘e?” Lafayette questioned, speaking up for the first time.
You led them to the bathroom door, and knocked lightly. “Sweetie?” You called, then knocked again. “Charlie?” No reply. You smiled shyly to the boys before you opened the door and turned the light on.
You had taken the liberty of some light remodeling. The tiles were red… the sink was red. The toilet was red. The walls were red. Everything was red. It was a good accent color, after all. In the bathtub, you had placed a nice accent piece to bring everything together. It was your ex boyfriend! Well, what was left of him.
“Mon Dieu!” Laf cried out, and he covered his mouth in horror. Herc had put an arm out in front of the other boys, as if to protect them from the scene.
“Y/N,” Herc whispered, “What have you done?”
You grinned at him before you turned the lights off and shut the door, blocking out the scene from the obviously traumatized boys. “Only what I should’ve done from the start.”

It had started simple. You guys had been arguing. He had come home late again that night, smelling like he’d drank the bar. You were sick of it. He’d slurred his words, called you a slut, and you wrote it off that he was just drunk. When he hit you the first time, you wrote it off that he was just drunk. He repeatedly apologized. He bought you nice things. He treated you better than he ever had. When he hit you the second time, you wrote it off that he was just drunk. He desperately pleaded you not to leave him, promising to change, to stop drinking. And he did.
He stopped drinking, but that made him worse. He’d lash out, shove you against the wall. The sex was rougher, and he demanded it more often, but he still brought you roses and gave you sweet kisses.
When he slammed you into the wall by your throat, he was sober. Later that night, he cried at your feet and told you about how he was abused as a child. He begged you to stay, and you willingly ran back into his arms.
He got angrier, beat on you more. He’d slap your face and pull your hair. He’d throw you on the ground and call you a whore. But he’d still cover it up with tender kisses, holding you until you fell asleep, and those sweet lies of love. So you stayed. You stayed, and you loved him.
He started to use you more. Even when you didn’t want sex, he’d come knocking. He started to carry scissors with him. The next day, he’d mutter a sorry and hand you a bag of new clothes. He didn’t say “I love you” as much as he used to, but you knew he still cared for you.
When he put his cigarette out on you for the first time, you thought you were going to pass out. You’d never experienced a pain like that before. Your own screams were all you could hear. He told you he was sorry and brought you a bag of ice from the machine down the hall. He held you while you cried.
One day, you woke up, and you asked yourself, “What happened to me? How did I get here?” You were covered in bright red burns, dark grey ash, crusty crimson blood, and swollen purple bruises. You didn’t go to work that day… And you got beat for that, too.

You had grown up with the boys, inseparable since high school. College didn’t come between you. You still managed to keep in touch. They’d always tried to ferociously protect you, almost to the point of overbearing. John punched Thomas Jefferson in the nose when he tried to ask you out junior year. Herc was supposed to deliver James Madison’s love letter to you, but instead, he threw it away. They didn’t think any man in the world deserved you, and you let them hear about it. Maybe that’s why you waited until you were in love with Charlie to introduce him to the boys. And of course, they didn’t like him. Alex said he was too quiet. John claimed he lacked bravado. Lafayette complained about his lack of passion. Herc mentioned his cowardice. You declared that you loved him. The boys disapproved. They said they loved you better than he ever could.
They made Charlie uncomfortable. They excluded him, and they were openly judgmental about his flaws. They were unafraid to make an alphabetized list of all his shortcomings as your lover. You told them to shove it up their asses. Slowly, you stopped taking Charlie out with them, embarrassed that your friends could be so cruel. He was grateful, since he had been pleading with you to not be around them so much.
Charlie would complain when you’d come back after being around them, saying that you acted differently. He said they changed you, made you worse, and he didn’t like it. He wouldn’t always hold you as tight on those nights, and eventually, you stopped going out as much.
They had noticed that you were wearing more clothes than usual. They noticed the long sleeves and heavily applied makeup. They commented on it a few times, but you were as defensive as a rabid dog. They didn’t want to get bitten by you again, so they stopped asking. However, when Alex noticed the bruise on your hip when you bent over to pick up the keys you’d dropped and your shirt slipped up, he asked you about it. Of course you lied. Of course you played it off. You loved Charlie, and he had said he was sorry.
The boys had noticed you become more distant, and they took note of how you didn’t like being touched anymore. You used to love Herc’s hugs, but now, every time one of them reached for you, you jumped out of your skin. And it broke their hearts. They began to wonder if you didn’t like them anymore. When you started to dodge their calls, they gave you space.
They still worried about you, and they stopped by your hotel room when you were in town one night with a few packs of beer, but you didn’t even open the door wider than a crack. You wouldn’t let them in. They begged with you, pleaded. John cried, asking you to please not turn them away. You promised you were fine. Over and over when they begged to see you, you said you were fine. You wanted space. You needed time on your own. You were fine. Fine. Fine. Fine. It was hard for you, but you shut the door on them as Charlie shouted for you from the kitchen your hotel suite had. You couldn’t let them see the black eye you were sporting.
When Peggy ran to their apartment with smudged mascara and a runny nose, screaming about the bruises on you when she accidentally walked in on you in the bathroom one day, they immediately rushed over. Charlie had moved the both of you all over, city to city, never in one place long. It kept you isolated and vulnerable. They went to your hotel a few cities over, desperate to check on you. You had to be okay. They blamed themselves for not seeing the signs, for being blind. They should’ve beaten the shit out of him when they had the chance. When they came up the stairs and saw your marred body, their hearts broke, and you just smoked your cigarette because it was your fucking life. It was your reality. You lived that shit every day, and for you, it was just another Thursday night.

This trip had been different. You knew that. Charlie was angrier, antsier. He had slapped you around in the car more than usual on the ride up. He was rougher with you, his hands like sand paper and his lips like a soggy ash tray as he grabbed you by the hair and tasted your skin. Maybe you didn’t love him anymore. You were too scared to leave though. He always did love to remind you that you could never do better.
You thought of the puppy love you two had shared. The tender kisses. Hand holding. Love letters-they were still sweet even though Alex felt the need to mark them up with a red pen, commenting on every mistake, and inevitably giving them all failing grades. You had been so in love. But now the seasons were colder, the sex was rougher, and waterproof makeup didn’t hold up as well as you had hoped.
He threw you down on the bed, slapping you around. He spit on you at some point. “You never fight back, you little slut,” he had said. “You enjoy this.” Hit after hit. “Maybe this time, I’ll just fucking kill you. You know, maybe then you’d shut your damn mouth, and I’d be able to love you.” He threw you to the ground and went to take a shower. Your mind was blurry. You were afraid for your life. Charlie was never good at bluffing. When he’d played poker with you and the boys a million years ago, you could always tell when he was shit talking. Now was not one of those times.
You grabbed the scissors from the bag and followed him into the bathroom. He’d never hit you again. He’d never hurt you again. You were leaving him for good. You’d make sure that piece of shit got what he deserved.

It had been two years. The body was long gone. No one missed the piece of shit. Your wounds were healed, faded scars on your body. You still had nightmares. You’d bolt up in bed, screaming and sobbing, fighting to get him off of you. Herc would grab your thrashing frame and hold you against his chest until you calmed down. Lafayette would whisper in French to you, calling you sweet names like “mon ange” and “ma chérie.”
John would braid your hair for you, knowing it calmed you down, when you’d had a hard day. Sometimes, something would trigger you, but he knew how to handle you. He’d kiss you on the forehead and hold you until you rode out the panic attack, talking to you about small, seemingly meaningless things, wiping your tears away with his fingertips.
Alex showered you with love letters after he’d shouted “let me show you how it’s done” and picked up his pen. Love letter after love letter with sweet, clever words that filled your mind and soul to the brim. He also wrote you spicy ones, but those you kept in a separate drawer.
Your boys knew you had needed time, but they’d never stopped loving you. They had told you that no man would love you the way they do, and maybe they were right. No man loved the same way. But you loved the way they loved you. And the only time they put their hands on you was when you had verbally asked and consented for it. They loved you the way you deserved, not just the way you needed. And it was enough.

Today

A birthday gift for the lovely, talented, and wonderful @theoxfordcommando ! I love you so much, darling! I hope you enjoy.

It’s a warm, sunny day in the bustling Hightown marketplace. Usually Fenris dislikes coming here. It’s full of self-centered nobles and snobby shopkeepers eyeing him warily, expecting to catch a lowly elf like him stealing. When he’s accompanying Hawke as he is now, they either ignore him or treat him as the Champion’s servant.

Today, however, none of that matters.

Today, Fenris feels carefree and happy, with the breeze ruffling his hair and a soft smile on his face. No armor, no weight of a sword on his back. Today he is not being hunted. Today he is not on constant guard for trouble.

His smile widens as he watches Garrett Hawke attempt to persuade a merchant to buy the torn trousers Hawke had collected from a pile of rubble in the Undercity. The merchant’s aghast expression causes Fenris to chuckle, and Hawke looks up at the sound and grins, those entrancing golden-brown eyes warm with affection and piercing straight through to Fenris’s heart.

Fenris had never believed he could feel this carefree and happy with the man he loves, and he’s overjoyed to have this peaceful day with him. No chaos, no maleficarum, no violence, nobody hunting them. Just two lovers on a day out, hand in hand.

With a light tug on Hawke’s hand, Fenris draws his lover to a nearby bench. As Hawke sits down beside him, Fenris moves closer, until there’s no space between them, and he lays his head against Hawke’s shoulder.

“Everyone is staring, love,” murmurs Hawke, and Fenris scoffs. As if Hawke doesn’t bask in any available attention.

“Let them stare,” Fenris replies, pulling Hawke’s hand intertwined with his to his lips in order to press a kiss to Hawke’s knuckles. “I’m with you, and I don’t care what anyone thinks of it.”

Hawke’s free arm wraps around Fenris to cuddle with him more closely, so that Fenris is practically spilling onto his lap, and after kissing Fenris’s silver hair, Hawke rests his head against Fenris’s.

They feel a sea of judgemental eyes on the two of them, but Fenris ignores this and closes his own eyes, breathing in Hawke’s comforting scent of cinnamon and sandalwood. Fenris moves his head onto Hawke’s chest and listens to the beat of this incredible heart which belongs entirely to Fenris. He can feel Hawke’s lips brushing a flurry of light kisses against his hair, brow, eyelids, and nose, and he hums in content.

Fenris is happy, free, comfortable, and in utterly in love with Garrett Hawke, and today, that’s all that matters.

Jack and Ashi: Violence as Self-Annihilation

As anyone who has been reading my blog lately can probably guess, I’ve been loving the new season of Samurai Jack. In a media culture saturated with mediocre and/or outright bad reboots and remakes, Season Five of Samurai Jack retains everything fans loved about the first four seasons, while the TV-14 rating allows for storytelling opportunities that weren’t available when it was a Y-7 show, and yet feel like a natural extension of the original.

The emotional touchstones of the new season have thus far been Jack, as is only fitting, and Ashi, one of the Daughters of Aku, and by Episode XCV, the only surviving daughter of Aku. The Daughters, Ashi especially, have been set up as parallels and foils for Jack in terms of their upbringing and their ‘purpose’ in life. In particular, the show explores a running theme through the both of them: violence as the annihilation of the self.

[CN/TW: Discussions of abuse and indoctrination]

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Which Hajiplushie are you today?

A click-and-drag mini-game brought to you with the help of @kouta282, @silverwolf2299, @manekis, @rosejiannahasnolife, @shiinaart, @alex-san-is-here, @laviachan, @a-lonely-ahoge@ultimateslut, and @pocky-chao. (They all rock!!!)

(Ask to tag! and further credits and acknowledgements under the cut!)

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