SEND ME MORE ASKS - Tumblr Posts

I saw that you also like mayhem. What more do you like to listen to? Any more plans about future patches ? Guns, knives, dragon, skull ?

Currently trying to track down a curta'n wall patch but there hard to find but I've got a burzum patch and Old Nick patch coming in the mail soon

i wanna be your friend so bad but I am too scared lol

I am terrifying you should be horrified to be my friend

Here's a prompt for you: write about a mask someone wears. Can be fiction, nonfiction (about yourself, an experience, people in general), maybe a poem. What kind of mask is it? What does it look like? Why are they wearing it?

“You can stop, you know.”

The villain froze for a moment, smile almost slipping, and set down their lunch tray. The hero leaned against the table next to them, knuckles white.

“In case you haven’t noticed,” they gestured to themself. “I’m reformed. I already stopped.”

The hero waived a hand. “Not that. I know that, I’m the one who helped you do it.”

The villain kept smiling, even as the edges began to crack like fine china.

“Hero,” they said as gently as they could. “Are you alright?”

The hero stared at them for a moment, as if they weren’t sure what was happening, as if the villain’s very existence confused them. They blew an angry breath out of their nose.

“I’m fine,” the hero said pointedly. “You aren’t.”

The villain ignored them at that, sitting down to stir their lunch. It was half cold and entirely unappetizing, but happy people ate the compound rations and were happy about it. And the villain was reformed, and good, and happy. So they ate.

Their bowl disappeared from in front of them, and they studied the plastic of the table for a moment. When they looked up, the hero’s eyes burned into them.

“Stop. It.”

This time, the villain was the one who sighed. “Can I have my lunch back please?”

The hero threw the bowl an unimpressed look. “What, this crap? Nobody likes this, and I can especially tell that you don’t. Your face is exactly the same as the first time you met me, and you tried to stab me directly after that. So. Stop.”

“I don’t know what you want from me,” the villain grit out. “I’m smiling, I’m contributing, I’m doing good things. No more murder, no more crimes. That’s what you wanted, right?”

“I wanted you to want that. I wanted you to have that. I never wanted this.”

“This what, hero.”

The hero gestured to their face.

“That. That smile.”

The villain gave them a dry look, even as their smile faded. “What, I can’t smile?”

The hero regarded them, fingers laced together under their chin, food abandoned. The villain picked at a hangnail and tried to look calm. This was why they had been avoiding the hero—the villain could read them like a book, but the hero could read them just as well.

Someone clattered down the hall, laughing, and then it was just the two of them again.

“You don’t have to be happy,” the hero said quietly, “to be good.”

The fine china, the mask, shattered.

The hero sighed, but it wasn’t triumphant. Relief, maybe. Or sadness.

“Why couldn’t you have left it alone,” the villain’s voice wobbled traitorously. The hero smiled, just slightly. A smile for a smile.

“Because you were drowning in there. And you don’t deserve that.”

“I’m trying to be good,” they murmured. The hero reached out and stilled their hands before they could pick them bloody.

“You are good. But you’re also hurting. You can do both. It’s okay.”

The villain shoulders loosened, as if the hero had stolen some huge burden from them.

“Okay?”

“Okay,” the villain agreed.

The hero smiled, a soft thing.

“Only smile when it doesn’t feel like a burden to do so,” the hero stood, leaning over the villain for a moment.

They left the villain in the lunch room, staring down at their hands.

Months later, when the hero told an awful joke, the villain laughed. They smiled at the hero, and it was warm. So warm.

And the hero smiled too.

I promise I’m gonna do the requests/post more soon but I just ended finals week today (thank god) so I have had no time for anything other than studying and crying.

But now I have a month and a half of nothing so I’ll post a lot I promise, so any requests you guys have, send them, I’d love to write them. Tomorrow, though.

I need a nap.

A sapphic detective who gets too close to the truth of a case and gets confronted by her girlfriend for being too obsessed?

“You need to stop.”

The detective didn’t jerk up at the sound of her voice—just quietly stirred, rustling papers as she shifted upright to meet her eyes.

“I didn’t hear you come in,” the detective said slowly, eyes scanning over her. She watched her gaze catch on the water dripping from the ends of her hair, the mascara smudging itself down her cheeks.

“It’s date night,” she said, and even to her own ears her voice sounded tired. Dead. Rotting roses and dirty dishes in the sink.

The detective blinked once, then shifted through her papers until she found a scribbled in calendar. It was stuck on the wrong month.

“I forgot,” the detective murmured. It wasn’t an apology, and neither of them were pretending that it was. She could tell, even now, with her girlfriend pathetic and dripping water onto the hardwood floor in front of her, that the detective wanted nothing more than to go back to her evidence.

“Yeah,” she croaked. “Funny how it’s never the case you forget.”

The detective jerked, slightly, like she hadn’t expected the barbs in her girlfriend’s voice.

In the hallway, there was a drooping bouquet of flowers she hadn’t been able to bear bringing into the apartment.

“You know how important this is,” the detective implored, and it made her want to break things. Burn the papers, shatter the fancy glasses in the cabinet, spill wine across the carpets.

What about me, she wanted to scream. Am I not important to you anymore?

Instead, she said again, “You need to stop.”

“Stop?”

“The case. You need to stop.”

“I can’t just stop,” the detective laughed slightly, as if she thought it would convey how inconceivable the idea of stopping was.

“Yes, you can. Give it to someone else. There’s a whole precinct just waiting for you to put this file into their hands.”

At the thought of it, the thought of giving up this case, the hunt, the chase, pain flashed across the detective’s face.

“You don’t understand.”

“I do,” she replied. She had to shift her gaze to the dead plant on the corner of her partner’s desk, dirt dry and leaves brittle. “How could I not?”

“So then how could you ask me to do that? To give it all up? Why now?”

She had so many answers to that. So many moments that cut into her hands like a mosaic of memories. The bed empty beside her through the entire night. Cancelled reservations, one seat alone at the dinner table, laughs that died in her ribs. Friends, well meaning, who asked where the detective was, and the painful smiles she forced through the explanations. Work, and work, and work. Crime scene photos on the coffee table. The loneliness that seemed to care about her more than her girlfriend did.

There were so many times when she almost said something. Almost said enough. But she hadn’t, and now they were here, as she dripped a puddle onto the floor, and the detective looked at her like she had never seen her before.

When she tried to say that, any of that, it caught in her throat.

The detective took her silence for an inability to answer. A lack of evidence. Like she was throwing this tantrum for no reason, a little kid in the toy aisle of the store.

The detective sighed, rubbing a hand over her forehead. The other was already fanning through the papers once more. Her voice turned into something that begged to be understood.

“I’m so close—“

“To losing me.” She swallowed, painfully. “You’re losing me.”

“That’s not fair.”

“This isn’t fair,” her voice broke as she gestured between the two of them. “What you’re doing to me isn’t fair.”

“I’m not doing anything—“

“Exactly.” It was louder than she meant it to be. They both flinched.

“I’ll have it solved in a week, I promise.” She wasn’t sure who the detective was promising to.

“No.”

The detective blinked.

“No?”

“You heard me the first time.”

“I heard you, but I’m not sure what you’re saying ‘no’ to.”

If she had the energy to be slightly meaner, she would have told her to figure it out. Told her that she was a detective, this should be easy for her.

“I’m not giving you a week.” She took a deep breath. “And you’re not going to solve it.”

The detective’s looked at her like she didn’t recognize the person on the other side of the desk.

Finally, she understood what it felt like to face her girlfriend from the other side of an interrogation table.

Her girlfriend’s face was cold, and closed off. Her jaw was grinding into itself. She was staring at her like she couldn’t decide whether or not to consider her a suspect. As if the only reason she could fathom her girlfriend saying something like that was if she was actively sabotaging her.

She was cold, and her coat was wet, and this place no longer felt like home.

“You won’t solve this case.”

She was pretty sure there wasn’t anything crueler she could have said.

“You don’t know anything.” It was dripping with venom, and fear, and frustration. The fear the detective really wouldn’t solve it. The frustration that it still wasn’t solved.

“Do you really think you’re that special?” By now, it was too far gone for her to stop. There was no pretty way out of this. “You aren’t. This isn’t a TV show. You aren’t the main character who swoops in where no one else has before. It’s been decades of the same bullshit—taunting and evidence trails, and nobody has solved it. Don’t you think if it was solvable, it would have been by now?”

“There’s new evidence, and I’m not them—“

“What part of ‘you aren’t special’ don’t you understand,” she hissed, and the detective shifted away from her. “You aren’t the miracle detective who solves this. They’re going to keep on killing, and driving the people who try and find them crazy, and you’re letting them do it to you.”

“I’m not letting them do anything.”

“But you are,” she countered. “You have been for months. They’re messing with you. They’re everything to you, and you’re a game to them, and I’m nothing on the sidelines.”

“Babe, that’s not true,” The detective tried, voice softening. As if she had just realized something between them was wrong. That her girlfriend was hurting—had been, for a while.

She swallowed the tears rising in her throat.

“Do I need to become a crime scene for you to finally care about me again?” She slammed her hand down on the papers. Pretended the wince on the detectives face was concern for her, and not the papers she crumpled. “Will you look at me, love me again, if I’m a bloody photograph in this folder?”

“I do love you.”

“When someone loves someone else, they don’t leave them alone in the rain, waiting to be picked up. They don’t cancel to go dig through old archives on their loved one’s birthday. They don’t leave them in the middle of the night and let the blankets beside them get cold. People who love someone don’t live their life without a concern for the person they’re putting below everything else.”

“You’re making this really hard.”

“Good,” she snapped. “Because you’ve been making it hard to love you for months, and I’m glad you finally know how it feels.”

The detective paused, at that. Swallowed, eyes flitting around the room as if she would find the perfect thing to say in the remnants of the life they had built together.

“I love you,” The detective managed. Somehow, it was the worst thing she could have said.

“Good. Prove it.” She thought maybe dying would have hurt less than this.

“Prove it?”

“Prove it. Me, or the case.”

The detective froze.

“You don’t mean that,” she said, and it sounded like a plea. Don’t make me choose.

“Look at me and try and tell me I’m joking.” When the detective said nothing, she pushed further. “Go on. Do it. Choose.”

“I can’t do that—“ the detective choked. “This isn’t fair, you know that. I’m so close.”

Somehow, she had expected it to hurt less.

“Don’t make me choose,” the detective, her girlfriend, the love of her life finally said, voice breaking.

She had thought it would feel like dying.

It felt like nothing.

“You just did,” she said. The tears refused to be held, this time. The pain ran rampant through every word.

She knew her girlfriend could hear it.

“I love you,” the detective whispered. A final, desperate prayer for her to stay. But she was no god, and her girlfriend was no believer. And it would never be enough.

She let the door slam on the way out.

The detective never did solve that case.

Some smut authors: Oh no, I don't want people to tell me if they jacked off to my work, that feels too personal.

Me: Hey yeah if you could tell me what part you busted the fattest nuts over that would do so much for me and encourage me creatively in a big way.