ann / raichu / annchu, 25+, she / her. multifandom multimuse. formerly known as raichoose.
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MUSE OF THE MONTH
HOMELANDER FROM THE BOYS / THE BOYS PRESENTS: DIABOLICAL
Send “big bug” for our muses to come across a giant bug. - Accepting
@moxxietude asked: “big bug” (for Millie and Stella!)
"Oh! Millie, look! It's a rosy maple moth!"
And quite a large one, at that. Really, it's a wonder that an Earthen species has an identical Hell variant, but how could Stella ever ponder that when the moth itself is such a gorgeous creature? Its shades of pink and yellow are just perfect.
"Have you seen one before? They're my most favorite kind of insect."
Which, come to think of it, is probably a very unexpected thing for Stella, of all demons, to say aloud.
"My daughter," she explains. "Octavia is interested in arachnids and insects, and I'm trying to become more actively involved in her hobbies. I didn't realize so many 'creepy crawlies' were actually pretty crawlies."
❝ I know, ❞ he soothes, wrapping him in his cape. There's no visible burns on his skin, but Clark knows better than to assume that means there's no damage. Something as simple as the movement of the air against him might be enough to hurt, and he'd really rather avoid causing this poor child any more pain. His cape, despite being built for durability over softness, will at least provide some protective barrier.
With careful touches, he guides the boy into a more secure position against his chest, swaying them both slowly from side to side. He can feel eyes boring into him, those who haven't yet taken the opportunity to flee standing frozen in what he can only assume is shock and horror; taken aback by how quickly he can turn from a rampaging alien threat into... this. Something sweet and kind and altogether too human, too far removed from their own deification ambitions.
❝ I know it hurts, I'm sorry. I'm sorry they put you in there. ❞
He shushes the child in low, comforting rumbles, one hand cradling the back of his head protectively. It's not he who should be apologising; he wasn't the one choosing to play wastepaper basketball while a child was cooked alive mere feet away, but Clark already knows none of these so-called scientists will offer a genuine one. They might, if put under enough pressure, offer an excuse. They might say that they had no choice, they'd get in trouble if they refused, that they were just following orders.
And that may be true. But what, then, is the excuse for playing games during these sessions? Did the orders include a demand to improve one's throwing at the same time?
❝ Thank you for being brave. You held on even when you were scared, even when it hurt. You worked so hard to help me find you. ❞
Deep down, John knows they are being watched, and he's been trained to be watched. Yet, it does feel as if the only other person in this room besides himself is Superman, who is the only person to ever hold him like this and mean it. Even Dr. Vogelbaum, the closet thing he'll have to a father, only allowed John to cuddle close and only read to John in order to gain his trust for these experiments.
John is thirteen, but he knows what his role is at Vought. He knows he doesn't have anyone who cares about him.
He wants someone to care about him.
As Superman soothes him with low, gentle words and that comforting swaying motion, a pair of big, teary blue eyes peek up at him. Had that really been what he'd done, in screaming through these tests? Calling for help?
(It was. He knows it was.
John just never thought anyone would answer.)
"I'm s-supposed to ... I have powers. Like you. I'm supposed to be a hero, too." He pushes off the ground to show that he can fly, but he lands just as quickly and clings to his hero. "I want my blanket. But it's - It's in the Bad Room."
To think, there could be a room worse for a child than an industrial oven. But there is, and it's just beyond them, a door with a single window where nothing good happens.
"Is everyone disappointed in me?" John hugs Superman, aware from past experiences that Superman is possibly the only person he can ever give a tight hug like this to. "Do I have to go back in the Bad Room?"
Giving you Imogara/Pot8os for the fun of it. (Her favorite superhero, I'm sorry to say, is Queen Maeve.)
ARE YOU HOMELANDER'S TYPE?
He's actually rather surprised to see almost everything filled out, for Homelander is under no illusions that some of the traits he likes to see in a partner are hard sells. Sure, he's not her favorite hero, but he can't blame a girl for liking Queen Maeve so much, either! (He thinks, hidden behind a smile, But it sure would be nice to be the favorite ... )
"Well, cutie, maybe if we dated, I'd become your favorite?" Homelander says, offering his arm to Imogara. "You checked almost all of them otherwise; you're a dream! Want to go out for a milkshake with me?"
✧ Broken ribs suck. You don’t just “walk it off.” Breathing hurts. Laughing hurts. Existing hurts. Characters with rib injuries won’t be doing heroic sprints.
✧ Concussions aren’t instant naps. Dazed vision, nausea, dizziness, maybe even personality changes, but they’re not going to collapse neatly like in the movies.
✧ Blood loss is sneaky. It’s not just about dramatic pools of blood. It’s dizziness, confusion, and the body getting cold as circulation tanks.
✧ Adrenaline lies. Someone can take a serious injury and not feel it until the fight’s over. That “I didn’t realize I was bleeding until later” trope? Very real.
✧ Twisted ankles are brutal. One bad step and suddenly running is off the table. Even walking hurts like hell. Perfect way to ground a chase scene.
✧ Burns linger. Even small burns hurt more than most people expect. Blisters, infection risk, constant pain, it’s not just a cool scar later.
✧ Dislocated shoulders = useless arm. Characters can’t keep swinging a sword or firing a gun. They’re basically fighting one-armed until it’s fixed.
✧ Shock is a thing. Pale skin, trembling, rapid heartbeat, and eventually disorientation. A character might not even realize how bad their wound is.
✧ Stitches aren’t magic. Getting sewn up is painful and recovery takes time. They’re not instantly battle-ready after a needle and thread.
✧ Scars tell stories. Some fade, some don’t. Some stay sensitive forever. Don’t forget the aftermath when the wound becomes part of the character.
as someone with a speech impediment, all of the people saying that only one type of stuttering is valid are wrong.
stuttering CAN look like this: "t-this is a-an example s-s-sentence"
OR this: "this-this is an example sen-sentence."
OR this: "t-t-t-th-..t-ttttthis is an example sentence."
OR this: "this is, uhm, an example, uh, sentence."
OR this: "this is an example sssssss-sentence."
OR this: "this is an examp-...this an example sentence."
sometimes the sentence won't even come out of your mouth at all.
there are probably many examples i'm forgetting, but that's the point! it usually is a mix of a few of these, but some people do one of them more often than others! some people with speech impediments have certain sounds that they almost consistently have trouble with (for me it's "st").
people with speech impediments also rarely-if ever-stutter whilst they're singing or whispering.
most importantly!!!! people with speech impediments are capable of saying a sentence without stuttering!! it can just be a gamble sometimes.
and if more people could portray the frustration that comes with stuttering and not being able to get words out, i'd be a very happy girl.
(fun fact: sometimes when my mouth won't let me say what i want to say, i get so annoyed that i just yell or grumble out "WORDS.")
" Mama. They came for me, like you said. The bad men. It was my fault. I'm sorry I'm a monster, Mama. I'll avenge us, Mama. I swear it, If it takes all my life. If it takes my death. I swear it, Mama. I swear it."
❝ Hi there! Clark Kent, Daily Planet. ❞ He flashes his badge at the receptionist behind the desk, her eyes already narrowed with suspicion. ❝ We were hoping– ❞
❛ Do you have an appointment? ❜
Her sharp voice cuts him off and he takes a step back, face flushing with embarrassment. Eye contact is hard suddenly, and behind the lenses of his glasses his eyes flit wildly across the floor. ❝ W-Well, not as such, but like I said, we were hoping to— ❞
❛ Vought International is available by appointment only, ❜ she says, eyes narrowing even further. ❛ Now, can you find your way out, or do I need to have you escorted? ❜
With a helpless glance upwards, he folds, hands held up in placation as he backs away and through the same door he'd entered, letting himself be swept up into the bustling streets.
That plan hadn't worked, but he'd not left the encounter empty-handed. Going inside had confirmed that he'd already feared: he can't see through to the top or lower levels of the building, which suggests some sort of lead or lead composite barrier between floors. That single detail is enough to set off alarm bells he can't afford to listen to—it suggests a familiarity with his powers that always sets his teeth on edge—but it also proves that there's things able to slip through the cracks of whatever operation is going on inside.
For if they'd done even a bit more research, they'd know that lead may very well block his x-ray vision, but not even the empty vacuum of space can block his hearing.
The screams are still ringing in his ears even now, drowned out only by the rapid thumpthumpthump of a terrified young heartbeat.
Less than a minute after Clark Kent's departure, Superman crashes through Vought's other side, jaw tense and brows already pinched together in barely-restrained anger. Anyone unwilling to move out of his way is made to, and twin beams of heat vision cleave through every locked door like a hot knife through butter. He was right: their veneer of apparent preparedness falls apart the instant he steps foot inside. Arrogance drips from every inch of this place, but they're helpless to stop his march forward, unable to do anything but scramble out of his immediate path and stare slack-jawed at the destruction left in his wake.
Equipment is smashed, computers lay in piles of severed cables and fractured monitors, splinters of wood and glass and torn metal litter the floor and crack apart underfoot. It's a mess.
By the time he reaches the final door, his head feels ready to explode from the sensory onslaught. Muted conversations overlap on top of the rustling of paper and the scritch, scritch of ballpoints on paper, and the constant cycling of air; the smell of stale coffee hanging in the air; so many people in the room but only one is suffering—
The door isn't even fully off its hinges before his eyes are burning again, the world in front of him glowing red as he slices a neat line through pen and clipboard both, staining their pristine labcoats with ink as their notes smoulder. They rush to cover their faces as the oven door is ripped open, the oppressive heat making the room's temperature soar, but Clark isn't focused on them anymore. He's already detaching his cape with one hand and reaching into the oven with the other, encouraging its prisoner out.
His name is John. His mother's surname was Gillman, but John has never been told that; he does not know who his parents are. He is thirteen years old. He has never been to school, except for the form of home-schooling Vought supplies him with. He lives in a series of small rooms underground, where only bad things happen. He has nothing to his name except hospital gowns, a blue blanket, and the promised future of someday being the hero to surpass Superman.
John is not a normal human. John has been born with superpowers: laser eyes, enhanced strength, enhanced senses, enhanced durability, flight. Vought wants to know the limits of these supposedly godly, actually manufactured, powers, so they experiment upon him daily.
Today, he has been stripped of his gown and placed in an oven. Today, he watches as Frank, the operator of his torture cell, throws a wadded-up ball of paper into a wastebasket, fist pumps, and turns up the temperature. Today, John screams in agony, his tears sizzling away, and no one reacts except to take notes on how their young experiment reacts to the heat.
His skin does not char. If it did, he would mercifully die, and he would finally be free of the endless, horrific sensation of burning alive.
Today, Superman himself bursts into the laboratory, rips the door off the oven, and coaxes him outside.
John doesn't care right now that he's supposed to replace Superman. He's in agony, he's terrified, everyone's watching, he's just a kid, and it's only Superman who's saying that he's safe.
This is the single nicest thing anyone has ever done for John.
With a sob, John launches forward, burrowing his face in Superman's chest and trying so hard to hide against his hero. "It hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts, it hurts so bad, Superman it hurts!"
