#(this post is a jumble my brain is broken)

[mirai-desu]

I am reading this non-fiction book for my own writing and research and I just have to say... RN is full of shit.

This example is from Birmingham, but there are loads IN LONDON. WITH SCOTLAND YARD.

I will do a proper write up later, and I always knew RN wasn't being historical accurate as it was, but I have confirmation that she undermined the actual women who did vital police work for decades before her show is set. All so that she could hawk that form of faux feminism that "strong women are ~not like the other women~" and straight up say that you cannot do detective work as a married woman with children (which Ann in my example was doing)... when in real life women were doing this since the 1840s. Newspapers would talk about the "female detectives"!!! even though... they were usually married to police officers WHILE WORKING. RN preaches the opposite in her show and turned something into the opposite of what it was!

If she angled it that Eliza was desperately trying to become an actual inspector, that could have work, but their whole tag line of "Victorian London's first female detective" like... RN's denying that the female detective searchers ever existed. And no doubt they faced sexism, and not being considered actual members of the force in the way men were (no pensions as well, etc.), but they actual did real work and were trailblazers. And lord knows that there were female PIs before 1882 as well lmao.

[kettlefire]

Time forgets most (DPxDC)

I've been getting too many brain worms that I need to clear out the cramp space that is my idea vault. In doing so, I'm just posting off-handed, random things I've typed up at work. (Partly so my drafts don't just end up like my vault). Without further ado, a much too too long post

°•°•°•°

The movement of time is a much too complex thing for many to understand. The knowledge that time was not perfectly linear. The past did not simply stay in the past. The future is not simply something to look forward to. The present is not simply a fleeting moment.

Time is a complex web. Every point in time, connected to another point in time. A never-ending mess of webs and connections. Things that are to be. Things that can be. Things that are being. Things that will never see the light of day in this universe.

Despite what some may want to believe, Time has no master. Time does not yield to any singular being. That did not mean that Time didn't need a helping hand. A guiding hand to help keep the chaos of time to something just a little more... fluid.

The being came to exist well before the universe had. The being was festered, taught, and nurtured in a small pocket dimension. A small space just like an incubator.

Until the world blossomed around it. Life started to grow. Time kept moving. Living organisms found untimely deaths. Evolved, learned, and grew into the new space around it.

When the first little creature crawled out of the water, Time's keeper was let free. A bumbling little thing, breaming with life and curiosity.

Just like everything else in the world, this keeper wasn't safe from time. It still moved. Brought forth problems and adventures.

As time continued to tick. Moving in every direction, the keeper continued to age. Unlike the rest of the universe, the keeper didn't age the same as others.

Some days, he was nothing but a small boy, frolicking in a field of flowers and bees. Other days, he was a strong middle-aged man. Pulling the strings in just the right way, pushing for a timeline that felt right.

On days that have been happening much more often. He was but a crippled old man, hunched over his staff, and dropping much needed wisdom on the young lives around him.

Being the keeper of time wasn't an easy feat. Being completely out of time, experiencing things in broken order. There was only a clear start, and a jumble of things that followed.

The keeper was content with his life. Watching over the world as it grew and blossomed. He was content with his special kind of solitude.

That was until he saw the boy. In the webs of moments, the keeper's gaze had found him. A boy much too young, suddenly with powers much too great thrusted upon him.

The keeper watched the scenes play out. The tears, laughter, humiliation, triumph, and pain. He watched as the boy's family was ripped from him. Watched the twisted attempt at fixing his life, only for it to go horribly wrong.

He watched the bloodshed and chaos that erupted. The lives ripped apart and destroyed. Not a single sign of life left behind.

Then he watched as the boy, no, not a boy anymore. The keeper watched as the monster tore through the fabric of time. Ripped its way through the thin veils that divided the universes.

Universes that had never known the boy's existence were torn to shreds to. A flight driven with pain and anger.

Despite the keeper having seen the boy turn into such a monster. He could see it in the beast's eyes. The deep-seated need for a family, a life. To be loved.

Something about the boy's life, his story, spoke to the keeper. He found himself reaching out into the web of lives and moments. Finding the moment when things went the most wrong for the boy.

Just like that, the keeper had inserted himself into a life. He pulled the boy out of the cruel stream of time. Filled the boy with the knowledge he needed. Let the boy see just what could happen if he let it.

The keeper of time was soon a simple mentor. A simple deity looking out for the world. Taking on the mantel of Clockwork and finding a new purpose for his life.

A young boy's life has been flipped upside down two times now. And there were certainly more to come. This time, the boy wasn't alone. He had a guiding hand, and a communtiy behind him.

The keeper, no, Clockwork watched with a strange pride and happiness he hadn't felt in a long time. The boy was quickly surrounded by a family that helped him navigate his new powers.

Clockwork, alongside many of the other ghostly beings, watched on with pride as the young boy grew into a strong young man. Mastering powers, taking a stand, and making their home safe.

Despite the best efforts, time always beings problems.

It was one thing for Clockwork. He was the keeper of time. His life has reason to exist as long as time exists. Which will always be. His purpose was infinite.

But this boy... Danny wasn't like Clockwork. He was still partially human and terrified of losing his humanity. Danny's story had to come to an end, it's how time works.

Except, Danny wasn't in the timeline anymore. Clockwork had ensured that, pulled Danny into a separate timeline. An unaccounted for timeline.

He couldn't live here forever, not the way that Clockwork could. Danny needs a life, a family, a place, a purpose. He was still human.

It took more effort than Clockwork would have liked. He had to cash in favors from other deities that he hadn't spoken to in centuries.

It took a combined effort of everyone who cared for the little halfa. The strange boy that teeter on the line between life and death. The boy who had freed the Zone from a tyrant. Who wanted nothing more than for everyone to live a happy and filled life/afterlife.

Getting the magic and spells right was the hard part. But finding the location was easy. A beautiful planet just on the edge of the Milky Way. Unlikely to be disturbed or hurt.

The planet was undiscovered, primative even. Far enough from humans that Clockwork was certain Danny wouldn't be bothered. Only one species lived on that planet. Along the jungle like fauna, and in the water.

Cute little guys, barely bigger than two feet long and one foot tall. There was no name, no knowledge about them. Aside from Clockwork analyzing their way of life.

A simple cycle. They were born, they aged, they played, fed, mated, and then died. A simple but content life.

The aliens weren't unsettling. At least not to anyone who has seen more creatures than what Earth has to offer. It is a strange combination between frog, fish, and squid.

Scurrying around on two legs and four tentacles. A small frog-like face with eyes that seemed to take up half that space. Colors vary from blues to greens to the same sandy brown found at the bottom of the lakes.

Before long, the planet had its own protector. A young boy who once was lost and alone seemed to meld perfectly with these aliens.

Clockwork was always sure of himself. He never let anyone see otherwise. Except, Clockwork hadn't been sure. Not when he had performed the ritual.

As he molded and changed Danny's DNA until the man was a new being entirely. To anyone who didn't know the full story, the boy could easily look related to the aliens.

Gills now painted the sides of his neck, not necessary, but Clockwork felt like it had been. Webbed hands and feet to make transversing the underwater caves even easier. An ethereal, almost siren-like touch to Danny.

It worked out perfectly. Danny settled in easily. Building a routine and bound with the aliens. It hadn't been hard for the little creature to take a liking to him.

Before long, it was routine. Danny would spend most of his time on the planet, watching over his new wards. On some days, he'd portal back to the zone. Spend time with the ghosts and deities that saved his life. To check in on the new govermental system that had been put in place.

It was perfect. Simple and nice. Everyone got complacent. The longer time went on without a hiccup or a problem. The longer Danny was able to rest in his odd solitude. The more people got comfortable.

The more they forgot that time was as cruel as it was forgiving.

It had been just another day cycle. Danny was playing with the most recent litter birth. The first time he had seen the birth, he was more disgusted than anything else.

After the third time, Danny had started getting excited. He looked forward to it. Loved seeing the aliens flourish and grow. Watching them thrive and find more fun in the things Danny creates. Every new fun game or obstacle was always made with the things natural to the planet. Or debris that was caught in its gravitational pull.

Danny was playing with Plop. The little guy got his name, and he always plopped out of the water. Unlike the other aliens, this one didn't crawl out. No, he'd pull himself out of the water with his tentacles, only to plop down on the ground.

Of course, Plop had also been the first alien to approach Danny when he arrived. It's how they formed such a strong bond.

Everything had seemed perfectly fine. The day was rolling along just like it always did. That was until a small group of the more elder aliens suddenly came scurrying into their main cave.

They hadn't waited a second before diving into the water. Danny watched, confused and concerned, as each one of them grabbed one of the young. Before shooting straight into the underwater cave system.

The once bustling and living cave was suddenly eerily quiet and void of any aliens. Leaving behind only the confused Danny in the pool.

At least that's what a certain Green Lantern saw when he followed the trail of retreating aliens.

This planet had been categorized to have no signs of intelligent life. It seemed to have the option to nurture life, but there had been no signs.

When Hal Jordan got word of a seeming spike of activity from the supposedly empty planet, he had added it to his rooster.

A quick peek, just a look into what kind of life might be starting to grow there. The little aliens he had seen were adorable, sure. But they didn't seem all that evolved. Still in their evolutionary journey.

That was until Hal saw him.

Now, Hal was no stranger to running into ethereal beauty. It's what happens when someone interacts with aliens on a basic daily. That was something he was used to.

Except, all his breath seemed to be knocked out of him completely. The cave alone was stunning, a stark contrast from the almost barren surface he had first seen.

A deep, shimmering blue pool that vanished into the rocky space around it. Trees, bushes, and flowers decorate the area. It looked almost too good to be true. Like an oasis in the middle of a desert.

Then there was the being that caught all of Hal's attention. Bright blue eyes that looked like gems, pale blue-tinged skin. Long black and white hair seemed to look almost like the night sky. A deep abyss littered with stars.

The closest thing that Hal's brain supplied was a siren. A beautiful, ethereal creature that lured men to their deaths. As beautiful as it seemed, Hal knew there could easily be danger.

Except, the creature didn't attack or threaten him.

Instead, he seemed almost shy. Mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, sharp deadly teeth flashing in the light with each motion.

Hal had just opened his mouth, taken a hesitant step forward. He wanted to know, and he needed to know how this happened. There wasn't supposed to be an intelligent, sophisticated life on this planet.

The moment Hal's lips parted, the creature let out a trill. A sound that seemed more scared than aggressive. Before suddenly, the beautiful creature vanished into the pool.

Hal moved before he could think, rushing to the edge of the pool. He peered into the crystal clear water, just in time to take the webbed feet of the creature vanish into a tunnel.

Now that left Hal with two options. He could either report this and wait for backup...

Or...

Or...

He could jump inside. The ring would protect him, and his lungs would be fine. Perks of being a Green Lantern.

That option seemed much more tempting to Hal. Nothing about this scream an outright threat. He felt more like a strange imposing on someone's home. A home that was meant for safety and protection of the young.

Yet, the shimmering water seemed to be calling to Hal. Something in him was trying to push him to get inside. To find the beautiful creature and learn more. Learn how this happened.

Without realizing it, Hal Jordan sealed his fate the moment he dipped a finger into the cool pool. Rippling the steady surface just slightly.

Just enough to get him wrapped up in the strange web created by time and its keeper.

[whumpsoda]

MAY I SUGGEST

an early captivity drabble where Malak tries to comprehend something in front of him and finds that he can’t, like it’s just beyond him. I’d imagine this would be his last day of resistance, and there’s a cold feeling in his stomach as he dimly realizes there’s no going back.

but Adrastus’ hand is in his hair, they’re telling him how good he’s being and how desired and loved he is as the two of them watch Malak’s resistance fizzle out like a sparkler reaching the end of its stick.

ANYWAYS IUST UH. ADRASTUS CONGRATULATING MALAK ON BEING THEIR TOUGHEST THRALL TO BREAKalso literally no pressure on timing i just wanted to share

WOHEO Masterlist

Definitely not my best but I’ll post it anyways

cw: conditioning/brainwashing, pet whump

———————————————————————

A puzzle. 

It was only a puzzle. A puzzle. Twenty pieces at the most. So easy a small child could figure it out. Malak was an adult. At least, he was pretty sure he was. No one really treated him like one.

So why couldn’t he?

So stupidly he’d pointed to the box earlier, interested by the colorful image of a horse on the cover. His master had been wary of handing it over, knowing full well of his pitiful state. Unfortunately, he’d insisted.

Malak had barely even touched it, only having lazily dumped out the pieces in front of his lap. His glassy, unfocused gaze trailed repeatedly over each piece and edge, the visual mirrored on the box scattered over the broken up image. Nervously, he gnawed at his lower lip.

It didn’t… make sense. Any sense. Though, he vaguely knew it was supposed to. Puzzles could be perfectly reconnected to a bigger picture, yet, even with just his vision, everything seemed so illogical and confusing. Jumbled so far in his cotton filled head he could barely even begin the activity.

As far as Malak could manage to remember, a feat eerily difficult as his brain was held far in a mind numbing trance, he was fairly aware he used to enjoy puzzles. Before his master, before his strange predicament. Before he was a pet.

And yet, all he could do was stare. Stare, with empty eyes and a dumbfounded head. 

Stumped. Him. Stumped over a twenty piece puzzle. It was seemingly utterly beyond him and his picked apart brain, melted to goop.

He softly cringed, disgusted with himself. Ripe anger twisted in his belly, burning with confusing emotions. He didn’t like such a sensation. 

Master didn’t like such sensations.

Unsurprisingly, the master in question was already keenly aware of his distress.

“See, dear? I told you it would be just simply impossible for you to complete such a difficult task.” Adrastus tisked. But it wasn’t difficult! Deep in his faulty brain he knew so. He’d easily and swiftly completed so many in the past, all of them far more formidable. “Your cute little head is just incapable, love, and that’s just why I advised against it. I just knew you’d get all fussy.”

Letting their words simmer in his mind for a beat, soon he gradually looked back to his mess of squares. Still, they hadn’t changed. Still nonsensical. Sprawled out in lazy fashion, broken apart instead of put together like they had once been.

Just like him.

The red hot bubbling in his stomach shifted to a dimly lit chill.

That was him now. Never to be fixed, never to be put back together. Stupid till the day he dies, stuck under the will of another. Malak would never again fit together. Reduced to nothing more than brainless, muddled matter that didn’t connect. 

Oddly, the horrifying realization melted into that of sickly sweet pleasure over the tiniest mention of his master. Malak liked being owned by them. He loved his master, and he loved being cute and obedient for them. It made him happy. 

Content.

He giggled first, light and airy that bounced around the tight tense of his belly, till it contorted to a whine, strangled and squealy, like a child about to throw a tantrum. How fitting. 

All was bad. Bad bad bad. It wasn’t supposed to be bad, he wasn’t supposed to be bad, and Malak despised the thought of annoying his master with his bad feelings, ones he knew he wasn’t supposed to have. Ones they didn’t like him to have. And, just as they said, he had done it to himself. He caused it. 

If he had just let himself he could have remained dumb and giddy as he was meant to, floating through the blissful daze he was meant to be in. And even if for only a moment, he’d ruined it.

You ruin everything, Malak.

“You- y- you- you ruin everything mmngh… Malak.” He sniveled, whimpering the first clear string of words he had somehow managed in a good while. How many times had he heard the same sentence? How many people had brought to light the painful reality such as that?

Before he could reach the point of crying- something he’d done especially often since his master had claimed him- gentle fingers slipped right over his temples, swiftly subduing him.

One hand was in his hair, twisting through curls and faintly skimming their nails over his scalp, while the other rubbed warmth over his plush skin. His head lolled back along with their motions, resting against the cushion of the couch. 

The scritched behind his ear, hitting the spot. “Oh, baby, how could you say that… Master loves you so much. I don’t believe I’ve ever loved something as much as you. Don’t ever think or say such dreadful things.” The cooed, continuing their hypnotic escapade over his mind and through his hair.

They paused.

“Malak.” Their voice turned low and heavy, holding the greatest weight he’d ever felt on his ears, echoing across the walls of his empty head. “You love me. I love you. I… we’re meant to be together, Malak. You need me. I’m all you have, and all that can ever truly love you. Care for you. Who can bring you everything you need.”

“You see that… don’t you?”

Carefully, he digested every syllable.

Malak didn’t need the stupid puzzle. He didn’t need anything- surely not the bad things, things that stirred up strangeness and discomfort. The thought of merely looking at the discarded object hurt in his head.

He needed-

He needed…

He needed them.

He needed his master.

For a moment Malak let it all wash over him, breathing in the rich and sweet wave of realization of what had come and what was yet to.

Malak was at the end of his rope. He was waiting at the edge, like the fizzle of a sparkler finally burning out.

Something.

Popped.

He giggled. Again, again, again, until it seemed uncontrollable.

The delightful, welcomed wave of happy, heavenly hypnotic force took hold of his body, snaking it’s way from his toes to his brain, seeping into every crack and crevice imaginable. He swooned with a mixture of wooziness and unfiltered bliss, swaying along with the weight of such power. Malak was so joyous, so much so that a big, toothy smile spread across his lips and pushed his pudgy cheeks, making him squint.

They loved him! They loved him, they loved him, they loved him, even if he was helpless and dumb, they loved him! They’d give him all the love and gifts and praises and treats and affection no one else ever would, and he would gladly take it. Malak was filled to the brim with so much gladness he wished he could get up and dance.

He continued smiling, beaming, with teeth and gums shining to his master right under his glassy, void gaze and drooping eyelids. Malak was happy. Finally, happy, all of his meaningless cares washed down the drain of his mind.

He eagerly kicked away the pieces of the puzzle till they skittered off, knees bumping against wood as he dizzily kneeled, and he had the ability to forget they were ever there.

His master’s aura strengthened at the sight, calling him closer as they rubbed his body in mollifying, circular motions. “Well, aren’t you just silly. I bet your little imaginary tail must be wagging. Good boy.” They sang, soft and sweet, holding him by the chin. Nice, but even better than normal.

He was such a good boy and he knew it. He knew it! His master was the only one who could and would ever truly realize it. Malak was a good boy. Finally he had accepted his fate, the one filled with care and true love. He’d accepted it, and allowed himself to give in.

He slightly moaned with dripping bliss. “Hap… happyyyy… happyyyy..!” It was then Adrastus’ turn to chuckle, playing with his cheeks like putty in their hands. He fully allowed them, leaning into the calling touch. Craving it, yearning for more.

“Lovely.” They whispered, more so to themself than him. “Just lovely. So hard to break,

but I think the wait was worth it.”

———————————————————————

Taglist- @softvampirewhump @iys-cloud @battyfantasy @xx-adam-xx @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl @mylifeisonthebookshelf

If anyone wants to be removed or added to the taglist, please let me know! :)

[magniloquent-raven]

its midnight and im sleeby but i finished this thing i started scribbling out this afternoon based on @harringroveera 's post that i couldnt get outta my brain

i think i might have angsted it up a little cuz i can't help myself but its still cute so. pls enjoy

--

Billy's not super clear on where he is right now.

There are people everywhere. Yelling. Laughing. Music plays over a big fancy sound system. There's a blurry blue light glowing through glass sliding doors that he's been staring at for a little while 'cause it's…pretty. Twinkly and stuff. 

He's too many drinks past a good buzz, that much he's sure of. His head feels. Floaty. And heavy. And if he tries to move the room starts to spin. 

Whatever he's sitting on is comfy though. Soft. Softer than his damn mattress with that broken spring that's always stabbing him in the ribs. 

He's tired. Really tired.

Feels like he hasn't slept in months.

To his left a girl starts squealing as her boyfriend grabs her around the waist, to his right a speaker vibrates against the wall, buzzing to the beat of a deep bassline. Everything sounds far away, though. White noise blending together while the edges of his vision go fuzzy and faded.

He feels his head tip, just a little, and then—

With a sharp inhale he jolts, blinks, glancing around blearily at a silent, empty room.

It's still dark out. The blue glow still shimmers at him through glass. A lamp lights the room he's in. Everything's…shapes. Colours. His brain is still mushy.

He blinks a couple more times. His eyes are dry. Wobbly. All the shapes are wobbly.

"Hey, man, party's over." A voice startles him. He tries to look around, but it fucking hurts, and moving his head is so much work. Whatever, it's a nice voice. Way nicer than the jarring silence. 

Wait, why's the party over. He doesn't want the party to be over.

He wrinkles his nose. "Nooo…" 

"...Yeessss." There's a pause. "Everyone is gone, dude."

"No." Billy rubs his eyes. The chair is still so comfy. He sinks further into it, unwilling to move. "You're here."

"It's my house. I'm allowed to stay." The voice sounds amused. There's some rustling behind Billy. Plastic crinkling. Maybe. Something being moved around. "Why are you even here, anyways?" 

Hazy memories jumble together. A flask of vodka in his pocket, slipped under itchy robes. Sitting two heads away from Steve Harrington, sneaking glances between barely concealed shots. A droning speech. Another droning speech. Neil's solemn face in a crowd, watching him walk across the stage to shake hands with…the guy. The. Whatever.  

Some girl digging her talons into his arm after he slipped away from Neil's attempts to maintain a public image by acting like he gave a shit about his son's accomplishments. Beer and cheap tequila and shitty music blurring into each other as he gets dragged around like a trophy dangling off the elbow of whichever nameless girl claimed him for the night.

"Graduated," he says, picking at a sticky spot on the thigh of his jeans. Pinching the fabric isn't doing anything but he can't stop prodding. 

"Yeah, I know, with honors. Congrats." There's a huff. A silence. "Doesn't explain why you're here though." Footsteps, sneakers on linoleum, tap tap tap, meandering around whatever room is at his back. Glass bottles getting moved around. It's sort of soothing to listen to someone move around their house without any reason to be keeping track of their movements.

Well, unless…

Billy's stomach flips, and his chest goes tight. "You're not gonna kick me out are you?" he asks, his voice small. He feels sick, saying it. Thinking about it. He doesn't want to be anywhere else. This house smells sweet under the stink of spilled beer and leftover perfume. And he likes this chair.

The movement behind him stops for a second. "...Nnno?"

He breathes. Relaxing into velvety upholstery. "'Kay." 

"You sure you don't have anywhere to be? Family waiting up? Girlfriend expecting a midnight rendezvous?" 

Billy snorts. "No one gives a shit where I am." 

Neil will care tomorrow when Billy makes him look bad by pulling up hungover and in yesterday's clothes, but that's a problem for tomorrow. He won't be waiting up for him, worrying about Billy's safety or whatever.

A glass bottle clinks against something. "What about your sister?"

"Pfff…" He snickers, and gives his head a tiny shake. The movement makes everything spinny for a second and he has to pause to swallow bile. The sour taste on his tongue feels appropriate. And gross. "I fucked up. Everything. Beat the shit outta her friend. She's prolly hoping I don' come home at all. Ever."

Another glass bottle gets set down, slower this time. Carefully. "...This friend of hers…"

"Steve," Billy sighs. His eyes fall shut and he leans back into a cushioned headrest. His insides do the stupid fluttery thing they always do when he thinks about Steve. Steve and his stupid kissable face. 

"It was pretty dumb of him to pick a fight with you, huh," the voice says wryly. 

"Mnh…I guess." There's a soft snort behind him. But something prickles at Billy. Guilt, maybe. It's uncomfortable. He chews his lip as his eyes start to burn. "Nah. No. Whole thing was my fault. All my fault. S'always my fault." 

Saying it doesn't make it feel better.

"What do you mean?" There's sounds anymore. Just the voice, and Billy's heartbeat in his ears.

"It's…" Billy swipes at his eyes with the back of his hand. "It's a secret."

"I'm good at keeping those."

"You can't tell him."

"...I definitely will not tell him."

Billy hums. "He's real pretty, y'know."

"So I've been told, but what—"

"No, he's…he's so pretty. Like, I can't believe it sometimes, and I just wanna. Do something about it. All the time. But it hurts. Hurts so bad, and it's not supposed to, so I had to—I had to…I just got so mad. And I had to prove I didn't wanna kiss him, but I do. 'Cause I like him so much. Too much."

The silence is back. Ringing in Billy's ears. He sniffles quietly. 

"Oh…" 

"Please don't tell him. Or anyone."

"Billy…"

"Promise."

There's a strained pause. Billy fidgets, his insides twisting into knots. 

"I promise." The voice is so gentle, and it makes Billy's eyes sting again. He blinks away tears and listens to more bottles being moved. Plastic cups hitting plastic bags. Sneakers against linoleum, and hardwood, and carpet. And after a while, "You're not gonna spend all night in the chair, are you?"

"You said—"

"I'm not kicking you out, I just meant. There's a guest bed, man," 

"Oh."

**

Sunlight hits Billy directly in the face and he rolls over, groaning. 

The motion makes his stomach lurch, but he buries his face in…pillowcase. Unfamiliar pillowcase. Smells like honeysuckle and clean air and it's softer than any bedding he's ever touched. 

His legs are tangled in sheets just as sweet-smelling and finely woven, and his guts give another heave as he realizes he's only wearing briefs. 

Did…did he fuck someone last night?

He was definitely drunk enough to do something that stupid, if the cottonmouth and pounding headache are any indication, but he doesn't fucking remember. Which would normally be a blessing, except he usually doesn't stay the goddamn night. 

Is he going to have some girl hanging all over him for the first couple weeks of summer? Until he can figure out how to ditch her without making it look like he's too eager to.

Or maybe he'll stick around for a little while, this bed is actually ridiculous. He might be able to fake his way through one shitty summer fling if it means sleeping like a goddamn king. There are like, five pillows, and it feels like he's laying on a cloud. 

He nuzzles deeper into the pillowcase. Smells nice too.

His memories of the previous day mostly stop around Tammy Whatsherface dragging him away for a graduation afterparty. Maybe he shouldn't have started drinking at noon. 

Christ, he's not even sure how he got here, or where his car is. 

Or where here is.

It's one of the Loch Nora houses, probably. Nowhere else would have sheets like this.

Eventually he drags himself, reluctantly, out of bed. And immediately tastes bile.

Which is. Bad. 

Being upright is bad. 

And he doesn't know where the nearest toilet is. Which could be extremely bad. Girls whose carpets you puke on don't invite you back to sleep in their nice guest rooms.

So, he's very slow and careful about pulling his jeans on. And he makes sure to pause when he starts to feel clammy, sitting on the floor to stop his head spinning. 

It takes him forever to get mostly dressed, jeans and an undershirt are enough. He can't find his button-up and socks require too much bending down, which his dehydrated brain does not appreciate. 

Peeking out into the nondescript hall doesn't provide any more answers about whose house this is. It's all shiny boring expensive decor and not a single person in sight.

Oh, looks like there's a bathroom at the end of the hallway though, good. 

He beelines for the sweet promise of a place to piss and rinse out his mouth, shuffling past a couple closed doors, listening for any signs of life and hearing nothing, until he shoulders his way into the bathroom and freezes in his tracks, because—

"Hey, uh. You're awake." Steve Harrington blinks at him, standing in front of a plain oval mirror, hairbrush in hand. Which he obviously hasn't used yet, because the bedhead he's sporting is kind of hilarious. It's all fluff in every direction. Billy wants to run his hands through it. 

Worse, though, is the fact that he's bare chested, wearing an unzipped hoodie and soft plaid pants, with all that fucking chest hair, and he's looking at Billy with a curious expression that isn't remotely like any way he's ever looked at Billy before and this is…all very, very strange.

So, obviously Billy's theory about what happened last night was wrong. He's not even back to square one, he has less than no idea what the fuck is happening.

"...Yes," Billy responds after a beat too long. 

Great.

Fantastic.

Very smooth.

The corner of Steve's mouth twitches. There's something soft and warm about the amusement twinkling in his eyes and it's making Billy itch. 

"I think I'm gonna puke."

Steve snorts, and drops his hairbrush on the vanity. "Right, I'll get out of your way then." He sidles past Billy, far too close, patting his shoulder as he passes. Which does not help when he's just barely keeping his shit together.

His footsteps fade down the hallway at Billy's back. And Billy doesn't move. 

What the actual fuck.

He slams the bathroom door shut behind him, and leans his forehead against it, trying to breathe slowly through his nose. 

They didn't have sex last night. There's no way. He did not fuck Steve Harrington.

He couldn't have. Steve would never…

He's not…

That's just. Not what happened. Because that would never happen. 

It kind of looks like that's what happened, but it's not. 

He sits on the floor, head in his hands. And breathes. 

It's unclear how long he stays curled up on cold tile. Long enough that his legs start to feel stiff. Nothing about last night comes back to him. He sighs.

And gets up.

And splashes some water on his face. Drinks a little from the tap. Uses some of the mouthwash he digs out from under the counter. Takes a piss.

He's still unsteady. His temples throb if he moves too quickly. But he feels a little less like roadkill.

Steve waves at him when he spots him coming down the stairs. Waggles his fingers in the air, like they're best buds and this situation isn't the most surreal thing to happen to them since the Byers' weirdly trashed living room.

Billy rubs the back of his neck. "...Hey."

"Coffee?"

"Sure."

Steve pulls out two mugs, one of his thumbs stuck through a hole in the cuff of his sleeve. There's sunlight warming the honey-coloured highlights in his hair.

Yeah, no, this is definitely more fucked up than finding Max in a random house with a busted window and shitty drawings everywhere.

He might actually have lost his mind.

"What the fuck happened last night?" He blurts, his cheeks hot, fingers jittery. He shoves his hands in his pockets, fists balled up against his thighs.

Steve glances at him out of the corner of his eye. "Ah, figures you don't remember."

"Don't remember what?"

"You were pretty out of it."

"Yeah, thanks, I know that part."

Steve snorts, grabbing more things out of cupboards. Billy's paying more attention to his hands than what's in them. "You didn't want to leave, so I let you sleep upstairs."

"...Why?"

"You didn't say, just said you didn't have anywhere else to be."

"That's not what I meant." He knows exactly why he didn't want to leave. All the many reasons why he'd rather be here than under Neil's roof. Or anywhere else. What doesn't make any fucking sense is Steve accommodating him. 

Steve's eyes flicker to his again, briefly, before he turns back to the counter. When he shrugs the nonchalance seems forced. "You're a lot nicer when you're plastered."

"I…" Billy opens his mouth. Shuts it again. 

What the fuck does that mean. 

Steve fidgets with a spoon. "You got…kind of weepy, y'know."

Oh.

Goddamnit.

His shoulders go tense, jagged edges of a shield around what's left of his dignity. "Fuck you, Harrington," he snaps. It's all he can muster when he doesn't know what the fuck he was crying about. Every possibility is worse than the last.

"Yeah, you wish," Steve mutters.

Billy freezes. 

And doesn't recover quick enough to hide it from Steve. Steve's eyebrows shoot up. "Holy shit, it's true isn't it?" He turns around fully, the mess he's made of the counter forgotten. 

Fuck.

"I—don't know what you're talking about." His stupid deer-in-the-headlights expression is mostly under control but the sudden tremble in his voice definitely fucking isn't. 

He backs away a step and then stops. Where the fuck is he going to go, he doesn't know where his car is, where his keys are, and he's fucking barefoot. Running upstairs and locking himself in Steve's bathroom seems just a little too pathetic but that doesn't mean he doesn't consider it.

Billy clenches his jaw. It makes his head pound. "What exactly did I say last night?" He grits out, crossing his arms over his chest. 

Steve eyes him. Slowly, carefully. Deliberating. He chews his bottom lip. The silence is fucking agonizing. 

"Can't tell you," he finally replies, his voice light. One corner of his mouth lifts into half a smile, and scratches his cheek. "I promised I wouldn't tell anyone."

"That's…" Billy rubs his forehead with the palm of his hand, like he's looking for the button to restart his poor, confused brain. He drops his hand, exasperated, eyebrows creeping up to his hairline. "Steve, what the fuck."

Steve cracks a full-blown grin. "I told you I'm good at keeping secrets."

"I swear to god—"

"Aw c'mon, I can't break a promise! Especially 'cause you asked so nicely. You were so polite. It was very cute."

"I…what?"

He can't have heard that right.

Or Steve's just fucking with him. That's what's going on here. Billy let something slip last night and now Steve's holding it over his head. Because why wouldn't he, honestly. He has every reason to want to mess with Billy, and now he's got the perfect leverage.

"Billy." Steve's voice is soft, suddenly. His expression gentles, and he moves to close the gap between them. And Billy…doesn't get it. He's stalled out and stuck trying to figure out how this is gonna go wrong, how it fits into whatever prank Steve is clearly pulling.

He doesn't know what his face is doing, but he's pretty sure he's being way more readable than he'd like. 

He nearly jumps out of his skin when Steve touches him. A hand on his shoulder. A hesitant, awkward pat. Testing the waters, maybe. Trying to make sure he's real, maybe.

Is any of this real? Billy's still not convinced. He can smell Steve's shampoo and see all the little flecks of colour in his eyes and his shoulder is still burning where they made contact, but…

"I'm sorry I hurt you, y'know," Steve murmurs, his gaze dropping, hovering somewhere around Billy's crossed arms. He reaches out again, fingers grazing Billy's knuckles this time. All Billy can do is blink at him, afraid to breathe. "Doesn't have to be like that."

He tugs at Billy's hand, untucking it from the crook of his elbow, unfolding Billy's arms, and Billy lets him. One hand drops to his side and the other stays cradled in Steve's grip. He's…staring at it like he's studying for a test. Billy has no idea what's so fucking interesting, or what Steve's talking about, but he's also not bothered at this point. 

His knees feel like jello. 

"You could've just kissed me."

Billy nearly collapses. Like one of those swooning chicks in shitty romance novels. Breathless and flushed and overwhelmed. Except he just stands there like a moron, staring at Steve. And Steve's mouth.

"What?" he manages not to sound too strangled. Miraculously. 

Steve smiles at him, almost sheepishly. "You still could. I wouldn't mind."

"You…wouldn't."

"Yeah, I mean, if you had morning breath still it might be a different story, but…" Steve gestures vaguely, pulling Billy's hand along with him as he shrugs. 

Billy snorts.

And hey, maybe Steve is messing with him, and this will blow up in his face, but…

Well, he just really wants to kiss him before it does.

So he leans in and presses their lips together. 

~~tag list @spreckle @growup-thatbeautiful @prettyboy-like-you @suddenlyinlove

[nesperus]

Do you have any advice for drawing fullbodies? Ive been struggling a ton lately to even draw headshots but when I get to the body the arms and legs just tangle up in my brain and I end up scrapping everything! Any help is super appreciated <:3

so this is super basic advice - and sorry for the late response, haven’t checked my inbox in a bit - but reference reference reference and do STUDIES

a lot of people will skip to “draw this pose as this character” when the point of studies is to understand the underlying anatomy, not just copying the shapes you see

lineofaction is a great website to start looking at how the body moves and stretches

my other tip, relating to this (and it gets easier to do this the more you understand how moving one thing on the body moves a lot of other things) is to never just move an arm - if you move an arm, you move the shoulder, the torso, the entire center of gravity on the character - it helps things be less stiff that way

as for the arms/legs getting jumbled up, I recommend focusing a lot on the sillouhette of your posing. if you color the entire character pure black, you should still be able to make out what the pose looks like (rule of thumb, but rules are learned and then can be broken once you learn them)

sorry for the long post but I hope this helps! basically tldr - do so many figure studies. and understand the anatomy underneath those studies. even if it’s just fancy stick figures. it works

[noveldivergence]

Apostate - Chapter Two - 4004w

READ CHAPTER ONE HERE

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Apostate is a Lovecraftian crime horror with themes some might find objectionable in later chapters. While nothing more than a description of a dead body is shown in chapter one, please be mindful of triggers listed in my pinned post.

TAG LIST: @lord-fallen @coffeexafterxmidnight @philosophika @srjacksin(please send an ask or dm to be added)

--------------------------

Chapter Two

The place was the bottom of a chasm, a place where darkness swirled, swirled, swirled around the refuse of the dreamlands. Towers of garbage surrounded him, and he couldn’t discern what made them. He knew they were discarded bits of dreams and hopes, in the same way that anyone knows something is a dream. 

Pipe music of unfamiliar origin wafted through on the winds of this Gehenna of the cosmos. Bell couldn’t tell either its cause or place of origin. It seemed all encompassing, sensorily overwhelming, impressing on his mind like the cicadas had. Even in the quietest moments, when the universe’s roar calmed, where it could be heard the most, no tune could be made out. Discordance was its purpose. No two notes may ever be the same one right after another, no two rhythms or measures.

It still sounds familiar.

Dream logic again, the sleeping Bell supposes.

A clearing opens up before him–a path amongst the towers. Bell stares down it, wanting to move forward, yet knowing in his heart that something is wrong. A nightmare, he knows in his rational brain, but despite his seeming lucidity, his feet refuse to move.

He feels a sharp tug, and all returns to darkness.

The dreamlight veil clung to Bell, cloying, sticky, sweaty, even as he roused to consciousness in the barely cool backseat of the police car. Some almost-there, winged-thing fluttered in the vision behind his eyelids as he tried to pull himself up, but whatever it was disappeared as the firm hand pushed him back down.

“Too much enrichment for the day, huh, Bell?”

Luther’s voice was gruff but held an undertone of bemused concern. The graveled sound of it made Bell’s head throb, casting him back to the few times in his life he’d managed to acquire a hangover. The way he felt now was precisely why he avoided alcohol. He wasn’t built for the aftermath, even when he’d been young enough to handle it. The dehydration alone gave him earth-shifting headaches.

The dehydration made him faint too, apparently.

“Did uh…did I–?” His skull radiated pain between his eyes, but he had to admit: the colors he was seeing were extraordinary. Thoughts of colors out of space floated through his mind. His vision slowly cleared, and he pulled himself further upright in the backseat of the vehicle

“Cargill thinks it was heat exhaustion.” Luther offered him a handkerchief to wipe away the sweat on his face. “Not like either of us have been keeping up with our water intake. The movement to the trees–even to the shade–took you out. You were with it enough for us to get you back to the car, but you’ve been out for a few minutes. We were getting ready to get an ambulance out here for you. Think Harlowe called the coroner to bring more water bottles too.”

“God, that’s embarrassing, I can’t believe I fell face first–wait, shit–hold on–”

Frantic, fumbling, Bell reached into his shirt pocket and sighed in frustration at the crushed remnants of the cicada. Jumbled flecks of beer bottle green and iridescent wing-lace mocked him, twinkling like broken shards of stained glass in the sunlight: a desecrated temple of a dead creature. He sighed, and Luther looked at the small bag of glittering debris curiously.

“You find something?”

“Well, if I did…no, I don’t think that this had any particulates on it, just…there was something on a tree over there in the line of beeches. The one I fell by. Something carved into it, a symbol. Seemed like it could be something, maybe.”

“Yeah, I had one of the deputies take a picture of it.” Luther’s reassurance would have been more confidence-giving if he didn’t sound so unconvinced, but Bell knew he must sound half-mad from heat sickness still. “Looks like some kids sneaking onto the property, messing around. Deputy is gonna show it to the property owner, see if it’s anything he recognizes. Might be a local smiley face tag or something. Doubt they would have seen anything unless it was recent enough for the creek to have receded. Owner said it only did that in the last couple months, max.”

Smiley faces became quite the conspiracy theory in recent years. Graffiti popping up where people–usually young men–were found dead or were last seen, especially near bodies of water. There was a tenuous connection--even the FBI thought there was, unofficially. The problem was the frailty of the idea--smiley faces were so common that it was impossible for the majority of the cases to be connected. There was something, maybe, deep beneath it all.

It was like swimming through the veil between wakefulness and dreams to find it. It was as fragile as the crushed pieces of insect he found himself staring at in his hand.

But it was probably nothing. It could be something. They would likely never know either way. Thus, it became easier to brush aside as nothing, put it neatly in little boxes labeled ‘conspiracy theory’ and relegate it all to the tin hat, true crime podcaster crowd like Dalton Sanger or the web-news vultures like Ray Strom.

But this wasn’t a smiley face, and something was prickling at the back of Bell’s mind about the strange glyph. It was familiar, like the tuneless music of his dream. It reminded him of things long forgotten, long suppressed; things that were better left that way. 

There was something wrong about the symbol, and he wasn’t eager to discover the reason behind that persistent thought.

He remembered little of his childhood, and he was intent on keeping it that way. Whatever he’d forgotten was a measure of self-protection, especially considering all he’d escaped. If pressed, sounds of gunfire and flashes of bloodied hands would be his only surety. He was grateful every time he turned on the news, that he didn’t see the source of his own issues livestreamed on the 24/7 news cycle growing up.

Still, camera phones had their usefulness.

“Could you have the deputy send me that picture? Text, email, whatever works.”

Luther gave him a long searching look, allowing the question to hang for a moment in the thick heat pouring radiantly from just outside the old police Charger. Finally, blessedly, he broke eye contact.

“Sure. I don’t think it’s much. But I’ll tell him.”

“Thanks, Luther. You’re right. Probably nothing.”

“But better to figure it out.” His admission was half-hearted but Bell could hear the kernel of truth in it.

“Yeah.” Bell sighed and glanced out the back windshield of the car. This line of Dodge had been phased out of police use a few years ago in most cities, and this one was older still. Edging on too old for all this action, he thought, feeling the seat’s upholstery fraying beneath his fingers. Maybe he was creeping that way too, despite being the younger of the pair of them.

The white smoke in the distance had grown too far off and faded, making it difficult to see beyond the filthy glass of the back windshield. Dust was kicking up too. It took Bell a moment to realize a large box truck was making its way down the road. 

“Morgue truck.” Luther eyed it curiously for a moment, squinting, before badly suppressing a grin. “You gotta see this.”

The older agent backed up and stood, offering a hand to Bell which went ignored. He wasn’t quite that level of invalid over fainting, he tried to convince himself. People got heat sick all the time, and-

Was that an ice cream truck? It had been once. His eyes crinkled at the edges, and he tried to force his growing smile of disbelief into a thin line as Sheriff Harlowe approached to meet the coroner. The truck creaked to a stop behind the Charger, the brakes whining in the process. 

The woman who hopped out of the truck was either on the older side or had lived a life that aged her prematurely. Her hair was straw-like and bottle-bleached, which seemed to be her only sign of vanity-or at least old habit. She wore no makeup that might melt under the oven-sun, and he wondered if the sharp sting of sunlight through her thick lensed glasses ever burned her retinas.

Harlowe’s deputies–Bell still hadn’t quite gotten their names–helped the diminutive woman with the gurney and body bag. Chivalry wasn’t quite dead, it seemed, least when it came to someone who was probably friends with both mens’ mothers.

“Doubt we’ll be pulling much weight if he’s mostly a skeleton.” The coroner's voice dripped as slow and Southern as blackstrap molasses and cracked like kindling. “But better we don’t drop it, right boys?” The tone reminded Bell of the way Diane would speak back when they still lived together, when they were still married, and she was edging on frustrated passive aggression with their sons--or him. Could have been either really. 

He watched on with a sigh. The coroner’s eyes flew to him more quickly than any of the cicadas could hope for. 

“You’re the agent. The one who got yourself all dried up. Over here.” She gestured curtly to him, and Bell found himself too intimidated by the teapot of an older woman to refuse. He eyed the truck as he approached, still a bright teal ice cream truck hue with sticker residue imprinted on the sides. She passed him a gloriously chilled bottle of water, and he sighed in relief. Bell took back any suspicions about the truck. It was brilliant. It was incredible. It was refrigerated.

He choked down the bottle of water so quickly he almost drowned in it.

“Now now, don’t go drinking that too fast, you’ll throw it right back up and pass right back out.”

“Shit, sorry--” His voice sounded choked and pathetic. The woman mother-hen clucked, shaking her head.

“I understand, don’t you worry, but you better be more careful in this heat. Now, you wanna….”

She gestured to the men who’d stopped roughly one hundred yards from them with the gurney, gawking at them from a distance as if they needed the escort of an elderly woman and an agent who’d just fainted from the heat to protect them. Bell laughed lightly and began following.

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I got your name…?”

“Evelyn Ogle. Coroner and medical examiner round these parts. Funeral director too, but that’s getting a bit more difficult with all these folks moving in these days.” She sounded winded as she tried to keep up with his longer stride, and Bell slowed his already meandering pace to match hers. The sun beat down heavily, and he could feel it gently deep-frying his skin. He almost envied the farmer’s tans of everyone around him including Luther, even as Diane’s nurse voice talking about melanoma echoed in his mind.

“Bell Baylor, FBI. Sounds like it’s gotten really busy around here lately.”

“Ever since that damn plant moved in, they’ve been building and buying up everything. I don’t mind them folks, but there’s just too many people moving in that ain’t supporting the town the way it needs. All researchers and business types, with partners opening up restaurants and boutiques, but not willing to work the city jobs that need doing.” The words seemed to sour on her lips. Her face scrunched. “Would think other people would follow the money, and we’d get more help with the day to day jobs, but that ain’t happened yet. Not fully.”

“I see. By ‘those folks’ you mean….? You think there’s a lot of resentment around here over that?”

“Yessirree, them Havichs and the employees, and I know there is–now don’t you two go touching anything!��� 

Her snapping-turtle voice caused both deputies to startle before they could slip down in the creek bed and disrupt the body. Lal and Cargill looked incredibly relieved at the arrival of Dr. Ogle. Or was it Ms. Ogle? Bell wasn’t sure if the local funeral director née coroner of a town that was only 700 people up till recently really needed a doctorate.

The women began gently extricating the bones from the ditch. Bell watched quietly until a buzz of his phone showed a text from an unknown number, containing an image. 

The symbol. 

He examined it for a moment before pocketing his phone again, turning to Sheriff Harlowe. He still had a few questions for the man that he hadn’t quite had the opportunity to ask, not since his little trip to dreamland. Bell sidled over to the large man and glanced up, as if making conversation about the weather.

“How long since the last homicide you’ve had?”

“You get right to it, don’t you? Oh, I dunno. Five, six years?” Harlowe scratched at his beard in thought. “Domestic up by the old Darrow place. Husband had been on a drunk a few days. Wife-beater. Went too far, killed her, then killed himself ‘fore he could get arrested for it. Rattled the town pretty badly. Kids got shipped up to Tennessee--somewhere in Sevier County, maybe? Dunno. One of them counties named for somebody.”

Bell wondered what it was like to live in a town with places known only by the names of long dead residents. He supposed he already did in a way. Fort McHenry. Johns Hopkins. The gravesite of Edgar Allan Poe. The land was haunted by the legacies of the dead, soaked in the blood of those who grew it, those who claimed it, and those who actually built it. 

And they were all concerned about a party boy in a ditch.

He pulled a pen and pocket notebook and scribbled the approximate date of the last murder with the word ‘unrelated’ below it.

“So, of course horrible, but nothing quite like this.”

“Can’t say we have, Agent Baylor.” The sheriff looked up to the sky, a sun-squint scrunching up his face. “Baylor, huh? You got folks in Texas?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Baylor, like the Christian college.”

“Oh!” His eyes widened a bit. “No, my family’s not--well, we aren’t related to that family no.” He trailed off and scratched the side of his face with the end of his pen, remembering how the Sheriff had reacted to Cargill and Lal. Up north, he was decidedly white. Down here, where people still put the eye in Italian and used Meyer lemon scent without letting the name otherwise touch their country clubs, he wasn’t sure where someone from Romania fit. “They immigrated in the 1980s, when I was young. Former Soviet bloc country.”

“Not your original name?”

“Nope.” He didn’t elaborate. It was his father’s name to offer anyway, and his father was much in the same place as Severin now. 

“Fair enough.” Harlowe nodded and watched with shocking calm as the bones were placed into the bag with care. “Lot of folks ‘round here can trace back a few hundred years and then a few hundred more into England or Scotland or Ireland.”

“Not the new folks though.” Bell’s voice held no question.

“Not the new folks.”

“Anyone have a problem with those perceived as ‘the new folk’?”

The sheriff paused for a moment, whitleather lines on his forehead folding in on themselves as he thought. He knew immediately. Bell could tell that he did. Now came the debate over whether to tread the thin blue line with the spirit of camaraderie or close ranks around the previously isolated community.

“There’s a few that do. Ain’t none of them the murdering type.”

“But the sentiment is there.”

“I dare say it is.” The sheriff glanced to the side, humming some church tune that he couldn’t place. Bell took note of it, as he pen-scratched what had at least been said aloud. He had a feeling that what the sheriff of Slaughter County didn’t say aloud could fill volumes.

Above the hymn, he could hear the sound of cicadas. Beneath it, discordance still echoed in his mind. He shook both of the sounds away.

“We’ll have to trace if Severin–proving beyond a shadow of a doubt this is Severin–to see if he has any connections here. I know you state there’s no one here you think capable of murder–”

“Now, I didn’t say that. I said there wasn’t anyone from Besant angry enough about the new folks to kill one, especially one just wandering through.”

Bell blinked, slowly turning his fully-refocused eyes to Sheriff Harlowe. 

“I see. But you think there is someone–or maybe even a few people–who are capable of murder.”

“I think once you get down to it, Agent Baylor, a lot more folks are capable of a lot more things than we like to think they are. Even about ourselves.”

New Orleans had been cooler than this four months ago, hadn’t it?

“I think it’s likely both of us have seen a lot of that over the years.” 

Harlowe nodded to Bell’s response, seeming satisfied with it on a level that Bell was sure he’d never understand. The sheriff looked back towards the column of white smoke, as Cargill, Lal, and Ogle began their grass-pathed funeral march back to the ice cream truck hearse; the deputies and Luther marched as pallbearers, and the younger pathologists trailed as mourners. A mockery of a march for a sad mockery of a young man, who’d never have the chance to prove himself beyond the boy who lost a finger at a kegger. Once they were out of earshot, Harlowe turned and leaned down towards Bell.

“Vesper Delgado. Ain’t got no proof of nothing. Never have. But I got a feeling, and he’s got the tools for something like this.”

“Doctor?”

“Taxidermist. Or ‘artist’, as his wife likes to proclaim up and down when nobody asks.” The man rolled his eyes. “But he was in the same circles as some other troublemakers in high school, much as any of ‘em were in any circles. Didn’t seem like he was doing much harm then. His father’s here legally, so wasn’t nothing there. Thought the kid was just creepy at first, but…”

“But?” Bell ignored the comment about immigration, schooling his own face. He could say a million things about the sheriff not having a problem with what he’d stated of himself, while he potentially did with Delgado. That wouldn’t get him the information he needed though.

Harlowe shuffled on his feet, glancing to be sure the others were almost over the incline and fully out of earshot.

“He nearly beat another boy to death in his senior year. Now, it wasn’t for no reason. Boy laid his hands on Delgado’s younger sister, messed her up real bad, so I understand it. Can’t say I wouldn’t have done the same thing when I was 18 neither. And he did come in without a fight from him or his parents when the Anderson family tried to press charges, but…that boy ain’t right in the head, Baylor. You just have to meet him to understand.”

“What happened with the charges?” 

“Dropped by the boy’s parents and the DA’s office over in Augusta. Parents told me it was a’cause they taught him better than to lay hands on a woman, and the DA agreed it was a lesson learnt. But I don’t think that’s everything. Think that Vesper’s parents paid them off.”

“They from money?”

Harlowe’s laugh was a whip crack across Bell’s still aching forehead. The man scratched again at his tumble-brush beard as he shook his head, grinning at Bell from only one side of his mouth.

“His mama is Jetta Havich and her husband--that Delgado guy whose family owns all the hotels, the shipping company, and all that shit. Rich doesn’t begin to cover it.”

“Well. That might complicate things.”

“Jus’ might. Still. Think if anyone in town would open up a body like that, you might wanna look at the creepy fucker who cuts open bodies for a living--sorry-- ‘art form.’ Wouldn’t be surprised if it was some of that Santeria shit or something.”

Harlowe rolled his eyes again and leaned his body to follow the glance and the rest of their party where they’d headed up the field. Bell moved to follow, going through the motions to slip his notepad back into his jacket pocket and ignoring the growing feeling of distaste towards the sheriff.

He wasn’t wearing his jacket. He’d noticed earlier that either Luther or a deputy had slipped it off him, likely when he passed out. Muscle memory had gotten the better of him. He stooped down, ignoring the sharp ache in creaking door hinge knees, and reached for the notepad where it had fallen to the ground. He frowned.

Bell didn’t remember drawing the symbol from the tree, yet there it was, sketched haphazardly in cheap blue Bic pen ink. Still, a lot of that moment was fuzzy. It wouldn’t have been out of character for him to think of the paper before taking out his phone for a photo. Especially not when his brain was baking.

He quickly pocketed the booklet, groaned as he stood, and followed Harlowe at a cautious pace. No more fainting. He’d buy one of those obnoxious gallon-sized water bottles at the hotel gift shop tomorrow.

The body was in the truck once Bell rejoined Luther. He half considered asking if he and Luther could hitch a ride with the skeletal corpse. It would cool them off better than the Charger’s AC pulling hard to chill the backseat to any level of tolerable. But Luther was already walking towards the dated Dodge, and Bell wasn’t going to ride alone with the body, even if it was a stupid remnant of his parents’ old world superstitions. 

He slid into the backseat against his higher will and better judgment. The deputies at least had the good grace to have the windows cracked and AC cranked to maximum already. 

“Thanks again for the ride uh--” Bell tried desperately to remember the name of the one in the driver’s seat, some wiry dirt-haired boy not much older than his mid-twenties.

“Deputy Wiley, sir.”

“Sorry, thank you. For the ride and for sending me the photo of the marking.”

The pair of deputies’ eyes met each other. Wiley shook his head at the one-who-wasn’t-Wiley, who also shook his head in turn.

“Uh…sir? Neither of us sent you the picture yet. Ain't got no signal out here. They’re still building the new tower.”

Bell’s eyes narrowed and unfocused, before he pulled his phone from his pocket once again. One message. Unknown number. No signal.

The photo was poor quality, taken by slightly shaking hands if he were right. The symbol was entirely in frame--thank goodness-and mostly in focus if one squinted a bit, but it wasn’t in the center of the shot either. It was taken in the same blazing light and piss poor shade that he’d seen over by the tree, and a smear of shadow from one of the branches stained the left half of the picture.

He checked the number.

“Does the sheriff have a number that blocks caller ID?”

“No, sir, don’t think he does.”

“I see. I’ll ask him at the station, it’s fine. Let’s get back.”

Despite Bell’s nonchalant tone, Luther looked over at him, eyes seeking. Without looking back at him, Bell handed the phone over. The other agent looked at the image with an iron-heavy gaze, before staring back at Bell.

“I’ll call Garza in digital forensics. See if they can figure this out.”

Bell nodded, head suddenly swimming and splitting once more even now that the cicadas were drowned out by the roaring engine. 

“Got a name too.” He passed Luther the notepad without saying it. Once more the man nodded, taking the silence as a blessed clue to keep it to himself. Even the deputies seemed to comprehend that whatever had just passed required a sense of solemnity.

Turning face and body towards the window, Bell watched quietly as the field disappeared behind them and white smoke skylines with it.

[pumpkinspicedmochi]

Hey sorry for the random ask but what does semi speckling mean? /Gen

Hai , its alright I like receiving asks . Anyways , it might be easier to explain it like "unreliable speech" as in semi speaking / semi verbal is a permanent state where you always struggle with speaking for me It also affects my typing which I've seen other people who are semi verbal struggle with the same .

I also have a tag on my blog #mochi semi verbal talk

where I talk more about semi verbal if you're interested in like more indepth than this (or more like..different ways I've talked about it or posts I've reblogged by other semi verbal people?)

I also repeat words a lot when actually using my own voice , I stutter and struggle to get out what I'm trying to say along with speech being broken . Being semi verbal is permanent but my struggle does vary just like how sometimes I write more broken speech than other times.

I also connect it to like , you want to say something but even the words in your brain are jumbling up and its like trying to speck a different language that you only know a few words to or more so ..only a few words will come out and you say the wrong word in place , I also sometimes will use the wrong word when I'm not trying to but that's what wanted to come out and I had no control over it.

hope this helps! 😊

[sindumpster]

Any unbirth thoughts or ideas that appeal to you? Just in general. I currently have an ub-session and love your ub stuff. 💗

"ub-session" made me snort. I love it.

But hokey I'm gonna jot some things down so sorry if this ends up more of a jumble of words than anything. Also obviously this one is gonna be hella nsfw

-Ngl a lot of my go-tos with it involve the UB being orgasm-triggered. Because something something vaginal contractions which idk if I likened that to peristalsis or if someone else inserted that into my brain. It been...a while since I refreshed my sex bio. But if cocks can eat people then I can grasp at my straws and pretend it triggers the vaginal succ-tion.

-...which would also make sense if the pred(?) is a biiiit of a size queen. A dicking devolves to fisting. Could just be the fisting that triggers the succ. Also my humor is dumb so I like it when the other char is marveling over how far their arm can sink in. Mentioning its getting harder to pull back. Oblivious to all the warning signs before its too late.

-tho I will also die on my hill of pushy prey so someone actively being like my arm has gone past the elbow and this *still* isn't working. I guess I will just push myself in there. Because also, my humor is broken so this being the first most obvious solution the prey thinks of is hilarious to me. Post nut clarity is gonna hit hard (or they like it. Or it was the plan all along because they're a kinky fuck)

-forreal tho prey that's a kinky fuck. Realizing how stretchy the pred is and want to try it. Or has done it before. Just taking the initiative.

-I'm realizing a lot of these are about my broken humor so I will also raise you--pregnancy jokes. Because I like them with vore and other situations where the char isn't pregnant but will just go along with it because it is the easier explanation (and like, I say this as someone with a preg kink. The joke just doesn't hit the same when its actual preg tho lmao). Also UB being extra prone to this because the prey is sitting in the right place (as opposed to oral vore where stomach sits higher up. As if people would notice this and care but I will also die on my stupid detail hill)

-but also I'm a sucker for combo kinks and also I like my separation of different stuffed...organs? Compartmentalization kink? as in life so in kink IDK point is UB pred following it up with a stuffing session. Or oral vores someone (esp if they are not a fan of preg jokes). There's a bit of a power play there if the pred's like "well what are you gonna do about it~". Prey getting increasingly cramped or complaining about the growing weight above them. Or feeling each other's struggles. Two different prey poking at each other through the fleshy walls. I just think it's neat.

-also orgasm being a release valve as well. Because you can fuck (or fist) someone from the inside (There's a "cum out" joke here somewhere).

-Which could also be a power play on the prey's part. Or throw in some public humiliation where prey tries to pleasure the pred in public, and the pred must hide how flustered it is making them. They don't need to come out from it, they can just fuck with (literally) the pred.

-I like competitions of any sort but I do not care who wins. Even my bois I equally enjoy them losing to clever prey (or a pyrrhic victory). Or just kinky fuck prey. This isn't specifically a UB thing but for me it applies just as well. Could also be funny if this devolved from some kind of stupid sex contest. The "whoever cums first loses" where prey gets increasingly desperate to win and this results in them shoving themselves up there.

-also I like the "getting your hand stuck in the cookie jar" joke.

-MULTIPLE PREY. Because why the fuck not. Uterus party guys everyone is invited. Or smol prey if a large tum isn't your jam (but I am biased. Sorry. Not sorry.)

-MASC PREDS. MASC UB. NOT ENOUGH PEOPLE REALIZE THIS POTENTIAL JOIN ME OR POINT ME TO THE ART.

-which I like it doesn't have to be a sex thing but the "motherhood" or "age regression" sides of the kink aren't my niche so sex is usually how I go. It can be peril or even fatal, or warm wholesome safe vibes. I like both. And should go without saying but even the kinkiest sex can be wholesome.

-tho also the impressive side-eye in the afterlife when you admit you got digested by a snatch. Went out with a bang. Got your dick stuck in a living vacuum cleaner. This isn't really an idea.

-ALSO REFORMING PREY. If fatal is your jam. Idk man I'm still working out the kinks(lol) of how the fatal pussy would work without getting into the dark details of any internal pred/prey kinks where digestion is actually the least of your problems. Except my Space!AU where everything can be a stomach if you're brave enough. Alien anatomy you can do whatever the fuck you want so that's where my wackiest kink mechanics go. (Because I'm still working on this notion that I am "realistic" and will not break these stupid rules I made up in normal canon for some reason??).

-Tho I guess with reform you can have your "rebirthing" stuff. (Personally with the caveat they reform as an adult. I don't mind preg or even warm cozy vibes but again...parenthood loses me sorry. But feel free to use it lol)

-Oh and also face-sitting [GONE WRONG][GONE SEXUAL]

-Or I guess if you're really into dicks eating people can have a CV pred fuck a UB pred and the prey just gets kinda shot up there.

///and I'm sure there's a fuckton of things I'm forgetting. But this is already way longer than I intended lmao

[paperanddice]

The adamantine automaton is made of a king's load of one of the most precious metals found in the Dragon Kingdom. Even most Icons would struggle to gather the necessary adamantine, as well as the many rare and expensive ritual components to forge and animate it into an autonomous guardian. As such, few exist naturally, and they are guarded intensely, used only when their immense power is absolutely required. Not that they are at much risk of being destroyed, as even when smashed to pieces it will continue to pull itself together, self-repairing and attempting to continue its mission. Only the power of an Icon or an incredibly powerful magical item forged of the same metal that makes up the construct's body can fully destroy it, meaning if one is on your tail and you don't have access to either you'll just have to keep running from an implacable, unkillable machine until you die.

Adamantine Automaton Huge 12th level troop [construct] Initiative: +14 Destructive Strike +17 vs. AC (2 attacks) – 125 damage. Natural 16+: If the target is wearing heavy armor, it is not considered to be wearing light armor. The armor is heavily damaged, and will need to be repaired after the battle. If the armor is magical, the target can roll a hard save (16+); on a success, the armor isn’t affected. Indestructible: When the automaton is damaged, it repairs itself 30 hit points at the start of its turn. Dropping the automaton to 0 hit points doesn’t destroy it, as it continues to repair itself. The automaton can only be destroyed by an act of an Icon while it is at 0 hit points, or by decapitating it with an epic tier magic weapon made of adamantine. Inexorable March: Any enemy that attempts to intercept the automaton takes 4d10 damage, and must roll a hard save (16+). On a success the enemy stops the automaton; otherwise it continues on to its originally intended destination without provoking attacks of opportunity. Inorganic Immunity: The automaton is immune to effects. It can’t be dazed, weakened, confused, hurt by ongoing damage, etc. AC 30 PD 26 MD 22 HP 880

Alchemical automatons are walking laboratories, a jumble of glass tubing, metal scaffolds, and terrifying syringe fingers piloted by a brain in a jar. They carry and process a variety of useful materials for their owners, and a single automaton can perform the work of four or more workers, depending on what you need done. Like other automatons they lack independent intelligence and will, so cannot function on their own, but their bodies will naturally perform reactions when properly arranged and they can follow more complex instructions than many other automatons could. They are also quite dangerous and function as excellent guards, so long as you don't mind losing some of your reagents to being injected into the body of intruders.

Alchemical Automaton Large 5th level caster [construct] Initiative: +9 Injection +10 vs. AC (2 attacks) – 12 damage, plus one of the following random effects. Roll a d6: 1: 1d6 acid damage; 2: 1d6 cold damage; 3: 1d6 fire damage; 4: 1d6 lightning damage; 5: 1d6 poison damage; 6: the target is dazed (save ends). R: Bomb +12 vs. PD (1d3 nearby enemies in a group) – 15 acid, cold, fire, lightning, or poison damage (determine at random, same effect for all targets). Alchemical Rupture: if the automaton is hit by a critical hit by a melee weapon, it makes the following attack: [Special Trigger] Broken Tank +12 vs. PD (1d3 engaged enemies) – Roll a d6. On a 1-5, all targets take 10 acid, cold, fire, lightning, or poison damage (determined at random). On a 6, the targets are dazed (hard save ends, 16+). The automaton’s injection and bomb attacks can no longer deal the equivalent damage, or effect. Inorganic Immunity: The automaton is immune to effects. It can’t be dazed, weakened, confused, hurt by ongoing damage, etc. AC 19 PD 19 MD 15 HP 144

Inspired by the Pathfinder 1e Bestiary 2. This post came out a week ago on my Patreon. If you want to get access to all my monster conversions early, as well as access to my premade adventures and other material I’m working on, consider backing me there!

[cherryasagiri]

The Homicidal Herons

pairing: Gale x Tav

wc: 2,782

synopsis: What happens when you take characters from Baldur's Gate 3 and put them in a modern setting as a successful band? A whole lot of fuckery and hijinx. Join Karlach, Astarion, Gale, Zevlor, and Tav as they navigate stardom, come to terms with past traumas, and try to kick current addictions.

warnings: Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Drug Use, Drug Addiction, Drug Abuse, Drugged Sex, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Underage Rape/Non-con, Underage Drug Use, Grooming, Master/Slave, Mental Health Issues, Mental Breakdown, Drunk Sex, transphobia

a/n: So I was supposed to be updating other fics I had been writing, but BG3 came out, and I have been waiting years to play the game as a finished project. When Larian said something in a tweet about what we would name our bard band, my brain wouldn't stop working, and my fingers wouldn't stop typing, so the first chapter is pretty long! Sorry, haha. I hope everyone will enjoy the jumbled mess I created! Defos not beta'd cuz I am lazy.

Oh, and before I forget, this fic will get extremely dark, and I will leave a trigger warning in the notes at the beginning of the chapter, so don't worry! This is also being cross-posted on AO3 and probably Wattpad.

“How about The Pussy Poppers?” Tav asked, writing the name down on the whiteboard display before being immediately struck through by his bandmate. “Absolutely not, Tav; we can’t have a name like that,” Gale responded, shaking his head in routine disapproval before writing down his suggestion. “What about Waterdeep’s Finest?” “That only would make sense to you, pal,” Karlach sighed. She didn’t look at either party that recommended a name for their band, opting out to playing with her black expo marker. “Do we really need to come up with a name right now? We need to practice and write new songs. Who cares what our name is,” she explained, tired of wasting precious time bickering over a silly band name when they could be going buck wild on their instruments right about now while coming up with something hard to perform.

“Oh, but darling, a good band name will take you a long way, especially with our talents of course. Would you rather have our adoring fans calling us by some putrid name those two idiots came up with, or you could come up with something angelic that rolls off the tongue?” Astarion questions, giving her a sly smirk, not waiting for her to say anything as he continued, “either way, I think I have the perfect name!” He exclaimed, his earlier smirk growing to an amused grin. ‘The Homicidal Herons’” he beamed, eyeing the group trying to gauge their reactions.

Everyone was quiet. The three questioned looked at each other silently, conversing through their eyes. Tav was the first to break the ice with a hearty laugh. The other members watched cautiously because he only laughed like this when there was a sinister thought swimming through his mind so their only response was to stiffen when Tav suddenly stopped laughing and gave them the brightest smile he could muster. “Gods, Astarion, that’s a fucking stupid ass name!” He started, a light chuckle leaving his lips before he continued, “But I fucking love it.”

That was three years ago, and things changed for them over the years. Old routines are broken to accommodate their ever-growing, fast-paced lifestyle, habits that have gotten out of hand, and the accumulated tension between the lead singer and their base player. But first, let me introduce the band.

Karlach was their ever-loving drummer. The sweetheart of the group lives in positivity but can be truly reckless and emotionally distant when it shows that morally right things aren’t as they should be. She’s usually breaking up the arguments between Gale and Tav when he decides to go on a reckless bender and is usually the one who can hype up the crowd better than anyone else in the band. She hates seeing Tav like this, but what can she do when Tav doesn’t want to listen to anyone? Gale is their very calm and collected base player. He’s the most sane of the group that has to make sure that the rest of his friends aren’t getting into too much trouble that’ll eventually fuck up what they had. However, he wasn’t immune to their shenanigans as he is Tav’s loyal drug buddy. They like to binge use and take that time to come up with new songs, think about how the drugs enhance their connection to the weave, and try to come up with new cantrips, only for most of those days to end up with them fucking each other and waking up refreshed. Astarion is the extremely dramatic second guitar. He’s always instigating Tav’s outlandish behavior while feigning ignorance when he gets arrested. He can’t keep his hands off anyone willing to give up their chastity for the night. He has his own demons, which he doesn’t discuss with the rest of the band. They know he’s a vampire and usually feeds off of Tav when he allows; however, there are deeper traumas he has yet to express with the rest of his friends… can he really call them that if he’s keeping them at arm's length? Then we have Tav, their first guitar and lead singer. He is the founder of the band and the one who gets in the most trouble. He tends to get high whenever he feels depressed and hates it when the other members try to get him to understand that his drug use is borderline an addiction. What does he do to combat their complaints? He goes sober for a month before binging heavily, starting the song, and dancing all over again.

The chirping of the local birds outside and the loud calls of the nearby roosters finally stirred the half-sleeping, tired older man awake earlier than he expected. Zevlor slowly sat up on his bed, letting the warmth from his blanket dissipate as it fell from his upper body, letting the early morning chill wake him up. He glanced down at his phone to see the time, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes while he adjusted his sight. There was a reserved sigh that escaped his lips, knowing that the day was going to be stressful. He noticed he woke up at 5:30, thirty minutes before he was supposed to wake up, something unusual but reasonably needed for the day. The Homicidal Herons had a gig that day in a particular city, and Zevlor was already worried about their lead singer traveling there without prior notice. He wanted to tell him, but he knew if he did, Tav would wholeheartedly be against it and would refuse to go along with them to the gig, saying things like “You can find another singer for the night” or “I will kill myself and everyone here before I step foot in that fucking city again Zevlor,” and many more colorful things that Zevlor isn’t too keen on thinking about right now. He knows that he isn't going to tell the male about it but instead is preparing himself to take whatever crap the human was going to give him.

Zevlor was so far down the rabbit hole of his own mind that he didnt notice the male in question had been knocking on his door. So far into his own thoughts, he didnt notice said man sneaking into his bed and under his blanket. So far gone with how he was going to hide their trip that he didn't notice Tav wrapping his arms around the tiefling’s torso as he gently moved his lips closer to Zevlor’s ear before whispering, “Penny for your thoughts, handsome?” he questions, forcing Zevlor to wince from surprise. His heart was beating rapidly from the surprise and close contact he was adjusting to. He was used to Tav's constant flirting and borderline sexual harassment but didn’t mind. He welcomed it honestly but wouldn't let Tav know that. He is technically their band manager, so he wasn't going to overstep his professional boundaries even though it was getting harder and harder. He would be lying if he said he didn’t have a bit of a crush on his client, seeing as how he was able to bring the sad older man out of deep depression when he lost everything that he cared for. Tav didn’t look at him as a lost cause or someone to pity; he genuinely cared about his soon-to-be manager at the time and only wanted to help since he had the means to. That is how he secured the managerial job overseeing an up-and-coming successful band.

Zevlor felt the heat rising from his neck and stretching across both ears; the embarrassment of being caught off guard and having Tav so close to him warmed his entire face. He thanked the Gods for giving him red skin because he wouldn't know what to do if Tav had noticed how hard he was blushing. He cleared his throat, refusing to meet the star-struck gaze he knew the human was giving him, and began his usual speech. “How many times do I have to tell you, Tav, to stop coming into my room without permission?” he growled unintentionally. He wanted to apologize but ultimately gave up and just blamed it on him just waking up. Tav pouted at his tone, which was quickly diminished and replaced with a half-smirk. “Yeah, yeah, I know Zevy, but I kept knocking, and you wouldn’t answer me, and you left the door unlocked, which is not like you, so I just walked in,” he started, eyeing the tired male while he slowly snaked his arms up from his torso to around his neck while pressing his chest against Zevlor’s arm. “I was worried about you because you went to bed last night way more grumpy than usual, so I wanted to see if you were okay because I knew you were going to be up earlier than normal when you get like that.” he finished, the smirk never leaving his lips. At the same time, he lightly blew air into the tiefling’s large ear.

Zevlor glanced at Tav for a split second before sighing heavily. He was annoyed that Tav knew so many little things about him, yet his heart swelled with how much he cared. He couldn't let his feelings get in the way at the moment, so he feigned annoyance and pushed the male away, much to his and their dismay. “I'm fine, Tav. Just leave my room and get everyone ready to leave. We have to make it to the next gig early this time around so we can make sure everything is perfect unless you want to end up like last time,” he spoke, noticing Tav wince at the mention of their last gig. Tav shook his head and sighed lightly, leaving the bed and Zevlor’s room. At the same time, he let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding in before rubbing at his temples. It was going to be a long day.

Once Zevlor was ready and ensured everything was accounted for on the bus, he reluctantly made his way over to Gale. He didnt have a problem with the wizard per se; it was just that he knew the relationship between the two was sexual and toxic for the both of them, and the less time he was around Gale while he smelled like Tav’s perfume, the better. However, this is such a time when he couldn't stray away.

“Gale, has everyone made sure not to tell Tav where we were going, right?” he asked, scouring around the area to ensure the male wasn't around to hear what they were discussing. Gale glanced over at their manager and proceeded to do the same before giving him an answer. “Of course, Astarion didnt care, so we don’t have to worry about him. But I know it will be hard for Karlach to keep her mouth shut because she doesn't like to lie to Tav… and I agree with her sentiments. I hate lying to people, but lying to Tav about this? Isn't this a bit extreme?” he asked, his brows etching together from the stress of keeping this from the man he’s been actively sleeping with, so being around him in such an intimate way while keeping such a secret from him was eating him up. But he knew it was for a good reason and hated it.

Zevlor could see the distress swimming in Gale’s eyes. He wasn't meant to be someone who keeps things from people he cares about, and Zevlor feels a tinge of guilt for making him hide this from their leader. “I know Gale, and I am sorry for making you keep this from him, but I know you understand why,” he began, watching as Gale nodded before egging him to continue. “It would be either this or watch Tav find different ways to get what he wants, and we all know how ugly that can get.” he sighed, Gale shaking his head at the memory, not wanting to live through that again. After a bit of time and everyone was on the bus, their hired driver soon began to drive off to their next destination. Zevlor had made earlier preparations so they could get to their destination without Tav knowing.

First, it was the tour dates where three cities were surprises (two that they told him were real and the other was fake). Second, the bus windows were tinted and had it covered on the inside that, surprisingly, Tav didn’t question. Third, even though Zevlor was against it, Astarion made sure to supply Tav with enough drugs to keep his mind off of their destination and more on getting high. But the thing is, Tav isn’t stupid. He knew that something was up with everyone other than Astarion. Karlach was being a bit distant with him on the bus, Gale couldn’t even look at him when they spoke and kept the conversations to a minimum, and Zevlor was more attentive to his drug use now than at any other time. At first, he was going to ignore it. He mostly chalked it up to first-time jitters at this new venue they hadn't performed at yet and how the crowd would take them. But, after about 10 hours of driving and the tension growing thicker, the lines of coke just tasted bitter on his brain. With one last snort and a nostril cleaning, Tav had enough.

“What the fuck is going on with you guys?” he stood in the middle of the bus where everyone was gathered around and crossed his arms over his chest. He looked around at everyone, trying to gauge their reactions to see if they would give something up nonverbally, but they were solid as a rock.

“What is wrong my dear? Are the drugs fucking with your head? I told that guy not to try me today.” Astarion commented, his scowl apparent with his fangs visible. He seemed concerned and ignorant of what Tav was trying to get at, but he didn’t relent.

“No, you all are just acting fucking weird. What's going on?” he asked with more authority leaking from his words. The gang looked at one another, wondering who would be the one to crack first before Zevlor broke the tension in the air when he spoke up. “It’s nothing Tav. We’re all just tired and a little nervous about performing somewhere new like they always do.” he tried to persuade the accusor, but it seemed like it wasn't working.

Before Tav could respond, the tour bus jerked to a complete stop, which made everyone but Tav let out a sigh of relief. Tav was getting irritated with everyone, but didnt feel like fighting it out with everyone since they just got there; he just wanted to drop his equipment off and head to their hotel to sleep. But before he could set foot outside the double doors, he was stopped by four bombastic voices yelling, “Wait Tav!” and then his suspicions were confirmed. “Okay, so you all lied to me. Nothing unusual, I guess, but why?” his glare was lethal now, and there was no way out of it. Karlach was the first to speak this time.

“Hey bud, listen, we didnt want to say anything before, but you need to calm down, alright? We didn't mean anything malicious behind it, but you gotta trust us, yeah?” she weakly smiled, watching Tav intently. The smaller male looked up at him with his unwavering glare, refusing to speak. Karlach tried to find the words but came up with nothing. She felt defeated and looked over at Gale for a helping hand.

“Listen, Tav, we wanted to talk to you when we arrived and before we got off the bus. It’s about our next gig and–” Gale cut himself off when he noticed Tav turning his back to the wizard and bolted for the door. The group didn't waste a second chasing after him, yelling for him to stay back so they could talk, but it was going in one ear and out of the other. By the time the other wizard was out of the bus, he was taking in his surroundings. They were parked in front of the venue where he first met the man who destroyed his life. The memories flooded as he held back the sob, trying to force itself out of his throat. The rest of the band froze when Tav turned back their way: his shoulders were shaking, his icy glare fixed on all of them, and the tears threatening to escape from his waterline were apparent, and they knew they had fucked up badly.

“Why the fuck would you bring me here.”

[yourtoradorasextendedwarranty]

Ya know.

When I finally drop off the map in whatever way it happens. (I’m sure some sick fucks will be happy about it and even cheer because nuance is lost on people), It’s going to be because My brain is 30 levels of fucked. Why you may ask? Because normal is a pipedream, everyone is 100 different levels of weird and strange in their own way, and figuring out how to navigate that AND keep friends, is near impossible.  Mind you being raised by my mother, 3 generations of southern women. A father who was the world's WORST type of pessimist, a Narcist and asshole of a step father whom is no longer in the picture thank god, And moving constantly so you don’t end up staying at one school for too long much less the same city, eventually things just fucking fall apart. 

This isn’t about politics. This isn’t about social or societal norms. This is about the fact that I was raised broken and a little warped. My mind does NOT work the same way everyone else’s does at all. 

Example since it’s been at LEAST twice in recent memory though probably more often than that. Girl A asks me about why Girl B is a certain way, or says certain things. I explain the potential why scenario's trying to go into depth, but finishing out with I’m not sure and can’t be sure because I’m not them. Queue Girl A getting upset with me because I’m “making excuses” for or “defending” Girl B. Which no. 

My mind works a certain way. You ask me a WHY, I’m going to answer your why to the best of my knowledge. That WHY is not a justification or an agreement of Girl B’s words or actions. Only the potential why’s that it happened. And some people might say, “Oh well you are trying to explain it away”. No. I’m merely stating what I THINK the reasoning is. Either on the surface or not on the surface. That reasoning? That reasoning is not me saying that it is ok, or that it is justified. If that’s what I want to say and that’s what I mean then I would say, “I agree with Girl B for X reason” or “I think they are justified saying what they are saying or doing because X reason in their life makes them that way”. Except the fact that the second scenario would be HEAVILY followed by, IF I think what was done was even acceptable or not. 

It’s not semantics either. 

Example: A person whom has a traumatic history with abuse gets to a point where if they see a person do something that looks like they might get hit even if it was not going to happen and their response was to hit that person, While I might understand the why, and to some degree make a reasonable assessment that what the other person did caused the main person to hit them. I would not agree with the fact that it happened. And more over, I would approach the main person, and tell them that they need to go to therapy, or work on their reflexes. I’m not in ANY WAY saying it should have happened. I’m not even suggesting that person 2 should just accept that it happened. I’m not explaining away the WHY either. I just want to know the why, and analyze it. It’s not a defense, and it’s not a justification. It’s not an agreement, and it’s not an excuse. I can say that it’s probable in that situation that the reason person 2 got hit is because of person 1′s past. That does not make it ok. That does not make it right. But if person 2 asks me why they got hit, I’ll tell them the why if I know it or what I think the why might be. That is NOT saying in ANY WAY that it’s fine that it happened. 

However we got to the line of thinking that somehow the why of a situation is the same as agreeing with it. And that is why when I dip out it’s going to be bad. Because THAT is how my brain works. This was supposed to be a short post and look what it became. A jumbled mess. Because my brain is on hyper speed all the time. And without fail, I just can’t function around people at all. Not unless I act like a shell of myself and borderline like an NPC. Got to fucking love it. 

[vincey-wincey]

here’s the lore post as promised or something errm!!

going to try to make this as. Organized as possible but I’ve never.. really.. told people about vinyls lore so I am rather excited but I will make an attempt to not let my excitement make it disorganized and just brain jumbles👍👍

before I like. Actually start HERE ARE! CWS AND TWS! PLEASE PROCEED WITH CAUTION!!

The following stupid ramble about Oc lore contains the following, if these things are in any way triggering to you, or even just cause discomfort, please, for your safety, move on from this post, and stay safe <3

⚠️ABUSE, DRUG/ALCOHOL USE, GENERAL SLUTTINESS, GR00MING IMPLICATIONS, RELIGIOUS IMPLICATIONS(the negative aspects of religion. As there are negative aspects to everything)⚠️

VINYL RECORD . THEY/THEM . EARLY-TO-MID TWENTIES . PANSEXUAL .

to start off, I’m gonna be talking about their family.

vinyl has an older brother (though I haven’t given him a name yet, we will use a placeholder name until I can figure out a clever and witty name), Rey. Their Mothers name is Leah, and their fathers name is Micheal. (A bomb similar to vinyl, and a hand grenade, respectfully). Both of the siblings look more like their mother, however Rey has his fathers eyes, and Vinyl has their Fathers temperment.

Leah and Micheal are horrible parents. They are both highly religious people who forced their kids, Vinyl and Rey, to be just as religious as they were. Often giving out physical punishments if one didn’t “look to god”. they stuck it in each of their heads that if they didn’t “follow the way of god” that they would be sent to hell at that very instant. They were left for hours on end, often skipping meals and losing sleep to pray. Their knees sore from kneeling for several hours.

one of vinyls biggest fears, although somewhat irrational, is sprouting wings and feathers from everywhere on their body. Mainly their eyes, they used to have horrible nightmares about it. The nightmares about that specific things have lessened since then, but nightmares(more like night terrors) are still there.

now that I’ve dwelled a little bit on their family, let’s go onto their backstory.

Vinyl Record is the Younger sibling to Rey Record, and child to Leah and Micheal Record. As said in the above few paragraphs, their childhood was very.. rough. With their parents being highly religious, giving out physical punishments very often. Vinyl resorted to.. bad coping mechanisms to escape their harsh home life. Often sneaking out at night to go to parties, drink, do drugs, have sex, etc. all influenced by a couple of adults(ranging from ages 25-30). Vinyl was in their teens at this time, with their older brother already having turned 18 and had been kicked out. Pursuing his dream of becoming a rock star. Of course, leaving his younger sibling behind. Somehow making the abuse more horrible.

It was a continuous cycle of abuse, yelling, pray, sneaking out, getting wasted, going to school, coming home. Unless they had to go to their work at the time, a restaurant in which they were a cook, then it’d be work, then come home to more abuse. All up until they decided to run away when they were 17. They were homeless for around 2 years before a job opportunity came to them. A hitman. It was one of their first jobs they actually took, being so broken and reality just not being there for them that they felt no need to care for people that they killed. As long as they got enough money to scrape by. Which it payed a ton, and they were able to afford a small apartment, and get a stable job, being a Waiter at a sort of high end restaurant.

This job payed well, well enough to get them money on the side. If they weren’t working, they were still going out to parties, getting intoxicated.. or laid. Anything to not be left alone, though even with the attention they’d get from whoring themselves out, they’d still feel so alone, but also too afraid to make any meaningful relationships. Afraid of snapping and ruining it all.

All the abuse they endured left them bottling up their emotions, until they would explode. Literally. Them being ‘blown up’ is the equivalent of letting their true self come out. Emotional and upset, angry and confused. They’re very emotional in that form and very vulnerable.

When they return to their bomb head, they get a massive migraine and tend to sleep it off for several hours.

that’s really all of their backstory ? I. I don’t know what else to add it’s.. OUUG idk how to do this I’ve never actually.. talked about vinyls lore. N shit? So I’m very unused to it all hope. Hope,you enjoy? Feel free to like ask any questions too!

hi do we want. Oc posting. I hope so

Cw for like. .. religious.. implications? Not sure . Body horror?

the masculine urge to yap about an Oc to an audience of 0💔💔

[eldritch-spouse]

the post with the masochistic( I CAN'T BELIEVE I WROTE THAT RIGHT THE FIRST TIME)s/o and the biting part made me wonder how the others feel about it. Do they like it or dislike it and since Vinnel's condition prevents him from staying consistent for too long will he just lack doing it and receiving?(I feel non-canon wise he'd be afraid to be slurped up)More specifically how would Morell and Grimbly react?Obviously taking a bite out of Morell is deadly but is it still impactful if it's like a small bite?Will my mosquito vampire find it odd?

Hope you a a good day!

Do they bite?

[Nah fam, I got 'em on a leash. Excluding Breg for this.]

Fasma's fangs might feel a little weird in your skin, since they usually mold a little, unless he's feeling hostile. He will bite if you ask him too, though not very hard, and he'll never extend his fangs either. Generally, he prefers doing it with his second form's blunt teeth. In his standard form, Fasma does not want to get bitten. At all. He's tiny, you're gonna take a chunk off him!

Vinnel could only ever bite you in a really good day in terms of physical consistency. These days are rare as snowflakes and he makes the most out of them. Besides, he's learning how to slowly expose very specific parts of himself without much danger. He has a myriad of broken sharp teeth and he will bite. Hard. Just to make you scream. You can bite back, but the taste will probably repell you at light speed.

Gallon prefers nipping rather than full on biting, and you'll have to nudge him a tad to make him use more teeth. He'll never use the sharper ones, those cut very easily. You can definitely bite him, though it doesn't have an erotic effect, and mostly just results in you coughing his slime back out- Which he finds hilarious.

Morell is like a crocodile. When that jaw clamps down on something, getting him to let go is near impossible. Those teeth may be blunt but they are not fucking around. Though Morel does like to bite, he's very gentle about it and never does it in places with low fat. Don't feed this urge, he might just take a real chomp out of you someday. I also don't advise you to bite a poisonous monster. Ever. Best case scenario you get a high, worst case you die.

Santi looooves to bite! He's all about teeth and tongue, and he's not shy about it. Though, he'll always be chaste about it unless given permission to draw blood. Pain can be very quickly transformed into pleasure, and he knows just the right balance to keep you on your toes. Most demons love the taste of blood anyway. You better bite him back, as hard as you can, make him howl. He'll almost be disappointed if you don't.

Grimbly is someone I recommend you don't let bite you much, if at all. Given the fact that's how he feeds, by biting others in zones where the skin is particularly thin, his brain might jumble and he'll fully extend his fangs, perforating your body a great deal. Grimbly is aware of this, but still risks nipping you from time to time. You can bite him, but not too hard, he'll feel threatened.

Ludwig is not a demon that bites a lot, and for good reason. When wrath demons get into it, they go hard, and if Lud were to accidentally draw blood, it would only drive him to bite harder, grind his teeth, stretch the skin. Listen, he doesn't want to maul you, so the most you'll get are brief, squeezing bites. He loves it when you bite back, it revs him up beyond measure, since wrathful couplings are especially wild and harsh, though you better lean out of the way when he snaps his teeth back at you.

Patches does not have a mouth normal enough to properly bite you. It'll just look sad and dumb. He doesn't even have lips. He uses magic to handle his food, chewing is not exactly necessary. Because, again, he can't really chew. That being said, you're more than welcome to bite him. Put him in his place, bite hard, wherever you want. Listen, if you really wanted to, I'm positive Patches would let you bite his dick. And that's that on that.

Sybastian... My gal/dude/person, have you seen those teeth? Please, never encourage this half-feral bozo to bite you. But you can bite all you want, even softly on his tongue, that gets him hard real fast...

Krulu will bite you only ever in very private settings and solely to mark. Never more than the very tip of his teeth is used, otherwise you'd get mauled. I advise you not to bite at all unless you want to get immediately put in your place.

Physically cannot bite

Nebul; Fank-e.

[sukunasun]

sunny do NOT leave us after mentioning professor nanami. he will forever be on my mind. 😣

heres some stuff i fished out from the drafts:

nanami kento phd sets his alarm for precisely six in the morning everyday. this is important because he's already taken into account the morning rush crowd and the weather forecast has predicted sunny skies today, which is rather unlikely for ...england. so he's not buying it, there are only a few precious hours to make up for the time it takes to set up the slides and get the creaky projector to work—not surprising since the university is about eight hundred years old and has yet to figure out why students can’t find assignment posts on canvas—but out the door he goes, a loose sock falls down to his ankle like always, and he would relish in that little bit of familiarity and routine, but there isn't enough time to do so when it's already six thirty.

"attendance will be taken into account for your final grade, five minutes is the cut off point,” he announces every semester, with every new batch of students, and like clockwork, it’s followed by a chorus of groans. 

but none of them try to fight him on it, they think the old man has enough to deal with, given that he’s always got the moodiest face on, brooding and emotionless. he’s barely 30 but he receives senior citizen discounts at the cafe nearby. already looks the part with his brown sweater vests and thick rimmed buddy holly glasses, shoes clacking on pavement as he's rushing from one lecture hall to another. but the pants are nice, he’s thrifted them from his first time at a market in camden (sans spectacles and or orthopaedics. those had to be custom made.) 

his laptop is shoved into his worn out leather messenger bag clumsily, who cares, it's a PC, they’re sturdier and he’d rather settle for thinkpads than buying into that fruit company. the zipper's broken so he clasps it shut with his fingers, briskly side stepping slow walkers and mutters a "fucking hell," under his breath when he comes across couples making out in the open, sucking each other's faces off, he's cringing at how obscene it is, enough to turn his croissant bland. rammed into his open maw, he has no time for jams or butter, so a soggy, saliva-drenched mess will do.

about 200 people show up to his class and that's only because they started having a stricter application process, he remembers when there were more. still, the quantity doesn't phase him, because eventually students will drop out, people fail assignments. the numbers shall dwindle because he's over the hand holding. it used to be fine back when prerequisites were a jumbled up bunch of different majors, he'd help out with a little calculus here and some linear algebra worksheets, y'know, just the basic stuff. but it's about time he stopped the coddling. makes a mental note to remind himself just how much he takes this course seriously. econometrics isn't for everyone, but a bare-bones understanding of basic concepts in probability theory and statistical inference is all he asks for. "you will fail to grasp anything beyond the first week of this syllabus," he tells yuuji itadori who sits in the front row, an enthusiastic kid, eager to learn, but ultimately and unfortunately...foolish.

"what did you major in last semester?" nanami asks impassively, not at all curious really, but just to gauge where he's at. meanwhile another part of his brain is already planning and working out an alternative plan if itadori chooses to stay. maybe something simpler, he's heard accounting is all the rage, as long as he's done something relatively close to mathematics—

“sports marketing!” yuuji exclaims. so self assured, and nanami is about to rip his hair out, fisting at blonde clumps. he really shouldn’t do that, it would be such a shame to have him balding at such a young age. maybe he’ll do a silly side study on it, ‘progressive deterioration of the hair shaft over a two year period primarily caused by excessive weathering and self-inflicted damage.’ (quickly taps out a short intro in his notes app and emails it to geto and gojo with no subject and the one line; ‘thoughts?’) 

nanami breathes out a deep sigh, he's going to have a not so friendly chat with the admins after this. "and why have you chosen this course, as a challenge i presume? i should remind you this is a postgraduate program," which should have been his first clue to itadori's determination.

"i just thought it'll be fun to take your class, you're like, the smartest guy i know," to which nanami can't deny him when he's so earnest about it. if he were being realistic, the chances for yuuji to achieve much are slim, or at least where this course is concerned. but nanami has never been the kind to discourage, so he just hands itadori a list of pdf textbooks he can download for free off some random account, and schedules tutoring sessions on his thursday afternoons. ('thank you @ mr_overtime for providing free and accessible academic resources!' yuuji types before posting it to a message board.)

------------------------------------------------

nanami’s moved to an old research lab the next day, the same group of students show up except there are a few who join him online in a teams channel he’s humorously named ‘ABSENT 7/3/22’ ...just to emphasise on the importance of face to face interactions. he thinks it’s funny. no one laughs. but he didn’t think they would. he’s mapped it out on a data visualizer programme he’s been working on and is proud at the very least that results were accurate. still, the conditions are less than ideal, the stone floors scuff the leather of his shoes, the heating unit is broken, and of course, no projector. “i guess we’ll do graphs today,” he says. 

a choir made up of sifting hands and rustling papers start singing alongside graphite and red cedar grinding under a blade, the quick push, push, pushes of a thumb on pen, cables thrown across one table to another—there are no outputs here. with swift vertical swipes, nanami thinks he’ll suffer the clown lung and the inevitable dry, dust-filled grooves of his fingertips for this, especially because it’s been awhile since he’s used the hagoromo chalk. there’s a pause, everyone waits for the maestro, and he conducts a tune of old, one that’s been unheard in years. when his perfectly straight lines come out thick and layered like snow on a forest floor, phthalo turning into golden-sheen moss green when the sun cuts a slant of light at the right time. his rosy fingers translucent like an orange, pressing, gripping, swishhh-es lines he’s seen again and again, equations he knows by heart, the tapping of rock reverberates, and everyone else follows after its echo.

------------------------------------------------

a replica of ‘wanderer above the sea fog’ gets delivered to his office that afternoon. “still into romanticism?” gojo asks. doesn’t even try to point at the painting, already disinterested. with hands tucked into his favourite parka, he swivels his head around and bounce on his heels like a child, looking for whatever would grasp his interest, wide blue eyes taking in nanami’s office that’s untouched by renovation of any kind, it still smells a little damp and the curtains are yet again pulled shut, but gojo shines with curiosity enough to light up an entire room. 

he shrugs, “‘still into’ suggests fixation, i only observe it as what it is— a painting,” nanami defends, head tilting to the side, “they were going to get rid of it, what was i supposed to do?”

“you make it sound like it were a stray animal,” gojo teases, seeing that nanami doesn’t entertain the jab, he eases the tension by the only way he knows how, bringing attention to himself, “but what do i know, i’ve only just won a nobel,” he shoots nanami a grin that curls from ear to ear. yet again, the scowl is ever prominent. 

moving closer to inspect it, gojo forces himself not to pull a face. yeah no. nothing interesting here; man looking out towards a fog and endless sky. there’s no truth to it. only that the varnish is applied sloppily, and it’s cracking, nooks and crannies gathering dust, rivers splitting down the middle. is it a piece worth anything? worth saving? he doesn’t think so. an artist should just paint what’s in front of him.

nanami overachieves but never finds any meaning in all of it, who's turning into a doubter, a pessimist, "you’re always in a bad mood, must be the weight of that intellect you have," gojo likes to say. one who seeks for something beyond because he uncovers the mysteries of the world and what then? feels like a ghost, hollowed and waning. thou art a scholar horatio, speak to it. watching himself live a life he can't control, every passing moment slipping through his fingers. they're cold and slightly calloused, chalk-dusted. there's a detached way about then, a dismissive wave of his hand, brushing off excuses and late submissions and all the compliments that fall on deaf ears. 

“you see yourself in it,” suguru adds from his corner, nonchalantly. he’s lazing in an armchair with book in hand. when he looks up at the two of them, they stare at him like he were speaking in a foreign language. snapping his book shut, he stretches his limbs out like a cat, “it’s a piece depicting reflection; morality, feeling, something tells me you’re lost kento,” geto gives his hypothesis. and it lingers there. 

[taeyamayang]

love and lies

mikey x fem!reader | romance & angst - i'm sorry

Your favorite scent and sound are rather odd.

A bizzare mix of chemicals and pollutants that assuredly have caused a couple of nasal allergies or just flat out bad for your lungs. But as twisted it may sound, a whiff of it would instantly pull the corners of your lips. Akin to your favorite sound. Your favorite is not a medley of string and wind instruments nor a melody of a beautifully cascading vocal notes but rather a mechanical roaring engine. A robust sound of a classic CB250T. All these excite your sensory neurons, signaling your brain that something is here.

or rather someone.

"Your ride is always on time." Your old friend points out the obvious.

You hear it and smell it. The sound of his bike and the smoke that comes with it. You turn your head, smiling like a fool when he pulls next to a road gutter near you. He steps one foot on the ground followed by the other to steady the two-wheeled bike between his legs.

You watch him as he thrust the helmet up to free his face, swinging his head side-to-side making his shoulder length hair brush against the sides of his face. Everything was slower, at least maybe for you, as you watch your lover under the moonlight. Completely allured by his captivating visuals. He looks ethereal and you'll never get enough of how beautiful he is.

"Seems like he missed you. If eyes could burn, you're on fire now, (y/n)." Youe friend arches her brow to an impatient man waiting for you to come back to him.

"Go get your man." A friendly smack lands on your bum resulting to a high pitched yelped coming from you.

And you did. You waved your friend a goodbye, orbs never leaving her as you look through your shoulder at the same time your quick steps lead you to the other direction.

You tracks reach him and immediately you shoot him an eye-smile. A streak of dimple similar to that of a whisker rests below your eyes deepens. You attempt to take the helmet, your helmet, from his grasp but he jerks it away from you, leaving you with grasping on air.

"Kiss me first." Mikey says, more like demands, as a cheeky smile grows on his face.

"My friend is still here and we're in public, Mikey." You reason out in a hushed tone but your lover wastes no time as he plants a chaste kiss on your lips.

"Oh, come on! Get a room!" The voice of your friend rings through the still air of Tokyo. You giggle, turning around to face her.

"Sure, we will!" You take the helmet from Mikey's hand before tugging it down your head.

"You still owe me one more night out, (y/n)!"

"I'll never forget!"

Mikey's hands grip on the throttle with two fingers laying on top of the brake lever. He bends his wrist as he rolls the throttle consequently making the engine of the bike roar.

Before his feet leave the ground you secure your position behind him. Both your arms tightly hug around his torso. Your face is leaning against the expanse of his back covered by a black leather jacket.

The bike kicks off. Its speed and sudden pull never fail to startle you. Hence, your arms around his waist tightens as he speeds through the streets. The visions of people and facades of commercial buildings are nothing but a merely jumbled blur in your eyes.

The dancing lights in the buildings and lamp posts are like melting paint overlapping with each other as one hue engulfs the other. The faces of the people abruptly changes as Mikey's bike easily drive past blocks by blocks, leaving nothing but traces of incomplete smiles and broken scowls in your memory.

But none of it mattered. The world could be a blur but you would careless for all that mattered to you the most right now is the man caged in your embrace. And all is well as long as you have him.

"Missed me, baby?" Mikey must have sensed your grip on him tightening around his body.

"Yep, I did." You chime in, grinning though he could not see you.

"How much?" He screams over the loud noise of the engine.

"A ton." You pause before continuing, "Did you miss me too, Mikey?"

"Yeah."

"How much?" You place your chin on his scapula, fixing your eyes at the fraction of his face. Your vantage point hinders you to look at the entirety of his face but enough to witness his cheeks rise.

"Two tons."

Mikey pulls the brake lever making the tires screech in cries. He turn his head to you, body slightly twisting as his figure bathes in the glow of the red light.

"I love you." He suddenly says.

"Even when I'm old and grey?"

"Even when you're old and grey and cranky and suffering from arthritis." You unclasp your arms around him, hands resting on top of his thighs as a tumble of laughs roll out from your lips.

"Arthritis? Really?"

"We gotta be realistic, babe." He takes your hand, planting soft kisses on your knuckles. His warm breath fans against your skin. He wholeheartedly utters,

"I will love you till life permits me."

Green.

His mouth leaves the back of your hand and by instinct your wrap your arm around his body. You feel giddy. Mikey isn't usually open about his feelings. Times like this are moments you want to keep close to you. Memories you would come back to for comfort. A reminder that once in your life a soul has genuinely loved you beyond your flaws and imperfections.

Ring.

A ringing sound pierce through your ears as soon as Mikey steps on the accelerator.

Ring.

Here it is, again. Bothered by the noise, you pat on the pockets of your jacket and pants, searching for your phone and once you found it you were welcomed by a silent non vibrating device.

Ring.

"Babe, your phone is ringing." You shout. Mikey briefly glances at you before pulling his back to the road, stitching his eyebrows together.

"My phone? Babe, you know I don't bring my phone when I'm riding my bike."

Stop.

Dimmed sunlight peaks through the cracks of your shut eyelids and you feel your head heavier than it used to. The humid inside the room is thicker making it harder for you to breathe.

Slowly, your eyelids peel open and your hazy vision darts to every corner of the room. White, Blue, and Grey. At least you managed to sleep in your room.

Come after is an unbearable pain on your stomach as if your insides is eating each other out of famine. Right, you didn't eat last night.

Ring.

There's it again. The ringing sound in your ear. You follow the sound of a phone ringing and it leads you to the bedside table.

Bedside table? This isn't your side of the bed.

To stop your phone from ringing, you take the call without looking at the caller I.D.

"Hey, I've been calling you. Thanks for picking up."

It's Draken.

The silence that laid between you and him is insufferable. Fair enough because who even knows what to say in a situation like this? Nonetheless, after a few seconds he breaks the silence.

"Hey, uh, everyone's looking for you. I have my bike I can pick you up."

You gaze at the wall clock hanging on top of the curtain-covered windows. It reads 1:13pm. No wonder your stomach is violently writhing inside you. You skipped three meals since last night.

"No, Draken, but thank you. I'll take the bus instead." Your own voice is foreign to you. It's strained and hoarse nothing like your upbeat and teasing tone that you usually use. Audible whispers from Draken's background uninvitingly joins the conversation.

"Told you, you can't pick her up using your bike! it's their thing!" Kazutora.

"Shut up, dumbass, she might hear you." Baji.

"Draken, we should pick her up." Mitsuya.

"Yeah, there's no way we'll let her walk to this place alone." Takemichi.

"Hey! I'm still here. It's Draken." Draken says after a long pause. It's not like you refuse to speak with him but you aren't sure how long can you keep your voice steady, pretending like you've got everything under control when truth is you're on the verge of losing it.

"I was wondering if it's alright if Mitsuya and I come pick you up? We're not riding my bike. We'll ride the bus together."

You push yourself up from your lying position. A soft thud resonates as the back of your head meets with the head board of the bed.

"If you're worried about me getting lost then no. Somehow I've memorized the address. I'm all good, Draken."

Your orbs took notice of a black cocktail dress draped over the backrest of the seat of your dresser. The hem of it idly hangs. It stares back at you reminding you of reality.

"It's not just about that, (y/n). We're worried and you're not in the right headspace and we know that Mi-" Draken bites his tongue, internally debating with himself whether should he say his name but makes up his mind as he continue.

"Mikey would prefer you safe. He would want you to see him for the last time."

"Stop."

"(Y/n), please."

"Don't." You snap, tone harsher than before. A shaky breath escapes from your lips and for the first time since you woke up your facial muscles move. Your staggered breathing gets louder. You keep your lids firmly shut as you hold your tears back.

"D-don't say his name." A loud sob rolls from your lips as you repeatedly hit the back of your head on the headboard.

"(Y/n)." He utters softly. You draw in air before slowing swalling the lump in your throat.

"I'm sorry, Draken. It wasn't my intention to snap at you but last night-" Finally, warm trails of tears rivers down your cheeks. Your teeth claw on your bottom lip still trying suppress your loud cries. But you are helpless. Broken beyond repair at this point.

"I met him. I was holding him. I went out to meet with my friend and fetched me with his bike. We drove around Tokyo like the usual." You sit up, feeding your yourself with fake hope. The back of your hand meets with your cheeks as you wiped tears off your face.

"(Y/n), listen."

"He told me loves me and that he missed me too. Two tons. He missed two tons."

"Of course, he loved you. He loved you more than anyone else."

"B-but he also lied to me." You whisper. Your orbs casted down on your unclothed limbs sinking in the comfort of your mattress.

"He told me that he will love me until I'm old and grey. He said that. He promised." You murmur to yourself.

"BUT WHY IS HE NOT HERE?!" You yell and somehow the weight on your chest never seem to lighten. The sound of Baji's voice asking Mitsuya to take the cab with him to go to your place fills the silence in the other line.

"(Y/n), I think you got it wrong. I believe what you are referring to is a dream." Draken's voice is mellow and sweet but it takes more than honey-coated words to heal the pain.

"No."

"(Y/n), Mikey... is dead."

"NO!" Your voice howled inside the room and the next thing you know is you're hurling your phone against the wall. It crashed and slams on the floor and you couldn't careless.

You could handle a heartbreak. A spoiled relationship between two people who can't meet halfway is better than dealing with a loss of a lover whom you thought you'd spend the rest of your lives with. The idea of you can no longer see him daunts you. In the next few hours he will be six feet under the ground and all you are left to do is say your farewells.

Words won't mean a thing when he's cold and lifeless behind a glass window. You had told him countless times before how much you love but it will never be enough. It won't be enough for he was taken away from you too soon.

You press the bottom edge of your palms against the socket of your eyes. You finally give in as you let yourself be taken over by grief. Crying won't bring him back to life and it won't mend your mourning heart but for now this is all you can do.

You sniff and get a whiff of a scent coming from the fabric that rests below your wrist. An aroma of sweet musky bergamot woven with oakmos and lavander disrupts your cries.

You tear your face away from your hands and crack your head to the side. This isn't your side of the bed and you're not wearing your clothes. You blink a few times as the realization sinks in.

You're wearing Mikey's hoodie and somehow crashed on his side of the bed.

You bring the sleeves of the hood to your nose, eyes rolling at back of as you devour remnants of him.

It's him.

The pullover carresses your curves akin to his gentle touch. It feels as if he's here with you. Even when he's gone, the only person that could comfort you is him.

You scurry your way to your abandoned phone on the floor, almost tripping on the blanket of the bed. The screen of the device is shattered. Webs of cracks disfigure the screen. Your thumb presses on power button, hoping it would give you another chance to retrieve your files.

All you have right now are fragments of him. And you cannot afford to lose your mementos.

Fortunately despite the poor state of your phone, the screen lights up. Soon a candid image of Mikey enjoying his meal appears. You swallow in your still-beating heart and your bottom lip quivers as you stare at a photo of him.

It was valentine's day last year when you both swore you won't celebrate like how typical couples do, but he only said so to prevent you from booking a table in the local restaurant. He had plans for you although Mikey wasn't normally the type to plan a romantic date. He was secretly studying the recipe of your favorite dish. It was the only time he cooked for you and frankly enough though it wasn't a michelin star dish, it was perfect. It was too salty but perfect. It's perfect because he made it for you.

A tear drops on the broken screen of your phone and your vision begins to blur again. But this time you're smiling as tears uncontrollably fall on your cheeks and on the floor. You hold onto your phone, putting it near your chest as if embracing it. Your fingers tighten around the device as you bend your back down, curling your body to the small device.

"I love you too, Mikey."

happy valentine's day.

Masterlist | TR Masterlist

[tea-forest-system]

You know, there's something about story protagonists with DID that bothers me that no one seems to talk about. Idk if I'm alone in this, but even if I'm not, I still wanna say it. It's a bit of a long post, I think, so there goes your warning! If you're not in the right headspace for long things that's okay. 💚

I hate, hate, HATE how every single character with DID/OSDD I've ever come across has perfect memory and the story through their eyes is always clear. At least to our experience as a system, that's really unrealistic. The whole POINT of OSDDID is to make you an unreliable narrator to your own story.

It's fine every once in a while! Not every system's amnesia and memory issues are this heavily pronounced in their daily lives. But seeing every piece of media that portrays us make the story very understandable sort of hits me like no one understood the assignment.

The fact no show, book or movie I've come across shows the system's childhood as a half-missing, broken, spiralling mess feels a little backwards. Your childhood and traumatic memories should not be clear and easily presentable. If it were, the system's whole purpose of keeping the brain safe would be defeated. It's so weird to me that so many authors and writers automatically go for a reliable narrator in a reliable narrative. It just doesn't make sense.

This issue gets worse, in my opinion, when there are legitimately traumatizing things happening to the system in current time and the story remains clear. When your life goes all wrong but you're clear all the time and know exactly who's in front (and usually it's the host, even when things go wrong in real time), your system maybe be going through one of these things. Either:

1. It may be doing something wrong in its function, which is a problem that the system should try to take care of to the best of their ability, to make things easier for the time being

2. The amnesia is more emotional in nature, and if that's the case, the story should hint at this being the case in any way, to make it clearer in a subtle way, or

3. Things are going way worse than you know and this is how it should stay. This could be a potentially interesting plot twist in a story, but please treat it with care and respect- this is an EXTREMELY stressful thing to go through and realize, coming from experience.

Either way, it's best to remember that: Having OSDDID pretty much automatically makes you an unreliable narrator. When you're a system- especially if you're also autistic, have ADHD or any similar disorder or neurotype- memories tend to be all jumbled up, filled with inaccuracies, missing pieces, misunderstandings in sounds, sceneries and many other things. Sometimes even current day-to-day can get just as scary, blurry and infuriating to understand.

We tend to be very unreliable narrators.

- Lotus 🦋

EDIT: typos