#Child of God WIP

[childrenofcain-if]

How would W react to an MC who is obsessed with them? Like they need help with a small thing? MC drop everything and run to the rescue. W doesn’t take care of themselves? Why bother when MC takes care of them.

W’s presence wasn’t always loud, but it was startling, an emotional thunderhead that you could feel rumbling in your ribs before it even fully cracked.

when the call came, their voice tried to sound casual but failed miserably. “i, uh, could use a hand with something.”

it didn’t matter what it was—something about a deadline they’d forgotten or a lamp they’d broken while pacing in frustration. you didn’t even ask. you dropped your coffee cup on the kitchenette counter, grabbed your jacket, and bolted out the door without thinking twice.

the quick walk to their suite was a blur and when you arrived, W was sitting cross-legged on the couch, their thin frame curled in on itself. they were wearing a mismatched pair of socks, one of them being yours—the blue one with the tiny stars that you’d lost weeks ago—and it was enough to make your heart ache.

“what’s wrong?” you asked, dropping your jacket at the door and crossing the room in three long strides.

W didn’t answer right away. their fingers were busy tracing invisible patterns on the edge of their sweater, which was so oversized it might as well have been a blanket. their silence stretched like a taut wire, and then, finally, they said, “i forgot to eat again.”

your chest tightened. not with anger, not even with frustration, but with the unbearable weight of love for someone who couldn’t always love themself. you didn’t say anything. you just walked into their kitchenette and started rummaging through cabinets and the refridgerator.

there wasn’t much to work with—a box of crackers, a bruised apple, a carton of almond milk. it didn’t matter. you threw together something small and easy and brought it back to W, sitting beside them on the couch.

they looked at the plate like it was a challenge, their fingers twitching toward it but never quite making contact.

“i’m sorry,” they murmured, their voice barely above a whisper.

“don’t,” you said, shaking your head. “you don’t have to apologize.”

“i do,” they insisted, their voice cracking. “you shouldn’t have to—”

“W,” you interrupted, your tone firmer than before. “i’m here because i want to be. because i love you. that’s it. that’s all there is to it.”

they looked at you then, their sapphire blue eyes watery and wide, and for a moment, you thought they might cry. instead, they reached for the plate and took a small bite of the apple. it wasn’t much, but it was definitely a start.

that night, after they’d eaten what they could and you’d cleaned up the remnants, you found yourself sitting together on the couch. W was curled against your side, their head resting on your shoulder, their fingers absently tracing shapes on your arm.

“you’re warm,” they murmured, their voice soft and sleepy. “and you smell nice. like fresh laundry.”

you smiled, pressing a kiss to their temple. “and you’re wearing my missing sock.”

“it’s a good sock,” they said with a tired chuckle, tugging at the hem of it. “better than the pairs i own.”

“you could’ve just asked for it,” you said.

they tilted their head to look up at you, their expression caught somewhere between a smirk and a fond smile. “and where’s the fun in that?”

***

later, as the night deepened, W began to fidget. their fingers, which had been drawing lazy circles on your arm, began to scratch at their own thigh, leaving faint red marks in their wake.

“stop,” you said gently, catching their hand in yours.

they flinched but didn’t pull away. “sorry.”

“don’t apologize,” you said, your voice kind. “just… tell me what’s wrong.”

they hesitated, their gaze fixed on the floor.

“i don’t know how to stop feeling like this,” they admitted. “like i’m… too much. or not enough. or both at the same time.”

your heart broke for the hundredth time that day. you pulled them closer, wrapping your arms around them like you could shield them from the weight of their own thoughts.

“you’re not too much,” you said. “and you’re not not enough. you’re exactly who you’re supposed to be.”

they didn’t respond, but their body relaxed slightly against yours. after a moment, they said, “i love you so much, i can’t bear the pain.”

the words were so quiet you almost missed them, but when they sank in, they hit you like a freight train. you tightened your hold on them, pressing a kiss to the crown of their head.

“i love you so much, i’ll bear it for you,” you whispered.

W looked up at you then, their eyes soft and full of something you couldn’t quite name.

“you mean that?” they asked tentatively.

“every word,” you replied, leaving no room for doubt. W said nothing but their smile was brighter than the lights in the room.

after a while, W whispered in latin, “te amabo aeternum.”

you recognized the words instantly, even though W’s accent was softer, less confident. i will love you forever.

“amabo te in aeternum,” you corrected gently, your voice warm and teasing. the structure mattered less than the sentiment, but you couldn’t help it. W’s latin was too endearing to leave unpolished.

“of course you’d fix that,” they muttered with a faint smile, their tone holding no actual irritation. “you always seem to know everything, don’t you?”

“not everything,” you said, smiling softly as you ran your thumb along the back of their hand. “just the important parts. like how much you mean to me.”

W looked up at you then, their blue eyes catching the light and you leaned in closer, your nose brushing against theirs.

“et ego te amo.” and i love you, you said, soft but firm, as if the words themselves could shield them from everything clawing at their mind.

they sighed, a sound that carried equal parts relief and exhaustion, and melted against you. “thank you for everything, mein stern.”

***

as the night wore on, W continued murmuring fragments of latin into the quiet—“es somnium meum,” they said at one point, and it took you a moment to piece it together. you are my dream.

you tightened your hold on them. “tibi in somniis et re in aeternum pertinebo,” you whispered back. i will belong to you in your dreams and reality forever.

that earned a smile from W, small but real, and when they finally closed their eyes, you stayed awake, holding them close. you whispered one final phrase into the night, one you weren’t even sure they’d catch:

“in saecula saeculorum.” forever and ever.

they didn’t respond, but their breathing slowed, steady and even, their body curled against yours with all the trust and affection that they could ever afford to give back.

[visceravalentines]

a different kind of hang-up

Randy's mom calls while they're in the middle of something, again. Benson tries his best to get Randy off the phone.

2.6k words. canon divergence, boys on the run. established relationship. blowjobs. smoking. Benson being a menace lol he can't handle not being the center of Randy's attention. read on ao3 here if that's more your speed.

Benson just can't keep his hands off him, even when his mom calls.

The phone rings for so long, so long, before Randy can get to it. The second it starts up Benson recognizes the ringtone and tightens his grip on Randy's hips, sags on top of him with his full weight. He pushes his tongue into his mouth with intentional fervor because he likes fucking around with fire and Mrs. Bradley is a five-alarm inferno.

Randy makes a panicked sound and tries to wriggle free to no avail. He taps Benson's chest, but Benson takes the hint and throws it away unopened, snags Randy’s wrist and pins it to the bed.

Randy twists his arm out of his grip and gives him a shove, leans his head away. "Benson–please–I gotta get this." He makes a grab for the phone on the nightstand.

"You really don't," Benson murmurs, taking hold of his jaw with one big hand and pulling his lips back into range.

Randy lets out a frustrated grunt that gets lost in Benson's mouth and shoves him again, harder, with both hands and a knee for good measure. Benson relents, topples lazily to the side and gives him this goofy, satisfied smirk that makes Randy’s stomach do a flip and he just can't deal with that right now.

"You're gonna get me in trouble," he complains as he sits up and snatches the phone.

"Aw." Benson stretches like a cat, folds his arms behind his head, all ribs and armpit hair and lean lines of muscle. "Now wouldn't that be a shame."

"Hi Mom," Randy says, hoping he sounds perfectly even-keeled and normal and not like he's been rolling around with another man in a motel bed. He remembers his erection at that moment, the worst possible moment, and blushes so hard he can feel the blood trading places. He grabs a pillow and shoves it over his lap like she can see through the phone.

"Randy, I don't like this." His mom starts every conversation like this these days. 

Randy bites back a sigh. "I know, Mom."

"This isn't a normal thing. Friends don't ask friends to help them move across the country last-minute without a plan."

They've been through this so many times he's lost count. At least his story gets more solid every time he repeats it. "I told you, Brian doesn't have a support system. I'm just trying to do a good deed." Brian is Benson, because Benson can't be Benson, because Benson is wanted for murder. 

Randy feels the mattress shift behind him and stiffens when calloused fingers brush against his skin. His mother's list of grievances fades in his ears as Benson worries at the waistband of his jeans. 

"Randy," Benson sing-songs softly at his hip. "Tell her you're in the middle of something."

Randy waves him away, tries to ignore the scratch of his beard and his lips on his skin and tune back into the conversation at hand. "You’re a kind and responsible boy, honey, people will take advantage of that." 

"I understand, Mom, but I'm–"

He feels the pinch of teeth on his waist, jerks and bites back a yelp. 

His mother is alarmed. "Randy? Are you okay? What happened?"

Randy scoots down the bed away from Benson, shoots him a dirty look. Benson rolls onto his back, runs a hand through his hair and flashes Randy an upside-down grin. 

"I'm fine, Mom. Stubbed my toe."

"Sorry," Benson says innocently. "You look fucking delicious, what do you want me to do about it?"

"Are you walking around barefoot? I raised you better than that, Randy. Where are you even walking, aren't you still driving?"

"Yeah, we just–we stopped to grab some food and…stretch our legs a little bit." 

Benson sits up suddenly and Randy flinches in anticipatory distress before he even speaks. "We can stretch something else if you want," Benson offers with a wiggle of his eyebrows.

Randy grits his teeth and ignores him, picks frantically at the seam of the pillow in his lap. 

"I bet you're eating like absolute garbage. All that fast food isn't good for your long-term health, you know. God knows you had plenty of that at–well. God knows you've had plenty of that." 

She clears her throat, recovers from the near-miss of mentioning the incident. The new incident. She’s had years of practice at sidestepping the elephant in the room, but nobody’s perfect, and this is a much bigger elephant. Randy has to admit that it's convenient, not having to dodge questions because they aren't being asked. 

"Where are you now?" she says by way of a subject change.

Benson crawls across the mattress on his knees and winds his arms around Randy’s waist, leans heavy against his back and sets his chin on his shoulder. He smells like sweat and nicotine. Randy grips the pillow like a lifeline. 

"We're, um…well, I think we're–"

He knows where they are. He knows exactly where they are. Eighteen miles outside of Glasgow, Kentucky. He knows where they're supposed to be, too, according to the fake route he mapped to sate his mother's anxious curiosity. He just can't quite remember what he told her last time, because his brain's still sloshing around in oxytocin and Benson’s kissing his neck, rubbing his chest, thumb catching on his nipple again and again. 

"I-I think we're about 40 miles from Benson," he says loudly, as though the volume adds certainty. 

"Benson?" his mom repeats, sounding alarmed, and Benson chuckles in his ear. 

"Careful," he mutters. 

"Branson!" Randy elbows Benson off of him and stands up, stumbles away from the bed. "I meant Branson. Sorry, I fuc–I messed up." He cringes.

Benson laughs, delighted. "Randy Bradley," he says in a mockery of Mrs. Bradley’s disapproving tone. 

"Randy Bradley," his mom says like an echo. "Watch your language." 

"Sorry. I’m sorry." Randy stalks away, pacing the length of the tiny room, shooting Benson a look of combined irritation and desperation that ultimately reads as pain. "It’s been–I didn’t sleep well last night." 

"You gonna tell her why?" Benson asks slyly.  

Randy flushes red hot, throws the pillow in his direction and misses by a mile. 

Benson winces. "Yikes, babe." 

He flops on his stomach and reaches for the cigarettes and lighter on the nightstand. His back is crosshatched with pink scratches, a familiar set of eight nail marks etched into his love handles. Randy feels a detached sense of something like pride in spite of himself. 

"We gotta work on your aim. Tone up those arms." Benson makes a jerk-off motion to help paint the picture. 

Randy drags a hand across his face. His brain is fraying at the seams. "You can’t smoke in here," he mouths at Benson, who looks him dead in the eye as he lights up and smiles around the cigarette. 

His mother is waxing vitriolic about the dangers of sleep aids. Randy heaves a harried sigh. "No, Mom, that’s–I don’t even know where to get benzos." 

"I do," Benson says helpfully. Randy shakes his head. Benson apparently takes this as an expression of doubt rather than exasperation. "I do," he insists. 

"So how many more days until you get to San Diego, hmm?" his mom says. "You’re not making very good time, honey. Just because you don’t have a job to come back to doesn’t mean you can just roam the countryside like some deadbeat hippie." 

"I know, Mom. It–it’s about the journey." 

"Fuck yeah it is," Benson agrees. 

"Brian’s never been out of Louisiana and neither have I, so we’re…we’re just seeing the sights together." 

"And how long will you be seeing the sights?" 

Randy leans against the wall, knocks his head back against the plaster. "I guess…I don't know. I’ll keep you posted, but…we’re not really on a schedule." 

Benson gets up from the bed and pads over. He invites himself into Randy’s space, boxes him in against the wall, touches his face, touches his ribs. He blows smoke out of the corner of his mouth as he looks him up and down. 

Randy can feel his own heart thudding in his throat, suddenly hyper-aware of his body and its proximity to Benson’s. It’s Pavlovian, almost, the way he draws him in like that. Derails his thought process like a punch to the gut.

"So what, this road trip just goes on forever?" 

"No, Mom." Benson hooks his fingers into Randy’s waistband. Randy meets his gaze, kind of forgets what he was saying. "Just, uh…just until we get to California, and then…and then back again." 

Benson takes another drag and exhales slow, opens his mouth and lets the smoke curl up and out. Randy breathes it in on reflex. His mouth waters. 

"Hang up the phone," Benson murmurs. His dark eyes are on fire. 

"It–I–I’ll be home before you know it," Randy says. 

Benson leans in and sideswipes Randy’s jaw with his chin, worries at his earlobe with teeth and tongue. "Randy." His voice is gravel and satin. The cigarette glows between his fingers in Randy’s periphery. He reaches further into his pants. "Hang up the phone," he whispers. 

"I hate to say it, but I just don’t believe you, Randy," his mom says. Her voice drips with disapproval, cold around a core of genuine concern. He knows she’s biting back so much more that she’d like to say, and he loves her for that. For trying to give him an inch even though he’s taking miles and miles. 

"I promise I’m okay, Mom," he says, tilting his hips towards Benson, who puts the cigarette between his lips and starts unbuttoning Randy’s jeans. "I would tell you if I wasn’t. I just…this is just something I need to do. Something I–I want to do." 

Benson catches his eye, winks at him. "Hang up," he mouths as he sinks to his knees. 

"Randy," his mom sighs. He closes his eyes and can picture her shaking her head. "I just worry about you, sweetheart." 

Benson’s pushing his shirt up and tugging his pants down and dragging his tongue up the ridge of his hip. Randy can feel the heat on his waist from the cherry between his fingers. In another life, that would scare him so bad it'd make him sick, the chance of getting burned. He feels differently about it now. Knows Benson won't hurt him, not without cause. Knows he could take it if he did. There’s something seductive about that, the power of that. The trust.

Of course, Benson’s hand on his ass and spit on his skin count for something too.

"Randy? Are you there?"

"Yeah…yeah. Sorry. I know that, Mom, I know you worry," he says. "And I’m sorry about that." 

It sounds hollow, even to himself, but he means it. He wishes it was different. That he didn’t have to lie. But that’s not an option, not for Benson, and he can’t be without him. They’re a package deal now and he likes it that way. Wants it that way. Wants him.

"Please, baby," Benson mumbles against Randy’s stomach. He sounds as desperate as Randy feels.

He bites his lip, combs his fingers through Benson’s greasy hair. "I gotta go, Mom. I’ll call you at the next stop." 

"Promise me." 

Benson takes one last drag on his cigarette before he holds it up for Randy to take. He blows soft and slow along the length of Randy’s dick, runs his hand down the back of his leg. 

The smoke wafts up to his nose and Randy white-knuckles the phone. He’s so hard he can’t think, can’t possibly wring one more coherent sentence out of his lust-addled brain. "Yeah, I–I promise, Mom. I love you." 

"I love you, honey." 

Randy ends the call and throws the phone in the direction of the bed. He misses again, dimly registers the thunk as it hits the wall. 

"Fuck, Benson," he breathes at the same time Benson says, "Fucking finally," and wraps his mouth around him. Randy groans and slumps against the wall, lets Benson pull his hips closer. He likes being put where he wants him. 

"You're gonna get me in trouble," he says again, bringing the cigarette to his lips. He needs it bad after all that. He thinks he can taste Benson’s spit in the filter and he closes his eyes, lets his brain go blank. 

Benson comes off his cock with a pop and looks up at him. "But I always get you back out, right?" His tongue slides in circles. 

It's miraculous every time he does this, puts his mouth on him like this. Randy's wished for a miracle for a long time. This wasn’t exactly what he had in mind, but who is he to turn it down, with its long lashes and bad language and hands all over him all the time?

"S-so far so good." 

Randy takes another drag, feels the high sweep up and over him. It makes him dizzy, makes him giddy. Erases any guilt about lying to his mother and makes him feel good, better than ever, or maybe that’s the man on his knees in front of him. 

Benson tilts his head, takes him in. "You’re hot when you smoke, by the way." 

Randy chuckles weakly. "Yeah?" He doesn’t do it, not often, usually can’t let go of the voice in his head screaming cancer. But Benson showed him how and he doesn’t cough anymore and in fact, he likes it more every time he tries it. "My mom would lose her mind." 

Benson pulls a wry face. "About the smoking, huh? Just the smoking?"

Randy smiles shyly. "Maybe some other stuff too."

"What can she say, she raised a fucking degenerate. And I, for one, am glad she did." 

With that, Benson decides the conversation is over and puts his mouth to better use. Randy gasps and moans as he takes him slow, inch by inch, hot and wet and relentless. 

He braces himself against the wall. He can barely stand, legs already shaking. Benson’s always telling him he’s easy, and he can’t tell if that’s supposed to be good or bad, but either way, he likes being the way he is. Benson’s fingers dig into the meat of his ass and hit a bruise, sending a sharp thrum of that off-key pleasure straight to his dick. Benson might be right. He might be a degenerate.

He flicks the cigarette butt into the nearby sink and makes it, which is lucky. Maybe his aim isn't that bad after all. Benson has him down his throat to the hilt, which is also lucky. He knows that someday their luck might run out, like gas, like cigarettes, like his mother’s patience, but it sure doesn’t feel like it, not now.

Randy puts his hands on him carefully, the way he showed him, cups his skull and scrunches his hair gently like he's precious, because he is. Benson makes a sound that strikes at his core and he almost loses it right then, but he doesn’t. Not yet. For a second he thinks about miracles, and then he can’t think about much of anything anymore. 

The list of things he can't mention when his mother calls gets a little bit longer. 

[pearlywritings]

To all the Childe kissers, I need your help

If you remember my Sometimes the name doesn't matter fic (part 1 and part 2 here), I am now writing the third part with the characters who won this poll in March.

I am already done with Wrio, Neuvi and Pantalone, but can't come up with the fitting idea for Childe (my imagination said bye-bye and made me feel like I exploited all the possible concepts and I don't really want to use the same one twice).

So, if you have any ideas for the gingerhead, his wife and how it's cooler that she is not 'Name' but specifically his 'wife' kind of scenario... I'd love to hear those.

[mabsart]

[Star Wars Rebels / Andor]

Post Zero Hour, two Fulcrum Agents meet for the first time.

[blackknight-100]

Finally got around to writing the Apollo fic I'd planned on. The lore is long and convoluted, but I'm in too deep, and this is probably about to become a series.

Anyway, here's an excerpt:

“Oh dear,” the voice coos, resonant and girlishly gentle. “Hera will not touch you here.” It is a pitiful reassurance. There are few who can truly stop her, and none who would do so, not even Zeus. Especially not Zeus. Not when he is father and infidel all at once, a lover to a titan and a traitor to his wife. “You do not need Zeus. I am here.” “He sent Boreas to help me,” Leto says, outraged and defensive, still in love. The island laughs. It is a bitter thing, born of sorrow and hysteria. Leto puts her hand over her swelling belly, frightened at the change. “Oh sister,” it croons again, “do you not know?” Know what? Leto knows nothing, has known nothing save rejection and pain, and miles and miles of land passing beneath her weary feet, none of it a place to rest. The wrongness itches in her head, harder to ignore. The air congeals, choking her; a face emerges – as familiar as her own. The woman bends towards her, titaness and island all at once. Her skin, dark as Nyx’s dread night, is dotted with stars, her eyes glow bright and cold. Leto gapes, horrified. “Asteria…?” “She comes.” Asteria touches her chest and Leto wakes up gasping.

[karamellisokeri]

Dislyte dump (August 24)

Basically everything i did this month excluding some that already have their own post. Im grinding alot more for merch its so 💀💀😭😭 ion like doing chibi LOL anyway more characters coming soon, i just need finish those to print some sample

Also i was like, damn i need to draw more chu yao, but i realized now i draw him alot

[zepskies]

About Dark Angel...

Not me already falling for Alec's smart-dumbass. 😭

Like because of his training and genetics he's highly intelligent, but he's also reckless and cocky and ughhhh I just wanna smush his face. 🤣❤️‍🔥

And kinda want to write something for him now...

(fuq!! Yet another WIP in my brain. 🤪)

[fazgoo-connoiseur-1987]

Giftbox: Writing Wip :]

2 months. William had been doing this for 2 months.

Once a week (sometimes more) he'd drive over to Henry's house and wait outside the door, praying he'd get an answer this time, going in regardless. His friend still hadn't returned to work and, although managing the restaurant by himself was draining, he couldn't bring himself to care. This was the happiest he'd been in years and it was all because of these little weekly meetings.

It was still cold out- the days just rolling into the new year- and William found himself pressing the doorbell again through shivers. He'd give Henry another few minutes, as a courtesy, because he was a friend.

Just as he was about to give up, he heard a muffled voice from beyond the door. Pressing his ear to it yielded nothing. He cleared his throat.

"Sorry, didn't quite catch that?"

"I said come in. Jackass." Henry's voice was coarse, quieter than he thought he'd ever hear it- William beamed.

The door was unlocked, it had been the whole time and William knew this (he'd rung out of Henry one night that he was hoping someone would break but alas, no luck). Charading normalcy was something he was very practised at, and it seemed to ease Henry into accepting his help- he had no chance otherwise.

Stepping inside, he closed the door behind him. Henry's house was almost as cold inside as the frigid January air and William almost considered keeping on his coat. That would've been rude though, so he resigned himself to shrugging it off and hanging it on Henry's coat rack, along with the scarf he was wearing. He kept the gloves on.

Slipping his dress shoes off, he placed them neatly next to Henry's work boots, in the same position they were last week, and the week before that. They hadn't been cleaned and William forced his eyes away from them before he could focus on the stains.

Moving into the living room, he scrunched his nose up a little, trying not to make a face. Henry was lying on his couch (expected), staring forward at the television. Boxes of rotten food littered the floor- William nudged one with his foot, half expecting it to grow legs and scamper away. He sighed.

"You're in the same clothes you were the last time I was here." He kept his voice as neutral as possible. This wasn't a judgement, it was an observation. Non of the sympathy he felt reached his tone though- Henry despised being coddled it would only hinder this.

"Mmhm." God, his heart ached to see Henry in such a state: curled in a ball, hardly able to speak unless it was to jab at him. Yet it was undercut with the low thrum of excitement, he had to restrain himself from bouncing on his soles.

"How about I draw you a bath, hm?" He searched Henry's face for a flicker of acknowledgement. "You can clean up while I make dinner."

William smiled at him, softly, restrained. He had to force his face to stay still when Henry finally met his eye. Christ he looked rough. So unkempt and tired, not having slept a wink in weeks. He nodded, a small movement that made the corner of William's mouth tug upwards. He bore teeth.

"Brilliant," Clasping his hands together, he began to hurry upstairs. "I'll be right back."

William paused as he reached the top, his head snapping left. Of course. Henry couldn't go upstairs. Not without his friend's support, anyways. That cream-white door at the end of the hall- little glow in the dark stickers adorning its surface, peeling slightly and dull from the lack of light that had graced them recently. It was still slightly ajar. It hadn't been touched.

Shaking his head, William let out a breath he didn't realise he'd been holding. No point in dwelling on it, he was here for a reason.

Running Henry the bath wasn't at all difficult, getting him in it was a different story. The man was heavier than what William could carry (that capped out at Elizabeth, who was just about reaching the age where she was too big for him to comfortably hold in his arms), and manoeuvring him so he could toss an arm over his shoulder and support him when he stood was frustrating. Henry had agreed to this but he was less than cooperative. William persisted, though, eventually getting him to stumble up the stairs like some drunkard (although Henry was, currently, sober. An increasing rarity).

Quickly turning Henry around before he could focus on that god forsaken door, he managed to get him into the bathroom with little incident. He pointed out the folded pyjamas he'd layed out for him, asked him if he needed anything else, and left when Henry grumbled at him, already starting to undress with his friend still in the room. Closing the door, William waited for a few moments, his heart pounding. This was perfect. This was absolutely and wholly perfect.

2 months ago he had taken a risk. One he never would've chanced if he hadn't been drunk and grieving. Yet it was paying off better than he could've ever imagined. He remembered driving home that night, doing 200mph the wrong way down the highway- half hoping he'd crash and not have to face what would come after. Already lamenting his decision. How utterly stupid that had been, how glad he was to be alive at this moment.

He passed the door at the end of the hall and muttered a quiet, sincere thanks to its late inhabitant.

[dreadfutures]

And lo! in the month of darkness And lo! his name destroyed And lo! he still whispers in silence And lo! he went into the void

The blood ran out, and I became a god.

[the-martyrfication-of-the-matron]

Now all I can think of is Aaron x laurance

y'know what's funny about that....

i finished the tats on the drawing (+gave aar more piercings)

i love your laur design btw

[asapostapocalypseif]

I'd rather starve myself than let my kid go hungry. Thank you for adding the option to have a little sibling, I'm so soft when it comes to children in games 🤧

There's two types of people:

• Anon, who takes care of the sibling

•My friends, who have the poor child on starving constantly,,,psksossk

[venusinmyrrh]

working title: carpe carnem

after a catastrophic blood sacrifice nearly claims the life of béa's best friend stephen, the brotherhood of the scepter of light is in shambles, and she has a mind to let it crumble. but the powers that be are unwilling to let its history end, and soon simon lovelace arrives, with orders to reform the brotherhood no matter the cost. after all, the past has power— and no matter how much béa tries to leave hers behind, it won’t be ignored.

“bow your head in the house of god, little girl, who do you think you are?”

[moe-broey]

Idk I also just hate the future actually. My ass is Always living in the past or simply day to day 💪💪💪

[deepfriedscallops]

(sketch > flats > finished) (click for better quality)

Liujiu Witcher AU, ft me having 20 tabs of historical hanfu circa Ming Dynasty open while trying to redesign Geralt's armor to fit Liu Qingge. Worth lol.

[morrigan-sims]

I'm going to fucking explode.

(aka, "the most (non-violent) physical contact Rook has had in at LEAST 3 years that didn't happen when he was dead/unconscious/injured.")

and here's the context from my prose write-up of this scene.

[walterdecourceys]

okay i sleep NOW