#Replaces a dead audio

[tfc2211]

Hasil Adkins – Out To Hunch (2002) Reissue

[findthefandom-orbecomethefandom]

Arthur Lester and John Doe weak to the blackest parts of their souls and violently severing the head of some guy a minute after waking...

is not as feral as I am about this episode

[copia]

delighted though i am for ghost's growing success i'm keeping my fingers crossed for an obviously low-budget ghovie like the chapters before it. because the papa nihil darth vader breathing and seestor's car crash montage and the shitty nihil ghost effects and copia living in the hall outside a bathroom with no door etc all add a certain je ne sais quoi

[bookshelfdreams]

the euphoria of correctly predicting a plottwist is only surpassed by the sheer delight of said plottwist being done in the dumbest possible way

[renthewerecatboi]

apparently sfm has decided fuck me, i am not allowed to move anything anymore

[heavenlybodies333]

Fuck Around and Find Out -S.R

Spencer Reid x coworker!reader

The BAU bullpen was unusually quiet for a Tuesday morning. Quiet—except for the unmistakable sound of Spencer Reid laughing. Honest-to-God laughing. Loud enough that Penelope Garcia had poked her head in from her office like a prairie dog, wide-eyed and clutching her oversized glitter mug.

The reason? You, standing frozen by your desk, half a scream still lodged in your throat, face flushed, heart hammering. A small airhorn—rigged expertly beneath your rolling chair—had gone off the second your weight touched the cushion. Spencer had timed it perfectly. You’d jumped six inches off the seat like you’d been tasered, papers flying.

Spencer was doubled over by the whiteboard, flushed and wheezing behind his hand.

You blinked at him. “You’re dead.”

He smiled sweetly. “You were the one who said you couldn’t be scared.”

“You know I only said that because you said you’d profile me into a fear response.”

“Which I did. Successfully.”

“You bastard.”

“Oh, don’t pout,” he said, brushing imaginary lint from his cardigan sleeve like the smug bastard he was. “It was scientifically sound. You’re most startled when your focus is fragmented—coming back from coffee, headphones in, already multitasking. Classic misdirection. And you’ve been smug about getting everyone else with pranks all month. Frankly, it was overdue.”

Yeah, there was no fucking way you weren’t getting revenge. You went easy at first. Psychological warfare. Little annoyances to lull him into overconfidence: Switching his sugar packets with salt. Changing the shortcut on his BAU laptop so every time he typed “unsub,” it autocorrected to “Daddy.” Leaving cryptic post-it notes in his books like “ask Garcia about the rash.” Until, Reid programs your ID badge to display “Dr. Spencer Reid’s Assistant” temporarily and you didn’t know how to change it.

That really annoyed you so you began to hit harder. On Thursday, his pens were replaced with identical ones that wrote in invisible ink. On Friday, the audio on his Bureau laptop randomly played recordings of you saying things like, “Dr. Reid, you’re so smart,” and, “You were right again, Spencer,” every 13 minutes. Loudly. In front of Hotch.

The kicker? You programmed the audio clip to be labeled “File: Lila.mp3.” Just for the look on his face. The following hour, he leaves a note in your file folder that just says “Nice try. MIT wasn’t even my hardest degree.”

The team caught on quickly. Morgan looked between you and Spencer during a morning briefing and narrowed his eyes. “Okay, how long have you two been hate-fucking?” Rossi raised an eyebrow but didn’t object.

“We’re not—” you started, just as Spencer said, “That’s not—”

“Wow,” JJ muttered. “That was in sync.”

You both shut up after that, but the damage was done. Even Garcia started keeping a whiteboard in the tech office with “Reid vs. You Prank Tally” scrawled across the top in glitter marker. But no one—not even you—expected the war to detonate the way it did.

That weekend, while on a stakeout in Denver, it came to a head.

You’d both been posted together, alone in the SUV, surveillance gear buzzing softly in the back seat. It was two a.m., freezing outside, the heater running on low to avoid drawing attention. You were in one of his FBI windbreakers, swamped in the sleeves. He smelled like coffee, ink, and his mother’s perfume—that subtle powdery scent that always lingered on his shirt collars, like the past was stitched into his clothing. And he wouldn’t stop smirking.

“What?” you asked, suspicious.

“Nothing,” he replied innocently. “You’re just… tense.”

“I’m cold.”

He turned toward you, eyes dancing behind his glasses. “I think you’re nervous.”

“You wish.”

“No,” he said softly, “I think you’re waiting for me to make the next move.”

“Is that what this is?” You gave him a sweet smile, your eyes narrowing. “Foreplay?”

He looked at you for a long beat. “Maybe.”

You blinked. The shift in tone was so subtle you almost missed it. His posture relaxed, but his gaze was pinning. Heavy. You didn’t move. Neither did he. Eventually, you turned and stared out the window. It didn’t die down after that.

The next morning at HQ, he dropped a file on your desk with the phrase “Checkmate, sweetheart” scrawled on the cover. Inside were ten pages of surveillance photos.

You. Switching his sugar packets with salt.

You. Programming the audio file on his computer.

You. Changing his pens. Wearing gloves as if you were stealthy.

He'd been documenting everything, always one step ahead of you. The smug bastard. And somewhere deep in your chest, something cracked open like a fault line.

The knock came just after ten. You had just stepped out of the shower, towel wrapped around you, when a knock came at your door.

You opened it without thinking. And there he stood. Spencer Reid. Wearing his FBI windbreaker, rain dripping from his hair, holding your misplaced badge and house key between two fingers.

“I assume this fell out of your bag in Quantico,” he said. “Or maybe you left it on purpose.”

You blinked. “Why would I—”

“Because you wanted me to come over.” There was no accusation in his voice. Just fact. You stared at him. You realized you were only wearing a towel. He realized at the same time. And yet—he didn’t move.

“I came to call a truce,” he said quietly. “But that might’ve been a mistake.”

You swallowed. “Why?”

“Because I don’t want to call a truce.”

You stared at him for a moment before replying, “You gonna stand there or come in?”

The door clicked shut behind him. You didn’t speak. You just looked at each other for one long, slow second. His eyes flicked down your body. He exhaled shakily. There was no one else around. No Garcia keeping score. No Morgan making jokes. No Hotch in the corner giving the two of you side-eye like you were one “Daddy” autocorrect away from being fired.

Now it was just you and Spencer. Alone. No whiteboards. No excuses.

“I’m not here for a prank,” he said finally.

You tilted your head. “No?”

“I wanted to call a truce. That was the plan.”

You took a step toward him. “And?”

His eyes dropped to your collarbone. Your towel had started to slip. “And now I don’t want a truce.”

He didn’t move. Not until you reached for the zipper of his jacket and pulled it down, slow. Peeling it off his shoulders, letting the rain-damp fabric drop to the floor. His hands stayed at his sides, fingers twitching.

“You’re wet,” you murmured.

“You’re—” His voice cracked. “Wearing less than usual.”

You smiled. “Observation skills still sharp, Dr. Reid?”

“Terrifyingly so.”

Your fingers brushed the hem of his shirt. “So what happens now?”

His answer was not verbal. He surged forward—suddenly, finally—and kissed you like he’d been waiting to do it for months. Years, maybe. You gasped into his mouth as his hands slid up your waist, firm and wanting, towel falling to the floor as he backed you toward the wall.

His mouth was on your throat then, hot and hungry—sucking, biting, tasting. You let your head fall back, a soft gasp escaping as his hands roamed. His touch was worshipful but firm, like he was imprinting every inch of you into memory. His fingers cupped your breast, thumb brushing your nipple—slow at first, then faster, until your knees nearly buckled.

“Bed,” you whispered.

He swept you there like it was nothing. Your legs hit the mattress and you fell back, pulling him with you. Spencer climbed over you like a man possessed—crawling between your thighs, kissing down your collarbone, dragging his mouth across your sternum and lower.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he said, pausing at your navel, voice hoarse. “I mean it.”

“Reid—” Your hand tangled in his hair. “Don’t stop unless the building’s on fire.”

He groaned. “That’s a reasonable threshold.”

And then his mouth was on you. Hot, careful, devastating—his tongue circled your clit with the same concentration he gave to serial profiles and rare languages, and Jesus Christ, you had underestimated him. He licked and sucked until your hips were arching off the bed, thighs shaking around his shoulders, breath breaking into gasps you couldn’t control.

“Spencer—fuck—” Your hand fisted in the sheets. “Don’t stop—”

“You’ve been like this the whole time?” he asked softly, like he was marveling, the fucking menace. “When you were programming my computer? Or when you were planting that Lila file? You were this wet?”

You let out a little whine. “Reid—”

He groaned, shifting above you, and then you felt him—the hot, heavy drag of his cock against the inside of your thigh. One slow thrust and he was teasing you with it, rubbing along your slick folds but not pushing in.

“Beg,” he whispered.

You almost laughed—almost—but then he gave a tiny roll of his hips, barely nudging the head of his cock into you, and your pride crumbled like sugar glass.

“Please,” you hissed. “Fuck, just—please.”

He pushed in slow, groaning into your neck, both hands braced above your head as he filled you.

You clawed at his back, your ankles locking behind him, his name falling from your lips in broken syllables.

“You feel—” he whispered, panting, forehead against yours, “you feel so fucking good, I can’t—”

“Harder,” you begged, nails raking his spine. “Please.” He was deep. Thick. Stretching you in the best kind of way. You arched beneath him, clinging to his shoulders, breath stuttering.

Pushing in to the hilt and staying there, letting you feel every inch before pulling back. Then again. Again. Your body rising to meet him, gasping for more.

Your fingers clutched at him, his chest slick against yours. You could feel the taut pull of muscle in his back, the trembling restraint in his hips as he tried not to come too fast. The way his mouth found yours again and again, greedy and messy, like he’d never learned how to stop.

“Fuck, you’re so—tight,” he rasped. “I thought about this—god, I thought about this so many times.”

You bit his shoulder, gasping as he drove into you, angle perfect now, hitting that spot that made you see white. “You waited too long.”

He shifted his weight, one forearm bracing beside your head as the other hand snaked between your bodies, fingers finding your clit with the precision of someone who cataloged sensations like data points.

“Fuck,” he muttered, watching your face contort with pleasure. “You look so pretty like this.”

Spencer’s name ripped from your throat as your orgasm hit hard, you came around him hard, mouth open in a silent cry, walls clenching, trembling. “You feel so amazing—” His rhythm faltered, hips stuttering, and then he was groaning deep in his chest, teeth sinking into your shoulder as he came with a ragged, helpless sound. You felt it—the hot rush of him, buried deep—and the way he trembled above you, forehead dropping to yours, breath shattered.

The room was silent except for your gasps. Then, after a long, aching moment, he moved—carefully rolling off of you, still panting, pulling you into his chest like he couldn’t not touch you.

You didn’t speak. Neither did he. The silence stretched for a beat. Two. His fingers drifted along your back, soft and absentminded.

Finally, you broke the silence with a muffled, “So… truce?”

Spencer let out a breathless, wrecked laugh against your hair. “No,” he said. “Absolutely not.”

You lifted your head. “Excuse me?”

“We’ve gone too far. The war is eternal now.” He kissed your temple. “We’ve crossed the Rubicon.”

“You’re quoting Caesar after fucking me raw in my own bed?”

He grinned against your skin. “Would you expect anything else?”

You groaned, flopping back against the pillow.

Spencer turned onto his side, propped his head up on one arm, and stared at you like he was studying something rare.

You tried not to squirm under the weight of it. “What?”

“I think this might’ve been inevitable.”

Your voice was dry. “The sex?”

“This.” He gestured between the two of you. “The… whatever we are.”

Your heart thumped. “You saying you want this to happen again?”

Spencer leaned in and kissed you—soft, unhurried, less like a demand and more like a promise. He pulled back just enough to whisper, “I’m saying I already know it will.”

a/n: 3 PhDs and not one in self-restraint

⋆•★⋆ MASTERLIST ⋆★•⋆

[jane-the-good]

CALEB: deceptive solitude

WORD COUNT: 3.5K

SUMMARY: Caleb comes home from a mission and is not very happy that you would accept anyone else’s help besides his

NOTE: I hope this card is Caleb’s equivalent to the scratch off event secret times audios bc those were such a treat and I love them dearly and need Caleb’s more than I need water ♡

WARNING: smut, unprotected sex, oral sex, angst, Caleb is wildly over protective, panty sniffer allegations are true

AO3 caleb masterlist

The sound of the front door creaks open, and a wave of anticipation surges through you. Caleb is home.

The thought alone floods your chest with warmth, it shifts in your ribs, so soft and certain. You listen as he moves through the entryway, the drop of his bag hitting the floor with practiced ease, a sound so familiar it should be comforting. Should feel like the final piece slipping into place. But something feels...off.

Seven days without him. The house has been too still in his absence, the silence stretching wide in all the spaces where he should be. Before he left, there was a rhythm, his assuring presence, his steady hands, the way he always seemed to know exactly what you needed before you could even ask. Now, the absence of his touch, his voice, has hollowed something out inside you.

You smile to yourself, already picturing him stepping into the room, that half-smirk tugging at his lips, the one that always makes your breath hitch. He’ll be tired, sure, but he’ll be here. He’ll fold you into his arms, press his lips to your hair, let you trace the shape of his face like you’re learning him all over again.

The sound of shower door closing resonates through the bathroom. The quiet, deliberate click of the lock sliding into place.

You hesitate. A frown tugs at your brow. He hasn’t even come to see you.

Slowly, you rise, something uneasy curling in your blood as you step toward the bathroom. The door is cracked just enough for the light to spill through, soft and golden against the dark. You push it open.

Caleb stands at the mirror, steam curling around him, a towel slung low on his hips. His hair is damp, drops of water trailing down his spine, but his gaze isn’t on his reflection. It’s on the gun in his hands.

He cleans it with careful, methodical precision, each movement slow, deliberate, more ritual than necessity. The Caleb you know, the one who meets you with warmth even when he’s exhausted, is absent. In his place is something quieter, heavier. The usual light in his violet eyes has dulled, replaced by something distant, something unreadable.

And that’s when you feel it, the sinking, the knowing, the truth pressing in like a storm on the horizon.

Something happened. And whatever it is, it followed him home.

Your eyes meet in the mirror, just for a second. But there’s no relief, no warmth in his gaze. Just a flicker, a glance over your form, and then he looks away. Back down to the gun. His hands move with practiced efficiency, steady, detached, as if you’re not even standing there. Why could he possibly need to clean it right now?

"Caleb?" Your voice is quiet. There is a distance that wasn’t there before.

He doesn’t answer right away. The rhythmic slide of metal, the soft click of a piece locking into place, those are his only responses.

You step forward, bridging the gap just slightly. "Hey," you try again, softer now. "Are you tired?"

"Not really." Flat. Short. The words drop heavy with stones, meant to sink you down rather than reel you in.

Your frown deepens. That unshakable gravity that always pulls him toward you, it’s missing. And you don’t understand why.

"Did something happen?" The concern in your voice sharpens, threading through the air. "Something on the mission?"

He shakes his head, eyes still fixed on his hands. Still moving. Still working. “Not with the mission.” The words are clipped, cool. A dead end.

But you don’t stop. You step closer, your pulse picking up, something uneasy curling in your chest. "Oh? I—You seemed excited to come home before you left. And now… now you— What changed?"

Silence stretches. The air feels heavier now, spreading too wide in your lungs.

"You don’t have any clue?"

His voice is low and quiet, but laced with something sharp. Accusatory. Like you should already know.

Your stomach tightens. "Caleb…"

You step closer, close enough to touch him now, but he doesn’t move. His hands are still, finally, but his posture remains stiff, guarded.

"What’s wrong?" Your voice barely makes it past your lips, soft and uncertain.

His eyes cold, unreadable. His jaw clenches, and there’s a flicker of something darker, behind those purple eyes. You’ve seen that look before, but it’s always been reserved for moments of danger, not moments like this, and especially not at you.

He sighs, his fingers tightening on the counter. “Did someone help you while I was gone?” His voice is tight, like he’s barely holding himself together.

Your heart stops for a moment, your eyes widening in shock. “What?” you ask, confused. “What do you mean?”

Caleb’s gaze hardens, his expression shifting. “You know exactly what I mean. Did someone step in for me while I was gone?”

The question hits you like a sudden punch to the gut. How does he know? And it wasn’t something you even asked for. You were being followed, or at least felt like it. He- whoever he was, stepped in to walk with you to and you didn’t want to be alone. You were pretty sure he was a hunter, he looked familiar at least. That was it though? You even stopped a few blocks from the house so he wouldn’t know where you live. It was a weird situation yeah, but you didn’t ask for any of it, you did the best that you could on your own.

You stammer for words. “I… How did you—?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he cuts you off, his tone sharp, as if brushing it aside. “It’s taken care of.”

You freeze, something in his words sending a shiver down your spine. Taken care of? Was that his way of saying he’d done something to them? You back away a step, the weight of uncertainty making you dizzy. You can’t tell if you’re scared because of the vague threat in his tone, or if you’re terrified of the possibility that he has hurt someone.

You take another step back, your heart hammering in your chest. You can’t breathe, the anxiety swelling, and before you even realize what’s happening, you’ve backed out of the bathroom entirely. You feel the suffocating nature of cool air on your skin.

The dull clink of the gun as it hits the bathroom counter rings in your ears, but you can't bring yourself to look. You keep your gaze fixed on the tiles. Your pulse hammers in your throat, too loud to ignore, too frantic to quiet. What did he do to that person? What has he been doing, all this time?

“Wait,” Caleb’s voice, softer now, cuts through your panic. “Wait, look at me.”

You hesitate but eventually turn, too shaken to stay in place. Caleb is standing a few feet infront you, a calculating look on his face.

He walks toward you, his eyes softened now, his posture less rigid. The tension in his body is still there, but now it’s buried beneath something gentler, almost apologetic.

“Come here,” he urges, his voice low, as he gently guides you to the bench in front of the bed.

You hesitate for a moment before sitting down, your mind still caught in a whirlwind of confusion and fear. You don’t want to be scared of him, but the way he’s reacted, it doesn’t feel like the Caleb you know. You’re not sure who you’re facing now.

Caleb kneels in front of you, his hands resting on your knees as he searches your face, his eyes searching for something. His gaze softens even more, and you can see the weight of something in his expression. He reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, his movements slow and deliberate.

You flinch instinctively, pulling away from his touch. His eyes flicker with what almost looks like regret.

“You look so scared” he murmurs, his voice low.

"I... I just didn’t want to be alone," you admit quietly. "It was dark, and I was nervous... he walked me home.” You swallow hard, your pulse racing. “Caleb, what did you mean when you said it was ‘taken care of’? Did you—” You can’t bring yourself to finish the sentence, the fear still clawing at your throat.

He closes his eyes for a moment, taking a slow breath before speaking. “I didn’t hurt anyone.” He shakes his head, his voice rougher now. “I’m pissed that someone thought they could take advantage of you.”

You feel a flicker of relief, though your heart still feels uneasy, heavy with the words you want to say. “But—”

He cuts you off, his hands cupping your face, the gesture so gentle it makes your breath catch. His thumbs trace your cheekbones, the touch meant to calm, but there’s something about it, something too careful, like he’s afraid of breaking you. Like he’s afraid of losing you.

"I understand. But it kills me that you had to be in that position in the first place, especially when I’m not around. I hate that I have to expose you to that." His eyes darken, the guilt thick in his gaze. "It feels like it’s my fault."

A strange warmth spreads through your chest, but it’s tangled with something else. A thread of unease you can’t untangle. This should feel like comfort. But instead, it feels like a weight pressing down, shifting the shape of your thoughts before you can even hold onto them.

"But you…" You hesitate, searching his face for something solid, something familiar. "You’re so different right now, Caleb."

His sigh is long, weary, as if your words ache in his chest. He leans in, pressing his forehead against yours, and the world narrows. "My emotions go a little haywire when I think about you," he admits, his voice barely above a breath. "It’s hard to control them sometimes."

You sink to the floor with him, your knees pressing into the carpet as you wrap your arms around his shoulders, pulling him close. His body is warm against yours, his scent, faint traces of soap and something uniquely him, filling your senses. You straddle his torso, feeling the solid rise and fall of his chest beneath you.

“You didn’t really seem like you missed me,” there’s an ache beneath your words that makes his heart clench.

He exhales, brushing his fingers through your hair. “I’m sorry, Pip. I wasn’t thinkin straight.”

Caleb tilts his head, his dark eyes searching yours. He looks so tired, his lashes heavy, his body worn, but still, he watches you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters.

“I think you’re exhausted,” you say softly, letting your forehead rest against his.

“Yeah,” he admits, his fingers grazing the small of your back, grounding you. “To say the least.”

His heart pounds beneath your fingertips, a steady, rhythmic drum against your palm as you trail your hand through his hair.

“Let me take care of you,” you whisper, leaning down to capture his lips with yours.

A shudder rolls through him, his hands tightening around your waist as he kisses you back, the hunger in his touch pulling a gasp from your lungs. His lips are warm, insistent, an intensity in every movement, reverent, desperate, all at once.

“Fuck, you’re so good to me,” he murmurs against your lips, his voice low and thick with desire, but there’s something else too, something deeper, a yearning that stays unspoken but presses heavy along you both.

The heat builds, an undercurrent of something hidden deep within. His voice, soft but full of something raw, and the warmth in your chest blooms. You press closer, every movement feeling like an answer to a question neither of you have dared to ask aloud. Your bodies align, fitting together with an ease that only comes from a connection that runs deeper than touch.

His hands, gentle but insistent, trace the curve of your back, as though memorizing the feel of you, each brush of his fingers igniting something inside you that feels both familiar and new. The weight of him beneath you, the way he hardens at your touch, sends a pulse of heat through you, and you can’t help but roll your hips toward him.

He groans, low, guttural, a sound that twists your stomach. You break the kiss, trailing your lips along the column of his neck, feeling the frantic beat of his pulse under your mouth. It’s a rhythm that matches your own, frantic and yearning. The air around you feels charged, shrinking until there’s nothing left but the electricity of your touch.

You tug at the towel that separates you, the tension thick as you reach for him, the feel of him so hard in your hand sending shivers down your spine. His breath hitches, eyes closing in the quiet surrender to the moment. You watch him, his jaw slack, eyes fluttering closed, aware of how every breath he takes seems to echo through you. You move slowly, savoring the intimacy, your own breath ragged, unsteady.

“God,” he groans, head tipping back as you lower yourself, your lips replacing your hand.

His fingers thread through your hair as you take him in, his grip tightening when you hollow your cheeks, drawing him deeper. The sounds he makes, the soft curses, the way he moans your name, make your skin flush with heat.

“darling” His voice is dripping slow and warm with honey “please”

You hum your approval and his hips jolt in response at the vibration.

Slowing your pace, you let your lips linger as they trail back up his stomach, the heat of his skin beneath your mouth causing your chest to tighten with something more than desire,  with a tenderness you were so ready for.

His fingers twitch against your back as you take your time, pressing soft kisses along his ribs, over the curve of his collarbone. His heartbeat is steady beneath your lips, grounding you, pulling you in deeper.

You pause at his chest, resting your cheek against him, just listening to his heart beat so quickly, feeling. His hands find your waist, his touch reverent, but he doesn’t rush you. He just holds you, letting you take what you need.

The moment you notice his heart beat start to slow, you straddle him once more, your hands bracketing his face as you meet his gaze. His dark eyes are heavy with something tender and raw. it makes you exhale a trembling breath.

“I missed you,” you whisper, brushing your thumb along his jaw.

Caleb swallows hard, his hands sliding up your thighs, slow and deliberate. “I can tell,” he teases

And when you kiss him this time, it’s not hurried, it’s devotional.

“Did you sleep in my shirts every night?” he asks, his voice thick, his fingers playing with the hem of your tee.

You nod, letting him pull it over your head. “And I wore your hoodie when it got cold one day.”

Caleb groans, his hands skimming up your bare sides. “I’m so jealous they got to touch you.”

A laugh bubbles past your lips. “Now you’re jealous of fabric?”

He hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties, pulling them down and tossing them onto his nightstand, where they’ll probably never be found again. His eyes flicker up to yours, so possessive and aching.

“Incredibly jealous of fabric,” his hands gripping your hips as you reach down between you, guiding him to your entrance.

The moment you sink down onto him, a soft, trembling gasp escapes your lips, your body stretching to take him in, molding around him in a way that feels both overwhelming and deeply right, like returning home from an exhausting work trip.

Caleb exhales a shuddering groan, his head tipping back as his fingers tighten on your hips, anchoring you to him. “Fuck, you’re a dream,” you breathe, voice thick with emotion, with relief. His hands slide up your back, tracing the curve of your spine.

You brace your palms against his chest, feeling the steady, rapid thrum of his heartbeat beneath your fingertips. Slowly, you start to move, grinding down against him as he meets you with deep, unhurried thrusts, each one deliberate, savoring, worshiping. The way he fills you, the way his body moves against yours, it steals the breath from your lungs, sends warmth unfurling through every nerve in your body.

“Say it again,” he rasps, his voice a desperate plea, his hands guiding your hips as he thrusts up with more pressure, his need for you tangible in every movement.

You lean down, pressing your forehead against his, letting him feel your breath, your presence. “I missed you, Caleb,” you whisper against his lips, your nails digging into his skin as you let yourself fall completely into him.

His eyes darken, but it’s not just desire, it’s raw and aching. There’s desperation in the way he looks at you, like he needs to feel you, to prove that you’re here, real and his.

He sits up suddenly, capturing your lips in a kiss that steals your breath, that makes your heart stutter. His hand cradles the back of your head, holding you close as if letting go would mean losing you all over again. Then, with a quiet, reverent sigh, he rolls you beneath him, his body covering yours, pressing into you with a warmth that feels all-consuming.

His movements are slow but purposeful now, every thrust measured, intentional,  he’s savoring every inch of you, making up for the time apart in the only way he can in this moment. You cling to him, wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling him even closer, desperate to keep him there, to make this moment stretch forever. The friction, the heat, the way he fits against you, it’s dizzying, overwhelming, and it pulls a trembling cry from your lips.

His forehead presses to yours, his breath fanning across your skin. “You know you’re mine,” his voice a rough whisper, but there’s no demand in it, only longing, only a plea wrapped in certainty.

You hum softly, a sound of agreement, of surrender, your body trembling beneath him.

His hand slides in your hair, but there’s nothing forceful in the touch, only need. “Tell me you understand,” he’s barely holding together.

You open your eyes, meeting his, letting him see everything you feel. “I understand.” you breathe, and the way he exhales, like you just gave him the one thing he needed most, makes your chest tighten with something impossibly tender.

His lips brush against your temple. “Thank you, love.”

The room is warm with the scent of sweat and lingering traces of his shower. You can feel a bead of moisture slide down your chin, his, yours, both of yours together, as he buries his face in the crook of your neck.

Each thrust sends you spiraling closer, your fingers clawing at his back as your body tightens around him. The pleasure builds, hot and all-consuming, and then, blinding, shattering, you break into millions of pieces and float through space.

Caleb follows, his grip on you tightening almost desperately, the pressure of his hands grounding you as his body shudders with the force of his release. A strangled groan slips from his lips, raw and heavy, the sound carrying a mix of pleasure and something deeper, something more vulnerable. The way his chest rises and falls, the way his breath catches, it’s not just the culmination of desire, but the release of a weight that’s been pressing on him for far longer than either of you had realized.

For a long moment, neither of you move. There’s only the sound of your breathing, your bodies pressed together, hearts hammering in sync. His weight settles against you, grounding you both in the reality of this moment, of each other.

He doesn’t pull away. Instead, he stays there, his forehead resting against yours, his breath warm against your lips. His fingers, which had held you so firmly before, now trace slow, absentminded patterns along your ribs.

“I should have come to you first,” he whispers, voice thick with emotion. “Instead of being angry. I—” He exhales shakily, his thumb brushing against your skin. “You make me feel better. I should have just gone to you.”

You reach up, threading your fingers through his damp hair, brushing a strand from his forehead. His eyes flutter shut at your touch, like he’s savoring it, like it soothes something deep inside him. A warmth spreads through you, wrapping around your heart. You tilt his chin up slightly, guiding his gaze to yours, wanting him to see what he means to you.

“I’m so thankful to have you back.” and you truly mean it.

Caleb’s mind churns with thoughts he can’t voice. The truth sits heavy on his chest, yet he can't bring himself to share it. The fear of you hating him, of you seeing him for what he truly is, gnaws at him. You don't deserve the darkness he carries, especially when it's something he's supposed to shield you from. It’s his way of protecting you, even if you can’t see the lengths he goes to, how far he’s willing to stretch himself just to make sure you never feel the cold of it.

He will always do whatever it takes, to keep you safe and by his side.

[000yul]

fun things about the IS6 trailer for "Jie Garden"

near the tail end of yesterday's 6th anniversary stream arknights dropped an IS6 promo trailer in the form of a retro promo ad for some place called the "jie garden" that turns out to be analog horror. it's pretty cool

watch it here (bilibili)

there's a number of funky (creepy) things that happen that are easy to miss - and i missed a bunch myself, so I decided to watch it again now and write down all the things i spotted/the bilibili comments pointed out

(first things first: the 'jie' in 'jie garden' isn't the same 'jie' as the dead sui sibling, but it's definitely punning on it. there is literally no way they're not referencing her.)

the video subtitle: "A thousand years ago a tianshi sought to live in seclusion, and therefore built this garden as a place to retreat from society."

however, the audio says 'coffin chamber' (mu4shi4 - 墓室) instead of retreat from society (bi4shi4 - 避世)

much more under the cut, bc this is a LONG post:

the sign in the pond is probably supposed to be something like "this pond is dangerous, please keep away" but with the censored text it reads "pond please come close" :)

"About three hundred years ago, after consultation with the tianshi's descendants, a section of Jie Garden was opened to the public, and over time, it has become a good place for the residents of Baizao to visit on their days off."

after the text gets censored, the last section becomes, simply: "a place for the residents of Baizao."

white (bunny?) silhouette appears here after a flash of white. hello!

this text - "do not touch" is mirrored. in other words, it's you, the viewer, behind the glass!

the chinese comments here remark on how the tickets to the garden (pictured) look awfully like the kind of paper money you burn as offerings to the dead

(also, when they read out that phone number, the text briefly changes to 80808-88808. no idea what this is supposed to imply though)

the video then changes to talking about 8 "do not do this" warnings that guests to the garden should avoid

spot the difference! on the sign on the bottom right, the text changes from "Deep water, keep a safe distance" to "Water, keep a safe distance" as a character vanishes

by "do not" number 3, the news byron on the bottom now just says "Today's weather " without talking about the weather at all (at the beginning of the video, it said "Today's weather: cloudy") people of baizao, you good?

6: "do not make a racket". screen goes black, and then it comes back weird

7: "don't damage the articles" (articles as in items/objects etc. - 器物) . except the character 器 is briefly replaced by 祭 before disappearing:

note that 祭物 means sacrifices. rip to this guy and his now mysteriously blacked out face

8: "do not trespass into restricted areas". only, some freak shit starts happening with the video - there's a quick blink-and-you-miss-it frame of a cemetery:

and, among other things, "do not trespass into restricted areas" transforms into " want town":

and then rapidly becomes "sui area":

love whatever's going on in the background here.

then a bunch of "sui" characters appears on screen:

and finally. jie. as in jie's name. it's her.

jie garden is jie's grave.

the end :)

[audliminal]

It's just a game, right? Pt 2

Masterpost

"It's like. Crazy, y'know?" Bernard's voice echoes in Tim's ears as he fiddles with his mask. "Like, when they started posting, I was kinda meh about it? I mean the first few videos they posted were just like. Basic shitty, scrambled audio, and the first clues were just like, real simple. Basic word replacement stuff; mostly vigenères, right? But now it's- they're using everything! The current drop is. It's layers, man. And I think it's intentional."

"Isn't it supposed to be intentional? I thought that was like, the whole point of an ARG."

"No I mean, like yeah obviously the clues are intentional, but like. The way the difficulty curve is just increasing. When this started it was so easy, but I don't think it was because they like, didn't know what they were doing or anything. Which, cool yeah that makes sense, you want people to buy in before it gets super hard or whatever, but there are, like all these threads that never went anywhere. And everybody kind of wrote them off as red herrings because they didn't seem to fit into the narrative that we had so far, but I can't stop thinking about them, you know?"

"I mean, they could still be red herrings, couldn't they?"

"Well, technically, yeah, but like. Why? It's one thing to have a dead end that maybe calls back to a previous clue or, like, reaffirms some detail from before but having something completely unconnected seems like a weird choice. Especially when the creator keeps telling us to dig deeper."

"What the fuck does that mean?" Tim asks with a laugh.

"No that's the thing!" Bernard's voice goes intense, and Tim momentarily stops putting his mask back together. "Literally every fucking drop those exact words are hidden somewhere in the mess of encryptions, and as things get more complicated, it's showing up more not less. And that together with all the fucking loose details that don't seem to fit in anywhere? I'm literally on the verge of going back to the beginning of the whole thing and solving it from scratch, bc I think we're missing a lot." Tim kind of forgets, sometimes, how similar he and Bernard are, but the in his boyfriend's voice is one he's intimately familiar with. That combination of obsession and frustration - and obviously it's not really serious because like, it's an internet game, but it doesn't matter what the stakes are, being stuck on a puzzle fucking sucks, and he can't exactly patrol what with his broken ankle, so maybe a fun, no-stakes challenge would be good for him.

"We were planning on hanging out on Friday, so what if you walked me through it from the start, and maybe together we can come up with some answers?"

"Seriously? Dude that would be so awesome! I will teach you everything I know about code breaking!"

"I mean, I do know some things, you know. You think I didn't have a spy phase as a teenager?" Tim smiles at Bernard's responding laughter. It'll be nice, he thinks, to mess with a puzzle where nobody's life is at stake.

[houseofanticipation]

It's impossible to count the number of times you've imagined this moment. Late at night, under the covers; in the bathtub, and the shower; on slow days at the bookstore, the summer before senior year; during Mr. Madrigal's long, droning lectures. You fantasized so vividly you could see each scene on the back of your eyelids, hear each sound between breaths. Many a time your hand migrated southward, almost of its own volition. If you were in public, you'd hold it against your crotch, pressing it into yourself with the force of your clenched thighs. In private, you'd be far less subtle.

In all those fantasies, you never imagined it would look quite like this.

The hallway smells like cigarettes and industrial cleaner. The haphazardly patterned carpet is coming up at the edges. The yellow tube light overhead might be attempting morse code, the way it flickers. Paint peels from the door in front of you, and one of the metal digits in the room number has been replaced with one that doesn't quite match: room 233. You raise your hand, your knuckles inches from the door, and then you pause. You're not sure if you can go through with this.

Before you can decide, the door opens anyway.

You started posting pictures in your first year of college. It was just your tits at first. You'd been quietly following those subreddits and tumblr blogs for a while, and you thought it would be a bit of fun, a little thrill. You didn't expect the response you got: dozens of people telling you how much they'd enjoyed it, asking for more. So you posted more, and the people asked for different things. Post your ass. Post your cunt. Post your fingers in your cunt. Post audio of you moaning as you came. The more you revealed of yourself, the more attention you got, and the more attention you got, the more you wanted to show. People wanted to send you tips, so you set up a Cash App address. You never got much, a few dollars here and there, but it was nice to get a free coffee now and then.

And somewhere along the way, apparently, you let slip that you were a virgin.

The message came late last semester, from a Cash App user whose name was just a string of numbers. It read, "I will buy your virginity for $100,000. So you know I'm serious, here is $7000 for you to keep, deal or no deal. Let me know if interested."

It was like one of those hypotheticals you talk about with your friends at the dinner table. Would you work nonstop for a year if it meant you never had to work again? Would you cut off your hand if it meant you never had to die? Would you let a stranger from the internet take your virginity for a hundred thousand dollars? You thought about it for weeks. The 7 thousand in itself was a windfall you never could have imagined. It was the new laptop you needed, four times over. It was a large iced coffee ever day for three and a half years. After graduation, if you were smart, it could be your living expenses for the better part of a year. But a hundred thousand might be a house, or a car, or a few years of freedom to pursue your goals. And when you asked how you could trust him to pay when he'd gotten what he wanted, he told you he'd be happy to pay up front.

So here you are, in a dingy hotel, face to face with the broad-shouldered, potbellied older man in front of you. "I saw you through the peephole," he says. There's something impish about him. Maybe it's the toothy grin, or the way his ears stick out from his head, or the obvious glee in his voice as he looks you up and down. "My, you're much better in person. Come in! You got the money then?"

You nod. You didn't leave the Lyft until it was there in your account.

"Good," he says, throwing the dead bolt. "Let's get to it then, shall we?"

"What should...I mean, how do you want to..." you feel yourself talking strangely. Breathing in the wrong places, words tumbling over each other. "Maybe we should...talk first? Get to know each other?"

"No need for that," says the man matter-of-factly, unbuttoning his shirt. His chest is smooth, his skin a mottled pink. He waves a hand at your body. "Go ahead and get those off."

Back in high school, one of your recurring fantasies involved Jason Meier having his way with you in the back of that beat up convertible he used to drive. That old thing used to get you so wet. It was a piece of junk, but something about the exposure of it...In the fantasy, he's driven you out to some secluded spot outside of town. Cicadas drone all around. The night sky shines bright with stars. He cups your face with one hand, strokes your cheek with his thumb, asks you if this is your first time. He kisses the side of your mouth, then your jaw, then below your ear, then down your neck. As his hands undo the top button of your blouse, he tells you he'll be gentle.

The man is watching you expectantly. With his shirt on, he looked like a portly old man. Without it you can see that every inch of that stocky build is hard muscle. That pink skin strains against his mass, muscle rippling beneath it as he moves. "What are you waiting for?"

Your legs tremble. Your knees feel like they're about to buckle. You can hear your heart pounding in your ears. Your body has never done this before. You didn't know you could feel this kind of fear, and yet there's nothing to fight, nowhere to flee. You agreed to this. You decided this was what you wanted. Slowly, you pull your shirt over head.

He groans in the back of his throat, a long, growly sound. His face is a mask of focus, the impish joviality gone, his eyes fixated on your breasts. "And the rest."

You kick off your shoes, pull off your socks. An inch at a time, you slide your shorts and panties over your ass, down your legs, past your trembling knees. You step out of them, and now you're completely exposed. You cross your arms over your chest, then lower them when he grunts disapproval. Almost urgently, he unbuttons his pants, pulls out a long, rigid cock, and begins to stroke himself.

You didn't discover internet porn until your senior year, and before then the only penises you'd seen were a few drawings in your health textbook. In the fantasy, you unbutton Jason Meier's pants and fig. 7.5, "The penis becomes engorged when in state of arousal," pops out of his underwear. You take it in your hands, feeling the weight of it, the girth, and look up into those beautiful brown eyes of his.

This cock is much...realer. It has bounce, texture, even a sound as his hand slides up and down its length. It's longer than the one in that old fantasy, too, and it leans slightly to the left. For years you've wondered what it would be like to see a cock in person, and now that you're here it terrifies you.

"Come here," says the man, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Get on your knees."

You falter. "You didn't...I mean, we didn't agree to that."

"I bought your virginity," says the man. "You ever suck cock before?"

You shake your head.

"Then your mouth is just as much a virgin as your cunt. Get down here."

It's almost a relief to get off your legs, the way they've been threatening to give out. Close up, you can see the purples and blues of the veins under his skin. The head of his cock pulses with anticipation as your lips part, your tongue extends...

You don't think you can do this.

Then his hand is on the back of your head.

You always imagined Jason Meier whimpering as you took him into your mouth. You were never quite able to picture what he would feel like between your lips, on your tongue; the movie camera of your imagination always panned up at that point, to focus on his face. He would let his head fall back in pleasure, eyebrows knit with sensation, lips slightly parted. Now, though, there's no camera to pan. You are here. This is real. And his powerful hand is pushing your mouth onto his cock.

A sound you can't control comes out of you. Your back arches, your hands flail, and then by pure instinct they're on his belly, pushing against him, away from him. Spit runs down your chin, and you wipe it away with the back of your hand. "I'm sorry," you say, looking anywhere but at his face. "I'm sorry, I can't, I thought I could do this but I can't."

There's a horrible darkness in his voice. "I already gave you the money."

"I know, I'll give it back, I'm sorry." The words trip over each other on the way out of your mouth. "I'm really sorry, I shouldn't have, I just, I thought I could..."

His hand is on the back of your head again, and this time his fingers are curled tight into your hair. He jerks your head back, forcing you to look at him, and his eyes are cold and predatory. "I'm not interested in returning what's already bought and paid for." He jams himself back into your mouth.

You always imagined yourself savoring it, taking your time to explore every inch of Jason's length with your tongue, but there's no time for that now. The veiny, throbbing thing in your mouth bypasses your tongue entirely, forcing past your uvula. You gag, then gag again. Your stomach churns and you convulse as your body tries to remove the foreign object, but the man just pushes harder. Your eyes water as he slides deeper, deeper, making your throat bulge, your limbs spasm. As his balls touch your chin, you close your eyes and try to relax your throat.

He holds you like that. You gag for a third time, and thick saliva explodes through the gaps around his cock, dripping down your chin and collecting in a long, dangling rope. Tears roll down your cheeks as you try to acclimatize to the feeling, try to convince your body that nothing is wrong. You think you've got it, and then he moves slightly, and you're gagging again. He groans, grips your head tighter, and in the back of your throat you feel his cock swell slightly. He likes it when you gag for him, says a voice in the back of your mind. The motion is pleasurable for him.

You've got another problem rearing its head. You can't breathe. It was fine at first, but the man shows no interest in freeing up your airways, and in all the gagging and crying, you haven't exactly been conserving your oxygen. You pat his leg, trying to signal to him, but all he does is clap you on the side of the head. Your ear rings, you gag again, and his cock throbs. Black walls are closing in on your vision. The effort of struggling against him becomes too much, and your arms fall to your sides. Your eyelids flutter. You're going to pass out. You're going to pass out, and then what will he do to you?

But just before the world fades to black, he pulls your head back again. You feel every inch of his cock as it slides out of your throat. He lifts your face, and your eyes struggle to focus on his as you take lungful after lungful of glorious air. Drool spills across your lips, but you don't care. You're alive.

The man slaps you hard, leaving a stinging impression of his palm on your cheek. You whimper. Two of his fingers are in your mouth, pushing on the back of your tongue. Not knowing exactly why, you close your lips around them and shut your eyes.

"That's better," he says.

The first time you saw a male sex toy in use was in an ad before a porn video you were watching. You were taken aback by the way the performer had pounded it over his cock, barely more than an extension of his hand. You're reminded of that image as he parts your lips again, and the rape of your throat begins in earnest.

You haven't thought about Jason Meier in years, but at this moment he's the only thing keeping you sane. As your face rams up and down, up and down, you retreat to that beat up convertible, and Jason's soft, thoughtful face. As the man tightens his grip, Jason runs his fingers through your hair. As the man grunts and growls with pleasure, Jason coos your name. With each stroke of his cock down your throat, each spasm of your body, you focus on a different part of Jason's body: his large hands, his long fingers, his shoulders, his jawline, his liquid brown eyes. By the time the man finally releases your hair, you can barely feel your body any more. The convertible is far more real than the squeaky motel bed. The hands on your body are Jason's, soft and tender.

He climbs over the center console straddling you. You lock lips, feel your tongues in each other's mouths, kiss so deeply that it feels as though you share the same breath. He pulls the lever to lay your seat back, and then he's over you, on top of you, lifting your skirt, pulling your panties to the side.

This is the part where, in the old days, you would have slipped a finger or two inside yourself. But this time you don't have to. This time you can feel him inside you, really feel him, and he fills you up like your fingers never could. There's some pain—they told you there'd be pain, didn't they, your first time—but it falls away to the thrill, the lust, the pleasure. Jason whimpers as he slides into you, deeper, deeper, and you moan into each other's mouths as his pelvis meets yours. You take a moment to savor it, breathing each other in, and then he begins to thrust.

You feel drunk. It's exactly like you always imagined it, and somehow better than you could ever have expected. Each movement of his hips brings another sensation: a spasm in the arches of your feet, a hitch in your breath, a churning, swirling need in the depths of your abdomen. Deeper you tell him, harder, and he obliges, pulling you into him, and him into you.

You can feel the orgasm building, but it isn't like any you've had before. Every time you've ever cum, you've been in control. This time, Jason is in control. Jason decides when you cum, how you cum. One hand supports his weight as he leans over you, and the other slides up your belly. You used to watch those hands obsessively. The way he held a pencil, the way he bit his knuckles when he was thinking. Now that hand slides up, caresses your breast. Now that thumb brushes your hair out of your face. Now those fingers close around your throat.

You know you're safe with Jason, but the pressure on your throat triggers some animal fear response in you. You try to squirm away, but his arm is strong, and his hand his firm. Your hands go to his wrist. "I don't like that, stop." He just smiles. It isn't his usual sweet smile, either. This one is cruel. Predatory.

Your face feels tight. Your eyes bulge. You're beginning to panic for real now. "Jason, seriously, stop!" You beat at his arm with your fists, but he easily takes both your wrists in one hand and pins them over your head. You try to kick at him, but he's already past your defenses, between your legs, pushing them uselessly apart. His grip tightens, his rhythm increases, his cock swells inside you. He's getting off on this.

All at once you're back in the hotel room. The man's sweaty red face is inches away from your own, and the lust in his eyes is obvious. His cock seems to push deeper with every thrust, and the horrible thing is that the orgasm is still coming. It's close now, you can feel it, and it's like he knows exactly how to bring it out. You feel floaty, tingly, and that awful pleasure is welling up inside you, a pot about to boil over...

"That's right," he says, his eyes locked on yours. "That's what I was waiting for. That perfect mix of...pleasure...and...fear." He punctuates each of these last three words with a long, deep thrust, and it's these that send the orgasm spilling over. A choked moan pushes itself out of you as your back arches, your toes curl, your legs wrap involuntarily around his waist, tears roll down your cheeks. That floaty feeling has combined with the orgasm to create something like how you imagine heroin must feel; a wave of mind numbing, soul deadening ecstasy. Your insides feel hot, and at first you think that must just be what it feels like when you cum from sex, but then you see the look on his face and realize that he's cumming too. His grip relaxes and he pounds away a few more times at your now-limp body. You stare at the ceiling as he moans, buries his face between your tits, pumps round after round of his warm, thick cum into your cunt, your womb. After one final push he collapses onto you, his cock still inside you, his bulk crushing you into the bed. You don't move.

He strokes your cheek. Fondles your nipple. Kisses your neck. Then he kisses your mouth, his tongue pushing your lips open, his breath like damp earth. You barely see him.

It must be almost ten minutes before he finally gets up, his limp cock sliding out of you at last. You can feel his cum dripping from your cunt as he puts on his underwear, then pants, then shirt, then shoes. "The room is paid for the night," he says with his hand on the door handle. "Thank you for struggling. Taking someone's virtue is so much better when you actually get to take it.

You don't respond.

You don't know how long you lie there, motionless, dripping cum. Oddly, the man who just raped you isn't the one burned onto your mind's eye. Try as you might to return to that sweet teenage fantasy, all you can see is Jason Meier as he held his hand to your throat, and that cruel, predatory smile on his face.

[tfc2211]

T-Bone Walker / Joe Turner / Otis Spann – Super Black Blues (1969)

[frostedsugarcookiehearts]

⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚ i wanna live inside your mind, next to your favorite songs

୨ৎ

charlie had been streaming for what felt like days. you two had decided to do one of your classic "joint streams", where you two would stream together and swap off who was playing. for the first few hours you played hello kitty island adventure, chatting to charlie's chat while he sat next to you and stared at you dopily like an obedient puppy. then you two swapped to super mario party and charlie got waaay too competitive for a casual game between boyfriend and girlfriend.

"yes! let's fucking go!" he cheered, a victorious grin on his face. you two booted up a round of all-star swingers (which was just baseball) and he absolutely obliterated your character. he even got up and stretched before the round started like the tryhard he was. his character, king boo, cheered as your character, princess peach, cried. the parallel to real life was pretty funny— in game you were devastated, while in real life you just sat there. charlie, feeling bad that he didn't at least give you some mercy (and because chat was grilling him for being a tryhard), he gave you a kiss on the lips. "sorry. i'm a sore winner," he grinned sheepishly.

after around seven rounds of mario party, it was now charlie's turn to take over stream. he started playing "a game about digging a hole" which, no duh, was about digging holes. he started playing animatedly, not even noticing your drooping eyes and the little yawns that escaped your lips.

eventually, he glanced over to his side to see chat blowing up.

k4lenz: omg look at perny !!

slimeypaws: HELP CHARLIE SHE'S DEAD 😭

medlarmeadows: charlie look to your left!

ilov3thestarz: AWW she's so squishable

as per chat's request demand, charlie turned to his side to see you curled up in the gaming chair, resting your head on the armrest and asleep in the fetal position. an amused smile tugged at his lips, a fond expression replacing his competitive one. "aww," he cooed, echoing chat's sentiments.

he turned down his game volume completely and swiveled his chair towards you. "chat," he whispered, voice low. "let's be quiet, okay? don't wanna wake her up."

resting his forearms on his thighs, he scooted a little closer and turned to chat as if they were there. "psst," he leaned closer to the camera. "should i turn on some calming music while she sleeps?"

chat exploded with yes's and omg couple goals! of course, no chat was without its trolls ("play four big guys!"), but overall they were quiet and the TTS decreased significantly, and when someone did, it was mostly nice things, and charlie had turned the audio down to a very quiet volume.

he draped a fuzzy blanket over your frame, gently putting a hand under your head and sliding a pillow under your head smoothly. he also squeezed fufu, your bunny stuffed animal and "co-streamer", into your arms.

the chat exploded with ideas of calming music, but charlie was determined to find great music on his own. so he typed into youtube "music to fall asleep to", like a grandma using the internet for the first time. he clicked on the first result, classical music. however, he played it for a second and the grating music was more likely to wake you up than lull you into deeper sleep. begrudgingly, he took chat's advice. one chatter said:

slimeypaws: just stalk her spotify smh. amateur

"shit." he muttered under his breath. "yeah, that's a good idea." charlie pulled up your spotify, pernylovesuu. the profile picture was you with fufu tucked under your chin, smiling as the sun framed your face perfectly. charlie's face flushed. "she looks cute in that photo," he murmurs, glancing from the screen towards your sleeping frame. "i mean, she always does." he chuckles fondly, shaking his head gently. "it's just a good photo."

clicking onto your playlists, he found sleepytime. perfect! he turned on the first song of the playlist, say yes to heaven.

"guys, this is my version of heaven." a goofy grin crosses his face as he leans over, ruffling your hair gently. charlie glances from the camera to you and whispers, "okay, chat, i'm gonna move her over to the bed." as careful as a mouse, he slips his hands under you and cradles you to his chest.

moving across the room and cringing when the floorboards creak, he places you down on the bed and tugs the blanket up to your chin, adjusting fufu so the bunny was propped up next to you.

"there, baby. cozy in bed." he smiled proudly, pressing a kiss to your forehead before going back to his stream.

of course, this was charlie, so he ended up shrieking and waking you up with a start. to apologize, the next you streamed a glimmering tiffany & co necklace adorned your neck. slimecicloset identified the necklace to be around $1,250.

guilt is expensive.

୨ৎ

divider credits @bernardsbendystraws. inspo for this fic:

(turn up to full volume. hard to hear otherwise b/c charlie's whispering!)

THIS audio i clipped from slimecicle vod's "slimecicle got a new girlfriend" OMG it's literally my favorite slimecicle stream.

aaand my newly implemented taglist!!

@slimeypaws enjoy 😋 !!

[abbyfmc]

Yandere story idea #26:

A sixteen-year-old boy named Daniel (or whatever name he might have) arrives after a desperate call from one of the cleaning staff at the house where he lived. She told him that she found his mother (Y/n) lying on the floor, apparently from the second floor, amidst piles of glass shards, which was dangerous since she was seven months pregnant. Her husband, named David, was dead next to her, who seemed to still be alive.

Daniel entered shock to see how 911 took their parents. His mother was alive when he arrived at the hospital, while David was taken to the forensic immediately. The maid who had found them contacted the whole family, including Daniel's paternal grandmother, Margaret. That night, Daniel loses his parents and his unborn sister, because of a stranger. Margaret is also destroyed by the death of her son, daughter -in -law and unborn granddaughter; That is why Daniel stays with her. During and after the duel, Daniel does not understand how everything happened and intends to investigate everything thoroughly. This traumatic event left him marked, feeling that until he caught the murderer, he will not feel alive again. His grandmother, who is in charge of him, supports him on his purpose, because he is confident that David was not the culprit of everything and Daniel also trusts his father, since he always treated his mother with enough love and affection.

In his father's autopsy bruises and several serious bullet wounds were found. The footprints in his body were not clear (Y/n), nor of Daniel (obviously, since he was hanging out with his friends) or anyone who was in the house. In his mother's body there were signs of struggle and bruises who were not known or anyone known either. This gave the impression that both were attacked when they were alone, what Daniel scores as the first clue.

Daniel gives the police to the security cameras of his house through his father's laptop, and there he managed to capture himself as days before the catastrophe an unknown man dressed in black was around the house at night, which he reminded him His mother's constant concern after he told his father about having seen that strange subject, also remembering how she mentioned that he was felt persecuted by whom Daniel suspected that he was the same person.

The only one of the recordings Daniel could not bear to see was that of the death of his parents for obvious reasons, but managed to find out thanks to the officers that the first to be attacked was David, trying to defend (Y/n), and then She was the unfortunate that unfortunately was pushed from the stairs. The audio was clear and revealed clues about the identity of this murderer.

Among the discussion that stood out the most from the intruder against his father, was the following: "If it hadn't been for you, (t/n) and I would be very happy! But you got in the middle!".

And when the stranger struggle with his mother and tried to kiss her by force, the most striking phrase was: "If you had loved me, none of this would have happened" and after (Y/n) shout in despair that released her and tried to attack him, he pushed her sharply by the rail of the second floor, which could only break if it was forced by human hand, since it was replaced recently.

In addition to that, fingerprints have also been detected on the stairs of both the unknown person and the married couple. As far as we know, the intruder watched the house for a while, broke in, first attacked David and then tried to wrestle with (Y/n), ending up killing her and her baby in the process.

The police were unable to find the killer, as he fled the scene without leaving anything behind. That didn't stop Daniel from deciding to investigate what could have happened and he already had the first small piece of the story thanks to the key dialogues on the recordings.

1: This killer was already known to his parents, or at least his mother, and it seems that he was a stalker or an ex-boyfriend who hated David.

Daniel asked his grandmother not to bury his mother's body yet, and managed to convince her that it was to investigate more thoroughly what had happened. He even told her what he had discovered about the possible story behind it. This reminds Margaret of how David had told her years ago, during (Y/n)'s first pregnancy, when he worriedly told her how his wife was receiving calls from a certain Alex (that's what Margaret thought his name was) who was tormenting (Y/n).

Daniel convinced his grandmother to pressure the authorities into investigating the origin of the fingerprints, as well as the electronic devices of both parents (and she also convinced them with some money involved). Daniel also tried to remember, but he couldn't remember much more than his mother's mention to his father that the guy hadn't left her alone since he was in college.

Daniel decides to pack up his things and move in with his grandmother. After cleaning up with his grandmother's help, he finds documents from his parents, his personal documents, the will that put the house and the family money under Daniel's name when he came of age, and some torn and crumpled letters with very interesting content. Margaret gave them to the police in case they were evidence.

It turns out that they were letters where the crazy stalker described his hatred for David and his crazy obsession for (Y/n), except for one where he got seriously angry with her after finding out that she was pregnant again. He threatened her to abort the baby and leave David, or he would kill her family and force her to do it and then kidnap her.

From here I can think of several endings:

Case solved: The classic good ending. The police find the killer who turns out to be a yandere who was madly obsessed with (Y/n), to the point of having committed the severe crime. The yandere killer could have put up resistance; tried to flee or could have turned himself in to the police. * I also imagine that (your son/[Y/n]'s son) sold that house as soon as he could. He obviously wouldn't want to return to a house where his mother, father, and unborn sister were brutally murdered. * And if the yandere is sadistic and very vengeful enough to take it out on an innocent person (in this case, your oldest son), to the point of sending him sick letters describing his horrible feelings towards you and what he always wanted to do

Unsolved case: The police get nowhere (either because they are simply lazy or because the yandere killer escaped), which motivates Daniel to become a law enforcement officer (probably with another identity), to the point of becoming part of the FBI (or any institution in your country that resembles it) to investigate that case and bring justice for his parents. *Your son could end the yandere killer's life and use his influence to get his way. *Or your son could simply use his position to catch the yandere killer and watch him rot in prison.

-The End.

For a long time I wanted to explore the idea of ​​a yandere story BUT from a third party's point of view; in this case, darling's son (yours) who slowly finds out about the history between you and the yandere who killed you. He ended up seeing how an unrequited obsessive love (or the end of a relationship if the yandere is an ex) led to the massacre that changed him for life at such a young age.

[julfr]

Psychological Afflictions because games keep getting them wrong and I wanted to take a shot at them

Bit more detailed info here: vvv

Mental Health Risk:

- it would be a hidden statistic like Vitamin C or Cabin Fever. Called Resilience or whatever

- reduces slowly over time but there are factors that impact it negatively or positively. Like being near dead bodies and getting attacked (negative) and stayin’ alive or reaching milestones (positive)

- there are specific factors that either make their respective affliction worse or help cure them by increasing resilience

- when it reaches 20% remaining you get the risk affliction. At 0% one of the three psychological afflictions manifests, depending on player history/actions

Depression:

- usually other games just apply a grayscale filter and say “you sad :(“ and call it a day

- this ones theme is Progress Hindered. You can sleep or you sleep too long and also your skill progress gets stunted and reset a bit because screw you.

- 50% chance to get either Insomnia or Hypersomnia. The latter makes the survivor sleep longer by 1-5 hours but doesn’t restore fatigue for those extra hours

- “something or someone to hold onto” I made these with a multiplayer setting in mind. Being social is better to mental health than being isolated

Anxiety:

- it’s basically the risk affliction but with light effects. Supposed to be the easiest to manage

- it has a bar that increases. The higher it gets the higher the frequency of effects.

- they are more to keep the player on edge than affecting the survivor directly. YOU are affected as well, don’t just ignore this. Was that twig snap just a sound or a wolf nearby. Who knows

- also another effect I forgot to put there: Fake suffocation risk. All the visual effects for the suffocation risk affliction including the UI info but as soon as the counter reaches 0 nothing happens. Get trolled lol

PTSD:

- main theme: past trauma (obviously)

- gives Insomnia and problems with struggles

- big thing is Flashbacks: they happen randomly or when fitting triggers are present (let’s use a wolf attack and a Sprain/Break affliction as an example). There are Audio and Visual aspects

- Audio: Sounds Echo or repeat. A wolf sound is heard and fake sounds continue for a while after that. Sometimes there isn’t a wolf anywhere nearby anymore. Or sounds get replaced like a broken stick sound gets replaced with a broken bone sound

- Visual: Usually accompany the audio. It’s a subtle but noticeable overlay at lower opacity. Like a wolf at 50% opacity jumping the survivor, charging or standing (there. MENACINGLY). Or a fake affliction notification but you didn’t actually get the affliction

Ya I think that’s every important thing. Thanks for reading until here

[wallys-left-eyeball]

ok after two (edit: 3.5) hours i am finally done viewing what i THINK is the whole update. my thoughts and a few significant things i noticed!!!!! (spoilers obviously)

disclaimer: i’m a crazy welcome home fan but my memory is literally so bad, so please point out if i’m digging deep into some detail that’s been there since last update or however long ago 💀 eddie’s my fav for a reason bless (this mess)

🍎 they publicly executed wally in the town square :( no but seriously what. so far he is removed from the main page’s opening graphic, main page’s bottom banner, and welcome home page’s top drawing (which has been renamed to “_and_barnaby”

🍎 on that note, on the neighborhood page, wally’s canvas is gone and he is no longer looking at us. on top of that, the button to leave says “go back” and his “that’s the most!” audio was replaced with a freaky distorted phone ringing.

🍎 this could be something i just hadn’t noticed before, but remember when the old stickers page had that one gif that, when you opened it, would rotate between the characters’ eyes faster and faster until it would linger on wally’s eyes? that gif is completely normal now. it still lingers on wally’s eyes, but the gif doesn’t become distorted or move quicker anymore. once again seems like wally getting his main character energy wiped

• i just realized i’ve been essentially listing things abt this update but that’s not what i’m here to do!!!! go look at it for yourself!!!!!

🍎 but yeah. i’m very deeply worried about him. did anyone else notice that in this update he sounds kind of dead? except in the radio, where he sounded like…. as alive and cheerful as ever? weird….

🍎 edit 2: creds to @/citrineaura for leading me to /ringring... oh my god wally :( i feel SO bad for him AAAUGHHH... i still can't tell if he is talking to us as the viewers or talking to W

🍎 edit 2: stole this from @/citrineaura as well but i 100% see how it could entirely be the whrp silencing wally and even being behind playfellow. why would the staff do that to him if they didn't have some kind of sinister plan????

🏠 oh but on the note of wally being slowly scrubbed from the website, home is cleaned up too. the black goop is replaced with a paint splatter, and the black spiral behind home is replaced with a cutesy little scribble. makes me wonder if home is behind all this

🏠 edit 2: i no longer believe home is behind this just because of /ringring. wally seemed too friendly with home lolz

🏠 home’s gif on the neighborhood page is now called “seeyoutogether”

🦋 way less deep of a detail but frank’s got lil eyelashes now :3 my non-binary king

🌸 the cards on floriography all have different flowers on them. i’m not a flower nerd and i’m too lazy to deal with flower language but i’m sure some nerd is gonna post “🤓☝️erm well this flower means frank is gonna die” or something so. lmk when that happens!!

🌸 edit: thank you to @/capribornio for giving me da links to the deep stuff 🙏 but WOW that was. wow i was really tearing up there. so moving and so so sad and so relatable </3 i don’t even know what she’s yapping about but whatever it is is incredibly relatable

🌸 edit: to me it sounds like. julie’s switching between a human and a puppet consciousness???? i don’t really know how to describe it, but it doesn’t really seem like she’d just be masking with a super strenuous voice like that, like that takes WORK. idk!!!!!

🌸 i kind of interpreted that as if she was grieving someone. maybe feeling guilty for someone’s lost life? but it could also be not that deep, and maybe something terrible will happen to her if she doesn’t make all the flowers bloom

🌿 jonesy joyful green cool version of red guy dhmis

🌼 god frank and julie were my fav duo before but NOWWWW. literally wlw and mlm solidarity i love them SO MUCH……. my fav icons ever

💻 the logo(s) have less mold than before on them… still mold there!! but idk it looks like it healed a little bit

💻 i’m genuinely SO BAD at args but there doesn’t seem to be any outright hidden links/websites this time around? spoil it for me in the comments if there is but idk…. even awayfrompryingeyes is down which makes me think maybe W (the curator of it) got caught? or something happened to them?

💻 edit 3: clown posted that awayfrompryingeyes was back up so i had 2 hop on.... tbh i have nothing to say about it other than that i think wally could be the one sending all this info to W and also oh my god did they actually drink the bottle of joy. jesus

• edit 3: to end this on a stupid note: this is so niche but when i saw the bottle of joy i immediately thought of we happy few because the game also has bottles of joy LMFAO

i think that’s all i wanted to talk about (other than some sillies i’m posting separately)!! obviously i didn’t cover all of it, these r just some thoughts i had while going through it all :D ugh such a STUNNING update as always!!! frank and julie’s vas COOOOOKED with this one….. literally so adorable and expressive UGH fantastic update as always <333

edit 4: i posted a couple resources: brightened toybox photo / hidden frank photo (with my theories)

[samjokjak]

as someone who both knows morse code and has written many papers breaking down works of music, i need people to understand a few fanon misconceptions about the divine beast SOSs:

the signals are in time with the music (except for daruk), so urbosas SOS is actually the fastest, followed by revali, daruk, and finally mipha as the slowest. the SOSs do not change speed or become more frantic.

they are all roughly (if not exactly) the same volume pre-audio-mixing, and do not grow louder or softer.

the other signal present that some identify as "seek and destroy" (ill be calling it Bob for convenience) shows up in three different forms between all the divine beast themes. only one instance of Bob sounds like "SAD", and only if you squint your ears.

none of the SOSs are gradually overtaken or drowned out by Bob. the SOSs just loop until you stop them by activating the first terminal.

i dunno, i get that current fanon around the signals is simple and compelling, but i feel there's a missed opportunity for deeper storytelling there. if we want to headcanon the divine beast music as reflecting how things went down between the champions and the blights, what scenarios would we come up with if we tried to match what we can actually hear?

how would the story of each fight play out if we tried to interpret details that fanon ignores, like:

urbosas and daruks signals are constant and regular. miphas and revalis are intermittent and irregular. their respective Bobs do the same. why?

daruks signal and its Bob are the only ones not in time with the music. why?

miphas Bob is cut one dit short. why?

the SOSs play in one ear, while Bob plays in the other. however, the guys both get the right ear, while the gals get the left. why?

when the first terminal is activated and the SOSs stop, they are replaced by Bob in both ears (except in medoh). Bob is delayed a beat in the right ear. in both ears, Bob stutters or glitches every fourth Bob. why?

in medoh, activating a terminal starts up a Bob in the left ear and a whining sound in the right instead of two Bobs like in the other beasts. the whine is not a constant flatline, but is instead a meandering climbing melody. why?

medoh is the only beast to feature its pilots theme music. why?

Bob trails after revalis SOS, but just barely precedes daruks. it alternates between doing both with mipha. urbosa and her Bob both kinda do their own thing. why?

the speed-up that people hear is actually the whole music track increasing in tempo when you active the last terminal. only Bob is playing by now; the SOSs stopped four terminals ago. does this have any relevance to the blight fights or is this a present day link thing?

Bob is always lower than the SOS in pitch...except for daruks. why?

Bob is always makes the musical interval of a perfect fourth with the SOS...except for urbosas, which is a dissonant minor second away. why?

...and thats enough for now. maybe you find something in there inspiring. run with it, and show me what you come up with!

also, yes, i will be getting back to posting art on my other account once the current hyperfixation wears off. dont worry, people irl think im dead too, but ill be back eventually.