#TO BE CONTINUED MAYBE

[sloppysequinz]

Meet cute

Mel wasn’t expecting this delivery to bring her to an apartment complex. Two extra large pizzas, plus two six packs added on thanks to the newest DoorDash feature, would usually go to one of the run-down frat houses by the college. But here she was.

She typed the apartment number on the ticket into the pad by the gate. It rang for a moment before a woman’s voice answered.

“Hello?”

“Hi, this is your Dasher, I have two pizzas and two—“

“Oh fuck yeah, come on in.” The voice cut Mel off and a loud buzz sounded as the gate unlocked. Mel chuckled a little. The girls at whatever bro-y girls night this was must be eager for their pizza.

Mel sprung up the stairs and turned the corner, mind focused on the best route to her next delivery. But her mind was brought to a thudding halt as she approached the apartment and saw Her.

Only the screen door was closed, the front door was wide open. Inside was a tableau straight out of Mel’s daydreams. A brightly lit and cozy living room. A coffee table littered with food wrappers, takeout boxes, weed paraphernalia, empty beer cans, and an enormous bong. A TV playing a silly comedy show. A plush couch facing the door on the far side of the room. And on the couch, a woman—a woman who filled half the couch, who was laughing throatily and stupidly at the tv, who was idly twisting a grinder in her hands. She was wearing a wife beater tank top, with enormous tits spilling over the top and a massive belly spilling out of the bottom. Mel could barely see a pair of little pink pajama shorts under the belly. She was blonde.

Mel wanted to drool, but she took a moment to compose herself and knocked on the door frame. “Door dash!” She called out cheerily. She was going to be normal about this.

The woman looked up. “Oh, right, hell yeah.” She set the grinder down and stood up, somewhat unsteadily. Mel thought she might already be drunk, but it also might just be how heavy she was.

She swayed over towards the door, jiggling, apparently not caring how much skin she had on display. The edges of her areolas became visible as her tits shook further out of her struggling tank top, and Mel could see he hard nipples just below the top’s neckline. She wanted to lick—no, she was normal.

Mel handed over the pizzas. “I just need to see your ID,” she reminded her new favorite delivery recipient. By rights, she probably shouldn’t give beer to a woman who had more than half a dozen empties scattered around her couch, but Mel wasn’t much for morals.

“Oh right, yeah, for the beer, duh.” The woman responded. She turned and went to set the pizzas on the coffee table before rummaging around for her ID. Her dimpled ass cheeks were barely covered by her little pink shorts. Mel wanted to stick her face—NO. BE NORMAL.

The woman came back to the door and handed Mel her ID. Mel examined it. She was definitely over 21–her birthday put her at two years older than Mel.

“Yvette, that’s a pretty name.” Mel remarked, trying to be cool about it. She handed the ID back, then the beer.

“Thanks.” Yvette answered, barely noticing. She was hyper-focused on the beers Mel handed over. Her eyes were shining as she took the dozen cans.

Much to Mel’s surprise, her deliveree set one of the six packs on a table next to the door, pulled a cab out of the other pack, opened it with one hand, and tipped it back to drink deeply. Mel’s jaw dropped as Yvette chugged, leaning back as she emptied the can into her mouth, gulping deeply and repeatedly. The beer was gone in 30 seconds.

Yvette straightened up and let out a satisfied “Ahhhhhhh, fugggg yes” before just dropping the can right there on the floor and pulling another off the pack. It was then that she noticed Mel’s awestruck stare.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer” she chided, popping the next can open. Mel shook herself, ashamed.

“Oh fuck, I’m, I’m so sorry, I—“

“Chill, I was teasing.” Yvette responded with a grin, looking Mel up and down and she sipped her new drink. “I know an appreciative stare from an appalled one. You’re cute, what’s your name?”

Mel couldn’t believe this was happening. “M-Mel…”

“Ok, M-Mel,” Yvette replied, chuckling. “What time is your shift done?”

Oh fuck, it WAS happening. “Uh—uhm I’m off at 11–“

“You wanna come over when you’re done?” Yvette hefted her beer and regarded Mel idly, waiting to see if she had judged the other girl correctly. She had.

“Yes—yes.” Mel replied, tripping over her tongue. “Yes. I’ll come back as soon as I can.”

Yvette grinned widely. “Good girl.” Mel flushed. Yvette grabbed the other six pack and shook them both at Mel. “I’ll need help lighting the bong after I finish these.”

As Yvette turned to sway and stagger back to the couch, Mel rushed out of the complex, trying to configure how she could finish her deliveries as fast as possible. She tried desperately to ignore the wetness in her panties.

She failed.

[yourlocalbadgerscales]

I have such a complicated relationship with non-canon friends to lovers ships… like yea some of them are so obviously meant to be together romantically to me, but the rest are so random? Like where did y'all see the chemistry here?

Deamus? Hell yeahhhhhhhhhhhhhh

Prongsfoot? Platonic, yup, but romantic? Nope nuhUH

Parvati x Lavender? I don’t see it, sorry.

Linny? Of course!

Moonwater? Hm 🫤 (That’s a no btw)

Rosekiller? HECK YEAHHH

Wolfstar? YUP YEP YESSSYESSYESYESSS

Ronarry? Please, no-

[otterlyotterott]

A cat sits alone in the cemetery

Inspired by @circuscountdowns's bishop death comic.

cw: grief, slow mental deterioration by way of immortality

Mortal minds were not meant to live forever. Not alone. 

It’s the middle of the night and they kneel before the grave. In one of their hands they grip a shovel that had been gifted to them a long time ago. At the base of the handle is an engraving that matches the stone crown on the gravestone.

There is a pendant on their chest, and it gleams gold in the moonlight.

They close their eyes, and breathe. Out slow, in slow.  

Camellias smell like sugar and dirt, like three thousand years of longing. The flowers on this grave are always fresh. always redder than blood, even in the winter, when every other plant on cult grounds wilts and turns bare and hibernates. The camellias on his grave are always there, always beautiful. One might call them blessed.

They are not afraid of dying—they are devoted to Death. They simply cannot die yet. Their Gods and leaders need them. The rest of the flock needs their wisdom. Someone who can speak to them as an equal, but who knows more and has seen more than the rest. 

Mortal minds were not meant to live forever, but they’re still doing pretty well. They lose days or weeks sometimes, but it’s not a problem yet. They suspect it’ll take another five thousand or so before their mind becomes a problem, assuming something else doesn’t kill them first.

So, they cannot leave. Not of their own accord. They have no need to.

They want to stay, to be content with the impossible life they live, but something is missing. They’ve been missing the sandpaper edges of his voice for the last few centuries. They’ve been yearning for the feel of his fur on their own—green and yellow, a sunbeam shining over a bed of moss.

He left them. They agreed to it. He was tired. They understood, or thought they did. They were with him for the rest of his life, and they loved him, and he died, in the end, like a mortal, but his heart was full, and when he was gone for good, they realized that their heart had gone with him. Stolen in a final prank.

At first they figured the pain would lie in the loss itself, but true moments of pain were every time they would forget that he was gone. It was every time they would look beside them, to whisper to him something that he would yell aloud to embarrass them both, only to find no one was there. It was every odd hole in the ground that they would feel the urge to crouch down beside, to talk to him, coax him out, before someone would ask what they were doing and they would remember that he wasn't there. It was every time they remembered that holes in the ground were for plants, and not Gods.

He would be severely annoyed to see them do anything but smile, but it was getting hard to smile without him.

And, and he would want this, wouldn’t he? Even if getting woken back up annoyed him at first.

His After was probably boring without them.

He'd think it was funny.

He’d grin impossibly wide and say, “ABOUT TIME YOU DID SOMETHING SELFISH.”

They stare at the old stone. The crown of the God of Chaos stares back. It's only another life. He won't even have to put on a necklace this time around.

Mortal minds were not meant to live forever. Not alone.

So, they stand and lurch forward. They take the shovel into both their hands, and they drive it like a spear into the dirt, into Leshy's grave. 

They don’t know how the ritual works, but they know they’ll need his bones for it. They'll figure the rest out later.

[seraphtrevs]

If Hannibal was Jesse's psychiatrist, he would be constantly trying to get Jesse to kill Walt, growing more and more frustrated because Jesse doubles down on defending him, but also more and more fascinated - whatever is going on with them is some real sick shit, which Hannibal is into.

He convinces Walt to come in and fantasizes about recipes the entire session. If Jesse won't kill him, he will - just as soon as he figures them out, just to satisfy his curiosity. It's been months though, and he still doesn't get it.

Meanwhile, Will has them pegged immediately.

[petitmonde]

Jealousy, jealousy

More than anyone, Crystal admired Gigi. She was the ideal showgirl, able to lie like no one else. When Gigi told the crowd that she loved them, they believed her. At their meet and greets, it was always Gigi who sold the story that each and every fan was special – that she remembered it when a fan came to see her again. If only they knew it was a facade, maybe then they wouldn't fawn over her like she was god made flesh.

Or maybe they would. Crystal knew it all was a lie, yet she couldn't help herself either. There was something special about Gigi that drew you in until it dragged you down to drown in it.

Crystal hated that part of herself. Despite becoming coworkers last year, she would still jump through hoops of fire at the bat of Gigi's long eyelashes. She wanted it, she got it.

Time and time again, Gigi came to her needing something. Some requests reasonable, others outlandish like driving Gigi 13 hours to go see a band that was playing that night. Crystal had to sit out in the cold while Gigi played them with her charms, and had it been anyone else, the door would have been closed shut before the first attempt was made.

Crystal had half a mind to tell her off the next morning, to really let Gigi have it for abusing her kindness. But of course she couldn't do that. Never could do that. Gigi smiled at her with that million watt light that blinded her, and they were on the road again listening to a playlist featuring the band Gigi had spent the night with.

The kiss on her cheek still burned, the thank you unsaid as Gigi went on with her life, unaware of the natural disasters she left behind her in her wake.

Crystal looked upon Gigi from the shadows, bright as ever on the stage alone. Four minutes left, and it'd be herself up there with some of the newbies. She had to calm herself, put on the brightest smile Crystal Methyd could ever put on. Even without a solo, Crystal could do her part in tiding everyone over until someone more popular took centre stage.

Even on the best of nights, the bitter taste in her mouth never waned. So, in a way, Crystal was also a liar.

A little something for @thecollectionsof who desperately needed some Crygi. I don't do happy, so I hope this suffices.

[royalnugget42]

Stark White Rage

A Resident Evil VIII fic rewrite, in honor of the Rose DLC.

Set after the finale of RE8. Ethan’s regenerative abilities allow him to survive, but only barely. He gets found by the BSAA, who conveniently forget to report this to his family.

TW: Graphic depictions of violence, Clinical trauma, Nightmares, Dismemberment

____________________________________________

Why the color white? Surely it took time to maintain such a stark and blinding color, and for what? Just so he could see in perfect detail how his blood looked as it dried into the cracks they couldn’t clean? It just looked red, in darker and darker shades as it flaked and peeled and faded.

He could still picture his little girl. His Rose, curled up in that pale pink blankie and clutching…what was it? A stuffed animal? His hand? Something that brought her comfort, to keep her calm and happy and safe. In his daydreams she was safe, clutching his hands and babbling at him. In his nightmares she cried.

“Subject 1, series F,” the robotic voice said, signaling the arrival of one of the handlers. They wouldn’t tell him if he had a name. They didn’t really talk to him at all unless they were running a test.

Still, he called out a hello. It was only polite. Maybe if he tried enough times they would return the favor.

He didn’t get an answer this time, but one of the handlers actually came up to the glass wall today.

“Good morning, series F,” he said.

“Is it morning? Couldn’t tell.”

His question wasn’t graced with an answer as usual. A robotic voice listed off the contents of his breakfast. Usually there was a serving each of fruit, bread, and protein. Today there was a dish of peaches, some toast, and a few thin slices of turkey. Pretty standard fare, aside from the patches of fluorescent blue mold.

At his confused look the man reluctantly explained, if only to get him to eat it. “We’re running a new series of tests. You’ve been consistent to a statistically significant level with the other molds, so we’re advancing our studies.”

The man who was just called series F just sighed. Foods with white and green mold were what he was used to, and he wasn’t thrilled about a change in his diet. Change meant they had to examine him, and that usually meant dismembering him and timing the recovery. It hurt every time, but it hurt more when he realized he was getting bored of it.

“Did you know humans will choose pain over boredom?” one of the surgeons had asked as he dug around for yet another vital organ. “You aren’t human, of course, but I have to wonder what you’d pick given the chance.”

Series F hadn’t responded. His vocal chords were still regenerating, which kept him from screaming. It wasn’t like he needed to breathe, but he let a gust of air in just for a distraction. As he felt gloved hands close around his liver, he stretched the broken skin of his lips in a soundless yawn. Partly because it felt good and partly because he wanted to make a point.

The surgeon had just laughed. “Right, don’t suppose it would produce any meaningful results. You’re already too bored of pain for the procedure to work.”

He poked idly at the blue mold now gracing his plate. They had tried to give him normal, fresh food in the early days, before they realized he literally couldn’t stomach it. The walls would always display some stain from the latest meal. Apparently food only tasted good to him if it was rotten.

Now they were giving him new mold. Did he do something wrong, or was this just another in a long line of attempts to replicate his state? They talked about it sometimes when they thought he was sleeping, how apparently he was the first nonviolent strain, but whatever made him nonviolent was impossible to reproduce with the other subjects.

“His regenerative abilities are off the charts, more powerful than we’ve ever seen.” The voices were muffled and distant, like he was dreaming. Funny how he could hear them even on the other side of the facility. Maybe that was just another ability he had.

“Even so, he’s hardly an asset if he can’t replicate.”

“There’s no proof yet—“

“There’s a lack of evidence, that’s all the proof we’re going to get. Whether he’s incapable, or doesn’t know how, or just chooses not to none of that makes a difference. The result is the same.”

The next few sentences were drowned out by the sudden shuffle of papers. “—take this project in a new direction, we need to make some progress here.”

“With all due respect, isn’t he more effective as an asset if he’s nonviolent? Introducing this mold could—“

“He’s only effective if we can reproduce his results. If we can even get a fraction of his regenerative power into one of our earlier subjects he could give the whole project exactly the boost it needs.”

He ate the blue mold. What else was he going to do? Starving was even more boring than the surgeries. It hurt worse than knives in his chest.

Rose was in his dreams again. Somehow she seemed closer, less hazy. In this dream she was in a crib, and he rocked it back and forth. She burbled a bit. He knew she had thrown up earlier, and they were worried of course but no more than is normal for two new parents.

His wife called to him from the kitchen, and he actually heard her voice. It was distorted but it was a real memory he was sure of it. Something about dinner being ready…she called his name but it was hard to make out. His name…his…his name…

The robotic lady greeted him the next time they decided was morning. “Subject 1, Series F,” she intoned. That wasn’t his name though.

——

It took nearly a week of the new mold for the little girl to appear. The surgeons and researchers didn’t acknowledge her. He asked who she was, but they didn’t answer, just added hallucinations to his list of symptoms.

“—just visual hallucinations so far. It’s unclear whether this an effect of the E strain in his diet, or the stress of change. We are increasing the sample size to further examine any correlative properties,” one said in an audio log. “So far his abilities such as regeneration and replication have remained unchanged.”

Another muttered darkly, “If he remains unchanged for much longer they’re probably going to scrap the whole series. Provided they can figure out how to get rid of the thing.”

The little girl didn’t do very much. She always ran away when he made eye contact, but he could feel her watching him all the time. During one of the surgeries she leaned over the bed and touched him. Her hands were cold and clammy, and slightly damp like she’d just climbed out of the water. They were testing his hands, one of their favorite places to examine.

He didn’t look at her, but he felt it as she moved down the table to grip what was left of his palm. He flexed, trying to comfort her. From what he’d seen she couldn’t be more than ten, and he doubted this was a pleasant sight. The doctors kept writing down that she was just a hallucination, but she felt real enough as he desperately tried to hold her little hand, torn ligaments screaming in pain.

She seemed to understand, and guided his fingers into a fist around hers. Whatever or whoever she was, it felt nice to not be so alone.

“Series F has recently developed more alertness during the surgeries, reminiscent of his chaotic behavior in the early trials.”

The next time he looked at the little girl she giggled as she darted away, and he caught a better look at her. Her hair was long and black. It left wet spots on the white floors.

——

His next dream was not of Rose. The sheets in his hands were soft and warm, bathed in the sunlight filtering through the curtains. It smelled like cinnamon.

“We have to get up soon,” he heard himself say.

The woman next to him groaned and blinked. She was beautiful, even more so because she loved him.

“We have a few more moments left.” She pulled him down and kissed him. They were on their honeymoon, after all.

You have to remember this, Ethan.

——

The researchers were shocked of course, but handled it with their usual measured logic. A change as abrupt as this was bound to entail many drastic changes, and the increased aggression was hardly unheard of in previous cases.

He screamed at them, begged them to tell him where his family was. He knew his name now, and if he had a name that meant he was a person, at least somewhat. You couldn’t treat people like this, couldn’t cut a person up against their will and starve them and drown them. How long had it been? In what fucked up world did he now live where this was okay?

“Where’s Rose?” he shouted as they brought his meal. “Where’s my wife? I know they’re real, please let me see them! Please I need my family!”

He wished they would cut out his vocal chords again, at least so he could regrow them to be less sore.

“They don’t like it when you yell,” the little girl whispered.

Ever since the last dream she’d started talking. Only for a short amount of time before she disappeared again.

“Good,” he replied. “I hope they get annoyed enough to actually do something about it.”

She just hummed to herself. It was one of the songs he’d been trying to slowly teach her.

The scientists were wrong. They had to be, she was much too real to be a hallucination. She remembered all their conversations, and she was even teaching him new things, stories and songs.

“Who are you?” he’d finally managed to ask.

“I’m your daughter,” she had said proudly,” which makes you my daddy!”

This girl wasn’t Rose of course. The real Rose was probably more grown up now, but she had blond hair, and bright blue eyes like his.

Her name was Evelyn. The visits came faster after mealtimes, like she was imprinted in the blue mold that came with his food. He could imagine her sailing on it like a little raft, all through his bloodstream until she got to his brain.

She was his daughter but not…she was older than him. How could his daughter be older than him?

“It’s weird,” she said. “It’s like you formed from nothing.”

“You didn’t make me?”

“Not really. I tried to, but you can’t make your own parents, that’s not how it works. I tried to make you into my dad, but then you and mom killed me.”

He didn’t remember doing that, but he apologized anyway.

“It’s ok, I think you were right to. I wasn’t being a very good girl. I hurt a lot of people, so it only makes sense that my daddy would have to come and put me on time out.”

“So I was born so you could have a dad?”

“I think you were born so you could have yourself. You eat yourself every day and you’re sustained by it. You don’t need family to keep you alive, you’re strong enough on your own. That’s why you’re the dad.”

He didn’t feel very strong, but that was hardly new. Maybe if he were stronger he could get out of here. He imagined it; going home to his wife and daughter, bringing Evelyn to meet them. He’d punch straight through solid stone, grind the awful white walls to dust with his bare, solid hands.

But he was still so human. He had the strength to punch a stone, sure, but it would break all the bones in his hand, and send incapacitating pain through his limbs. His hands might be able to regrow, but it was so slow and painful as to render him completely helpless.

Evelyn told him to wait. He was getting stronger, she told him, and one day he’d be strong enough to carry them home.

“Do you still want to hurt people?” he asked her after a late night story. It was one about an evil house in a swamp, full of monsters and madness. They had told it together, echoing each other as if reading off imaginary pages.

“I don’t know, I don’t think so.” She studied her own hands. Every night he brushed her hair and tried to dry her off, and little by little she was sniffling less, and speaking clearer. “Something about you makes me nicer I think. I didn’t really want to hurt anyone before, it was just what happened sometimes when I wanted to make more family. I was so lonely…”

“But we’re not alone anymore, are we Evelyn?”

“No.” She smiled up at him.

——

He dreamt of a kitchen table, where he ate the most delicious food.

“Go on, eat some more, you’re practically skin and bones!” a woman chided. She offered him more, and he only managed to refuse her once.

“Gotta keep up those nice strong muscles huh?” Presumably it was her husband speaking, while inclining his head meaningfully at the younger man across the table, playing some game on his phone.

It was peaceful, and nostalgic in a way he couldn’t put a name to. Morning light on the table highlighted a little spot of grease, and crumbs littered the floor around their chairs. It was messy, but not unusually so, just enough that you knew there were people living and breathing there. There were stains from accidental spills and scuff marks from chair on the hardwood floor.

“You have to go back soon, son,” the older man said gravely. “Give ‘em hell when you do, and we’ll be right with you.”

He nodded to the family before him, a treasure to be remembered by no one.

“No one else will fight for us anymore. If nothing else, remember us. Keep this with you, something those bastards can never take away,” Zoe said. Ethan swore he would remember her. He would remember everyone.

The man’s name was Jack, and his wife was Marguerite, and their two kids were Lucas and Zoe.

——

“I’m sorry,” Evelyn cried, sobbing helplessly into his arms.

She told him terrible things, and in return he gave her hope, he relayed memories, and he told stories of how they were when they were alive.

Evelyn told him how she filled a woman’s mind with crawling things. In return, Ethan told her how that woman used to make her famous stews, and how she had always wanted a bed and breakfast. A man was stretched and warped into a facsimile of himself. That man was a kind soul, who took in a little girl one rainy night in Louisiana.

“I didn’t know what I was doing,” she cried. “I didn’t know what it meant.”

Ethan didn’t blame her though. Her creators understood her nature, they were the ones who should’ve been more careful. Is a hurricane evil? Or is it just acting according to its nature?

“Storms break away at a shoreline. And children break things without knowing why,” he said. He felt a rush of joy as her crying eased. “You were a child and you were hurting. It’s their fault for giving those gifts to a newborn.”

The scientists still didn’t know why he didn’t fight back, didn’t even try to give his gift to someone else. He’d never wanted to make more of his family the way she did.

“The mold makes all subjects violent, and all mold wants to replicate. It’s the same way it occurs in nature, taking control of the host and finding optimal conditions for reproduction.”

But Ethan knew better now. The mold didn’t take over his mind, or Evelyn’s. Maybe her strain took over the others, made them do things they wouldn't ordinarily do, but that was just because his daughter was very strong. It didn’t replace Evelyn though, she replaced it.

He just didn’t need to replicate. He wasn’t alone. He had all the family he could ask for, somewhere beyond these walls.

When sleep took him again, he started to dream of monsters. They looked down on him and hurt him, but it wasn’t some biological need making them do it. It was just regular human cruelty, fostered and fed by the belief that they were better. That they had earned the right to do these things, or that they had no other choice.

He dreamt of a castle, and a village where wolves ran free. The lady of the house had hands like knives, and she laughed as her many-legged daughters crawled all over him.

There was a dollhouse in a forest of mist. The small hands of ceramic babies scraped against his face, and there stood a woman in mourning, conducting this orchestra of paint and metal and sharp laughter.

A creature of acid and filth approached, and even in the dream the smell was enough to send shivers of writhing disgust down his back. The monster heaved and groaned, and begged Ethan to remember, to remember anything he could even if it hurt. Even if it made him want to puke his guts out. Whatever guys he had left at this point.

The last was just a man in pain, a reflection of Ethan through a funhouse mirror, or maybe through a piece of sheet metal. He smelled like gunpowder and rust when he leaned close, and his eyes gleamed like pools of oil behind his glasses.

“You’ll get those bastards yet. C’mon papa, you’re supposed to be the stubborn one. Fight back!” He screamed it even as blades tore through his spine, even as fire enveloped him. A thousand voices merged into one, and all of them called out the same refrain. “Fight back! Don’t let this be your end. Fight back!”

It had been so long since he’d fought. He couldn’t remember what the weight of a gun felt like in his hands, couldn’t envision the recoil of it. He had forgotten his anger, replaced with mold and blood and stark empty white walls.

——

“I wish you could stay longer,” he complained to the empty air. The length of Evelyn’s visits had stopped increasing since they stopped putting the E strain mold in his food. There were concerns, cold and scientific ones mostly. Worries that they had done nothing except make Series F more unstable, even more unusable than before.

“At least we’ve seen some change. Might be enough to keep the wolf from the door,” one of them said in their faraway office.

“Yeah and how long is that gonna last?” An uncomfortable shuffle, the movements you make when you’re not sure how much remorse you should be showing. “Christ at least when he was stable we could’ve made the case for his usability as a control group. Now we might not be able to operate on him safely ever again.”

The last time he had woken up from his dream, he’d been on the operating table again, with scientists examining his stomach for any changes. Naturally, they didn’t expect it to grow limbs and slam someone’s head onto the table.

He could plead innocence. Say that his body had acted without his knowledge, that the mold was truly infecting him and changing who he was.

It wasn’t true though. Evelyn, the Bakers, the horsemen…so many memories were in him now. His was the only repository of their lingering desires, and they screamed for action, for justice, for change. But it wasn’t them making him angry, making him mess with the technology in the facility, or making him attack the scientists whenever he got the chance, the way he used to in the first days. A fire started in his chest every time Evelyn curled up beside him as he repeated bedtime stories from memory.

He wanted to be out. He wanted to go home.

[linn-zy]

Heart Me!

"Aaaaaand just a liiiiitle bit more of this essence..."

Varian said as he poured a certain liquid into another, turning it all into a light pink color.

"Ruddiger! The seeds! Two cups if you please."

He spoke to his racoon friend who measured up two cups of the special seeds and added it to the liquid. As the the seeds got wet they swelled up and got a certain texture and consistency, it was a new kind of drink that had been rather popular lately.

The 16-year old science boy had discovered it himself, after a few carefull experiments he had deemed the seeds to be safe to eat, and delicious.

The liquid slowly turned to pink and spread a scent of sunny strawberries.

"Yes...YES! It's working! It's working!"

Varian cackled, perhaps a tiny bit too excited.

"But! We have to perform a test to see if it's reeeeally working! Ruddiger!"

The racoon protested of course, he had had his fair chair of testing already.

"Come oooon Rud! It's important! Pleeeeease!"

Varian begged his friend with the biggest blue dogeyes he could muster up and the racoon eventually caved, taking a taste of the drink.

"Splendid!" Varian shouted and hirried up to place a mirror in front of the animal to see it's reaction.

A short moment later, Ruddiger was quite...interested ....in himself, or rather his mirror-image.

"Oooooh yep, definately working! I'm a genious!"

Varian held up the drink and stared through the transparent mug. Watching the drink itself.

"Should I add fizz to it perhaps? Naaah, I don't think Kiran likes fizz, right Ruddiger ? Eh, Ruddiger? Helloooo...?"

He raised an eye a bit, the racoon didn't seem to notice anything else but his mirror-self as of now.

"Oh well!" Varian shrugged a little.

"Now I juuuuust need the perfect moment...and excuse...hmmm..."

He rubbed his chin a little as he was thinking up his plan.

(Picture unrelated, its an old one)

[blabberoo]

told myself i'd make a short sketches during my break time.. i made a whole ass comic

[forecast0ctopus]

creatures again

[trashiiplant]

they're judging you

+ random doodle dump

[artkaninchenbau]

People keep on asking for more Baby Robin and Papadile so here is more Baby Robin and Papadile. Now never ask anything from me ever again

[barghuest-draws]

Well cushioned ❤️💛

[timethehobo]

A simple visual came to mind.

[rainyinautumn]

Etho's behavior in session 5 was frankly unhinged. he killed Bdubs' horse IN FRONT OF HIM and managed to get away scot-free in the chaos of the situation. AND THEN he stole the chicken farm hopper while HALF THE TEAM was in their base without them noticing, tried to trade it BACK to them, and finally returned it after GAINING THEIR ALLIANCE? what even. good for him.

[tragedykery]

the best characters are ones that suffer from a chronic case of Dramatic Cunt Syndrome

[worm-on-my-way]

do drugs kids :)