#This was absolutely an excuse to draw medic

[dr-rato]

Some lighting practices I did of Emesis Blue

[python333]

Hello!! I absolutely adore your 141 platonic fics, I litterlay giggle and kick my feet when you post new storys about it. Especially since they're always gender neutral! Litteraly always check to see if youve posted a new fic, but anways!

I'm a really big sucker for found family mental health fics, especially when I'm experiencing rough times. If your comfortable with it, I was wondering if you could make the 141 catch Reader self harming or maybe just seeing the self harm on their arms accidentally and comforting them. Always love a comforting found family fic on cold nights.

If it's easier, I really love really any of your hurt/comfort type 141 fics with all my soul and eat them up anytime you post them. Especially since there isnt much gn!reader and TF 141 platonic hurt/comfort fics. So if you aren't busy than that's another option I would love to see!!

If your uncomfortable with it then that's fine and you can just ignore this post! Make sure to take care if youself aswell author. You're absolutely amazing! 🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼

self-slaughter — python333

— — — —

synopsis reader is a medic and is caught harming themselves by the 141 in the medbay!

relationships platonic!taskforce 141 & gn!reader

characters cap. price, soap, ghost, gaz.

word count 6.6k

warnings self-harm [specifically using a scalpel], self-harm scars, dark thoughts [nothing too bad, but thoughts of pulling off your skin and harming yourself], painful wound cleaning [with iodopovidone], 2nd person pov [you/yours/yourself], usage of c/n [code name/call sign].

note hello anon!! i too am a big sucker for found family mental health fics, and completely understand this request, and i will happily write it for you!! a lot of this is based on my own experiences with this, so i hope that's okay and that you enjoy the fic!! as well as this request, i'll use this fic as an excuse to write a few prompts on my bad things happen bingo card, which will be displayed at the end of the fic! the prompt used will be: painful wound cleaning! expect wayyyy more angst after this LMAO. also, if this feels like glorification or anything else inappropriate for a fic like this, then please let me know! since it's mainly based on my own experiences, i assume it wouldn't feel *too* much like that, but still!

It gets kind of old after so long of doing it. 

Almost like it’s a chore—as if stealing glances at your medical equipment, tools meant to save the lives of others, and wishing that it were being used to draw blood from your body was just an inconvenience. You complain about it in your head like you used to about school, like it was nothing more than some homework that was due a minute before midnight. 

Right now, you’re alone in the medical bay. It wasn’t often that you were, typically two bumbling idiots would stumble in every few minutes talking about how they got injured while sparring, but for the past thirty minutes it’s been silent. While you appreciated the break from the constant explanations of why the soldiers you were to tend to had gotten injured, with the silence came very unwanted thoughts. 

And with nobody to focus on came your unwilling lingering stare at the sharp scalpel on the small metal equipment cart that was just a few feet away from where you sat. It didn’t help that you felt oddly guilty today, either. 

Well, the guilt wasn’t odd. You knew where it came from. It just felt odd, considering the cause for it happened a week ago. 

The cause had been on a critical mission last week, where you were responsible for carrying medical supplies and ensuring the team’s well-being and general health. The medical equipment wasn’t particularly expensive or hard to get, but it was still incredibly important. 

However, on that same mission, right towards the end of it, you’d been caught in the midst of an intense gunfight. Distracted by the heavy enemy fire, you dropped the small bag you’d been using to carry the medical supplies, and hadn’t noticed you did until it was too late. By the time you and the others were out and heading back to base, you had just realized you left behind the medical equipment. 

All week, your fellow task force members had reassured you that it was okay and that it wasn’t that big of a deal, considering nobody got hurt. Still, even a week later, you’re hung up on it. Had someone gotten injured, what could you have done? You didn’t have any supplies to help them, so what would you have done then? Just the thought of that possibility makes you shudder. 

The scalpel looks so tempting.

It’s not like you hadn’t used it before—you have the scars to prove you had, ranging from small lines that could be mistaken for cat scratches to tiger-stripe length cuts that make your thighs look as though they’d been mauled by a large animal. As elegantly as you describe them in your head, the visuals of them aren’t nearly as pretty. With the help of that scalpel, a few sharp needles, and some medical scissors, you’d successfully made it look as though a bear had tried to attack you and tear your legs off. 

Ironic, isn’t it? A medic harming themselves? 

Your job is to literally save the lives of others, and here you are, staring at the closest thing you have to a knife in the medbay. It’s become as easy as blinking for you—which is scary, honestly, the way you’ve developed a tolerance for cutting yourself and stapling your skin back together if you’ve cut too long or deep. 

It’s no longer enough to just scrape something sharp across your skin and watch blood bubble up from the broken seams of your flesh, no, now you have to cut even deeper to actually feel anything. You have to feel the scalpel being buried to the hilt in your flesh, and you have to see the way blood spurts out of the self-inflicted wound after you pull out the tool. 

You continue to stare at the scalpel, sure that you look like you’re in some sort of trance right now. 

It looks so tempting. You can remember the last time you used it—three days ago, the longest you’d gone without it in a while. Similar to cigarette-addicts, you often tell yourself that you’re able to stop whenever you’d like—that you’re able to quit at any time. It’s a lie, and you know it, but you still like to pretend that it’s true. 

You’re still staring at the scalpel. 

Its sharpened edge reflects the overhead light, creating a bright glow that strains your eyes when you stare at it for too long. The metal of the handle is worn down from use, even though it’d only been in the medbay for maybe a few months—something nobody had questioned yet, thankfully. The clean blade, replaced just yesterday, had no traces of filth or grime on it, making it even more tempting. 

You blink. You hadn’t noticed the burning of your eyes until you forced them away from the small knife. 

You move your gaze to your lap, where you fiddle with your fingers, gently tugging at a hangnail that’s been lingering on your thumb for the past few minutes. As you pull on it, you feel the sting that it brings, though that sting now feels dull compared to the other things you’ve done to yourself. 

It almost feels like a small pinch compared to the ways you’ve mutilated your thighs on certain nights that didn’t allow you the energy to do anything else, or the ways you’ve carved apologies in the forms of lines into your arms to try and gain forgiveness for your thoughts and temptations. 

You pull the hangnail off completely and watch the miniscule droplets of blood bleed through your flesh and meet your skin and nail. Before you only had the energy to do your job and harm yourself, you would’ve hissed at the sting pulling off the small bit of skin caused you and grabbed a bandaid immediately, but now, all you can think about is how it isn’t enough. 

About how much better you’d feel if you pulled all your skin off. If you could feel every inch of your skin stretched to its limits and torn off of your body, because God knows you deserve it. 

The thought makes you wince. That is… disgusting. Why am I thinking about that? You shake your head in hopes that it would shake away the dark thought, but instead the action makes it rattle inside your brain and break off into tiny bits in pieces, small unwanted thoughts of wounding your flesh rolling around your mind. 

Similarly to Sisyphus and his boulder, you try to push those thoughts out of your mind, your hands starting to curl into tight fists, but you just can’t. Every time you push a thought back, it comes rolling back to the forefront of your mind, the momentum it gets from being pushed back so far only to get rocketed forwards making it even more unbearable to think about. 

The fists your hands have formed become tighter. 

Each thought that gets pushed back only jumps forwards once again, ricocheting around your brain, the effort of trying to ignore them making your ears ring. 

Before you realize it, your gaze snaps back to the scalpel. 

You don’t even notice the blood that begins to spill from your palms from how deeply your nails cut into your skin. 

Every thought tries to be louder than the other, creating an unholy cacophony of sound; a terrifying harmony that only grew louder every second that passed. You stare at the scalpel. It continues to reflect the bright gleam of the overhead light, and it continues to make your eyes strain the more you look at it, but you can’t find it in yourself to be all that bothered about the eyestrain. 

You unclench your fists and stand up, walking the short distance over to the metal medical cart where the scalpel lays, and you grab the handle of it with shaky hands. You look over at the door for a moment, and stay there for another few seconds.

Once you see that nobody’s coming in, you rush yourself to one of the beds, sliding open the curtains in front of it and sliding them back so that they’ll obscure anyone else’s view of you using the scalpel on yourself. 

You sit on the bed and although the scalpel almost slips out of your hand because of the blood from your palms, you manage to keep held in your tight fist, holding it like you would a pencil; tucked under the base of your thumb, and going through the gap between your index and middle finger. 

With your hands still trembling and your breath uneven, as well as a bustling mind that only grew louder as the scalpel in your hand grew closer to the skin of your forearm, you made the first incision. Almost immediately, your mind quieted, and your headache dimmed. 

Quickly becoming addicted to the feeling of a clear head, you lift the scalpel from your skin, not waiting to watch the blood bubble up from your open wound like you usually would, instead opting to make another incision right next to it.

Being a medic, there was nothing you could really do to stop yourself from thinking about how deep each incision was, and how deep you were cutting into your flesh—so while you cut yourself, a train of thought begun. 

Half an inch deep, You push the scalpel deeper, Now a full inch. Should take a month or two to fully heal. Wouldn’t scar. 

The thought of it not scarring should make you happy, or at least, neutral, but instead the thought makes you frown. Some odd hunger that comes from the indefinite pit in your stomach craves evidence for the malice you’ve shown towards your own skin, something that would prove your self-hatred. 

So, you go another half inch deeper. Scarring would be possible, but not as high of a chance as if you went another half inch. With that thought, you go the last half inch. There we go. 

You slide the scalpel blade through your flesh, the blade cutting through it like it would a firm fruit like a pear. It’s easier to cut through skin when the skin is pulled taut, You think, If only I had an extra hand.

You pull out the blade and repeat. You feel less guilty already.

All that worry about fucking up during your last assignment washes away, like the wave of guilt that overcame you earlier receded and pulled back that worry with it, lowering the tide of shame and self-reproach within you. In fact, the tide lowers so much that it almost completely disappears from your mind—like it never existed in the first place.

Reminds me of a tsunami, You repeat your actions with the scalpel, When the tides get low, so low that the ocean floor shows and you could walk where you’d originally have to swim, it’s because a tsunami is building up.

You look down at your work. Your forearm is a bloody mess, crimson red dripping down to your fingers and threatening to drop onto the stark white sheets of the bed you’re sitting on. You sigh tiredly and get up from the bed, putting the end of the scalpel’s handle into your mouth—ignoring the voice in the back of your head that reprimands you for not thinking about bacteria or contamination—and biting down to hold it whilst you slide the curtains in front of the bed to the side, walking out of the small resting area. 

You grab the scalpel and set it onto the metal medical cart by your desk, grabbing the gauze on that same cart, opening the small box it’s kept in with your non-bloody hand. It’s a struggle, but you manage it open, and you shake the roll of gauze out onto the cart. 

In the middle of you attempting to pull the end of the gauze off of the roll so that you could begin to wrap it around the red lines decorating your forearm, you hear loud footsteps walking near the medbay. You freeze in place, the gauze roll in one hand, your eyes burning holes through the door with how intensely you stare at it. 

There’s a knock. Then another. 

The door handle twists. 

You stare at the door, and everything feels like it’s in slow motion for a second. 

The door opens. 

“Hey, dae ye hae any—” Soap walks in, the sergeant taking one look at you before cutting himself off with a confused and immediately worried, “Holy shit, whit happened tae yer arm? Are ye alright?” 

He rushes over to you and takes your bleeding forearm into his hand. You almost immediately rip it away from his grip. 

“Nothing! Everything’s fine! Just an accident,” You lie, holding the blood-covered forearm close to your chest, “I was just about to clean it up.” 

“Dae ye need help wrappin’ it, an cleanin’ it up, or anything?” Soap asks, eyebrows furrowed and his expression beyond worried. 

“Nope,” You insist, “It’s fine. All good here.” 

“... Ye sure?” 

“Uh huh,” You nod your head, “All good. Don’t worry about it.” 

“‘kay then,” Soap tilts his head and crosses his arms, “Whit happened?” 

“Just a little accident with some of the equipment,” You nod down to the bloody scalpel on the medical cart, “That’s all.” 

It must be obvious you’re lying, because Soap sighs and says, “I think we baith ken that that’s a lie.” 

You stay silent for a few moments, before Soap speaks up again, “Ye ken if ye dinnae tell me, I’ll jist jump tae conclusions, richt?”

You take a deep breath before mumbling something under your breath. When Soap’s eyebrows draw together in confusion, you repeat louder, “I used the scalpel. On myself.” 

“Ye whit?” 

“I used the scalpel on myself,” You look away, and rush out, “and I’m really sorry, I just couldn’t help it, it’s not like— like a normal thing or anything, it’s just this once, I swear, and— and—” 

“[c/n], calm down,” Soap quickly uncrosses his arms and sets both hands onto your shoulders, furrowed eyebrows now taking a more concerned shape, “It’s okay.” 

You take a deep breath and look at him, looking at his nose instead of his eyes because you don’t think you could handle eye contact right now, “I’m really sorry.” 

“Why would ye dae that tae yerself?” Soap asks, voice soft and almost pitying, which makes you want to curl up and die. 

You shrug, not wanting to answer verbally. 

“Dae ye— dae the others ken?” Soap questions. 

“No.” 

“I’m—” Soap looks conflicted for a moment, “I hae an assignment… I’ll get Gaz tae help ye, aye? An’ I’ll check in wi’ ye as soon as possible?” 

You hesitate, but end up nodding in agreement, thankful that Soap offered to get Gaz rather than one of the others. The others seemed so oddly scary right now that you don’t even want to think about how they’d react to this whole situation. It’s all gone by so fast—one moment you were sitting on a hospital bed, the next you’re found out by Soap of all people—you’ve barely had time to think about the others. 

“Okay. Okay, okay,” Soap repeats the word under his breath like a mantra, thinking to himself for a second before sighing and looking down at you again, “Jesus, fuck, okay. I’ll go get him, ye stay here, aye?” 

You nod again, this time your vision begins to get more blurred. 

“Ye’re gonnae be okay, okay?” Soap tries to reassure you. You nod once again, sniffling a little bit, making Soap’s gaze soften.

He takes his hands off of your shoulders and gives you one last sad look before turning around and rushing out of the medbay, his thundering footsteps growing quieter as he gets closer to Gaz’s location—most likely his sleeping quarters. 

You wait a moment and when you hear no footsteps, your gaze goes back to the blade. It’s not like it’ll hurt to do a few more. I’ll stop when the others arrive. 

You grab the handle of the blade, and as quickly as you can, akin to an addict scrambling for substance, you slice through the skin of your non-mutilated hand. You make several quick and deep gashes before dropping the scalpel onto the medical cart again, breathing heavy, the cuts this time actually hurting. It felt like fire was running rampant through your nerves, all stemming from the self-induced wounds, and you winced at the new pain. It wasn’t anything you weren’t used to, but still.

When you hear footsteps again, you can tell they aren’t Soap’s. 

The door clicks open and in walks Gaz, already looking very worried—presumably from what Soap told him about your… situation—with another person in tow. Right behind him, Price walks in, expression neutral so far. 

Gaz looks over at you, his eyes widening as he sees the bloody gashes in your forearms. Without a second thought, he rushes over to you, his hand reaching for your forearm. Before you can stop him, he grabs your bloody forearm and pulls it up a bit so that he can look at it closer. You flinch, and Price quickly walks over to you two before Gaz can even utter a single word. 

“Let’s not, okay?” Price’s version of ‘knock it off’, “I’m here, I’ll take care of their… thing. You hand me what I tell you to. Understood?” 

“Yup— Yes, sir. Captain,” Gaz corrects himself quickly, making a slip-up that in any other situation would’ve made you at least chuckle, but all you can do now is stare at the pair as you hold your bloody arms to your chest. 

Price looks back over to you and nods over to one of the many empty curtain-surrounded beds and says, “Go sit over there and wait for a few seconds.” 

You nod, not knowing what else to do or say, and immediately walk over there. It’s the room furthermost to the right, the one that’s also the closest to the door and the one you’d coincidentally gone into to cut yourself. 

You slide the curtains to the side and sit down on the white bed, and just a few seconds later, just as Price said, he walked in as well. He sat next to you, Gaz in tow, the latter carrying a jar of cotton pads and balls as well as a bottle of Betadine.

Betadine—or iodopovidone, whichever name you preferred—was a sort of antiseptic that was generally used for cleaning cuts and wounds. Maybe not ones as deep as yours, but it would still work just as well. 

Despite it not being alcohol-based, or really having any alcohol in it, it still hurts the same as rubbing alcohol would, which you were… definitely not looking forward to.

“Sergeant,” Price takes the jar and bottle of Betadine from Gaz, “Go and grab the skin stapler for me.” 

“Yes, sir,” Gaz nods, walking out of the room once again. Price sets the jar and bottle of Betadine onto the bed beside himself after he leaves.

With you and Price now in the room alone, he turns to you and holds out his hand with his palm faced up for your arm silently. You carefully put your forearm onto his hand, watching as he gently pulls it closer to him, looking a bit closer at it before sighing through his nose and using his free hand to open the jar of cotton pads. 

“How did this happen?” He asks, breaking the silence. 

“Soap didn’t fill you in?”

“No.”

You think about what to tell him for a moment. What’s too straightforward? What’s too vague? How do I not overstep? How do I not sound like I just want attention? 

Eventually, you settle on, “I was— … I saw the uh… scalpel, and I just… decided to use it a little bit. On myself.” Definitely not the best you can do, but what else could you say? ‘Oh, I cut myself with a scalpel because I felt guilty and if I didn’t I probably would’ve had a panic attack or a mental breakdown’?

“…” Price pauses for a moment, eyes twitching for a split second before he continues his movements to grab a cotton pad and questions you, “Why?”

“Why what?”

“You know what I’m asking, [c/n].” 

He’s asking why you did it. There’s not one simple answer you could give him—sure, you could tell him that you felt guilty and it was a bad habit that you’ve told yourself you could stop but never tried to, but that wouldn’t be the whole truth.

You can’t fully express or dictate why you do it, you just do. It’s like when you cut slits into bread before baking it. Without those slits, the bread would crack and split at the seams on its own, but with them, the splitting and expanding of the dough is controlled. 

Except, with you, it’s like you’re cutting yourself before the tension building inside of you makes you burst at the seams. Taking a blade to your skin has given you a sense of control—maybe that’s why it’s so addicting, You think, it’s the only way I’ve been able to control my feelings. 

But you can’t just say all of that. Well, you could, but did you want to? Fuck no. 

Instead, you opt for shrugging, which doesn’t satisfy Price one bit. 

“I could see you thinking about it,” He sighs, “I know you at least have some sort of real answer.” 

Well, fuck. “It’s a long answer.” 

“I never said it couldn’t be.”

He doesn’t move to grab the Betadine at all, instead waiting for you to talk. 

You purse your lips and think for another moment before finally talking again, “I was feeling really guilty and tense, and I guess it just got too much, so I just kind of… had to. Like I felt like I was gonna fuckin’… I dunno, have a nervous breakdown or something. And honestly, it’s a really stupid reason, because the thing that I’m feeling guilty about happened like a week ago, but still—I’ve been feeling really guilty about it. It—It’s not like I can’t stop, if I tried I could, I swe—swear, and I just— it’s been really easy to just— you know? I— honestly, it’s not that big of a deal—” 

“Hey, hey—” Price brings a hand to your shoulder and softens his voice, “It’s okay. I understand.” 

“I ju—st… I’m sorry, I—” 

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Price reassures you, quickly bringing that same hand up to cup your jaw, “You’re okay. You don’t have to say sorry.” 

“But I—” 

“Shh.” You hadn’t even noticed how frantic your breathing had gotten during your small word vomit. And to just make things worse, there’d been tears gathering at your water line, well on their way to spilling over and creating tear tracks down your cheeks. 

You can’t help but let go of all the tension in your shoulders the moment Price starts gently rubbing his thumb back and forth over your cheek. The moment he does that, it’s practically game over for you. 

Those tears spill out from the corners of your eyes and you can already feel your next breath get caught in your throat, leaving you to just let Price gently guide your head to lean forwards against his chest, letting out small hiccups and trying desperately to hold back the sobs you want to let out.

It all happened so fast, you don’t even know how you got here. One moment you were doing a good job of somewhat keeping your guard up, the next your resolve was crumbled completely by the gentle and oddly caring touch of Price’s hand.

Suddenly, there’s a knock at the door, then someone walks in while you’re burying your head further into Price’s chest—Ghost. You can tell it’s him by the way he walks. He has long strides, he never drags his feet, and the moment he slides the curtains to the side to see you, his footsteps stop. They start up again a moment later, and he sits by your side, opposite of where Price is sitting—to your right instead of your left. 

Gaz must’ve let him in while he was looking for the stapler, You think, sniffling against Price’s chest. Normally, you would’ve felt some sort of shame by now, but given the current situation, you didn’t find much room to give a shit. 

You feel Price’s head move up slightly, and judging by the way he occasionally nods and sometimes moves his hands a bit, you can only assume that he’s having some sort of nonverbal conversation with Ghost right now. This conversation goes on for about a few minutes longer before you’ve managed to control your breathing a bit more. 

Price can tell, and he asks just for confirmation, “Is it alright if I clean your cuts now?” 

You nod and sniffle once before taking your head off of Price’s chest, looking down at your lap, simply holding out one of your blood-crusted arms to him. You can see Ghost stiffen up behind you almost immediately at the sight of it. 

Price grabs a cotton pad from the jar he was handed earlier, as well as the bottle of iodopovidone, and soaks the cotton pad with said iodopovidone. Once it’s soaked with the antiseptic solution, he hesitates before pressing it to your bloody arms. 

Almost immediately, you inhale a sharp breath and feel tears stinging your eyes again. 

“It’s okay,” Price tries to calm you down, seeing the tears forming in your eyes again, “You’re okay.” 

You sniffle and shift on the bed, trying to blink away tears that threaten to spill over your water line. Ghost, sitting by your side, puts a gloved hand over your shoulder, his thumb rubbing gentle circles into your shoulder. His eyes twitch as you bite the inside of your cheek to muffle another sob while Price presses another Betadine-infused cotton pad to your self-induced wounds, and although you can barely see him, out of the corner of your eye, you still catch the glint of new tears gathering at the corners of his eyes as he watches you. 

Gaz slips back through the curtains in front of the bed, this time with Soap in tow, and hands a skin stapler to Price. Seeing the skin stapler, something you used fairly often—often enough that the others knew how it worked and how to use it—automatically made your stomach turn.

“Told ye I’d come back for ye,” Soap murmurs, kneeling down to get about eye-level with you. You huff out the smallest laugh at his words and he gives you a small smile that makes you want to go lock yourself in a room with a scalpel and repeat what you’d done earlier all over again, his empathetic expression paining you more than taking a blade to your arm.

As a matter of fact, the expressions that you wish were pity coming from everyone around you hurts more than anything you could’ve ever done to yourself. Their concern was so unexpected—not that you don’t think they care, but you never thought they cared this much. You didn’t think that, if caught in the act, you would receive empathetic looks and solemn smiles, rather thinking that you would receive reprimanding. That you’d be punished for punishing yourself. 

Price thanks Gaz silently with the curt nod of his head before turning back to you with a solemn expression that in all honesty makes you more guilty and disappointed with yourself than before. He holds the skin stapler like he would a hot glue gun, looking down at the open wounds in front of him, and holds your forearm closer to him so he can see the edges of the cuts better. 

"Keep your arm like that," He murmurs, to which you respond with a nod and stiffening your arm so that it stays in the air where Price positioned it. He uses his now free hand to gently pull the edges of the cut you'd made closer together, aligning them the best he can before pressing the metal staple dispenser to the cut and pushing down on the trigger, stapling the two edges together with a click. 

He holds it down for an extra second before releasing and pulling the stapler away from your skin, and although the process only took around three seconds, you'd never get used to the feeling of getting your skin stapled. You make a small, pained noise that has Soap wincing as well--as though he can feel it too--and Price looking more solemn than earlier. 

“Finished with this one,” Price mutters as you swallow down another sob, holding his calloused-but-soft hand out for you to put your other forearm in. You do just that, nearly breaking into a fit of new sobs at the small ‘thank you’ Price utters. 

You watch Price soak another cotton pad with iodopovidone with his free hand and suck in a deep breath as he presses it to your forearm, the originally white cotton pad almost immediately going red. Tears spill over your waterline and roll down your cheeks as he continues to clean and disinfect your wounds, and before you can move your free hand to wipe them away, Ghost does so for you, his rough gloved hand swiping below your eyes quickly. 

You mumble a small 'thank you' that's barely even audible, sniffling as you can’t help but lean forward the tiniest bit into Ghost’s hand as it lingers on your cheek. He pauses, keeping it there for a second, before bringing that same hand up to the crown of your head and pushing gently on it to urge you to lean your head back. You do so, the back of your head quickly making contact with his Adam’s apple and the top of your head becoming tucked underneath his chin. 

His hand goes back down to your shoulder and continues its ministrations of rubbing small circles into said shoulder, bringing you intermittent moments of comfort throughout the painful wound cleaning you had to endure. 

Soap keeps a comforting hand on your knee as he’s kneeled down in front of you, his thumb occasionally copying Ghost’s, but otherwise remaining still on your knee, careful not to force you through too many different sensations at once. 

Gaz watches you from by the curtain, seeming not to do and looking completely lost. He stands there for another moment, watching the others, seeing what they’re doing for a second, before giving Ghost a ‘one moment’ signal by holding up his index finger and stepping out of the curtain-surrounded area.

Right after he does, another painful sting shoots up your nerves from your forearm, and you make the mistake of looking down at it. 

Wounds that only fifteen minutes ago had brought you to a calmer state of mind and were nothing more than incisions made by the scalpel you’d used to cut other people for entirely different reasons now almost hurt to look at. Once you could’ve compared them to marks left by wild animals, and you could’ve described them as though they were trophies, but now, as you stare down at them being cleaned by your own captain, they look nothing like the sort. 

They don’t look like any of the pretty descriptions you’d given them. They don’t look like cat scratches you’d gotten in an accident, or like something you would get out of a fight with a bear—they don’t make you look strong and brave like you thought they did. 

They look like tally marks. Sanguineous, gruesome tally marks, made by you, like you’d been counting down the days—or seconds, minutes, hours—until you’d had enough. Until you’d had enough of just carving your skin with medical equipment, and needed something more. Craved something more. 

Price must notice you staring down at the wounds, because he pauses in his movements to clean them for a moment, the sudden stopping of the stinging sensation the iodopovidone-soaked cotton making you shiver. You look up at him, and see him already looking down at you, concerned. 

“You’re thinking about something,” He points out softly, “Tell me what’s going on in that head of yours.” 

You hesitate and look back down at your arm that Price had stopped cleaning, before mumbling, “Just thinking about how these are gonna scar.” It’s not entirely a lie, but not entirely the truth either. 

Price tilts his head to the side a bit, questioningly, “Do you know how they’re gonna scar?” 

“Well, when you work in the medical field for a bit, it gets easier to tell.”

You can tell he wants to ask how they’re gonna scar, so you decide to just say, “They’re all about one-and-a-half to two inches deep, so they’ll heal fully and then scar in a few months. Once they do, they’ll be visible, but not too prominent. The scarring tissue will stick above the skin a little bit, and it’ll make it look a little bit puffy.” 

“Alright,” Price hums, tone neutral, “So they’ll be… visible.” 

He sounds disgusted, A voice in the forefront of your mind insists, while one from the back of your mind tries to tell you, You have no way of knowing that, just see where the conversation goes. He has no reason to be disgusted with you.

“Yeah.” 

“Okay then,” Price sets the cotton pad down and grabs the skin stapler he’d been using earlier, “And it’ll take a few months to heal, you said?” 

“Several months, yeah.” Price considers this for a moment, pausing in his movements to hold the stapler to your skin. 

“Do you think you’ll need any help re-wrapping the bandages while they heal?” He inquires, resuming his movements after asking the question. 

“…” You think for a moment, Will you?, and after a few seconds, hesitantly, you reply, “… Yeah.” 

“M’kay,” Price hums softly, neutrally. “And would you want me to be the one who does it?” 

You think for another few minutes. Preferably, you’d be doing them yourself, but you didn’t trust yourself enough for that—so getting one of them to do it for you is your next best option. You wouldn’t mind if it was Price doing it, but at the same time, you wouldn’t mind if Ghost, Gaz, or Soap did it either. 

“It doesn’t matter,” You settle on, before tacking on, “As long as it’s one of you four.” 

“Us ‘four’ being… ?” 

“You, Soap, Ghost, and Gaz.” 

“Got it,” Price nods. You see Soap smile softly out of the corner of your eye before he quickly stops, trying to purse his lips into a line. He’s probably thinking that he shouldn’t be happy about that, You think, almost amused. You feel Ghost’s thumb stutter on your shoulder as well, before it starts back up normally. 

Your words affect them more than you thought they would. 

Breaking your train of thought, Price staples your skin with a muted click, making you wince. 

It’s silent for a few more moments before Gaz finally comes back, now out of breath and carrying a bar of chocolate. He hands you the chocolate bar and says, panting, “I almost had to spar someone for that. Why do you have to like the chocolate one of the other fuckin’ Lieutenants do?” 

You take the chocolate bar with your free hand gingerly and blink at it for a few moments before setting it down next to you. 

“Nobody told you to get it,” You shrug, before tacking on, “Thank you, though.” 

“Uh-huh, yeah, totally, hey so uh—” He looks at Soap and jabs his thumb towards where the door would be behind the curtains, “We’re both needed somewhere else. Again. They said they forgot something… again.” 

“Worst fucking timing ever,” Soap grumbles, before clearing his throat and standing up, looking down at you, “Right, I’ll check in on ye later, and help ye wi’ anything ye need me tae, aye? I’ll come wi’ mair chocolate than Gaz did, ‘cause I’m better than him.” 

“Got it,” You smile up at him, making him grin back and pat you on the shoulder Ghost’s hand isn’t occupying, before heading out with Gaz. 

Then, you’re left with Ghost and Price. 

“I should get going too,” Ghost mutters, slowly taking his hand off of your shoulder and gently pushing your head back off of his chest, almost regrettably. 

“M’kay,” You watch as he gets up and hesitates, looking like he’s about to give you a hug, before he decides to instead give you a simple head nod and head out the same way the two other operators did. 

And then, it was just you and Price.

It’s silent for a bit, until Price speaks up.

“You think a lot,” Price comments, finishing up the last staple. 

“Does that surprise you?” 

“A little bit, yeah.” 

You pause for a moment before sighing through your nose, “It’s nothing. Just the same stuff I was thinking about before.” 

“Wanna give me some more detail than that?” 

“Not really, no,” You admit, letting your hand fall into your lap as Price lets go of it, “But I have a feeling you’re gonna want me to tell you.” 

“I do.” 

“It’s just something stupid, like earlier—” 

“That wasn’t stupid, [c/n], that was you hurting.” 

“I— I know. It’s just that this is actually stupid.” 

“Well, tell me what it is, and I’ll be the judge of that.” 

You think about how to phrase it in simple terms for a moment, before finally speaking, “I used to think that the scars sort of… symbolized how I was able to control myself and my emotions, and that made me feel…” You can’t think of any synonyms to make the simple words you want to say sound less childish, so you’re forced to say, “… brave. And strong. I just— I thought it showed that I was good at controlling my emotions and stuff, for some reason. But now I’m questioning all of that.” 

“You’re very brave,” Price reassures you, and God, it sounds like he’s reassuring a child, “And you’re so strong. But this… this isn’t how you show that. This—cutting yourself—doesn’t make you either of those things. It doesn’t show that you’re either of those things. It shows that you need help.” 

“But you just said that I was strong.” 

“I did.” 

“… Aren’t you contradicting yourself?”

“How would I be contradicting myself?” Price asks. 

“You said that me— me… harming myself shows that I need help.” 

“It does,” Price hums, and at your confused expression, he continues, “You needing help doesn’t mean you aren’t strong. Needing help and being strong aren’t connected like that.” 

You open your mouth to argue but you close it, not knowing what to say. Price sees this and smiles knowingly, simply grabbing your hand to squeeze it once before getting up. 

“I’ll check in on you later, okay? I need to get some stuff done, but as soon as I can, I’ll be back to keep you company. Or I’ll send someone else over—whichever you prefer.” 

“M’kay,” You mumble, squeezing Price’s hand back before letting go. “You can do whatever. I don’t mind either one.” 

“Sounds good.” Price pauses for a moment before leaning down and giving you a quick hug, and then beginning to slip past the curtains blocking any outsider's view of the bed you were sat on.

Before he can leave, you quickly say, "Thank you. For the wound-cleaning-thing."

He pauses at the curtain for a second, before smiling and replying, "You're welcome."

for those curious, the bthb card so far:

[callsign-rogueone]

under the weather

fourth wing boys* x gn!partner!reader *Aaric, Bodhi, Brennan, Dain, Garrick, Liam, Ridoc, Sawyer, Xaden! y'all seemed to like excuses, excuses, so here’s something in that style because I don’t feel good rn, but I want to write :( and I added Aaric this time too!  words: 645 🏷: no spoilers. just some thoughts on ways our boys would take care of you when you’re sick 🥰 descriptions of sickness (cough, fever, dizziness, etc.) doctors visits, medication. I've been ripping shots of nyquil all day and I’m not all there rn so I really hope these make sense lol 

Aaric lets you rest your head in his lap while he reads to you, either from a textbook (the grind never stops with this one) or whatever fiction novel he’s reading. the words go in one ear and out the other in your soft delirium, but it’s still nice to hear his voice and feel him stroking your hair as he reads. if you fall asleep on him, he won’t move until you wake up, or unless he absolutely has to — but heaven help the person who makes him move.

Bodhi insists on cuddling you back to health, curling up with you and letting you rest your aching body against his while you settle in for a long afternoon nap, because sleep is the best medicine. he completely ignores your protests that you’ll get him sick too (you do, and then it’s your turn to play nurse next week, but he swears it was worth it). 

Brennan spends as much time with you as he can, bringing his paperwork and things to your shared room so that he can be there when you need him, while still tending to his duties as a leader of the revolution. he checks your temperature and pulse etc. every hour, monitoring you carefully, but he’ll make up for it with lots of forehead kisses. 

Dain excuses you from training until you’re better, insisting that you stay in bed and devote all your energy to recovering. he frequently comes to check on you throughout the day, and you better still be in bed when he does, or you’ll be getting a gentle lecture about the importance of your caring for yourself and how much you mean to him — he needs you to be healthy, okay?

Garrick carries you around whenever you need to go somewhere, because he doesn’t want you collapsing after that dizzy spell you had. he doesn’t care if it’s only twenty feet to the showers and back; he’s scooping you up and walking over himself. he also insists on supervising your shower, but no funny business — you’re sick. once you’ve recovered, however…

Liam draws you a warm bath, letting you soothe your aching muscles for a while before washes your hair and your back for you, being incredibly gentle all the while. he’ll dry you off afterward, letting you pick any of his clothes to wear to sleep if you want, and helping you through the steps of your nightly routine — brushing your teeth, etc., before giving you your medicine and letting you fall asleep on his chest.

Ridoc goes with you to the healers, rubbing your back and making soft jokes all the while to distract you from the discomfort — apologizing when your laughs turn into a coughing fit. he also tries to make you feel normal / less gross when you’re stuck in bed, helping you with basic self-care: brushing and braiding your hair, taking your makeup off if you wear it, helping you do your skincare… 

Sawyer does all the things that you can’t do while you’re sick — goes to class and copies an extra set of notes for you, does your laundry, straightens up your room, etc. that way you can focus on recovering, but also, once you’re back on your feet, you won’t have a huge mess to deal with and you won’t be behind on your studies. he’ll help you review what you missed, as well. 

Xaden is protective to a fault, but when you’re sick, it’s a whole new level. he doesn’t leave your side unless absolutely necessary, ignoring any form of protest. follows the healer’s instructions to the letter — antibiotics every four hours? he’s waking you up at two am, glass of water in hand, helping you sit up so you can take them. he’ll also use his shadows to dim the room so you can sleep through the day. 

[mrpenguinpants]

Pale Blue Slumber [ Commissioned ]

[ Hello hello hellooooo, I was wondering if you could do hcs for Ayato x reader where the reader is constantly sleepy/sleep deprived and has a habit of falling asleep whenever, whether that be while standing up in the middle of a date or just straight up in the middle of battle ]

Word Count: 1.7k

Alhaitham Ver: Green Slumber  [Masterlist]

I nearly missed this if kofi didn't spam you with 10 emails. But thank you so much for the commission! I looked at it and almost didn't believe my eyes lol. Please let me know if I accidentally went under the word count.

If you see a sleeping figure slouched in the middle of the hallway, don't approach them and alert Lord Kamisato immediately. It's a saying that's been instilled into the estate and something every worker is told on their first day. Although the language used makes it sound like there's a dark secret that the Kamisato family is trying to hide. Perhaps a dangerous yokai or evil curse has been placed, and they don't want anyone to know? It would explain why Ayato has managed to rise and maintain his position as the Yahiro Commissioner despite being so young. Whispers and rumors bounce between the paper walls as people speculate just what this mysterious "sleeping figure" is and why Ayato alone can deal with the situation. Yet the answer is lackluster when they find out that it's just his lover who, once again, has fallen asleep standing up.

The image of the Yashiro Commissioner carrying a limp body in his arms is slowly becoming a regular occurrence and less of a cause for concern. The first couple of times, people rushed with medical supplies only to be met with a sharp eye and an equally scary smile for them to please quiet down lest they wake up the sleeping figure in his arms. Now people will quiet down once they recognize your hair and that it's you Ayato is carrying, and he offers them a nod of thanks. That's not to say the whispers stop because as soon as they see Ayato turns the corner, they're back to gossiping and gushing over how cute the image looks. The graceful and refined Yashiro Commissioner becomes a soft and kind family man as he cradles you back into a quiet room to sleep in. It doesn't matter how busy or stressed Ayato is, when someone alerts him that the "sleeping figure" has "returned", he'll politely excuse himself and leave. Any complaints are ignored that it would have to take the Shogun herself to make Ayato sit for a second longer. But only for a second.

You can't explain why you're constantly sleepy or why you will suddenly fall asleep whenever no matter the circumstances. Ayato likes to compare your sleepy nature to Sayu, but he does try his best to accommodate you despite his busy schedule. He knows that you get a bit insecure about your habit, so he tries not to draw too much attention to it when the moments happen. He remembers the early days when you and he were just acquaintances, and you fell asleep on him mid-sentence. The young Ayato has no idea what to do with someone who just fell asleep in the middle of a serious conversation that he thought you died from the pressure. It caused quite a commotion that Ayato still likes to bring up just to see you get embarrassed. But now, if you fall asleep mid-step, he'll easily scoop you up in his arms and carry on as if nothing has happened. If you happen to fall asleep mid-sentence, he'll gently lean you against his shoulder and continue your sentence. If anyone tries to ask why you've suddenly fallen asleep, he'll pretend that he has no idea what they're talking about. The person nestled into his side? What do you mean they fell asleep in the middle of eating? You must be mistaken because they've been asleep the entire time.

Due to your sleepy nature, you're constantly in a drowsy state. While Ayato finds you adorable, it also means you have absolutely no filter. Sometimes he thinks you do it on purpose because of how easily you can write off your mumbles as the aftermath of dreams. Saying the first thing that comes to mind only to pass out the next second and leaving him to deal with the embarrassing consequences. It doesn't help that Ayato is usually the first thing you see when you wake up, and regardless of how your eyelids droop halfway, he's pretty. Really pretty. It takes a clumsy hand to reach up, cup his cheek to pull him into a soft kiss, a remark that he's the prettiest person you've ever seen, before promptly passing out again. You aren't awake for the aftermath of a pink-faced Ayato desperately trying to reign in his racing heartbeat and Yae Miko snickering at him.

On the rare occasions that you're more awake and energized, you'll seek Ayato out yourself. It's always an endearing sight to see Ayato's usually calm demeanor turn elated when it's you that pops your head through the sliding door. Shyly asking if he wants to go out for lunch as if he'll say no to you of all people. Although Ayato is a person that does not like to show his face in public often, that doesn't mean he won't find any opportunity to take you out on these special days. Any concerns about his overbearing work are easily brushed aside. His work will be there when he returns. You, on the other hand, might not even be conscious enough to see the papers. He gets a huffy scoff and a gentle swat on the arm before you take his hand and pull your teasing man along. He ensures he has an arm wrapped around your waist, gently squeezing you into his side while you prattle on about how cute Taroumaru has gotten.

While Ayato and the staff have gotten used to your habits, that can't be said for everyone else. When you suddenly slump forward, quickly caught by Ayato's hand so you don't fall face-first into your food, Kiminami nearly passes out in fright that she might have accidentally killed Lord Kamisato's lover with her food. She has no idea if Ayato's smile and wave are a sign of reckoning and that is a signal that he's going to send someone to kill her later. It takes an hour, and even Thoma arrives to calm the poor girl that no, she didn't accidentally food poison anyone, and yes, this is a regular occurrence so please stop crying-

That's not to say every instance is funny. You are his lover and if there were numerous assassinations against him in the past and present, that means they'll eventually turn to you. Regardless if you're aware or not, he has his men trail after you silently to ensure your safety. So when Sayu nearly barrels into him to report that there's been a fight and you're in the middle of it, he can feel his blood turn cold as he rushes to the scene. His hand itching against the hilt of his sword as he follows Sayu into a clearing. Only to find you propped up against a spear, passed out in the aftermath of a battle unharmed. Like your body auto-piloted your slumbering self and parked itself directly in the middle of battle just to give him a heart attack. It takes a nudge at his leg from Sayu to snap him out of his stupor before he lets out a sigh that sounds older than him before he walks and collects you back into his arms. The comforting weight and warm body against his settle his heart just enough that he can think properly over his heartbeat. If his work doesn't kill him, you sure will.

Ayato stays behind the scenes for a reason. He knows your body can fall asleep at a drop of a hat regardless if your mind actually wants you to. There's a reason why you're not allowed in the kitchen regardless if Thoma is there with you. There's a reason why Ayato is the only one allowed to carry you back regardless if Ayaka finds you first. There is a reason why there is a rule set in place for no one to approach you. On one busy occasion, a stranger spotted you leaning against a wooden beam with papers for the Iradori festival in your hands. It made for a bit of a funny sight with how you managed to support yourself upright while also clutching flimsy papers was a mystery. But no one seemed to be waking you up and you were standing in the middle of the street. The stranger tries to call out to you but receives no reaction so he does the logical thing and reaches out to shake you awake. Too many things happen within the span of a few seconds. A male voice yells out for them to not touch you, the stranger's fingertips barely brushing against your shoulders before they're pushed to the ground.

When you first wake up, there are a couple of expectations you expect to see. Whether it be a ceiling, blankets, or the side of your pillow. It's always something constant that grounds you back into reality. Unfortunately the habit of falling asleep whenever your body feels like it has you waking up in unfamiliar places that your flight or fight instincts kick in before your mind even has time to see properly. So in order to combat this, Ayato has now become your constant. When you wake up to pale blue, you know you are safe. Yet when you wake up this time, it's too noisy and there's a stranger in front of you. So you do the first thing your mind registers and it's to run. Run to someone who has pale skin, light purple eyes, and pale blue hair. Thoma tries to call after you but when you don't turn around at his familiar voice, he lightly curses under his breath before turning towards the Kamisato estate.

It doesn't take long for Ayato to find you. He always seems to know where you are and he's always the first one you see. Pale blue hair contrasts the purple background with a kind smile to ease your heart back down to its regular pace. He can tell you're exhausted, more so than usual, as he tenderly brushes your hair out of your face. Fingers brushing aside the leaves and dirt that got tangled into the strands before dipping to rub circles into your back. Another hand comes under your knees and carefully lifts you up, tucking you under his chin as Ayato makes the trek back to the estate. The quiet command to sleep makes your eyelids droop again before finally closing peacefully. Your mind finally accepts it's safe again to sleep against pale blue.

---

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[intheholler]

On Appalachian and Southern Stereotypes

After seeing some people leap at the opportunity to insult and further harm us under my posts, even by obviously leftist accounts, I wanted to address some of the most popular stereotypes of our region.

Not as an excuse. There are many negative, violent and otherwise harmful features of the American South. We have a horrific history especially in terms of the violence we inflicted and continue to inflict upon the Black community that cannot be forgotten, and, as a culture, we do need to pay our dues.

But maybe this will help y’all apply some nuance to the situation and understand that we aren’t all your enemy.

Stereotype 1: Everyone is a Republican Racist

Absolute horse shit, my friends. There are people like me all over the south and in the hollers. We just get drowned out by the fascists, and it is all by design. 

In my home state of North Carolina alone, they are working tirelessly to make it impossible for young, often liberal (if not outright leftist) voices to be heard. They specifically target regions with heavy POC populations.

As recently as May of this year, the North Carolina Supreme Court overturned their own previous ruling which once made gerrymandering illegal. This allows Republicans free range to draw their congressional lines wherever benefits them most. 

Meanwhile, Roy Cooper, our Democratic governor, has been in office since 2017.

Gerrymandering is a real problem, and it reflects the worst of us. But it does not reflect all of us.

We are a working class, pro-union people.

We are coal miners and mill workers and farmers.

We took up arms against the government and fought for our labor rights during the Coal Wars as recently as the 1920s.

We bled for labor rights at the Battle of Blair Mountain.

It’s a myth that you keep perpetuating that we are all closed minded, bigoted regressionists. It diminishes the efforts of everyone from the coal miners to people like me while we try to make the region a better place.

It actually only worsens what you say that you wish you could “saw off into the ocean.” 

That's my home you're talking about.

Stereotype 2: Everyone is Obese

36.3% of the overall population of the Southeast is obese. This is true.

Have you considered why that may be? For starters, Southerners are more likely to be uninsured compared to individuals living in the rest of the country.

"Among the total nonelderly population, 15% of individuals in the South are uninsured compared to 10% of individuals in the rest of the country."

Partially because they didn't even expand the same Medicaid benefits to us. and partially because we are just so fucking poor. 

17% of the American South is below the poverty line, compared to 13% in the Midwest, 13% in the West, and 13% in the Northeast.

Percentages under 5% may not seem like much, but when you consider 1% of the total United States population is around 3,140,000 people, yeah, that adds up real quick.

How does this relate? Well...

Mississippi has 19.58% of its residents below the poverty line, and a 39.1% obesity rate.

West Virginia has 17.10% of its residents below the poverty line, and a 40.6 % obesity rate.

Kentucky has 16.61% of its residents below the poverty line, and a 40.4% obesity rate.

Are you seeing the trend?

We, generally speaking, are more likely to be unable to afford to feed ourselves wholesome foods, and we are less likely to be able to afford medical insurance--two things that are obviously important to maintaing good health and a "healthy" weight.

By the same token... 

Stereotype #3: We're All Uneducated 

The South and Appalachia are some of the lowest ranked in terms of educational funding and spending per pupil in the entire country. We don't even break the top 30 on the list, y'all.

49. Tennessee at $8,324 per pupil 47. Mississippi at $8,919 per pupil 45. Alabama at $9,636 per pupil 42. Kentucky at $10,010 per pupil 36. North Carolina at $10,613 per pupil 35. South Carolina at  $10,719 per pupil 33. Georgia at $10,893 per pupil 32. West Virginia at $10,984 per pupil

The top three best-funded states, by comparison, receive between $18k and $20k per pupil.

In terms of higher education, student loans are a death sentence for everyone but especially impoverished kids just looking for a way out. It just isn't feasible for most of us. And that's if we even tested well after going to shitty schools our whole lives. If we had better education, we'd have better literacy in all things, including critical thinking, allowing us to better see through the bullshit we are taught. But we don't. And you aren't helping the ones who are trying in spite of that.

Stereotype 4: Bad Teeth

Quickly going to touch on this one--when we consider a lack of access to affordable, healthy food, shitty medical insurance in general and our poverty rate, this one is kind of obvious. Even so:

“Dental coverage was significantly lower than the national average in the South Atlantic (45.6%), East South Central (45.6%), West South Central (45.9%), and Pacific (48.0%) regions.”

Every time you make a toothless hillbilly joke, ask if poverty is really the butt of the joke you want to be making.

These are just the most pervasive of them, imo. And they can all be underlined by extreme poverty which is absolutely by design.

It also contributes to why it isn’t so easy to “just leave” as we are so often dismissively told to do. Moving is expensive.

And why should we have to, anyway? Why should we have to flee our homes?

Why, for those who feel safe enough and/or have no other choice, should we not stay and fight to better the region?

And why can’t you other leftists get behind us and help us in our fight instead of perpetuating harmful stereotypes? We're your people, too.

Just some food for thought. And I hope some of y’all take a big ol bite.

[mandos-mind-trick]

Eyes On Me

Summary: You wouldn't care if they heard. You wouldn't care if they saw. They already know you're in Tech's bunk.

Pairing: Tech x reader

Warnings: NSFW, 18+, smut, p in v sex, fingering, slightly rough sex, clothed male unclothed female, glove kink, exhibitionism, slight pain kink, armor kink, this is absolute filth I am so sorry.

A/N: *Sweats* Uh, did I intend on making most of these about the Batch...not really. I just can't help it. I have no excuse for this one. Please forgive me.

MASTERLIST

The barracks are quiet, aside from the pounding of the rain against the window and the occasional rumble of snoring from Wrecker’s bunk. They’re all tired after a hard series of missions, back on Kamino for a short stay before they ship out again. 

You only feel slightly guilty about what you’re doing, only that it might disturb them in their much needed rest. You stare up into those brown eyes above you, his gaze sharp and focused. One arm is looped behind you, hand covering your mouth to keep you quiet. His gloved fingers pinch into your cheeks as he muffles your moans, trying not to wake the others.

You wouldn’t care if they heard. 

You wouldn’t care if they saw. 

The kinds of things that made your pussy clench would make even Crosshair blush. 

You, their sweet little medic, laying in Tech’s bunk with his gloved fingers knuckle deep in your pussy. His movements are slow and deliberate, fingers curled into that spot inside you. His armor presses into your side, digging into the dips and curves but you don’t care. 

Tech had been the obvious choice for you, his quiet but commanding demeanor was alluring, and you work with him often. He’s eager to learn, and you posed your desires as a learning opportunity. A chance to gain knowledge in an area he had little experience in. 

They were all rather looked over when it came to that area, mostly because they didn’t get chances for shore leave often. You were the first woman they had close contact with, which led to some interesting situations in the beginning. None of them had ever approached you with an offer, and you could guess they wouldn’t have, if you hadn’t approached Tech. 

You know the others listen sometimes. 

You love it. 

Tech doesn’t seem to care either, his fingers stilling as he removes his hand from your mouth to tug your breastband up. He covers your mouth again, thrusting his fingers into you faster. You whine against his hand, suddenly aware of how silent the barracks have gotten. Even the rain seemed to stop, making the wet squelch of your pussy all the more noticeable. The lube he’d coated his glove in only made it louder. 

Your eyes roll back as he drags the rough fabric covering his palm across your clit, your legs clamping closed as you cum around his fingers. He eases you through your orgasm, your breaths coming in pants from behind his hand. He stills his fingers inside you, holding them there. You continue to flutter around him, squeezing his fingers. 

He finally draws them from your aching pussy, the black fabric sticky and coated in your cum. He shifts over you, moving his hand from your mouth. He presses two fingers against your lips and you take them in your mouth. He tastes like metal and plastoid, tangy and bitter on your tongue. You whimper around his fingers as he removes his codpiece with one easy movement, shoving it in the corner of the bunk. 

You part your legs further as he opens his blacks, pulling out his cock. He’s hard already, his hand jerking the thick length. Your mouth waters around his fingers, drool slipping out of the corners of your mouth and running down your cheeks. He watches it for a moment before lining himself up. 

You moan around his fingers as he presses into you, your pussy already raw and aching from his fingers. The stretch is almost too much, your whimpers loud in the quiet barracks. His fingers press against your tongue, cutting off all noise for a moment. You swallow around his fingers, breaths coming in gasps as he fills you. 

The barracks are very quiet. They’re awake. They have to be. There’s no way they could sleep through this, even with Wrecker’s snoring. The thought makes you clench around Tech, his eyes snapping up to your face. He gives you a look, your body relaxing around him, allowing him to press in further. 

You’re entirely exposed, the blanket pushed off to the side. Your breastband is up around your armpits, leaving your tits exposed to the cold air in the barracks, and to whomever just happened to look over. 

Tech knows this too. 

He angles his body just enough if they wanted to see, they could. His hips press flush with yours, his belt pressing into your stomach. His tools bite the inside of your thighs as they press against his sides. He starts to move, dragging his length along your walls. You moan around his fingers, hand sliding to grip the wrist of the hand that’s pressing into the mattress beside you. 

His gaze is angled down, recording the way his length slides in and out of your wet pussy. For research, he’d claim. It’s definitely for him to watch later, when it’s harder for you two to get alone time. 

“Let her go.” 

The voice makes you jump, not expecting it. It’s rough and low, breathy and slightly muffled from the wall between the two bunks. Hunter. He can’t see what you’re doing, but no doubt he’s been able to hear the entire time. 

Tech slips his hand from your face, drawing his fingers from your mouth. He snaps his hips into yours, a high pitched whine leaving your lips. It’s downright sinful sounding, putting those girls in those holofilms popular among the clones to shame. You continue to moan loudly as Tech snaps his hips into yours, the sound of your pussy rivaling the sounds coming out of your mouth. 

You’re going to cum again and soon. 

You hear quiet groans, the sounds of bodies shuffling in bunks. You go to turn your head but Tech grips your jaw, keeping your head still. 

“Eyes on me.” He says slowly, his voice low from pleasure. 

You want to see. You want to see them, hands in their blacks, watching you get fucked by their squadmate. You keep your eyes glued to Tech’s behind his goggles, arms falling open to give them the best view of your bouncing tits.

Your moans get louder, and for a moment you’re worried anyone walking by might be able to hear. It would be one hell of a reprimanding if you were caught in this position, and you’d likely get reassigned. The guys wouldn’t get much more than a stern talking to. They were too valuable to the Republic to risk decommissioning. 

Perhaps that’s what made them so bold. 

“Kriff, kriff, kriff!” You curse, crying out Tech’s name as you cum, writhing beneath him. He stills his hips, letting you ride out your orgasm around him. You can hear echoing groans from the others, desperate to turn and look but you know Tech won’t let you. He’ll force your gaze on him and only him. You also know he’s not done. 

He’s far from finished with you. 

Taglist:

@kaminocasey, @rosechi, @mxkyrie, @bobaprint, @star-trekker-0013, @padawancat97 @bamfahsoka, @rain-on-kamino

[eirenical]

Mysterious Lotus Casebook | Lian Hua Lou | 莲花楼 | Episode 10

"Since you have been poisoned with the deadliest poison, no poison can harm you anymore."

--Monk Wuliao

I've been thinking a lot about this line lately, and its potential repercussions. In context, this is Li Lianhua remembering Monk Wuliao's words from when he was healed as much as he could have been from the Bicha Poison 10 years ago. Shortly before these remembered words, there is a flashback wherein it is revealed that Li Xiangyi had a nut allergy that made him break out in hives. That bowl of food he's eating is a nut porridge brought to him by Yun Biqiu. (There are less dangerous ways to see if this person is your former sect leader, Biqiu! O_o;;;) Anyway, as he is eating this nut porridge, and remembering this line, Li Lianhua is distinctly NOT breaking out in hives.

The conclusion that we are clearly supposed to draw is that the Bicha Poison has prevented the "toxin" of the nuts from harming its host.

...but why stop there?

If a nut is a poison for the purpose of this mechanism of action, then what about other drugs/medications? After all, to quote one of my favorite sayings: "Healers and poisoners are folks with similar skill sets and wildly different philosophies." Or to put it as I learned it in my toxicology class in vet school: "All medicines are poisons at the right dose."

So if a nut can be a poison, then medications CERTAINLY are. And if the Bicha poison recognizes the nut as a poison and prevents it from acting, then we can assume it would do the same to any medications.

That explains why Medicine Demon's priceless potions DON'T WORK.

That explains why the snake bites DON'T WORK.

That explains why Guan Hemeng's medicines DON'T WORK.

It also explains why Li Lianhua is so convinced that Fan Duobing's pill from Tianji Hall and Di Feisheng's Wangchuan Flower WON'T work.

Because once you've been poisoned by Bicha Poison, NO OTHER POISON WILL HARM YOU... or help you.

And taking that a step further, it means that every time Li Lianhua has been sick or injured or in need of pain medication in the past ten years, NONE OF IT WOULD HAVE WORKED. And considering how much more fragile he is now than he used to be, that absolutely breaks my heart.

Just imagine that every time he was ill or injured, he had to weigh the benefits of using Yangzhouman to heal himself versus the risk of using too much and shrinking the time he had left even more. How many times must he have chosen to just power through and hope he makes it to the other side? No wonder he's so reluctant to let Guan Hemeng examine him and try to help. No wonder he doesn't want to waste everyone else's precious medications on himself. He knows they'll do nothing.

...excuse me while I go cry in a corner now. TT^TT

[baalzebufo]

HIII. can i just say. absolutely ADORE your gravity falls stuff!! i'd love to hear more of your headcanons (especially abt gideon) (that's my SON)

yes yeeees i was part of the Original Wave of Gideon Enjoyers back when like, episode 4 aired and it was about ten blogs who didnt hate his guts. i mean, i still want to throw him out a window, but I also think he has really interesting character stuff going on that some people just didnt wanna look at bc they hated him! which like, fair, he's a villain, but that freaky little dude will always be one of MY faves, haha

this post got. very long im sorry I had to put a readmore here haha but I haven't had an excuse to infodump about this for ages so here's a couple Things I like Thinking About... also a doodle I did the other night to break up the wall of text below

ok ok to start i LOVE him so much as a foil to dipper (and to an extent ford too) as examples of what the journals/that kind of power and information can do to people. its why im so adamant that he does actually have albinism, even if its not Technically Canon. dipper and ford both have a like, 'physical oddity' about them (birthmark, sixth finger) i think it makes sense for gideons to be his albinism as something that set him apart. all three are 'weirdos', were ostracised to an extent by the world, had that longing for something special or important, and then found it. and its what they DO with that which sets them apart

especially as a foil to dipper like... from time to time in the show, he gets a bit gung-ho about abusing the journals power for his own gain. but he has friends and family to reign him back in. he has more of a moral compass about not wanting to hurt people, generally. dipper never became like gideon did

this is getting into headcanon territory here but, my general summary of gideons childhood is an isolated one. only child, fairly sheltered, had some medical complications early in life which led to a lot of time on his own in hospital, attended school briefly and was subjected to significant bullying. and without a real support network outside of his parents who were very doting to the point of spoiling him because hes their Little Miracle he wasnt exactly well-adjusted even as a kid

but basically, that kid ends up finding this journal and learns about spells and evil artifacts and suddenly he has the power to make people like him. not only that but Fear him. he goes from feeling powerless to an absolute ego-trip. and his only close relatives would never tell their little boy 'no' about something, so they're not disciplining him in any way. its a perfect storm for a disaster to happen

it stems from this childish desire to go 'look at me im important and special and everyone likes me' and hes become so embittered already by people being dicks that he doesnt care if he hurts people on the way

that only really changes when mabel shows up and is the first person in town to approach him from a like... normal level. shes nice to him but not in the overly-saccharine and doting way his fans are, just in the way a girl who wants to be friends is. she treats him normally and is nice and he thinks she's pretty and that ALSO becomes a perfect storm of 'well shes nice to me and i like her so i must be in love with her and she is with me!' and, of course. kid who has never heard the word No before. so the later rejection becomes a HUGE sticking point and grudge to the point of being flat-out murderous

later in life with a little Introspection i think he'd realize it was less love and more just. basically imprinting on the first person to be normal and kind at him in years

UM. I should wrap this up i have so much in my brain. gideon was one of my earliest roleplay muses i'd write and draw with my pals, so I subjected him to a LOT of personal characterization stuff and also making a thousand AUs for fun. (aus always come in two flavours either its 'im going to make you marginally more well-adjusted' or 'im going to make you so, SO much worse')

ive got a soft spot for con-men and fake psychics and generally shitty little weasels and gideon just stormed into the show being a jerk with an aesthetic i adore and i was like ahhh. i want to punt him. hes my favourite.

ok im going to shut up now. last minute headcanon. gideon got into wood carving in prison art therapy because using a knife to stab something in a non-murder way helps soothe his urges. he whittles little people figurines

✨

[straightouttheslendermansionn]

𝑫𝑶𝑪𝑻𝑶𝑹 𝑫𝑶𝑪𝑻𝑶𝑹!

𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒆𝒓: Il Dottore/The Doctor

𝑪𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝑾𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈: fem! reader because this is horribly self-indulgent, sadism, dacryphilia, overstimulation, edging, degradation. lots of scary and spicy things. Oh and choking. iykyk.

These are just general nsfw headcanons for my problematic fave <3

He is totally into choking. This is only half a joke, because if he sees that you enjoy it he’ll probably question it for a bit but keep doing it. Or deny you this pleasure. Depends

He likes incorporating his experimental nature into intimate practices. Which means he will absolutely edge you and/or overstimulate you and excuse his actions with his reason being experimentation.

Oh yeah and he most definitely likes the sound and look of you crying and begging. It's a motivator for him.

"It seems you like this, but why are you crying? Cheer up or I'll give you a reason to cry." he coos and wipes a single, shiny tear from your eye, a toothy grin across his face.

How utterly fucking pathetic.

He would commission Sandrone to make new erotic devices to try on you every once in a while, While she hates this idea, Mora is Mora. And he's her superior. Not like she hasn't created instruments of torture for him in the past.

And if you enjoy getting hurt, he won’t shy away, especially if you’ve been disobedient. Though if it’s just you wanting it, rather deserving it, you’ll either have to to do something to make him want to punish you or beg him. No in between.

Use your words, you’re babbling like an idiot. Would you like more marks on your body? Are you addicted to the sweet stinging against your skin?

He grips your thighs/ass while saying the last part. Just… imagine it.

Oh yeah he’s a thigh guy btw. He likes thighs and waists. Especially ones with a bit more squish. More to cut open, more to grip onto.

His weakest spot is his neck. Either go for that or bite down while giving head to earn a chuckle and a quick change of pace (meaning he either starts roughly topping or he starts fucking. This man doesn’t play).

Hell, he'll screw you on an autopsy table. He'll make sure it's nice and clean just for you. With a mirror set up and everything so you can watch as he wrecks you, the way your face looks as he bruises your insides. His gloved fingers in your mouth and your hair a mess as you're tearing up and begging for release.

On that note, he's either almost entirely clothed or not clothed at all. Most of the time it's the former.

But of course, you only get him when he's in a good mood. Obey him and be his obedient little partner if you want your hole fucked good! He can definitely satisfy, but only if you act like a good girl and obey his every whim.

It's really difficult to completely make him hard. It's hard to bring him over the edge and have him begging. He's completely a top, and a really rough one at that. Submission is more attractive to him than being dominated, though he does admire the inner fierceness in his partner when they attempt to top.

He also eats out really well but he almost never does it unless he feels you REALLY deserve it. He personally just doesn't like doing it but will very rarely make an exception.

Aftercare? Never heard of her. If he thinks he has time to spare or if you quite literally can't properly move after that, he'll scoff and then carry you somewhere where you can rest. He might even send for someone to bring you things to eat or to draw up a bath for you. It's rarely ever him though.

While this is true, he does run constant medical tests to ensure that you're nice and healthy. Biweekly blood tests, makes sure you take your required meds and vitamins, all that good stuff. This is the only factor that would, in essence, make him a caretaker dom. But only barely.

Call him Zandik in bed and he will lie you on a dissection table so fuckin fast (he hates it, seriously hates it)

Is very possessive but certainly wouldn't mind sharing you with a certain other harbinger (come on, we all know who).

Just as long as that Regrator bastard remembers who’s in charge.

A/N: The atrocious things I'd let Dottore do to me. The absolute horrendous acts I would let him perform. I am down diabolical for this man. Anyway, hope you enjoyed the content, and stay slutty my friends.

[fanficcrakkith]

hehe, horny dream, hehe

WC: 915

Pairing: James Wilson/Gregory House

Mentions of; Wet dreams

House pants softly, purposely avoiding looking in the mirror so he doesn't have to feel as humiliated as he would if he did look up.

       "Uhuh.." Wilsons tuts, pulling at House's hair. Forcing him to see himself in the mirror parallel from the two of them.

       "No looking away, House. That would take the fun out of the mirror being there." He said with a head tilt. His gaze traveling over House's body as he looked at him through the mirror.

The two of them observe House's body. Wilson appreciating the hickey's and flushed face. House, on the other hand, simply forced to watch his face contort with pleasure as Wilson dragged his hand down at an agonizingly slow pace.

       "Look at yourself. Panting like a bitch in heat.."

House lets out a defiant huff, his breath quickening as Wilson's grip tightened in all the right places. Drawing out grunts from him as Wilson did so. He struggled against the rope bound against his wrists.

       "You act all high and mighty. Thinking you're above making human error," He mutters, "thinking you can defeat God. It's pathetic, House." Wilson says credulously.

House inhales sharply, "Don't be a, hypocrite, Wilson-" He started, his hair being tugged harder to stop him from continuing. Eliciting a gasp and some pants from him.

       "Did I say you could speak?" Wilson challenges, waiting to see if House would respond. Only earning another defiant huff, "..That's what I thought."

       "..Can I at least-"

Wilson let out an annoyed huff, "God, always so defiant. Can't you just do what you're told?"

House let out a quiet chuckle, "I thought that's what you liked about me, Jimmy.."

       "..Hm,"

       "Well? No comeback? No hair pulling for being 'defiant'?" House challenges with another chuckle, feeling Wilson's grip loosen around his hair. Making him able to turn his head to lock eyes with Wilson, his usual cunning smile adorning his face. The kind of smile that Wilson hated seeing yet somehow adored at the same time.

       "We both know you like me being a bit of a bitch when it comes to this. Also, would it kill you to shut up and fuck me already?"

And with that, Wilson's eyes snapped open.

He immediately sat up, his face flush with embarrassment and a disturbing amount of arousal that dream caused.

       "...Oh God.." Wilson mumbles, looking down and seeing an unfortunate way to wake up, some would say.

Especially since he didn't have a lot of time to get ready for once.

Later in the day, Wilson is sitting in his office. Ignoring House the majority of the day due the dream he had.

House huffs out a breath of annoyance as he enters Wilson's office through the balcony. Causing Wilson to briefly glance up before looking back down at his paperwork.

House brings his cane up to Wilson's head, tapping it against his forehead.

       "You've been ignoring me, why?" He questions, leaning against his cane as he places it down on the floor again.

Wilson sighs, "I have the right to not talk to you, y'know?" He said in a snippy tone.

       "Whoa, whoa, whoa! Cool it there bucko..." House said with a raised hand and small smile. Which soon fell when he realized Wilson's demeanor hadn't changed.

       "..I'm just wondering, you usually eat with me at lunch. You ate here. In your office. Alone. And, you're quiet. Which means you're thinking about something. But you've also been avoiding me, so, it's not medical."

Wilson stuttered over his words, "You- You're overthinking it.. I just wanted a quiet afternoon," He excused quietly, feeling his face beginning to flush. "Is that so ba-"

       "So, it's personal then?" House asked, cutting Wilson off.

       "It's, not- You-"

       "And it's about me isn't it?" House interrupts again, absolutely cheesing at Wilson stammering over his own words.

       "You've been dreaming about me, Jimmy? How naughty.. Was I naked?" He questions crassly.

       "How the hell would you know it was a dream out of all things? Maybe, I'm just upset with you in general! Ever think about that!?" Wilson snapped.

House shrugs, "Just an assumption. Easy thing to jump too since you're as red as a bleeding rectum."

       "God, alright fine! Yea, I had a dream, and it was about you. Happy now? You were, sitting on my lap and," Wilson trails off, running a hand through his hair before sighing.

       "You, were naked, and were enjoying every second of it." He mumbles out, a look of shame and embarrassment on his face.

       "..Was that the answer you were hoping for?" He questions in a snappy tone, looking up at House with a peeved expression. House's face showing a minimal amount of shock.

After a painful amount of time had passed, about less than a minute, House tossed his cane to the side as he spoke, "Well! No need for dreams to stay dreams, Wilson!" His tone surprisingly cheery as he sat himself down on Wilson's desk.

       "What," Wilson started.

       "Uhuh, open your legs, Doctor." House ordered, seeing Wilson's face turn into a more vibrant color of red.

       "HOUSE." Wilson protested as House moved his chair back slightly with his good leg.

       "Oh, come on. You can't just brush me off now. You had a full on dream about you having me take you up my ass! You cannot not expect me to move on with my day after such a big confession." House's tone only irritated Wilson instead of persuading him.

[ohanny]

a very self-indulgent omega kim going into heat after being kidnapped kentakim hc because why not

so the basic premise is kenta and kim connected before the unfortunate basement throwing incident at tony's house. like kenta had to deal with red racing and kim was a flirt. it wasn't anything serious but it had the potential to be. there was always something between them but kenta kept drawing back and kim thought they’d have all the time in the world.

but then the kimnapping happens.

and kim is MEGA pissed, okay? kenta visits him in his dungeon room of doom all "fuck, i am so sorry, i warned you, i told you to stay away" and kim is like "oh fuck off" and kenta is all kicked puppy swearing he will help get kim out. and he does. he gets kim out of there but kim is still very much "bitch grow a fucking spine if you want to talk to me ever again. you're a coward. you know what you're doing is wrong and you are not doing enough. be better."

kim is shipped to alans and moves in and he just... keeps feeling like shit. he can't explain it until he realizes he's going into heat and fuck if it isn't a whole ass mess - pun intended - because he hasn't had one in a medically inadvisable time and he thought he was still in the clear, swallowing a fistful of suppressants the first chance he got after his kimnapping.

and it hurts. the entire pack is freaking out because a) kim is an omega???? and b) yeah nah that is not a normal heat. kim is feverish and doubled over in pain and yes he smells sickly sweet but emphasis on sickly. it's the sweetness of rotting fruit and not like oh yeah, slick and slide, and people are worried.

alan: someone needs to do something

sonic: i literally offered to knot him

alan: and?

sonic: he threw a glass at me.

north and jeff build him a nest like see, pack is here, but kim keeps hissing at them and saying it's all wrong and after a long weekend they are all this close to calling an ambulance and having him shipped into a heat clinic against his will.

but then there is a knock on the door.

it's kenta, looking agitated and stressed as fuck and alan goes full "oh hell no, not the time" but kenta physically forces his way through the door, nostrils flaring like a blood hound, and everyone is like "uh oh spaghettios" and babe is squaring up like bitch, he is ready to fight

and then kim stumbles down the stairs looking like absolute death and kenta might elbow someone in the face to break free and before anyone can interrupt, kim collapses against kenta and buries his face in kenta's throat with a whine and he's all "i really tried but i need -" and kenta's all "it's okay, you're okay. and you were right. about me. about everything" and he will just full on garfield scoop kim up.

the pack stands there like "um excuse me, what the fuck?" and kenta pretends this is all fine and normal and asks where the bathroom is and if someone could prepare them some food. babe is still ready to deck the bastard because fuck him but then his nose scrunches because oh. okay. that's less rotting fruit and more like burnt sugar all of a sudden and alan is like "OOOOOKKKAAAAAAY" and sonic's like "bathroom's upstairs, third door on the right, i'll make you a fruit bowl?"

north: dude. that's kenta.

sonic: you wanna try pry kim off of him?

north: good point.

and then north smiles and says “you know what kenta, i'll show you where everything is” except when north gets close to them, kim peeks out of kentas neck and bares his teeth at north because excuse me, his alpha, how dare you.

kenta carries kim upstairs to first draw him a cold bath to get his fever down and makes him drink a glass of water and in the midst of it kim has a moment of clarity.

kim: fuck. i didn't meant to call you. you can go.

kenta: you really think i could leave you alone like this?

kim: but what about -

kenta: he doesn't know where i am. i’ll figure it out after.

kim knows he should fight this but he has no energy to do so anymore. he’s in pain and exhausted and can't do this alone and having kenta here, touching him, is such a relief. it’s much easier to just give in. kim drifts in a pleasant haze as kenta washes the smell of sickness away, towels him off and bundles him into a bathrobe to carry to his nest.

when sonic brings over his fruit bowl, kim is splayed out on the sheets, flushed and staring at kenta with these dazed eyes, already pretty far gone. it's a bit awkward as another alpha but he hands over the fruit and backs away. he lingers in the doorway long enough to see kenta very gently coax kim to eat something from his fingers before quietly closing the door and going back downstairs. and that's how sonic becomes the number one kenta advocate because he's a sucker for a good love story and obviously this is something that's been going on for a while and it would be criminal to separate them now.

he tells the rest of the pack that everything’s going well and they need to make a plan because kenta sure as shit will need them to have one ready by the time kim and him re-emerge.

[les-gnossiennes-fantomatiques]

Fanfiction Author Interview Game

Thanks for the tag, @wheel-of-fish ! I’ll do my best not to sound silly here, but I am trying to get back in the saddle of writing again and this felt nice to do as encouragement.

How many works do you have on AO3?

A mere seven stories! I am absolutely pretending the FFN account I had twenty years ago does not exist anymore. (It does.)

What's your total AO3 word count?

161, 882

Your top 5 stories by kudos/likes:

The Fly Agaric

Between the Lines

All Imaginable Pangs

Le Phénomène

All That is Solid Melts Into Air (this fic will haunt me until I die.)

Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

I try as much as I can to; I’ve honestly fallen behind this year, since I’ve been on hiatus for medical/mental health issues, but if you see me replying to your comment from a while back in the near future… I am so so sorry, but please know that I am SO deeply appreciative of every single comment that gets left on my stories.

What's the fic you've written with the angstiest ending?

Between the Lines! This one is a Leroux-canon insert that happens during the two weeks Christine is trapped in Erik’s house, and within the context of the fic, it ends badly, and within the greater context of the book… well! You know how it ends. It’s funny, because that was the first fan fic I wrote as an adult trying to get back into fandom after 15+ years of pretending I had moved on from it (spoiler: i did not.) and now I cannot bring myself to write dark endings.

What's the fic you've written with the happiest ending?

Most likely Le Phénomène. This was written for fluff week and was a massive excuse to have Leroux E/C have sex during a rainstorm without having to worry too much about the plot lol. What can more i say.

Do you write crossovers?

I have! It’s The Follies! And I’m quite proud of it, but it gets zero hits haha, because it’s a Venn diagram of an already small fandom (Phantom) and an incredibly niche one (my favorite musical, Sunday in the Park with George, which is also set in early 1880s Paris and about a troubled artist/muse affair—which, if you’ve never seen it, GO NOW! The proshot is widely available and it’s life changing.). If you’ve ever wanted to see Erik get drunk with Bernadette Peters, then have I got a story for you.

Have you ever received hate on a fic?

For the most part, no. I have had a couple of random people who don’t like what I’ll call “hate sex” blast me for writing Erik and Christine having it because, idk their love is pure or something, but that’s mostly it.

Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

Yes! I don’t know if I write smut for the sake of smut (save for the one fluff piece), but I love writing emotional, atmospheric sex into my stories—sex that deepens how characters relate to each other and who they are as a person; people are allowed to have their own interpretations, but for me, sex is such a massive underpinning of most versions of the story and also a big part of my own life’s journey, and I just find it fascinating to write. I don’t know if people find my writing hot though, because things tend to inevitably get a little weird.

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not that I know of?

Have you ever had a fic translated?

See above.

Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Not since high school, and most of it was written to troll lol. I think now I’m just too picky and slow and set in my ways for anyone to want to collaborate with me, hahah.

What's your all-time favorite ship?

Erik and Christine forever. It just is what it is, folks. Their dynamic is so specific and strange and fascinating and I will never get tired of exploring it/reading it/drawing it/writing it etc. Every other ship I love is basically just another iteration of them.

What's a WIP that you want to finish but don't think you ever will?

There’s this Kay!verse horror story (with a happy ending because I’m me) that I started writing; it’s inspired by the myth of La Llorona and takes place during the weekend adult Erik returns to Boscherville to burn his mother’s house down. I really WANT to write it, but I have a story I need to finish first. I also seldom write horror and had to put it on pause because the particular subject matter of this one did not help my mental state lol.

What are your writing strengths?

I feel so silly writing this out about myself, hahah. If I have to say, I am particularly proud of my characterizations, my prose, and the thematic arcs I try to put into every story I write.

What are your writing weaknesses?

Plot. Oh, god. Plot. Like anything that isn’t angsting, fucking, or fighting is SO hard for me to write. (Hint: call everything a “character piece” and you never have to explain why nothing happens in your writing lmao). Looooong ass sentences. I’m incredibly slow at writing, terrible at outlining, and I second guess myself with every sentence. Someone once told me to my face that my fic writing was purple prose and I guess that still haunts me a bit.

What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

For the most part, I think it’s a bad idea. Unless you have a genuine handle on the other language, I think you’re better off implying that said language is being spoken through other means. It otherwise usually just reads as really cringey to me, like “Woohoo I ran this through google translate”—especially in smut. A couple of words here and there are fine, especially if there is a word that doesn’t have a 1:1 in the primary language, but something about a bunch of Google translate sentences being pasted into the middle of a story takes me out entirely. Just my preference though, especially when it comes to my own writing; I’m not Tolstoy. I’m not Nabokov. I’m not gonna try. Anyway, end tangent.

What's a fandom/ship you haven't written for yet but want to?

I’d say Pharoga, but my current WIP leans into that ship on and off. I really, really want to writeErik and Meg. One day. Or Raoul/Madame Giry

What's your favorite fic you've written?

It’s really hard to say tbh—the process of writing every one of my stories (including Tubeman Rik) has taught me so much about myself as a writer and person. But it’s a split between The Fly Agaric and All Imaginable Pangs. The former was basically the fic I’d been wanting to read and struggling to write for twenty years, and I put so much of myself and my own life experiences into it that it feels incredible to have finally laid it all out and gotten it on paper, even if I worry that I now have nothing else to say about Christine and Erik, haha. But there is something about All Imaginable Pangs that made it so fun to write—I love the challenge of crafting an OC who makes sense in Erik’s past, I LOOOOOVE thinking about the period of Erik’s life where he was trying to live as normal person, before he was jaded enough to become a mole person, and I love that period of time in art and history. It’s been so fun to sit in that world. I expected no one to read it, because I realize that OCs are a very hard sell in this fandom, but I just wanted to create a POV character who was closer in age to me, who’d been dealt a lot of luxury and a lot of shit thrown her way, who also has gray hair and soft thighs lol. That it has gotten any comments, let alone some of the seriously incredible feedback I’ve received across platforms, surprises and delights me. I can’t say whether or not Augustine is a success in terms of a believable original love interest, let alone person, but I like her enough that I’m (slowly) re-writing the whole story from Erik’s point of view.

Well. That was a lot of chatter. I apologize if any of this comes off as pretentious, but I’ve taken such a long hiatus from writing fic and this was a nice little jab in the arm to finish. I’ve had to take a lot of time away from fandom for health reasons, but I’m doing so much better and (i think) finally getting back in the swing of things. If you’ve ever so much as read one of my fics, thank you from the bottom of my heart.

Tagging @box5intern @ladystormcrow @flora-gray @muirin007 @antiquarianne . My apologies if you’ve already been tagged.

[harmless--dreamer]

I should draw my clone squad OCs that I have along with their Jedi General. Don't get attached because all bar one are dead.

ALSO I KNOW ONE IS UNFORTUNATELY ACCIDENTALLY A CANON NAME I STOLE. I tried to Google as many of them as possible but I gave up because being a teacher is tiring as hell. Also there's like 6.2 million clones so chances are a couple of names got repeated.

The squad itself is split into a few different batches. The first set of batch brothers are Seven, Stims, Static, Base and Glint. Click joined separately after his initial batch died. The second batch of brothers were Storm, Rogue, Torch. Their other batchmates were reassigned after their first few postings. They're a small team, just them and their Jedi (then later, also, their Padawan), so no big ship or thousands of troopers- just a smaller elite squad.

Here's the squad anyway:

Commander: Seven

Sev is firm but fair. He was in a relationship with their Jedi prior to his death. It was well known amongst their squad but not outside of it. They all kept the secret. Seven is a good soldier and a better leader. He cares deeply for all of his brothers. He was the clear leader out of his batchmates and was always fascinated by the Jedi. His fascination led to a desire to work harder to be at their side.

He got close to their Jedi over time, nights spent doing paperwork or days in the med bay together. Eventually his squad realised he was into him and started teasing him, which led to their Jedi finding out. They took some time navigating the power dynamics, but eventually settled. Seven was a father figure to their Padawan and tried to keep her out of trouble, especially trouble the vode tried to drag her into. Seven had many a grey hair from his brothers antics- both him and Stims were going grey and they commiserated together. Stims would often complain that he had it worse, since he also had to deal with Seven and their Jedi being insufferable lovebirds.

Sev dies protecting his squad, his Jedi and his padawan. Not that he succeeds, because his squad (bar two and the jedi padawan pair) all die.

Medic: Stims

Stims is harsh and blunt. He takes no shit and has no time for it. He is kind, deep down, but he hides behind his outward persona of Tired Grumpy Medic. He absolutely would die for his brothers and their general and padawan. He does everything he can for his brothers and takes their health very seriously. Even if that means throwing a ration bar at their head because they haven't eaten yet today, the whole time muttering angrily about the headache they're giving him. He's honestly a massive grumpy bastard, but he's their massive grumpy bastard who loves them.

He's one of the only survivors from the attack that kills his squad, but he's presumed dead- taken as a POW by the Separatists. When he's eventually found, his Jedi has left the order, his padawan is a criminal, and only his youngest squad mate survived. The medical care he managed to apply while dying himself saved a few of them.

Assistant Medic: Storm

Storm was softer than Stims. While Stims will throw a nutrient block at your head, Storm would hand it to you and give you a short lecture- threatening to tell Stims if you don't get everything back in order. He was a regular trooper before he approached Stims asking for further med training. Stims was more than happy to have someone else to help out around the med bay. He would spoil their Padawan and got on best with the ""youngsters"" (himself, Torch and Rogue).

Demo Expert: Torch

Torch was... A little bit of chaos. He enjoyed explosions and fires and will take any opportunity to explode the clankers. He wanted to make a fire hot enough to melt the clankers. He was a bad influence on their Padawan along with Glint and Rogue. He'd make any excuse to start a fire or an explosion, often arguing for blowing a base up rather than leaving it to stand. He got drunk the easiest out of his brothers.

Stealth Expert: Rogue

Rogue was quieter but arguably the most feral of the bunch. When their general would get himself hurt doing force knows what to save their asses, he'd be the one curled up at the foot of the bed like a cat. He walked near silently and would frequently do so to scare his brothers. He was not above biting and would play dirty to win a fight. While his main skills lay in all things stealth, he was a heavy hitter and could absolutely handle the clankers. He always indulged their Padawan and would assist her with any pranks she wanted to pull. No questions asked.

Tech and Comms Expert: Static

Static buzzed constantly. Either he'd be making low grade chatter, constantly narrating his work under his breath, or his many tools would. He wasn't the most overly energetic, but when he was excited by something he would practically vibrate. He was more of a constant, low grade energy- like static on a TV screen, there and buzzing along constantly. He made the prosthetics for their Padawan and general, with the help of Click and Stims. He could hack into whatever they needed and could make whatever they needed with the help of Glint or Click. Ironically, Static was best friends with Stims because the medic said he gave him the least headaches.

Sniper and Weapons Expert: Click

Click could sometimes be rowdy and loud, despite being a sniper. On missions, he'd be serious and composed, the only sound you'd hear from him being the click of his blasters or mission critical information. Outside of missions? He was active, sometimes boisterous, and cared deeply for his family. He was one of the more tactile brothers and would often lean on the others or casually sling an arm around them. He was closest to Seven, Static and Stims. Often his work would coincide with the four of them so they naturally drifted close- despite him technically being one of the younger crew. Seven trusted him with difficult missions and would consult the trio whenever he needed advice. Click did however swear he hated children, and initially avoided their Padawan like the plague. He was a liar and they ended up getting on well- but he was more reserved around her. His voice is one of the deepest out of his squad, and when he wasn't overly excited it was fairly quiet- but full of emotion and well animated.

Heavy Weapons Unit: Base

Base was a little larger than your average clone trooper, always spending his time trying to get stronger and stronger. He wasn't the brightest bulb in the pack, but he was kind and loved his brothers. He doted on their Padawan, always willing to drop everything to help her. He's everyone's friend, always happy to help. Even if it was helping Torch set some recreational fires- though he was most often helping Glint or Stims and Storm. He did like to tease the shinies by scaring them with stories of their Jedi. One particular time when Hazard joined them, after Glint's death, he tried to scare the shiny by talking about how their general lost his arm. He also has what is widely considered the most ugly armour, since they all paint it themselves and Base isn't much of an artist.

Engineering Expert: Glint

The first to fall, Glint died prior to the mission that saw the entire squad wiped out. I wish I could say he died a hero's death, that he went down protecting his brothers like Base did, or Click, or Rogue, but he didn't. It was an unlucky shot, a stray blaster bolt catching him in the neck. There was nothing Stims could do, except heed his brother's last wishes. Glint couldn't talk, given he was rapidly losing oxygen and blood, but he held Stims hands and fixed him with such a fierce look- mouthing "look after them" desperately with tears in his eyes. Before his death, he would indulge their Padawan's every whim and was fiercely protective of his brothers. If Seven or Stims wasn't free to mediate a problem, he'd be the one.

After Glint died he was replaced by Hazard. Hazard is my partner's OC (<3). He's the only other survivor other than Stims.

[ladynaberrie]

you're walking tall (no need to hide)

Pairing: Kix x Translator!Reader

WC: 2.3k

Rating: T

You're assigned to the 501st again. Kix hovers.

part 1 part 2 part 3

sfw but mdni pls <3

Sometimes Kix wishes you were assigned to his unit more. 

It’s a stupid thing to dream about, certainly not something he should be thinking about when he’s on the precipice of sleep. He knows from chatter you tend to see more generals like Plo Koon and less of the Quinlan Vos types, which, rather unfortunately, includes General Skywalker. 

It’s unfortunate because he’s about had it with Senator Amidala’s protocol droid. (Whenever the golden droid drones on and on, Kix finds himself envious of Wolffe, who gets to see you more than he does).

But at the same time, it’s a relief, one less person to keep an eye on. If anything were to happen to you…

Well, there’s no real reason he should feel anything more than normal. He knows that, and he realistically knows he’d be fine, move on, and get to work. It’s war. Another day, another casualty. 

Kix’s train of thought derails. 

You weren’t made for war, he concludes. Not like him or his millions of vode. His childhood was math, combat, and logic problems that asked him to determine the difference between life and death. You got to follow your passion, and dream of languages and stories. (You probably never had to worry about the consequences of who you kissed).

Kix’s train of thought derails. Again. 

He tosses and turns in his bunk. This was going to be a long fucking night.

The next morning is infinitely better. In fact, Kix is elated.

You’re standing at attention next to Rex, and you look as pretty as ever. Your eyes drift over his unit before they land on him. The satisfaction he feels when your eyes stop on him for a second and light up in recognition is embarrassing. It should be studied on Kamino as an example of what can go wrong when a Clone meets a kind and pretty natborn. 

He tunes back into Rex, who’s relaying information from the General. The more the Captain goes on, the more effort it takes for Kix to not frown. This planet’s terrain was rough; rocky and steep, full of gnarled roots and obstacles. Not suited for you at all. And on top of that, there's a mountain you all will have to climb.

Fucking typical.

While Kix doesn’t like having to split his brainpower to factor you in, he’s not going to complain about having an excuse to stay close to you.

If you notice the way he’s orbiting you, keeping an eye on you, as you carefully step through especially uneven ground, you keep it to yourself. Kix is grateful for that. He’s already getting enough teasing on the internal commlink, as the transcript so kindly reminds him.

[FIVES: 30 credits Kix fumbles this.

JESSE: You’re on.

ECHO: 50 credits that he specifically tries to make his move while doing medic shit.]

But it seems you’re the one who makes a move first. You fall in step next to him, bumping into him in a friendly manner.

Kix grunts in greeting. The comm lights up as he gets absolutely slandered. He mutes it as Fives demands Jesse’s money.

“You know, you could talk to me instead of just hovering around.” He winces at the surge of activity in the transcript.

“Oh. I apologize, Officer.”

“Now, what has you so focused on me?” you ask in a sing-songy voice. Sing-songy? He's certainly never used that word before...

“Terrain. Worried about you falling,” he says gruffly, face heating up. He can practically hear Fives cackling.

“Oh. That’s very kind of you,” you say graciously, probably to save his pride.

He hums in response, mentally kicking himself. Was he going to need to take a class from Jesse on flirting? He’d never hear the end of it. But if it meant sweeping you off your feet the same way Jesse’s woos his person of the week…

He’d put up with teasing until the day he took his last breath.

The silence draws his attention back to you.

“It’s nice having you back. Million times better than Senator Amidala’s droid,” Kix says quickly, hoping to dispel the odd tension in the air. He’s rewarded by your laugh, and his chest feels warm. 

The transcript updates as Jesse goads Fives.

“C-3PO isn’t that bad. Though I will say Commander Wolffe sometimes ignores him if I’m there.” You giggle a little at the memory. Wolffe, huh? Kix frowns to himself, imagining Wolffe standing way too close to you. 

“Commander Wolffe may be onto something there…” he trails off. You glance at him from the side, sending him a pleased look that he wished he understood better.

The ground ahead of you two steepens rapidly. It’s nothing for a Jedi or a clone, but an unease settles in Kix’s stomach, eyes flicking down to your feet as you trek alongside him.

The mountain slope isn't completely vertical, and he's grateful for that. He is, however, ungrateful that the local lifeforms built their village at the very top of this peak.

“Well, I know you and Commander Wolffe, are pretty anti-droid, but they have their uses.” He rolls his eyes at that, thankful for his bucket.

“I think having a sentient translator in addition to a protocol droid makes sense. Access to a very large number of languages and automatic translation, paired with creative thinking, context, and interpretation. A decent team,” you finish, nodding to yourself. He would prefer C-3PO with you, as opposed to just the droid. But still.

“You’re smart enough to do that with just a datapad,” Kix argues, taking a large step up the incline. “And some protocol droids are clunky and can’t always move very fast.” You huff, following him up the slope. 

Kix slows down a little, eyeing the upcoming terrain, and he has to stop himself from audibly groaning. He just had to be grateful the slope wasn't vertical.

He eyes the cliif warily. It's a short climb with plenty of visible handhelds and ledges before the slope evens out again.

Kix gestures for you to go ahead of him. He’s got a feeling if anything were to happen, it would be here. You huff past him, slowly scaling the mountain.

“A kriffing datapad,” you say. “I guess…” you relent, diverting your brain power to not falling.

It grows quiet again as the majority of the company ascends with ease and continues onto the gentler slope.

Kix’s brows pinch together in annoyance; he somehow missed the fact that there was a fucking tiny cliff they'd have to scale. There must’ve been a better way to go about this. Did General Skywalker and Rex forget you would be with them?

Kix pauses on a relatively stable ledge, keeping an eye on you as you climb ahead. His eyes scan the area you're reaching for.

He notices it before you, but not soon enough, and Kix winces as you grab onto a loose rock. It gives way, and you let out a small scream, as you drop.

Reacting as fast as he can, Kix reaches to grab you. His arms grapple around you, pulling your back tight against him. You’re both upright, with Kix supporting the brunt of your weight.

It’s a somewhat awkward position, resembling a trust fall as opposed to some romantic carry. (Romantic? Kix scoffs at himself) It’s not by any means graceful or elegant, but you’re ok. Maybe a little shaken, but ok.

Keeping you pressed against him, he eyes you carefully, assessing any possible injury you may have sustained. When he reaches your face, he freezes. 

You've twisted to face him, and you’re looking at him in a way that makes him inhale sharply. It's a soft and warm look, one that Jesse and Fives are often on the receiving end of. Not him.

Fuck.

It’s at this moment he realizes his arms are still nestled above and below your chest, anchoring you to him. He snaps out of his haze, helping you stand.

“You all right, cyar’ika?” he asks, doing another survey for damage once you’re up. You nod before smiling sheepishly. 

“Good thing you kept such a good eye on me," you say gently, hand resting on his plastoid-covered forearm. His ego swells. 

Echo’s “PAY UP” in the transcript alerts Kix to the eyes on the two of you from above. He wants to curl around you and hide you away from the rest of his vode.

Based on the way you’re looking at him, Kix begins to think you may want the same thing. And the logical part of his brain is telling him he’s not sure it’s a good thing.

Kix’s doubts follow him all the way back to the star destroyer.

It was one thing when it was just him daydreaming, but now, it may no longer be one-sided.

It was one thing when he would steal glances at you from behind his helmet, but now, he sees you staring at him first.

It’s become something all too real because now there’s hope he’s not alone in this predicament.

Kix is pondering this development as he peels off bits of crusted-over synth flesh away from his arm. It’s been a tense day on The Resolute. At least for him.

Your close contact with him had made him lose focus for the rest of the mission. He's lucky he was the only casualty of his negligence.

He examines where his wound was. The skin color is normal; any internal or external trauma has healed. 

“Hi,” you chirp out, eyes widening a little as you enter the med bay. Kix meets your gaze, instincts firing up at the way your voice drops suddenly.

Your body’s stiff, face twisted into a flustered expression he wishes he could appreciate more. Kix tenses a little when he realizes what may have prompted your reaction. 

His blacks hang at his waist, leaving the upper half of his body exposed. He watches as your eyes dip down to his pecs before jumping to hover respectfully above his shoulder.

Interesting. 

Kix flexes a little, chest expanding in pride. 

“I just wanted to say thank you. For, uh, y'know...” you trail off. Your eyes zero in on his bicep, eager for a topic change. “And sorry you tripped. Are you alright?” Fucking hell.

All Kix wants is for a hole to open up in the side of the ship and pull him into the vacuum of space. (You would remain safe in this little morbid fantasy. Space and the Force are able to sense your innate goodness thereby saving you from his fate).

Kix settles on nodding, not wanting to discuss his embarrassing fall at the village. His brothers would never let him forget.

You shuffle forward until you’re right by him, fingers hovering above where the synth flesh had dried. “May I?” you ask. 

He nods, bracing his arm for the soft touch of your hand. Your fingers are light as they ghost over his skin; he nearly groans at the faint contact. 

Kix’s eyes jump to your face; your mouth's twisted up in a grimace as you closely inspect his arm. He smirks a little at your concern.

“Hey,” he says, voice soft, as if he’s trying not to spook you. “I'm alright, cyar'ika. I was just stupid. Distracted because I couldn't help but worry about you all day." You look embarrassed at his minor confession, but then the same soft look you had when he caught you comes back, and Kix's heart thumps heavily.

He wants nothing more than to kiss you, to feel you pressed against his bare skin. Would you look at him like you are now? Like he’s not just CT-6116?

Your hand drifts from his arm to the side of his head. The feeling of your fingers dragging along his scalp makes him shut his eyes and suppress a shiver. Some soldier he is; reduced to a pile of mush the second you touch him.

It tickles slightly, as you trace the patterns of his buzzed hair. But he would never ask you to stop; it feels too nice. The pad of your finger sweeps over his tattoo. His eyes feel heavy as they open, and his chest aches at how close you are. 

"Thank you," you whisper again, eyes boring into him as if you're trying to say something else. He really wants to kiss you.

The sound of footsteps echoing towards the med bay wretches him from his own personal paradise.

Kix backs away from you and your wandering hands. He swallows loudly, and your gaze meets the floor as you deal with your own embarrassment. “Anytime, Officer. Please be more careful. The GAR would be worse off without you.” Kix is pretty sure the GAR would be fine without either of you, but he’s hoping you can tell what he wants to say. (He would be worse off without you). 

You nod and keep your eyes on the ground until Hardcase enters, drawing your attention. He looks at the two of you, mouth open in surprise.

“I was wondering if you could check something out…” he trails off, sheepishly rubbing the back of his head. You spring into action, taking the opportunity to flee.

“I’ll leave you to it.” You give Hardcase a warm smile, any nerves you had seemingly evaporating. Before you exit, you look over your shoulder, finally looking at Kix again. “Bye.”

He nods at you in dismissal and tries his best to ignore how your departing gaze fluttering across his chest and biceps makes his codpiece feel too tight. The silence lingers in the air, as he looks at the door, wondering if he should up his chest routine when they're back on Coruscant.

“I can come back later, sir.” Hardcase's lip twitches. "Echo and Jesse are debating what entails "medic shit," and I'd like to weigh in."

“Shut up, Hardcase.”

[self-loving-vampire]

The best at abolishing gender

TERFs: We want to abolish gender and let people be GNC.

Also TERFs: We must gender absolutely everything so that we can find more excuses to "clock" and misgender trans women and refer to the exact same behaviors we exhibit all the time as essentially 'male'.

Also TERFs: It is bad to use more precise and gender-neutral language when speaking about women. Calling women "people" is dehumanizing erasure!

Also TERFs: Furthermore when trans people reduce womanhood to self-identification they completely erase the meaning of it, which I consider bad despite ostensibly wanting to abolish gender.

Also TERFs: Also I spend most of my one life on earth calling trans women slurs and getting really mad at dubious outrage bait stories about them, especially when they don't meet traditional feminine beauty standards. Sometimes I even accidentally assume cis women who are too confident or athletic are trans but don't mind that.

Also TERFs: By the way I also want to ban people from modifying their bodies across lines that are considered gendered and think that when people want to do that kind of thing (or even just crossdress) it's a sign of either pitiful manipulation by a suspiciously Jewish conspiracy or the result of sexual perversion.

Also TERFs: At a minimum I support more medical gatekeeping for trans people (which traditionally involves demands for extreme gender conformity) and "therapy" to make people stop being trans (which also often involves demands for gender conformity and draws from existing homophobic conversion therapy which does the same, because for the longest time conservatives thought gay people and trans people were basically the same thing).

Also TERFs: On that note I already think men are violent slavering beasts as part of their unchanging essential nature but I especially think men who don't conform to gender norms are especially threatening and predatory.

Also TERFs: I am hearbroken when my child (a trans man) won't shave and I need to resort to bribes, threats, and isolation to make my children comply with gender norms.

Also TERFs: So what if I work with the religious conservatives and neo-nazis? Just because we are politically aligned and working towards taking away other people's rights doesn't mean I agree with them on everything so it's fine and does not merit further reflection on whether or not I am a complete tool.

Also TERFs: I feel offended when a trans person has both a skirt and facial hair on at the same time. I need to mock that whenever I see it.

And so on...

[the-shy-wolf]

I’ll be posting this to Twitter tomorrow, but since I’m more active here, I’ll go ahead and post. To everyone who has supported me up to this point, I appreciate everything, more than you will ever know. Despite my claims of being an ‘edgelord’, I think it’s no secret that that’s absolutely not the case. I’m an incredibly sensitive person. So sensitive, in fact, that I’m easily stressed when it comes to certain things. I’ve been having to take frequent breaks from the internet due to my extreme levels of anxiety. My anxiety has been so bad, I now have seizures due to my stress levels being so high. Don’t worry, I am working with a therapist and psychologist with this, and with therapy and appropriate medication, I can beat it.

With that being said, I’m sorry to say I’m stepping away from the Deltarune fandom. I’m sad and extremely conflicted about it, because it was Deltarune that helped me make so many friends and meet so many people. This is my first time having a place in fandom, I was briefly involved in the Adventure Time fandom, but that was years ago and it was a brief thing. I’ve never had this many eyes on me, and it’s overwhelming. My time and the emotional investment I’ve been putting into fandom/art has felt like a second job, and I’m not okay with that. I originally started posting art, because I was inspired. It’s also helped me cope with the loss of my brother. But it’s no longer a coping method, it feels more like a chore and it no longer brings me happiness. I’ve been harassed by anon hate/criticisms mercilessly, and it’s taken a toll on me. I’m 30 years old, and if I have not developed a thick skin now, it’s safe to say I never will. Which is another thing I want to bring up: I no longer want to draw ship art of Deltarune characters, and that includes Kris and Susie. I’m tired of the shipping discourse/hate, and to be honest, I don’t want to only be known for shipping characters from a game. I think it’s made people not take me seriously as an artist at all, and it’s no longer enjoyable. I started shipping the characters because they both reminded me of my partner and I, but now, it’s all anyone ever relates my work to, and that includes oc’s. It’s frustrating. I’m a short, brown headed enby. Bram is a big freckled long haired dude. My ocs look like us. Please stop mixing the two- it ain’t that deep.

I’m sorry if this came out of the blue, but after receiving my diagnosis yesterday, I need to cut back on my stress levels, and a lot of that stress stems from fandom. Will I draw DR in the future? Maybe. Especially once new content is dropped. Idk if it will be shipping, but it’ll be something. I will, of course, continue to support all of my art friends. You’ve been nothing but kind and supportive of me, and despite my absence, I care very, very much. So much, in fact, I isolate myself from everyone because I don’t feel worthy to associate or even share my art. I know that’s a shitty excuse, but it’s true. There is a voice in my head that keeps telling me I’m not worthy to even associate. If this disappoints my friends/supporters, I’m so very sorry. It’s how my brain has always worked.

I also want to apologize for leaving my other sm accounts. I was not trying to worry or cause panic. I don’t think too many people even noticed, which is good. It’s not the first time I’ve deactivated. My hands get busy and sometimes deactivating and stepping away is a good reset button for me. But I wanted to throw all of this out there. I’m sorry if this is disappointing or upsetting, but I want to be honest. About all of it.

Thank you for reading, again- I’m so sorry. I’ll probably reactivate and post this message to Twitter tomorrow.