#apparently part of the small intestine

[youling-the-ghost]

I got Luke! :D

My humour is MUCH less raunchy than his but otherwise? I can see it lol

Re-posting my SFTH quiz on a new site because the only one limits responses and I am not paying a subscription for a quiz website:

[macgyvermedical]

what are some examples of injuries that work well for a hidden/delayed injury trope? is there like a slow internal bleeding situation or something that can show up later just when everyone thinks things are okay?

Head Injury: The skull has a finite amount of space inside it. If it gets knocked around and the brain starts to bleed or swell, that blood or swelling takes up some of the space. The more bleeding or swelling there is, the less space for brain there is, the harder it is for blood to deliver oxygen and nutrients to the brain tissue. As less and less blood gets to the brain, the more it starts to malfunction, and the person begins to get drowsy and disoriented, leading to unconsciousness (along with a severe headache). The interval between the initial impact and the symptoms of disorientation is called the "lucid interval" and can be hours to a day or so.

Injury to the digestive system: If a character gets hit in the abdomen hard enough a couple different things can happen. One is that the intestines can perforate. A small perforation might not be immediately noticeable (beyond the pain from the impact) but within a day or so a severe infection called peritonitis can set in. This requires surgery and IV antibiotics to correct. Another, especially if the blow was close to the appendix, is that swelling can block the entrance to the appendix, causing appendicitis. This can take a few days to become apparent.

Internal bleeding from the spleen or liver: Another thing that can happen if someone takes a blow to the abdomen is internal bleeding. In this case, there are two big bleedy things in the abdomen to watch out for- the spleen and the liver. Either can get a relatively small tear in them from a blow, and it might not even cause severe pain initially. Instead, they start to bleed, and the blood starts to pool in the abdomen. Blood irritates the lining of the abdomen, which causes pain to slowly worsen as the person bleeds. This usually takes a few hours.

Compartment syndrome: This is something that can happen after a musculoskeletal injury like a fracture or a sprain. Muscles sit in tough sheaths. The swelling around the injury site can increase pressure inside one or more of those sheaths. This causes gradually worsening pressure and pain until, like the head injury, blood stops being able to get to the muscle. This causes the muscle to begin to die. To fix this, a surgeon has to cut the sheath and allow the muscle space to swell. This can taken anywhere from a few hours to a few days.

Slow hemothorax. A hemothorax occurs when part of the chest cavity starts to fill with blood after an injury. If this happens slowly enough, it might be hours before enough blood has accumulated to cause breathing difficulty (breathing would become steadily more difficult as time passed). This is fixed by inserting a tube into the chest where the pocket of blood is and draining the blood.

[carolperkinsexgirlfriend]

Steddie Upside-Down AU Part 116

Part 1 Part 115

Steve’s counting the days until winter break. Something’s settled within him, now that things have been hashed out with Eddie, and he’s ditched his car and old house key. He wants to go home. But there’s a good week left of pretending to still care about schoolwork along with the rest of the seniors. 

High school, as always, is a powder keg Steve can’t wait to get out of – all it takes is a single lit match and the whole barrel’s going up in flames, taking all nearby bystanders down with it. Steve’s never been good at keeping his distance. 

Carol and Tommy used to be his crutches. They both know how to look out for the striking of the match, when to step back, and when to blow it out. They’d circle him like feral wolves protecting their fresh kill. 

Steve’s always been good at reading people’s moods, but never the room. And now that Carol’s on the fringes of the in-crowd, and Steve’s drop-kicked himself out entirely, all they’ve got left is Tommy, and he’s more likely to be holding the match.

Steve’s dressed down for gym for the first time in weeks, his doctor’s note apparently the only stay of execution he’d receive. He’s excited, is the thing. He’s not even particularly bothered by the looks the other guys are throwing him in the locker room, knows there are scars now that there weren’t the last time he was in here: most notably shiny pink burns speckled across his back.

It doesn’t matter. He wants to move.

Hargrove snorts. “I knew you were into some kinky shit, Harrington,” he drawls from across the locker room. “But this is sick, even for you.” 

Steve pulls his shirt down and slips his shoes on without untying them, ready to get out of there. It doesn’t stop Hargrove from calling after him.

“Is that what you let those freaks do when you were all tied up?”

Steve doesn’t mean to turn back, but he does, confusion taking over his higher brain functions. Hargrove’s smirking, a few of his cronies hanging on to his every word and laughing right along with him.

Hagan’s not laughing. His fists are bunched and he’s glaring at Steve, but Steve still knows him. Tommy has never been an angry guy. The anger’s always been a veneer, spread thin, to cover up something else. His hands are shaking right now, like he’s not sure whether to punch Steve or hug him. He’s sucking on his bottom lip like he wishes it was Steve’s.

Steve turns his back to him, and hears his laugh, a smack of skin. He doesn’t look back. 

There will probably always be a Steve that lives inside of him that misses Tommy Hagan. The same Steve that remembers being small in the backseat of his parent’s car and just wants the idea of them back. But, that’s the Steve of years ago from a simpler, shallower time. The Steve of now has people who love him enough to stay when things get hard.

Would Tommy ever have opened his home to Steve when he got kicked out? Would Tommy have ever walked through hell to get him back?

Soccer’s not a high-contact sport, but Hargrove sure does his best to make it one. 

Basketball skills don’t translate well to it, but there’s a certain level of athleticism that makes most hand-to-eye coordination tenible. None of which explains the way Hargrove’s foot keeps slipping when he tries to kick the ball and bashing into Steve’s shins. 

None of which explains the way his shoulder checks Steve’s with enough force to send him sprawling. Twice. 

And he keeps saying shit.

“I get why you’d let those two redheads fuck with you,” Hargrove calls, looking up and down Steve’s own body like he’s trying to picture something tawdry.  “Hell, Carol’s a tight piece of ass.”

He grins smamirly over at Hagan, either not noticing or simply not caring that Hagan’s face has dropped all its forced joviality. 

“But those kids? My sister?” he continues, still grinning like it’s funny. “What are you, some sort of pedophile?”

“I don’t know your sister, man,” Steve calls, disgust twisting in his stomach, knotting his intestines up in creative bows. 

Steve kick, kick, passes the ball around Hargrove’s weak defense, hoping Hargrove will follow the ball. He doesn’t. 

“Even worse, you let Munson in on that action?” he taunts, staring Steve down. 

Steve looks past him, watching his temporary teammate score an easy goal against a goalie who’s clearly never played a sport in his life. He doesn’t know what Hargrove’s on about, but engaging with vipers never leads anywhere good. 

It doesn’t stop him from spewing more poison. “I always knew you were a freak.” He says it like he’d rather fling a different word that starts with the letter F. 

The teacher blows his whistle at them, shouting complaints about lazing about and lollygagging, so they’re all three forced to run to the other side of the field and catch up with the rest of the game. That doesn’t stop Hargrove from running his mouth. 

“Hell, I heard all sorts of rumors about the three of you, back when you were the king. Carol, Tommy, and Steve, the inseparable trio.” Even through all the monologuing, he doesn’t even have the decency to be out of breath. 

Steve’s lived a far more sedentary life this past year, and he’s panting now, forehead tacky with sweat. But, there’s a certain level of athleticism it takes years to lose, so he still keeps up. 

“I know Carol was Tommy’s girl,” Hargrove continues, lunging around Steve to stop the ball, kicking it from foot to foot with coordinated ease. “But I heard you were taking it just as much as she was.” 

Hargrove feints left, right, scores a goal, running backward to get back on defense without turning his grinning face away from Steve’s. 

“Who would've thought King Steve was a fa–”

Tommy Hagan’s fist interrupts Hargrove’s little speech. It connects with a meaty thwack! with Hargrove’s jaw, hard enough to make his teeth clack together. 

So: powder keg, lit match, ka-boom!

“What the fuck were you just going to call me?” Hagan snarls. 

He swings again until Hargrove rolls them over and starts swinging back. Steve stares, stunned as the teacher blows his whistle and starts running. 

He can almost hear Eddie’s soapbox rant. Something about testosterone, and projection, and the homoeroticism of high school sportsball. 

Both boys are bloody and seething by the time they’re pulled apart and escorted to the principal’s office. 

He intercepts Carol at Barbara’s car after school to tell her what happened, unsurprised when she just laughs. 

“Serves him right,” she says grinning and peering into the parking lot like she might catch sight of his bloodied face. 

“Should we do something about the rumors?” he asks, whispering the last word like if someone hears it, they’ll immediately spew homophobic slurs in both of their directions.

Carol just waves her hand dismissively. “Nah, that’ll just fan the flames.” She wraps her hand around his waist and squeezes, fingers tucked proprietarily beneath his t-shirt. “Go home and this’ll all blow over by next week.”

He tells Eddie what happened on the way home.

Eddie cackles. “Of course it would happen in gym,” he says, grinning as he runs a vacant stop sign without even a rolling stop. “All that testosterone running through their bodies until they’ve just got to touch each other.”

Steve settles in to listen to his rant, delighted when he guessed most of the beats Eddie would hit just right. 

He should be surprised when Hargrove and Hagan are sitting next to each other at lunch the next day, laughing and shit-talking as if the whole school isn’t still atwitter about their all-out brawl the day before. 

He should be, but he’s not. Tommy and Carol have always been good at playing the game, and it looks like Tommy’s determined to stay on the board. 

Steve and Carol trade a commiserating lunch, and go back to their respective conversations. Tommy’s been given chance after chance to make a different choice, but he never does. Steve’s not about to light his own match for an old friend who’d never burn right along with him.

Steve counts down the days until he can go home, and stay there with Eddie, for weeks on end. Four, three, two, one. 

Home.

Part 117

[constesplanetarium]

☼⚠︎ Yandere Stalker/Kidnapper x Gn! AFAB! Reader

Darkness rating ) 7/10: “Feel that shiver up your spine?”

✧─── ･ ｡ﾟ★: *.✦ .* :★. ───✧

ya, thats it :) i wanted to write smth on the darker side

might make another part, this was pretty fun to write (ya it was fun. IM CRAZY!!!)

✧─── ･ ｡ﾟ★: *.✦ .* :★. ───✧

DEAD DOVE, DO NOT EAT.

This work contains potentially sensitive content to some. Please be careful.

✧─── ･ ｡ﾟ★: *.✦ .* :★. ───✧

CONTENT WARNINGS!!!

Knife play, blood play, blood consumption, kidnapping, sorta dacryphilia(?), mentions of stalking, drug use, and cannibalism.

Word count: Around 1.5k

₊˚ ‿︵‿︵‿︵୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨୧‿︵‿︵‿︵ ˚₊

Cold steel drags down your neck slowly, making your heart race as the point of the knife pokes into your Adam's apple. You would try to plead with him to stop, but you know it wouldn’t do you any good in this situation. The blindfold feels like it's stabbing your eyes, the way darkness envelops your sight. Are you in a basement? It’s so cold. The ropes rub harshly on your wrists and ankles as you squirm in the chair, making your skin burn. You just have your undergarments on, making your whole body shiver. Of course he stripped you down. All you can do is hear the idiotic mumbling of a man who is so obviously not in his right mind.

“Baby, you look so beautiful, oh my god…” He whispers quietly, making you miss the silence that was present a couple seconds ago. His voice shakes as he speaks, and his breathing is heavy. “I finally get to have you like this, isn’t this incredible…?”

How did you get here? You try to recap every single memory following up to this, but everything comes back in fragments, and it’s all nothing but a blur in your head. You must’ve been drugged, by the way you feel so sluggish and drowsy. You can’t remember anything at all.

His knife drags down to your chest, then all the way down to your stomach. You try to press your legs together in vain, the ropes on your ankles holding you back. He chuckles and presses the tip of the knife into your inner thigh, making you wince in pain as a small drop of blood trickles down your leg. You have to bite back your tongue to prevent yourself from screaming, once you feel his hot tongue lick the trickle of blood up to the wound, and he plants a kiss on the piercing. “You taste so good, I could eat you up right now…” Why the hell does he sound out of breath? Is he going to kill you?

Before you know it, that exact question spills out of your mouth.

“Huh, kill you? No, no, baby…” His cold hand rubs your inner thigh, smearing blood all over. His hand feels so rough. “I wouldn’t ever do that, please believe me.” His soft lips kiss your wound, and at this point, you’re starting to feel sick. “... But I want to taste you so bad, it’s tempting.” You jerk your head away from him as he whispers in your ear, and he starts to laugh. “I’m only kidding baby, relax!” How the hell can you relax? “Mm, but I dunno.” His knees hit the floor, and he lays his head on your lap, feeling around your stomach. “Maybe I could start here, and work my way up.” Two of his fingers press on your clothed cunt, and you flinch. “Should I go to your intestines next?” He cooes sweetly, almost like it’s just sweet nothings he’s whispering. “I would save your heart for last, baby. It’s your best part.” Your body trembles as he reaches up, and kisses right above your heart. Your racing heart. “I was listening to your heart while you were asleep. I’ve wanted to do that for so long, it sounds incredible…” Why is he doing this? Does he just want to fuck you? Is this a sick fetish? You feel your throat tighten up, about to cry. Your tears soak the blindfold on your eyes. His breathing is becoming frantic. What is he going to do? Oh my god.

“I’m sorry baby, I can’t help myself.” He whines and a hand pushes your waist forward, then both snake behind to unclasp your bra. You finally try to scream a refusal, and shake violently in your seat, apparently scaring him off, since his hands immediately retreat. “... I’m sorry. You still need time to, uh, get used to being here. I’m so sorry, baby.” Yet he didn’t care when he cut your thigh? What kind of morals does he have?

Oh yeah, none.

There’s no point in screaming for help, you already know no one will hear you.

“Will this make you more comfortable? Yeah?” The blindfold is ripped off your head, and you blink away the tears forming at your eyes, and squint at rhe sudden brightness. You finally get a good view of your surroundings, and you were right. You are in a basement. A cold basement. The stairs on the side of the room are leading up to a freedom that seems miles away. But upon a better look, this place… It looks more like a room. There's a neatly set bed in the right corner of the room, with a tall lamp and a nightstand, alongside a tv set and a couch not far from it. In the corner of your eye, you can see a chair propped up against a table. Probably a dinner table. You can’t see what's behind you, but from the soft whirring, it might be a fridge. You don’t even want to look him in the eyes, but you take a small glance up and see a small mark of your blood on his lips. You look back down at the floor. He should invest in some sort of carpet, instead of these hard floors.

You try to run through your memories to see if you can recognize him but you don’t. Everything is still so blurry, damn it…

“Is that better, darling?” He smiles and outstretched his arms, exclaiming happily. “Welcome to your new home!” Not if you have anything to do about that. “I’m sorry for my, uh, behavior earlier. I was too excited. But I just…” He sighs dreamily. “I finally get to have you here with me, baby.”

…God. Might as well ask him some questions.

“Hmm? Why did I bring you here? He messes with the knife, in his hands, staring at the bloody point. “So I can have you here with me, baby…” He brings the tip of the knife to his mouth, licking it up and down. You watch the blood become planted on his tongue, nausea filling your stomach. It’s even worse once you can really see it. “I-I’ve been admiring you for so long, for months now, baby…” He tilts his head and seemingly stares into your soul, grinning. “I didn’t think this far into it, I’m not even sure what we’re going to do today, hmm…” His eyes become lost in yours as he looks at you thoughtfully, but you wince and break the contact you two had. A small snap of his fingers brings your attention back to him. “Oh, how about I make your dinner, right now? I-I’ll even make your favorite!”

You don’t want whatever he’s going to make. You don’t want to even be in the same room as him. Your throat tightens up with anger and the tears start to flow down your cheeks. His eyes stare down at you in pity, and a certain sadness.

“Oh, you don’t need to cry now…” He leans down and kisses a tear off your cheek, and you jerk your head away. His laugh makes you sick, it sounds so sinister. “You’re so funny darling, you don’t have to fight me you know.” His tongue laps up the tear that had just rolled down your cheek, up to the corner of your eye. He kisses you again and again on your cheek, to the point where he can’t get enough of you. “You’ll get used to it anyway, we can- Ah, no. We will be so happy together…” He purrs and plants a kiss on the top of your head, petting it softly. “Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to go upstairs and make dinner, it won't take too long, okay?” He rubs your inner thigh, taking a glance down at the dripping wound. A small pool of blood has dripped down onto the chair. “I’ll… I’ll get a bandaid for that too.” He seems hesitant to look at the cut, but he suddenly drops down on his knees again and sets a rough hand on your thigh, “Let me help you clean up, okay?” He has a short fit of his insane chuckling as you stare at him lick up your blood, refusing to touch the wound this time. Is he scared of infecting it? Ah, no, he was just licking up the dripping blood first. You watch and feel his tongue swirl around the cut and you wince at the small stinging feeling. How disgusting.

Disgusting, disgusting, disgusting. What a horrible fucking man, how sick.

You have to fight the urge to throw up again once he sticks his tongue out, showing the bloody mess all over it. Some of it is even on his lips. He kisses your inner thigh, leading to your cunt, and he leaves a small, bloody kiss mark. With a small lick of his lips, he stands back up, brushing his pants off, and a dreamy groan leaves his mouth, seemingly involuntarily. His hand rubs your cheek affectionately, and you try your best not to go ahead and bite him. I guess it's true that you can’t bite the hand that feeds you. At this point he decides whether or not you get to eat or drink.

But not your fate. That's up for you to decide.

“I’ll be back with dinner, okay?” He chirps happily and bounds up the stairs, giggling to himself like a stupid schoolgirl. “I won’t take long!” You watch the door to freedom open, the light streaming ever so slightly into the basement, before the only way to freedom is shut off again, with a couple loud clicks of the several locks he set in.

He couldn’t even tell you his fucking name, my god.

part 2 is here!

[alemonadinixi]

Jay's Story, Part 3

"Hey, Jay, you putting on weight?"

"Thanks for pointing it out, Derek," I tried to joke.

He laughed a little, "Sorry man, but hey, it happens! Stress is a killer. You want a workout buddy, you let me know."

"Thanks, man."

Derek went back to his desk, leaving me to my lunch. I looked like I had a bit of a beer belly, but so far there was no way anyone would guess I was carrying my girlfriend's eggs. These things had grown quickly, which Sierra said was a good sign. They'd settled in their place, now we just had to wait and see how they developed.

One development I was not expecting was to suddenly feel like my chest was damp. I glanced down and, sure enough, my shirt had small wet spots right over my nipples. I crossed my arms over my chest, put on my best “don't fuck with me right now” face, and rushed to the bathroom. I opened my shirt. Then I fucking panicked.

Lactating. I was lactating.

I watched tiny white beads form, dribbling down my chest when nothing soaked them up, hypnotized and horrified. Hiss don't even drink milk, let alone make it. This was not a thing Hiss did, of either sex, so why the hell was it happening to me??

I immediately called the surgeon’s office, since he was the only medical professional who knew what we'd done.

He was not nearly as alarmed as I thought he should be. “Huh. Interesting.”

“Doctor, how does me having work done on my intestine lead to growing breasts?” I demanded in a rough whisper.

“Tsk, all men have breasts, Jay, we just don't have the hormones necessary for them to function as such. Apparently your partner’s eggs, or the secretions used to implant them, contain something similar enough to trigger lactation. I'd have to run some tests to be certain, but that's the likeliest explanation.”

I rubbed between my eyes and took a deep breath. “So it's temporary.”

“Again, I can't be certain, no human has ever done what you've done before, but it is likely temporary, yes. I imagine the source is the eggs, and it will stop once you've laid them.”

“Why those instead of my partner?”

“Well, if it were her, I'd have expected the effects to appear much sooner after implantation. You'd have to have had her ovipositor secretions inside you regularly for that possibility to make sense.”

I blinked, my face growing warm. “... Oh.”

“You're a pioneer, Jay, we're going to run into all sorts of surprises, but so far nothing harmful has happened and things seem to be going well! Try not to worry, alright?”

“Right. Thanks, doctor.”

I hung up and stared at my reflection. What the doctor didn't know was Sierra had been regularly fucking me the past month. I loved the way she filled me, and I told myself at first there was something she secreted that made it better than normal, but honestly I was probably always a bottom and never knew it. Hell of a way to find out.

And it either needed to stop, or I needed to buy some nursing pads. I might need them anyway, it could be the eggs’ fault instead of Sierra’s.

Right now, the first thing to do was clean up. I tried dabbing at my shirt with a paper towel, which didn't do much. I'd just have to keep my jacket on, ask if I could leave work early, say I was sick or something. Then head home and Sierra and I could figure this out.

I got home before she did, and she found me in the bedroom trying to figure out if I could make nursing pads stay put in a shirt without a bra.

“Jay? What are you doing?”

“Trying not to need a nursing bra,” I grumbled and tossed the pads onto my dresser in defeat.

“A what?”

I sighed and removed my shirt. “So, something in either the eggs or your… secretions when we fuck is making me lactate.”

She looked concerned. “Is that bad?”

I took a breath. “Men don't normally do this, it's… human infants feed on milk from their mothers, so—”

Her face brightened, “So it's a good sign that your body accepts the eggs! You're making food, even if they won't need it.”

“That… that's not what I'm getting at,” I stammered, though it was a surprisingly pleasant thought. “I'm male, Sierra, this isn't supposed to happen to me.”

She shrugged, “You aren't supposed to have an egg pouch, either, but you do now.”

I frowned. “Stop being so logical about this.”

“Oh, Jay,” she wrapped her arms around my waist in a loose hug, “do you feel embarrassed?”

I blushed as a drop of milk trickled down my chest. “It’s a little upsetting, yeah!”

She licked my nipple. I jerked away with a gasp, “Stop that.”

“Does it hurt?”

“No, just… feels weird.”

She got a wicked look on her face and did it again. I jerked away, but this time she followed. “It tastes good,” she muttered. She took my nipple into her mouth and sucked.

I grunted in surprise, “Sierra!”

“Mmm, I like this a lot, Jay,” she mumbled, her hand opening my pants as she switched sides.

My protest got lost somewhere in my throat as she started pumping my cock as she sucked. I love the feel of her hands, smooth with just a touch of friction, like a snake's belly. As she dropped to her knees, she said, “Everything you make tastes delicious.”

My head rolled back as she licked the length of me. “Maybe… maybe I don't have to worry about the whole milk thing…”

She chuckled. “I don't think you do. I'll get you whatever you need.” She punctuated each word with a lick, “And. I'll. Lick. You. Clean. Every. Day.”

“Sucking would be good,” I almost managed not to beg.

She complied with a smile, and I stopped worrying about it.

[moreespressoformydepresso]

I was talking with two friends yesterday and it reminded my barely functional brain of a TBOSAS AU I apparently haven’t posted yet, so I bring you: the tributes stop the games by being grumbley

A while back I made a post about the headcanon that the tribute names are being pronounced incorrectly and that’s what makes them seem “weird”, and I can think of several ways this might get the games cancelled. The most obvious one being the mentors combining their growing fondness of their tributes with the knowledge that the Capitol proudly and openly mispronounced every single name on the tribute list and was convinced of it being the right pronunciation until the tributes corrected them. Bonus points if the mentors try to “correct” the tributes and getting hit in the face with reality.

“It’s actually pronounced T⟨r⟩ee-tsj Mè⟨r⟩an…”

“That r can’t be right and your emphasis is off.”

“A- are you-“ Treech gave Vipsania a look somewhere between disbelief and disdain. “Are you trying to correct me on the pronunciation of my own name?!”

The other tributes are cackling behind him and Vipsania splutters, trying to save herself from the embarrassment, before realizing how stupid that was and clearing her throat, changing the subject rather unceremoniously. Every chance the tributes get, they correct the mentors on misinformation or mispronunciation. It starts off as pure spite for the sake of entertainment, but soon becomes genuine annoyance with just how confidently incorrect these stuck up brats are. Meanwhile, the mentors realize with every correction that maybe they don’t know as much about the districts as they thought they did. Every little thing they get wrong makes them wonder even more what else they thought to be true is actually bullshit. It also gets them (and the rest of the Capitol) a little more interested in District culture since the tributes share some super cool or interesting things.

On the other hand, though, the tributes also confirm a thing or two, except the way they describe it has a totally different vibe than the rumors the Capitol took as fact. For example: I have a headcanon that District 7 partially relies on edible tree bark for nutrition, especially in the cold winters. In summer they smuggle as much food from the forest as possible to stock up for harsh famine winters where they cannot grow their own extra food and all the animals are hidden for their winter nap. District 10 eats all the parts of the animal the Capitol doesn’t want, they’ve found ways to make even the disgusting bits taste good. 9 and 11 have found ways to secretly grow small patches of plants that don’t look out of the ordinary but are actually super nutritious. They eat things like tulip bulbs and sugar beets and parts of plants the Capitol sees no value in. (These headcanons are inspired by the hungerwinter)

At first, the mentors are disgusted with the idea of eating bark or the “bad” animal parts, but then the tributes talk more about it and it truly hits the Capitol that the districts are basically living through the seige the Capitol hates the rebels for so much. Festus is particularly affected by the D7 bit, because a whole district is kept alive by tree bark because his dad can’t be bothered to just send them more food. Why? Because it would lessen profits. It gets the mentors to realize just how dire the situation in the districts is, even 10 years after the rebellion, and the outcry against the Games and the fact that the Capitol is doing exactly what they hate the rebels for gets so bad that the president is forced to shut down the games to focus on putting out this political wildfire.

The mentors whose parents have say in the districts twist their parents’ arms into fixing these conditions, if only so they can stop thinking about tiny children chewing on intestines or tree bark or flower bulbs in a desperate bid to survive.

[bluesest]

A Wedding

Damian was a young adult of 27 years old and one of the most important moments of his life had arrived: his wedding with Melissa, she was the same age and they had been in a relationship for at least 9 years. Without any difficulty and with a lot of love in between, they decided to take the next big step in anyone's life, which is to marry the love of their life.

As usual, the night before a wedding a bachelor party is held for both people, in the case of Damian, he along with his friends and his father went to a hot wing restaurant where, in addition to filling up with kilos of wings full of sauce, they also got drunk until dawn enjoying the comforts and activities that Damian had to say goodbye to when he got engaged.

Frank was a 48-year-old man, tall, bearded, with big arms and a brewer's gut, he always has a positive mind and is stern when the moment requires it, he was the one who gave the idea of going to eat hot wings since it is the food that he and his son enjoyed throughout their lives and it would be a great tribute to the maturity of his son who eventually became a man.

At 2:00 AM they arrived home, both dizzy and tired, Frank wanted to stay a while longer at the party, but Damian refused, after all he had to wake up early tomorrow so that everything would be perfect.

Frank fell directly to the sofa, his body was already weak due to his age, while Damian was walking directly to the guest room, a couple of years ago he stopped living with his parents and moved in with his partner.

Before reaching the room, a strange sound invaded the small room: *GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR*, it was Damian's annoying stomach, so many wings and beer didn't sit very well with him, he turned around to check if his father was still awake, and apparently not, he closed his eyes and... *PPPPFFFFFFFFFFFFFTTTTTTT* *PRRRRRRRRRRRR*

He gave a groan of satisfaction and a hoarse voice interrupted him: "That was a good one," it was his father who was laughing with the little strength he had left.

Damian: "Dad!"

Frank: "What's the problem?"

Damian: "It's just that..."

Frank: "Don't be embarrassed about that son, my daughter-in-law must get used to the smell of a real man like me" *PFFFFFFTTTTTT*

Damian: "Whatever... *GRRRRRRR* I hope I don't have problems with this tomorrow..."

The Next Morning:

*RIIIIIIINGGGGG* *RIIIIIIINGGGGG*

Damian woke up to the noise of the alarm, with his eyes half-closed he saw what his downfall was: "It's the... 1:00 PM!?", our fiancé set the wrong alarm, apparently, getting drunk a day before your wedding was not a good idea.

He jumped out of bed and suddenly his stomach took a hard hit: *GRRRRRRRRRRRRR*, he lowered his head a little, held his stomach with his right hand and expelled a rotten fart: *PRRRRRRRRRRRRRR* *TRTRTRTRTRTR*

There was hell inside Damian's intestine, but without much time to think about it he took off his clothes and started running naked around the house looking for his tuxedo. While all this was going on, Damián found his father still asleep on the sofa, alarmed and knowing his father he began to shake him again and again until the forty-year-old woke up from his long sleep.

Frank: "What *YAWN* happens?"

Damian: "IT'S GETTING LATE! THERE ARE 2 HOURS LEFT AND WE ARE NOT READY!"

Frank: "WE FELL ASLEEP!?"

Like his son, Frank got up and started running to his room shared with his spouse, who apparently had already left for the event without even telling her spouse or son.

As Frank ran, a flurry of farts came out of his big ass: *PFFFFFFTTTTTTT* *PPPPPPPPFFFFTTTTTTTT* *PRRRRRRRRRRRRR*

He stopped for a few moments and held his stomach with both hands, turned to his son and said: "Do you think there is time to go to the bathroom?" to which he replied: "What part of the fact that there is no time you didn't understand!?", resigned, he continued with the search for his elegant clothes.

Almost an hour had passed and our boys were already ready to arrive at the wedding, Frank offered to drive to prevent his son from getting more stressed than he already was, he tried to talk to him, but he was curt, but the reason for this was not because he was angry, but because of a growing pain in his stomach.

*GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR*

Frank: "Are you okay son?"

Damian: "My stomach hurts a little..."

Frank: "If you want, we can stop in the bathroom of a gas station"

Damian: "Don't worry, I'm fine"

*GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR*

Another fart was approaching, but he didn't want to fart in front of his father, he tried to lower the window without success.

Frank: "Don't even try, the windows have not worked for a week now"

Damian: "But I'm hot! ughhh"

*GRRRRRRRRRR* *PFFFFFFFFFFFTTTT*

The silence was destroyed by an accidental thunderous fart by Damian, he was embarrassed but his father began to laugh.

Damian: "Shut up..."

Frank: "HAHAHAHA that's why you wanted to lower the window, right?"

Damian: "..."

Frank: "Oh come on, admit it was fun"

Damian: "... Well yes, it was fun I guess haha"

Frank: "It's good that we have the same problem...*PRRRRRRRRRRRRRR* *PFTTFTTFTFFFFFFFFFF*"

Damian hit his father while they were both laughing, what was previously an awkward situation, became another father and son experience.

Damian: "This car has a hellish smell HAHAHAHA"

Frank: "Of course he does! The smell is something characteristic of the Johnsons"

Damian: "It reminds me of the time I was farting all day while I was out with my friends, they always complained and I just laughed HAHAHAHAHA"

Frank: "See? It wasn't so bad, son."

Damian: "Although I feel that something else wants to come out..."

Frank: "Same thing, I think so much junk food hurt us both... Do you want me to stop and let's find a bathroom?"

Damian: "Of course not! We are already late"

Frank: "But-"

Damian: "In addition, where the wedding will take place there is a public bathroom, we can go there when all this is over"

After 30 minutes of farting in the car, they finally arrived at the wedding just 30 minutes before it started, Damian went to prepare to receive his future spouse while his father is scolded by his.

Damian went to a small room where his friends were waiting for him to greet him and give him support in this important moment, he was in front of a mirror trying to fix the ruined tie that he untied on the trip.

That's when he saw his own pale face and with small drops of sweat a sign of his discomfort, he thought: "Maybe going to the bathroom is a good idea..." He approached the door of the small bathroom that was in that room when one of his friends stopped him.

Damian feigning nonchalance asked if something was wrong, to which his friend replied: "Hey! there are only 10 minutes left, you must wait for your wife at the altar", Damian turned to his watch and indeed it was not a joke in bad taste, he returned to the mirror, fixed his hairstyle and went straight to the altar.

Meanwhile, his father didn't seem to enjoy the wait, inside his stomach there was a raging storm of gases and lava wanting to come out, he thought: "I don't think Damian will be upset if I miss the first minutes of his wedding..." he got up from his seat when his spouse and Damian's mother held his arm saying not to be rude and that he shouldn't get up from his seat at a time like that.

Frank: "Honey, I know this is important, but I need to go to the bathroom right now."

Again his request was denied and he was forced to wait until the bride and groom's kiss to be able to get up.

*GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR*

A thunderous stomach roar made Frank lose his patience, he crossed his legs tightly to prevent the smell he was about to release from spreading among the guests.

*PFFFFTTTT* *SQSHHHH*

It was a bad idea... Frank felt how that terrible fart turned into liquid, the lava began to stain his buttocks and his special cloth pants, he couldn't take it anymore, he decided to get up, but...

Finally, the wedding had begun, Damian was standing at the altar watching as the love of his life with a wide smile went towards him to be together, these thoughts are increasingly interrupted by the terrible stomach pain and the gurgling that did not leave him in peace since the morning.

Finally she arrived and the priest began the wedding.

As the priest spoke, Frank searched for a solution to his problem, "How the was I going to go to the bathroom now? Where was I going to get extra inner break?", the smell was becoming more and more noticeable and reached his nose, "Ufff, I really have to go to the bathroom to release this shit"

He discreetly began to fan his butt to prevent the smell from concentrating while applying pressure to the chair in order to prevent the smell from leaving his butt with the price to pay that it muddied his buttocks and pants more.

*GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR*

His stomach asked to release pressure again, in fear he let out another fart carefully: *PFFFFFTTTTTT*

It was a short one for what Frank was used to, but he couldn't afford to have his pants turned into an adult diaper completely filled with sulfuric acid.

His son was not doing any better, as soon as the priest was halfway through his speech, he was sweating more and more and unlike his father he could not even release a fart since the smell would be noticed immediately, so every time someone tried to leave he squeezed his buttocks and forced the putrid air to return through the large intestine, a practice that would become expensive later.

Priest: "They can say their wedding vows"

There was some good and something bad, the good thing is that it meant that the main event was close to ending, the bad thing was that his voice was shaky from the efforts he was making not to his pants, like the future spouse, he had to start first.

His vow was not really long, he managed to materialize his feelings in words being part of a long relationship, he made a great effort to stop stuttering and sweating, but they were simply in vain.

After an embarrassing moment and a confused look from his spouse, it was her turn to say her vows, and although it was inopportune to think about it, he just wanted it to be over soon and for his spouse not to talk too much.

After another 10 agonizing minutes, the priest finally said the magic words: "He can kiss the bride."

Damian could not believe that just at the most important moment of his life he had an attack of diarrhea, but simply this cruel moment of life would come to an end when the lips of the bride and groom finally crossed.

It was a beautiful moment for both of them and caused Damian to forget for a few seconds the fact that he had to shit, but it was that calm that caused another stomach attack:

*GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR*

Both moved their heads aside while the audience applauded, the party would continue for a couple of more hours, so before receiving the congratulations of the guests, he excused himself to his now spouse and surreptitiously moved through the audience to reach the bathroom being interrupted several times by his relatives.

Frank saw his son noticeably nervous and uncomfortable trying to make his way through the audience, he got up from his seat with the excuse that he was going to congratulate his son.

When he got up from his seat he felt like a small avalanche of thick shit slipped from his butt and was slowly heading to his legs, Frank had to be fast with his movement since in a few minutes his shit would reach his legs staining his pants until it reached his beautiful black shoes, he just couldn't afford it.

He jogged to pretend that he was not running, he saw his son in the distance entering the bathroom not at all far from the wedding, he was even more alarmed when small wet farts came out of his butt like gusts *PRRR* *PRRR* *PRRR* *PRRR* *PRRR*, apparently the exercise relaxed his stomach even more.

He arrived at the bathroom in time to see how his son was on a loose leash about to enter the last cubicle, father and son exchanged looks a little embarrassed...

*PFFFFFTFTFTFTFTFTFTFTFTFT*

A violent fart came out of Damian's butt reminding him that he came to the bathroom for a reason, he held his stomach, forcefully opened the cubicle door and closed it, Frank did the same in a slightly calmer way even though he could feel how his shit was reaching his knee.

Both butts touched the porcelain at the same time, but there were no farts in between, Damian despite having passed with his father farting in the car was quite embarrassed, he wanted his father to get out of there.

*PFFFFFTTTTTTTTTTTT* *PRRRRR* *SQHQSHQSSQHHHHHHHSHSHHH*

Frank began by expelling what fucked him up throughout the day, a gurgling sound could be heard throughout the bathroom while he continued to shit.

*QSHQSHQSHSQHSSSQHSSSQHHHSHS* *PFFFTFTFTTF* *TRTRTRTRTRTRTRTRRRRR* *SHQHSQHHSQSHQQSHQSHSQSQSQSQSQSQSQSQSQSQSQSQSQ* *PFFFTTT*

"Ahhh finally..." Frank was able to catch his breath and refresh his mind, although there was still cargo to be dropped... *GRRRRRRRRRR* another gurgle appeared from the neighboring cubicle, Frank could remember that he was not alone.

Damian is writhing in pain, in that position his stomach was more relaxed and therefore more sore and tired from the effort it is taking him to keep all the shit in place until his father leaves the place.

"Why is this happening to me?" he said to himself, for him it was unfair, he had a whole life to spend an embarrassing moment like this, but it should just be at his wedding with his father.

*GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR*

Frank: "Is everything fine in there?"

Damian: "Yes dad..."

*SHHHHHHHHHH* *PRRRRRRRRRR* *PFFFFTTFTFTF* *TRTRTRTRTRTRTRTRTRTRTRTRTRTRTRTRTRTRTR* *PSSSSHHHHHRRRTRTRTRTRTRT* *SQHSSHSQQQPR*

Frank: "ughh how good it feels to release everything..."

*GRRRRRRRRRRR*

Frank: "Son, it's obvious that you need to free yourself too, why don't you?"

Damian: "And that's what I do!" *GRRRRRRR*

Frank: "I was expecting something louder than those gurgling sounds you have..."

Damian: "Just not..."

Frank: "oh come on, we've spent a lot of time together, it's a natural thing"

Damian: "I..."

Frank: "Everybody's waiting for us out there, and I wouldn't want them to come in here..."

*GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR*

Damian: "ugghhhhhh"

*GRRRRRRR* *PFFFFTTTTT* *SQGSQGSSHHHH*

Frank: "Well done, let me teach you"

*PRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR* *QHSHQSHSQHQSSSHHHHHHHHH* *TRRTRTRTR* *TRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR* *PLOP* *PLOP* *PFTFTFTFFFFFFFFFFFFTTTTTTTTT* *PLOP*

Damian: "Hahahahaha oh come on"

*PRRRR* *HQSHQSHQSHSHQSHQSHSQSHSQHQSQHQS* *BLLLRRRRRRRRR* *PFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFTT* *TRTRTRTRTR* *SSSSSHHHHHHHHHH*

Frank: "I feel like the wings are forcing me to open my butt even wider"

*SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSHHHH* *PRPRPRPRPRPRPRPR* *PFTFTFTFTFTFTFTFTFTF* *PFFFFFTTTTTTT* *TRUM* *CRUSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH* *PFFFFTTTTT*

Damian: "Those beers are charging me very dearly"

*PFFFFFTTTTT* *PLOP* *PLOP* *PLOP* *TTTTRRRTTTTTTTTTTTTTTRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR* *SQHSQHSHSQSHHHHHHHHH* *FFFFFFFFFFFFFFTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT*

Frank: "And with taxes"

*PLOP* *SQSHHHHHHHHSQHHHHHHHHSHHHHHQQQHSHSSH* *TRTRTRTRTPRRRRRRRRR* *SSSSSSSSSSSRRRRRRR* *TRRRRRRRRUMMMMTRRRRRUUMMMM* *PLOP*

Damian: "hahahaha I think I'm done"

Frank: "Not me yet, I shit on my underpants and in this cubicle there isn't even toilet paper"

Damian: "Take this roll dad, clean yourself first"

Frank: "But you must get out of here, everyone out there is waiting for you."

Damian: "I don't want to celebrate my wedding without my father present"

[quitealotofsodapop]

Theory on that Crimson Jimson-Weed;

So I was re-watching "To Catch a Leaf" like any good Sandy-fan when I recognised the name of the flower (Crimson Jimsonweed/Scarlet Mandala flower) being something I encountered in my horticulture/pharma studies;

You see, Jimsonweed is another name for Datura - a super-toxic nightshade flower known for it's psychoactive effects that was occasionally used in traditional Chinese medicine. A few seeds or leaves is enough to send someone into days-long potentially fatal delirium. Monk in India particularly used it to induce horror/madness in order to have a better understanding of the world.

My first thought was; "Why tf would Sandy reccomend a flower that's like a million acid trips in one?" and second "Why did LBD need it?"

According to Sandy the Crimson Jimsonweed can "influence mortality itself" - something that would be very useful if your opponent is someone who's pretty protective of their immortality. NO wonder why LBD was pissed. Huntsman "only" taking a single petal could have saved the gang's lives in the long run.

And I thought: "Cool!"

And then I was researching an au idea/theory @dorothygale123 brought up about "Shennong/The Flame Emperor/Divine Peasant" having connections to the Demon Bull King and Red Son; only to read how he (a primordial god of fire and medicine) died;

You see, after he retired/lost the godly throne, Shennong decided to put his brain and super-durable/transparent stomach to use and self-experiment on himself and document the results. He apparently got poisoned quite a lot in his research (he also discovered many ways to get high) to classify all plant life.

Ultimately Shennong died after eating a "small yellow flower" and being unable to find an antidote or "clean out his instestine" in time. Kind of a sad but expected end to the chinese mythos version of the first farmer-scientist. A rule of medicine is that anything that can heal can also kill at a certain dosage.

But the flower that killed him is up for debate. The book I have suggests it to be "Intestine-Breaking/Heartbreak Grass"(Gelsemium sempervirens). This Oxford paper suggests Tansy, an old treatment for worms. But a common theme is that the "flower of a weed" was the cause.

After my research into Jimsonweed and it's connections to mortality in Buddhism I must suggest a hidden culpurit;

This could be my mild red-colourblindness acting up; but The flower we see throughout the "To Catch a Leaf" is gotdamn yellow.

The flower that can "influence mortality itself" would be the perfect candiate for what killed the legendary Divine Peasant.

Makes sense why Sandy decided to instead brew a very small part of it into tea for MK. He likely read Shennong's research and realised that this super-rare variant of Jimsonweed *was* an amazing tonic... in the right dosage of course. Hence why Sandy didn't feed MK the whole flower.

[blindgamermisadventures]

This has been one hell of a week. Where do I even begin?

My mother pitches a fit if I don’t eat with the family because it doesn’t feel like I’m “taking part of the family”. Thing is, I am NPO on a feeding tube.

Since I currently have only a “functional” (Most offensive term ever. I can promise you I am not functioning.) condition both professionals and my parents believe I am making a “mountain out of a molehill” and should just get over it and eat.

I also miss food. It’s so rare I eat, not only because of the excruciating pain it causes, but because I have such intense early satiety. I eat a couple bites and I am as full as if I ate a holiday meal. In addition I can feel the food backing up my oesophagus and throat. I have a hard time swallowing too.

So yes I miss food, but I know I cannot eat. Yet my mother’s wrath is not to be trifled with, especially when I am so low on energy. I caved anew ate around a a cup of mashed potatoes and a sliver of homemade sourdough bread.

Well…it was coming out of both my G and J tubes for the next two days. My CNA who helps me daily could see what I ate. It smelled like vomit. (Which I so badly wanted to do due to pain, but I am unable to do so.) I was awful. I was so nauseous. In so much pain. And worse of all I was constipated.

This may be considered TMI, but I don’t care. In multiple tests it’s been documented that I have constant stool burdens at the end of my small intestine and beginning of my colon. I am currently on linzess, but it isn’t helping.

I poop brown smelly water. Even my CNA said this looks like intestinal failure. Yet because I only have a functional diagnosis the ER won’t accept me until I am running a high fever. I have a low grade one, but nope. Still not good enough.

On top of that my feeding pump ( a Kangaroo Joey) stopped working yesterday. I called my feeding tube supplier about sending me a new one. They said it would arrive at noon.

It hadn’t. I called back asking when it would arrive and they said someone signed for it. So I asked all around my apartment complex asking where it was. Nobody said they had it. So I called again. Apparently it SOMEHOW got sent to the wrong place. So they will be sending me one…sometime. Tonight my CNA is going to help me use a gravity bag. I only used one once and it gave me really bad diarrhoea so hopefully we can find a speed that works for me.

So…those on feeding tubes, intestinal failure, and TPN…I need advice. How do I get help? I have been on a feeding tube since January and I am STILL underweight and malnourished. I am not running my full feeds because it burns and the pressure buildup is too much to handle. I already explained about my constant stool burdens and overflow problem. When and how do you bring up the topic of at least trying TPN? How do you get diagnosed with Chronic Intestinal Dysmotility? I know for a fact that is what is going on yet my GI refuses to let me get a Sitz Marker Test because it’s so expensive and intensive. I am suffering and at my whits end and don’t know what to do anymore. Any advice would be greatly appreciated!

[someweirdoreblogger]

You have an "admirer," apparently. One that has no sense oncesoever.

Odin, the All-father, iron fist of the Norse.

You use everything in your willpower, hidden deep, to not flip your shit each time he graces your weaker presence.

Odin comeths baring no warning. Does a King need formal reason to wander inside his own castle?

Not a word spoken, without distraction nor misdirection. He is elegant down to how he walks, with purpose and unwavering resilience.

The All-father is supreme and tyrannical in godly definition, of the legendary Bifrost's chosen few. A rapid tide in constant pursuit, edgeless flood overcoming building after building in its merciless path of endless devastation, devouring those who dare oppose the roaring waves.

Suddenly, day after day, night after night-this intimidating figure finds you worthy of not just a simple glance.

Odin is... just there.

Next to little ol' you, a lowly servant, the great All-father. Without a care in the world. The sheer audacity to treat this like it's not extremely unusual for an all-powerful god such as himself to take interest in another out of the blue, let alone someone so painstakingly simple. Someone never pinned on the radar of another god, definitely not one of their strongest ancients.

Either you found him, or likewise, the latter; waiting ever patiently by the bay of your active sector, stuck in the ground like a tree stump. Is he even breathing? Feet rooted, immoveable as stone.

It's hard to not miss him in this lightful realm, a towering candle of stern darkness-permeant arrogance written on his face. Wrinkles forming indifferent strokes, old indeed, but nevertheless immortal. Long scars, they decorate him in tight and unnerving brushes. A bleak void carries the stinging yellow jackets in his eyes, stoic, unrelenting. A force to be reckoned with, even then, any blind fool can tell this highly dangerous god homes a deep attractiveness mortals are blessed to witness. The devil is hideous on one hand, yet beautiful on another.

People become frantic in trying to appease their quite unexpected guest, you can't blame them, if you didn't know what Odin was here for-vaguely at the very least-you would've tripped on yourself to ensure no bloodshed as well, no one wants to wipe up intestines and tethered remains off the walls. Frightened assistants question one another, curious bombarding. A sea of peeking servants and turning heads, eager but not too eager to learn the answer to the question lingering in everyone's mind- -Why Odin ,of all damn people, is in private servant quarters? Endless blunt remarks of his loyal crows fill the air, interesting how they obviously contrast, scolding unlucky others getting far too close for their liking (Getting used to that nonstop bickering and annoying flaps of their feathery wings deserves a round of applause admittedly). Shouting in a voice you swear can be heard all across Heaven that the All-father needs not justify himself to weaker masses. And soon, the crowd disperses till Odin is all that remains, looking upon reality like it matters little to him in that current moment. He continues to stand moving, not an inch, dead to the knowing world. Maybe he was ready to stay there for years, just for you. Ridiculous, but the determination itself is admirable, terrifying as the person it belonged to. Holding, distant, stubborn on holy soil older than your great grandfather until you're unfortunately noticed; The only servant Odin made eye-contact within the past few hours, a small part of you immediately died in that current moment. Caught. Well, it's better to accept fate than to delay the inevitable.

Furthermore, Odin never fucking leaves. Unless swayed by the heavy burden of his responsibilities to Valhalla, he is practically glued to you. Hip to hip, never behind.

Where you least expect him, somehow, he has unadmitted reason for popping up into your vision like a mole, driven by curiosity.

Coincidentally, in your most favored places. Including personal ones.

(There next to your bed watching you sleep, there behind you during your break, there standing next to you as you dust the priceless artifacts of the great halls. Wherever you go Odin is almost certain to trail after, turning this into a childish game of follow the leader.

Odin goes where you go, regardless of actually where 'where' is. At this point, you can only expect but never predict. Quick as lightening, an invisible thundering sound in the distance, appearing where most convenient. Your face sinks the moment his face enters your sights, you won't shake him off matterless of whether or not you really tried, both stuck together till night falls from Olympus.

(Yeah right, you shaking off Odin. No fool can ever dream hard enough to achieve such a feat.)

It's an unlucky series of unwanted occurrences that all servants know better then to suggest otherwise.

You swear, this is on purpose. But for what?

Pleasure?

Curiosity?

This torture of constantly hanging on the end of the cliff, not knowing if someone behind you is waiting the perfect moment to push. To see you fall down into the bottomless abyss. Thor and Loki had to get their tendencies somewhere.

You are fairly confident in yourself, even when it comes to dealing with the gods. You have worked for Olympus long enough that little to nothing surprises you anymore. You've witnessed aplenty things, from disasters to miracles, you have never seen-

-this.)

And Odin just...stares at you the entire time, much to your intense confusion and unbridled fear.

Odin grants no hints and admits nothing, an intimidating statue of a great towering godfather who can erase your mortal existence off Heaven in under a millisecond. Completely and utterly unpredictable, reeking of boundless bloodlust and pure fighting prowess. Won't take the unrivaled intellect of Tesla to recognize Odin can't be a bearer of good news.

He irritates the sensitive hairs on your neck, pricked up, suffocating in fright. His aura scorches you, a transparent brand of godly fire. Daring you to move out of line, defiance is forever intolerable in the biased eyes of the Heavens. You can't imagine doing anything to potentially earn his ire.

You have no intention of betraying Valhalla, unfond as you are about the gods, not that you'd foolishly announce that to fucking Odin.

Your conclusions are empty stales of bread, no meat and cheese, sauce, mayonnaise or mustard. No excuse for this argumentatively, obsessive behavior about following you like a shitty puppy. You can't guess why Odin is even here to begin with, why he bothers you with never-ending oversight.

Thankfully, Odin only looks. Just watching.

Seems merely seeing you just living is a newfound hobby for Valhalla's ruling god, whatever that means for you.

As deeply unnerving as his constant observation is, you suppose it could be worse, as you and your beloved nymph friends speculate. All you can do is wait for something to happen. You take it as a sign to perform your duties more perfectly, though it was more out of crawling desperation to live than inspiration.

(You read and carefully organize the ancient books in a quiet, knowing patience.

Counting the lively torches upon the grand Olympian walls, which ones are lit, which aren't.

Writing down assigned addresses, preparing for the awaiting visitation of the next Pantheon for Hermes.)

Non-blinking, holes burning at the back of your head. Analyzing the most basic specks and wrinkles of your face and neckline, fair hair whistling silently against Winter winds. Eyes of an eagle locked onto their target, dreadfully focused. By far the most scared you have ever been in your entire life, and that's saying a lot from a mortal servant of the gods. Luckily, it gets easier and easier to ignore. Silence seems to be Odin's consistent trait.

Odin is a walking blank slate blessed with legs. He does nothing, says nothing, and acknowledges nothing. Nothing but you, in the slightest form of a distant bat of thick eyelashes thrown in your direction.

You can't be certain if that's better or worse.

Apart from constant observation spilling not a single question, Odin hasn't raised a hand or tried to bring upon you any sort of harm. Made not even the tiniest peep across your numerous encounters. Done anything other than made you incredibly creeped out.

Odin is a constant, looming shadow. A curse, razor-sharp, an unpredictable element of nature. A sinking feeling of never being left alone in peace, sticking on the very edge of every corner of your unrest. That dark gaze is something no one ever forgets.

Certainly not you, a victim of that judgmental pair of golden ores, staring into your soul. Every truth of you naked to his eyes, like glass.

You still have no clue why Odin decided that you must be the center of his undeterred attention.

(Oh, you poor unfortunate soul,

If only you knew the storm coming your way.)

[zumpietoo]

Continueddd....(Part II)

By the time 2022 started, and a few months into filming Riverdale’s sixth season, Reinhart was also dealing with new, unexplained gut issues and inexplicable weight gain. She’s been tested for Celiac disease, in which the gluten found in wheat, barley, rye, and other foods can trigger an intestine-damaging immune response, and Crohn’s disease, an autoimmune disease that causes swelling and severe inflammation in the digestive tract. “I’ve done all of them,” she says. “And my gut’s still like, ‘Hey, bitch, you got something. You just can’t figure out what it is.’”

Actually, during this time (and even last year), Peepster claimed she was diagnosed with it. That said, she's also always "yo=yo'd" because she has dreadful eating habits and hates to exercise.....plus I thought she sooooo happy and in love with SweatBoi at that point?

Reinhart says she also developed an eating disorder around this time. “I really don’t like looking at season six imagery or pictures, because I know that 99% of my thoughts were about my body,” she says. “I was a thousand percent just disassociated through that entire day or scene because my entire inner dialogue is just… ‘Your body’s changing.’”

Actually, you were 1000% disassociated because Cari were ever deepening and your acting was now shit. You'd claimed to have "developed eating disorders" (as did Crotchi) multiple times throughout the series, as well. But I guess that's how you're excusing how absolutely abysmal you were?

Also, this was when you did your weird home photo shoots "I"m a rich man" crap.....so, again, desperate for attention---and yes, your body WAS changing, because you were past your teens and perfectly normal "aging".

Earlier this year, Reinhart’s hair started falling out. “I went to my dermatologist because my scalp was also getting kind of itchy. She was like, ‘Yes, it's alopecia.’” While some types of alopecia are hormonal (a.k.a. androgenetic alopecia), others can be autoimmune-related, like alopecia areata. This is when a person’s body attacks their hair follicles, causing patchy hair loss.

Your hair started falling out years before that and it's entirely because it's fucking damaged from bleaching and daily wear and tear.....we all noticed it when you filmed Don't Look for the Pill, cuz wiggggssss....and it's why you cut it off in season 6.

As many folks who’ve been poked and prodded in search of a medical diagnosis can likely relate to, Reinhart has run into her fair share of less-than-helpful care (though she also speaks warmly of the current care she’s receiving as well as prior experiences with doctors who were attentive and helpful). While seeking treatment for her alopecia, she says one doctor seemed to suggest she go off her birth control and get pregnant to spur hair growth. She says another provider asked her if she’d been in any shows or movies he’d know, ultimately having a nurse Google her name as she sat there, waiting to be seen. “I understand this is a story that’s not very relatable,” Reinhart tells me (to which I immediately interject to say that feeling objectified under hard fluorescent lighting in a sterile waiting room is achingly relatable), “but just how dehumanizing being at a doctor’s office can be. I’m not here for small talk, I’m here for help.”

They wouldn't write her druggie scripts......or keep to their place as her hired help/servants....or recognize how speshul and amazingly fantastic/fantastically amazing she IS!!!!

There is no fucking doctor who would EVER suggest that, unless as a joke. Particularly not for somebody who takes a LOT of medication, presumably has an autoimmune disorder (pregnancy's really hard on your body if you're super healthy), etc.....

Also, PP? Since apparently you visit an MD like every fucking day? You should know they make small talk

A) to connect/help you relax

B) to ascertain moar about your lifestyle/choices/etc.....to better diagnose and prescribe shit

C) Wasn't this at the height of her cultyville cult when she felt soooooo gud, cuz peyote????

Reinhart is also aware that even having access to care is a privilege in the US, and hard-to-diagnose health problems aren’t cheap. She mentions a time that she was quoted $2,200 out of pocket for an initial consultation with a doctor who didn’t take insurance. “Even if I can afford this, I want no part in that,” she tells me. “It is so expensive to be sick. And that’s why women don’t get help. That’s why men and women don’t get help.”

She's not wrong...up to a point ANDDDD......

A) her mommeee used to gleefully work for big pharma (in like the most pumping up pricing way)

B) Says the bimbo in the mcmansion/name dropping the fancee restaurant/modeling $$$$ clothes/hair/makeup for the uber glossy "you're too fat" as near exclusive message consumerist shallow bullshit publication.

C) You supposedly have a yet to be diagnosed chronic condition and are a millionaire. You are in abject, crippling, life impacting pain----for less than 1% of your supposed fortune, this could be transformed.

Fucking liar......LBR, he was a Dr Feelgood and you didn't have the $$$ that day.

Reinhart’s health struggles came to a head this past July while in Germany filming a movie. “The third night I’m there, I developed symptoms of a UTI,” she explains. “I’m like, ‘I’ve had UTIs before. I’m a woman. We all know how it feels.’” Reinhart went to the hospital by herself at 4 a.m., where doctors performed a urinalysis. She says they found a “slight infection” and sent Reinhart on her way with some antibiotics. But the urgency to pee (the hallmark sign of a UTI) didn’t let up. She ended up going to the hospital two more times, again, thinking she had a UTI. “The second I’m done peeing, I still feel like I have to pee, but my pee is showing up with no infection,” she says.

OMG!!! She went to the ER ALL BY HERSELF???? Peepster deserves a medal right there.....Errmmm.....again, sounds like you had an infection, didn't complete your meds, actually wanted pain meds. And they DGAF who you were.

Also, as noted, preemptive strike should anything leak about what a jackhole she was while filming/justification fr why the project's gonna flop and her acting was crapta"cular.

Sometimes, Reinhart notes, the antibiotics would work for a little while, but within a couple of days, the symptoms would return. When she got back to LA, Reinhart “went straight from the airport to the urologist,” who, again, found no sign of a UTI. “I was, at this point, going back and forth between my gyno and my [urologist],” she notes, adding that she was driving an hour to appointments. “It was just like, I need to find a urogyno specialist. And I found one and I called—and this is mid-September at this point—and they’re like, ‘Okay, she can see you October 30.’ I said, ‘I can’t do that because I’m literally dying.’

Interesting how, at the time, despite this.....she was able to take a nice weekend train trip to Amsterdam and hobnob with the author of her supposed next project, huh???? Even tho she was suffering sooo....

Ummm.....it's LA, everything entails "driving an hour". Not like you can't hire an Uber (or a limo), have somebody take you, your fuckin' PA arrange/research this shit, or even stay in a closer-by hotel room the night before or something.

And, again, so they failed to recognize how sooooperrr speshul you were. Also, why not find yourself a nice, overpriced private hospital and check in there for a nonstop drip of the pain meds you're apparently soooooo desperate for????

When Reinhart spoke at the White House about mental health awareness in October 2024, she spent the night sobbing in her hotel bathtub as her boyfriend, Jack Martin, sat on the floor beside her, holding her hand. “That’s the ironic thing that people don’t see,” she tells me. “I’m literally in Washington, DC, at the White House giving a speech on mental health. And then that same night, I am sobbing, in so much discomfort, and feel so defeated.”

Actually, you've done this every fuckin' time you've had something "big" and away from home. Again, and yet nobody wrote you a pain med script? And sounds kinda ironic given it was all about mental health triumphs....

That same month, Reinhart flew back home to Ohio as her grandmother’s health was deteriorating. Because of that, she didn’t dress up with her Riverdale costars, Camila Mendes and Madelaine Petsch, for Halloween (the three have famously donned trio getups in past years, including the Hocus Pocus sisters in 2022). Fans on TikTok wondered where she was: “Healthwise, I didn’t know if I was going to be able to leave my couch. But I’m not going to tell the world that,” she says.

Ahhhh.....she contradicts herself (was it seeing Grandma or stuck on your couch, PP?) Also, she actually simply chose to go to a different party AND orgy in LA.....with her sidepiece....in a super flimsy dress. Dude, you need to stay on top of your narrative/timeline better.

Around this time Reinhart also got a cystoscopy, a procedure in which a doctor examines the lining of the bladder and urethra to see what might be going on. The result? “No tumors, no cysts, just a lot of inflammation,” Reinhart recalls. “It’s like you almost hope there’s something in there so you can remove it and feel better.” Reinhart’s doctors believe she has interstitial cystitis (IC), which is a chronic disorder where a person’s bladder or bladder wall becomes irritated and inflamed. It can have a long-lasting impact on a person’s quality of life.

Per the CDC, IC affects about 1% of people in the US, mostly people with vaginas. But it can take years to get a diagnosis. That’s because IC is often mistaken for things like UTIs. It also doesn’t have a cure and can be difficult to treat, though symptoms can go in and out of remission. Reinhart says she’s doing weekly bladder instillations, which is where a doctor inserts a catheter filled with medicine into a person’s urethra to help relax pelvic and bladder muscles to treat symptoms.

Ummm.....

A) this is the most common process to diagnose IC, so there wouldn't be "believe", there'd be a diagnosis

B) There's surgery for it, even if you don't have tumors

C) They'd also try (AGAIN) lifestyle choices to first help her symptoms.....just they're all lifestyle choices she's not interested in

D) "Can" with an average person, going to their HMO clinic. This isn't the case, seems like PP goes to the doctor every fuckin' day. They'd have lonnnnggg diagnosed this. Moar like her UTI never went away (cuz didn't finish meds) and, again, she's doctor shopping for pain pills

“No one ever knows what that is when I talk about it,” Reinhart says. “But my urogyno is telling me so many women have this, and that’s why I think it’s as important as it is to just be like, ‘Hey, I’m dealing with it too.’”

Or nobody GAF, PP.....there's plenty of info out there....which is why you've self-diagnosed yourself with it. Time to leave WebMD!

This past fall, Reinhart released a skin care line called Personal Day—amid everything *gestures tiredly* going on. It was borne from her struggles with cystic acne, something she’s dealt with since childhood, and the search for products that won’t make her skin flip out. (The website features an “ingredient checker” that allows you to input a skin or beauty product’s ingredient list and flag potential acne-triggering add-ins.)

When I ask her how she wants her line to make people feel, she pauses. “I hope they feel seen,” she says. “People with acne don’t feel seen, and also don’t want to be seen, when they’re breaking out. So I really do hope the products make people feel that their feelings towards acne are very real, and that these products were crafted by people who understand.”

Time to plug her overpriced, not selling snake oil!!!! I mean, how else is PP supposed to pay for her doctor shopping???

As our conversation shifts toward the ways that highlighting her health struggles might help others, Reinhart’s demeanor shifts. It’s clear she’s nursing some raw, emotional wounds, and understandably so, but she’s now more animated—and her voice doesn’t waver. “I feel strong and happy about the mental health advocacy that I’ve done, and I feel happy that I’m about to bring physical health into that conversation because I know that getting help for women over the next four years is going to be exponentially more difficult,” she says. “Listen to your body, and don’t take no for an answer. Don’t let a doctor tell you that nothing’s wrong when you know that there is.”

Yes, yes.....wise, highly educated and intellectual PP is also literally jeebus, helping others by whining about her privileged white girl problems, shilling cults/snake oil and always reminding you, "don't believe that meanie doctor when he won't give you moar vicodin!!! You are the smarty smart!!!"

Reinhart says that when her grandmother went to see a health care provider around April 2024 for bloating and constipation, her doctors thought she was having digestive woes because she was 85—when cancer was the true culprit.

“She had symptoms in March and April and was diagnosed in September,” Reinhart says. “Yes, I’ve been dealing with an incredible amount of health issues the last few years, but I was never really feeling super motivated to talk about them until this happened.”

A few days after this interview, Reinhart’s grandmother, Corine Reinhart, passed away. “My grandmother knew something was wrong,” Reinhart tells me. “She said, ‘Run tests.’ I’m sure that a part of my advocacy for women must come from that.

Ummm....my mom's just 2 years younger....she's now cheated the grim reaper FOUR fuckin' times. It's been my experience in each instance they tend to veer waayyyy in the other direction of caution for old people-----when she had discomfit, she was rushed to the ER. Turned out she had a blockage and they saved her life (this was the most recent instance). So no, I'm calling bullshit.

Also, PP, all you have EVER talked about were health issues (and rampant, gross materialism, slutting around and shilling crap, buuut...). Plus again, WHY TF weren't you there with her?

“I just think, Wow, damn…I’m so proud to be her granddaughter.”

And have another opportunity to co-opt somebody else's life/suffering for my own advancement....after having spent years ignoring her.

[ollieofthebeholder]

And If Thou Wilt, Forget: a TMA fanfic

Read from the beginning on Tumblr || AO3 || My Website

Chapter 37: Who has redeemed and not abhorred

“—one more time, I’m going to rip his intestines out and strangle him with them.”

It probably wasn’t a serious threat. As small and scrawny as Jon was, Sasha was even smaller, and she kept her nails extremely short and smooth, so she likely wouldn’t have what it took to scratch him enough to bleed, let alone do any serious damage. Still, the combination of words with the tone she said them in touched off the hair trigger on Tim’s increasingly irritating urge to protect Jon, and he bristled instinctively as he jerked his head around to find her.

As usual, she was not dressed for the weather; she must be part polar bear, or else she was just that stubborn. Her only concession to the near freezing temperatures was to switch out her sandals for penny loafers and throw a shawl over her shoulders. The bright red spots on her cheeks were probably from anger and not cold or fever, though. Martin, who was walking with her, was much more sensibly dressed in the cornflower blue jumper he’d taken to wearing more often in the last month and a pair of scuffed but sturdy Doc Martens he’d managed to score at a swap meet because his feet were smaller than most men’s and there hadn’t been much competition for them. His expression was somewhere between frustration and anxiety, which was more or less his default expression when thinking about Jon these days. The way his hands were jammed in his pockets told Tim that, whatever Sasha was saying, he didn’t want to agree with it, but he did.

“Look,” he said, obviously trying to sound reasonable, “he’s—i-it’s been hard on him, you know that, he—”

“It’s been months, Martin. Whatever…whatever trauma it is he’s trying to work through”—oh, the sarcasm she put on those two words—“it doesn’t give him the right to do what he’s been doing. You know I’m right. Didn’t Elias tell you the same thing?”

“What?” Tim’s tongue freed itself at that and flung out the word much more sharply than he meant to.

Sasha and Martin both looked up at him at that, Martin flinching backwards and Sasha with an expression that indicated she was thankful to have an ally in whatever it was. It was Martin who spoke, though. “It’s Jon. He’s…” His shoulders slumped, and he looked suddenly exhausted. “He’s getting worse, Tim. I, I mean, I think he’s as healed as he’s ever going to be physically, but…”

“He’s ridiculously paranoid,” Sasha said, gesticulating wildly. “I caught him going through my desk a couple weeks ago. And he lied about it, but I know he’s been following me, too. You weren’t here last week when he went after Martin, but—”

“Not like that,” Martin cut in swiftly. “Not—I, I mean, he didn’t attack me or anything, I…”

“Martin,” Sasha and Tim said in unison.

Martin, if anything, slumped even further. “He accused me of killing Gertrude.”

“He accused you?” Tim exclaimed. If he was trying to throw suspicion off of himself, Jon had picked the worst possible candidate for that. “Why, for God’s sake?”

“He found a letter…well, he found a statement. Remember Trevor Herbert, the vampire hunter? I told Jon he died after he gave his statement, but apparently there was more than the one he found, and, and maybe he didn’t actually die? I dunno.” Martin rubbed at his face for a moment. “But then he said he’d found a letter I wrote to my mum and…”

Tim sighed and shook his head. “Okay. So he’s paranoid. I get that. He was stalking me, too. What was that about Elias? Was he asking you about Jon?”

Martin winced. “I, I went to talk to him.”

“Martin!”

“I know! I know, it’s…I don’t want him to get fired or anything. But he’s not listening to us, Tim. Somebody’s got to do something.”

“Maybe he should get fired,” Sasha said, not quite under her breath. “If he’s going to keep going on like this.”

Tim ignored her. That could easily be spite on her part; despite her claims, and despite how long it had been, he didn’t think she was actually resigned to not having got the Archivist position. He also wouldn’t put it past her to knife him in order to get it. Martin, on the other hand, was genuine—and genuinely miserable about it. He wanted to help Jon. He’d just chosen the worst possible way of going about it.

Clearly it was going to be one of those days.

Focusing on Martin, Tim tried to keep his tone neutral. “What did you say to Elias?”

Martin looked miserable. “I just told him what’s been going on. And that maybe we should…I dunno, do something about it.”

“I talked to him, too,” Sasha interjected. “He agreed with me that Jon’s behavior is out of control and it needs to stop. He’s been doing it to you, too—don’t you agree?”

Tim ground his teeth. “Maybe, but—”

“Ah, Tim. May I have a word with you, please?”

Tim turned to see Elias standing a few feet away, hands folded in front of him and an expression of infinite patience on his insufferable face. He inclined his head towards a door to his left, which led to the small meeting room that got used for department head meetings rather than the more formal room to impress donors and trustees. “We needn’t go up to my office, we can just step in here.”

Since telling Elias where he could shove it would necessitate removing both his head and the stick already lodged in there, and saying that he would sooner chew off both hands at the wrists and wear them as earrings than lodge a formal complaint about Jon’s behavior with the head of the Institute would send Martin into a worse anxiety spiral than he was already in, Tim flashed Elias a huge, completely insincere grin and stepped into the meeting room as requested.

He waited until Elias actually came into the room and indicated that he should do so before he took a seat. The table was a long one that could easily seat a dozen people, set so that whoever was at the head of the table could see anyone entering; Tim, rather deliberately, selected a seat along one of the longer sides and pushed back from the table a bit, just to see what Elias would do.

Rather than sit at the head of the table with his hands folded formally on its top, Elias actually chose to sit in the chair next to Tim’s, which he also pushed back from the table. He propped one leg across the other knee, rested his elbows on the arms of the chair, and steepled his fingers. It was the most relaxed posture Tim had ever seen the man adopt, including when he’d come to Jon’s birthday surprise and very pointedly sung Happy birthday, dear Archivist directly in Tim’s ear—an open, casual, this is just an informal chat sort of posture.

Tim distrusted it instantly.

“I’m certain your colleagues have spoken to you about Jon’s behavior,” he said in an even, reasonable tone. “The paranoia, the constant suspicion of the three of you, the accusations, the surveillance, the…clandestine recording. Certainly I doubt Martin would have brought it to my attention except as a last resort, although, perhaps, I should have noticed sooner.”

“How?” Tim said pointedly. Not that he expected an honest answer out of him. “We’re in the basement. None of us come in the front door if we can help it. Nobody from up here comes down, and there’s no CCTV coverage in the Archives. I know you say nothing escapes your notice, but how exactly were you meant to notice Jon’s behavior if nobody came to complain?”

Elias gazed at him steadily. “Yes. Why have none of you come to me, by the way? If the situation is truly becoming…”

“Untenable?” Tim supplied, echoing Elias’s words from the discussion about his own behavior. He clenched his fist to keep from visibly working at the ring on his finger and stared Elias down, pressing against his mental barriers to keep them upright. “If you’re asking if I told them not to come to you, then no. We haven’t talked about it like that. Would I have encouraged them to talk to you? Absolutely not. If they’d told me they were planning to, I’d probably have tried to talk them out of it, because I am not sure anything you can do will help matters.”

“I do have the CCTV footage from the day of the murder,” Elias said thoughtfully. “The presumed day of the murder, anyway.”

That right there? That was bait. Elias definitely wanted Tim to ask about the footage, to hook him in and make him enter into whatever bullshit game he was playing. Tim crossed his arms over his chest. “You’re asking why I didn’t come to you about the way Jon was behaving towards Sasha and Martin? It’s because I was handling it. Or I thought I was. I didn’t know how bad it was affecting them because Martin was trying not to get him in trouble and Sasha was waiting for him to push things too far to walk back before she said anything, which tells me you spoke to her first.”

Elias’s eyebrows lifted, just slightly, and Tim immediately threw up a few extra wards to keep him from probing deeper. After a moment’s pause, Elias continued in the same reasonable tone. “All right. Why did you not come to me about the way he is behaving towards you? I presume there have been…incidents. Martin mentioned seeing pictures of your house on Jon’s desk.”

“Yeah, he was following me a couple weeks ago,” Tim said with a shrug. “Badly, might I add. I took care of it. And it didn’t happen on Institute property or company time, so really, it was none of your business.”

“Did you take care of it?” Elias asked pointedly. “Or do you just believe that whatever you said to Jon did the trick?”

“I haven’t seen him since I called him out, which means he’s either leaving me alone or he’s learned how to stalk people less conspicuously, so yeah, I’d say it did the trick,” Tim shot back.

“Or he’s simply decided you’re none of his concern.” Elias paused. “Yet.”

That was also bait, but it was bait Tim had to grind his teeth very hard to avoid chomping at. He knew damn well what Elias was implying, or trying to imply, in such a way that if Tim tried to use his words as justification for whatever he did he could plausibly deny he’d said anything of the sort. With anyone else it might have been something of the “you’re not important enough to matter to him in the grand scheme of things” variety, which could spur an impulsive hothead into action, but Tim heard the underlying concern loud and clear: Jon, if Jon had been the one to murder Gertrude Robinson, might be focusing on Martin and Sasha as his next victims to begin with. Tim might be too much for him to handle…yet. The subtle threat made him bristle a little, and he had to remind himself to settle down, to not jump down Elias’s throat. To not let him know how close he’d come to striking a nerve.

“Or,” he said instead, “you made a shitty choice for the replacement Archivist, and the combination of duties and responsibilities and…obligations…that comes with that position is eating away at his mind and slowly driving him insane.”

Elias’s expression never changed, but Tim knew the remark had struck home. Not the part where he was critical of Elias—Elias expected that, it would be suspicious if Tim wasn’t insolent and borderline subordinate at this point—but the part where he suggested that Jon’s mind wasn’t up to hosting the Archivist. There were dozens, possibly hundreds, of statements in the Archives from people who’d got too close or too deep too quickly and ended up losing their sanity, and ultimately their lives. Depending on how far and how fast Jon went down that route, it could be a disaster for just him, or for the entire staff.

Luckily, at least luckily for Tim, that wasn’t what was happening. Jon’s behavior came from him, not from the Archivist, and a big part of Tim’s job was keeping Jon from biting off more than he could swallow. Hell, he hadn’t even started compelling people properly. He was a lot more resilient than people, even Martin, gave him credit for. But Elias didn’t know that for certain and Tim had just introduced a healthy bit of doubt into his current world view. Whatever was going on, he hadn’t picked Jon out of desperation; he needed him, specifically. Tim didn’t know why and wasn’t going to ask, but he realized, as he waited for Elias to respond with a raised eyebrow and an insouciant posture, that he’d just bought them all a little time.

“I had intended to have a…disciplinary meeting with Jon,” Elias finally said slowly. “Similar to the one I had with you a few weeks back. But I think, in light of your…observations, perhaps it’s best if we do something a bit more informal.”

“We?” Tim repeated.

“How do you think Jon would respond to an intervention?”

Badly, was the answer. Exactly how badly would depend on how the intervention was staged, how they phrased it, what time of day they went for it, and whether or not Elias or Sasha or both goaded Martin into saying what he was actually thinking instead of being diplomatic. It didn’t take an expert to know that Martin’s opinion of him was the one Jon was most dependent on and keenest not to lose. And while Tim was…admittedly less certain than he previously had been that Jon had been the one to murder Gertrude, that was by no means certain, and if he had there was every risk he would take that as a sign to eliminate those who opposed him.

On the other hand, maybe they’d get lucky and he’d go for Elias first.

“Best get it over with now,” he said, putting his hands on his knees and making like he was going to stand. “He doesn’t usually go out for lunch, but maybe if we convince him he’s being an idiot first he’ll actually eat something.”

Elias actually looked momentarily startled at that, like he hadn’t expected Tim to actually agree, or maybe like he’d expected to have a little bit of time before they actually did it. Nevertheless, he rose to his feet. “An excellent point. Let’s see if Martin and Sasha are still outside the room.”

“They are. They think you’re going to fire me. Or at least Martin does.” Tim rose, too. “But we both know better, don’t we…sir?”

Elias stared at Tim for perhaps half a second longer than was strictly necessary. “Quite.”

At this point, Tim wasn’t even surprised to see that he was right. Martin and Sasha were indeed hovering a few feet away, one anxious and the other impatient, and both straightened when they Tim and Elias emerge. Tim ignored Elias, walked over to them, and clapped both on the shoulders. “It’s okay. We’re going to stage an intervention.”

Martin visibly relaxed, which told Tim he’d been right—he was genuinely afraid, especially after Tim had called him out for going to Elias, that Jon was going to be fired and it would somehow be his fault. Sasha, too, seemed to relax a little, probably because she took the it’s okay to be for them, not for Jon. Either way, they fell into step willingly behind Tim, who graciously allowed Elias to go first down the steps.

He only gave a tiny, fleeting thought to pushing him down them, which could probably be considered progress.

The door to the Archivist’s office, unsurprisingly, was shut. Elias raised his hand as he approached it, clearly preparing to knock, but Tim ducked under it and grabbed the knob. Jon’s paranoia about being discovered doing…whatever he was doing was one thing, but he genuinely hated it when people knocked on his door—especially twice—and the last thing they needed to do was set him on edge right from the get-go, even though something told him that had been exactly Elias’s intention for whatever fucking reason. He opened the door stepped into the office, and bowed theatrically, sweeping one arm forward in the most ostensible, dramatic fashion he could.

“Yes, thank you, Tim.” Elias sighed and strode into the office, Martin and Sasha in his wake. “Jon. We need to talk.”

Jon squared his shoulders almost defensively. As Tim shut the door, he reached over for the tape recorder and, without breaking eye contact with Elias, pressed the RECORD button.

“You don’t mind if I record this, I trust?” he said, a slight edge to his voice.

“Well, to be honest—” Elias began.

“That’s kind of one of the things we wanted to talk about,” Tim interrupted smoothly. When Jon’s eyes flicked over towards him, he quickly rolled his pointer finger over a couple of times in what he hoped would be interpreted as a keep going sort of gesture. Elias almost certainly wanted him to shut it off, and yeah, it was probably bothering Martin and Sasha—especially Sasha, for some reason—to have their every interaction recorded, but eventually they were going to start turning themselves on for Jon automatically the way they sometimes had for Gertrude, and sometimes did for Tim, which he hadn’t mentioned to anyone. One way or another, this was probably going on record, and it would make Jon feel better if it was voluntary for now, at least on his part.

“This is an intervention,” Martin said, in as gentle a voice as he could.

Not gentle enough. Jon rose to his feet, eyes blazing. “Excuse me.”

“If you’d rather this was an official disciplinary hearing, Jon, we can arrange it,” Elias said pointedly.

Jon looked momentarily like a scolded child, then seemed to visibly force himself to calm. “Fine. Say your piece.”

Martin licked his lips and glanced at Tim, then Elias, but Sasha beat him to the punch, her voice dripping with sincerity. Tim didn’t believe it for a second. “We care about you, Jon. And you’ve been rather erratic since the Prentiss incident.”

“And we’d, we’d really like…” Martin began, then stuttered, obviously not sure where he was going with it.

“To not have to fire you,” Elias put in.

The look of fear that flashed through Martin’s eyes made Tim want to punch Elias for that, but he recovered quickly and turned back to Jon. “To make sure you’re okay,” he said, emphatically.

“Look, I understand that I’ve been a bit distant lately,” Jon began.

Oh. Oh, no, that wasn’t going to work. Either Jon actually had no idea of what they all knew, or was hoping they wouldn’t say anything. Tim spoke up, pointedly. “You were watching my house.”

“You followed me on my lunch break, and searched my desk,” Sasha pointed out.

So she had known that; Gerry would be interested to know, Tim thought as Martin finally blurted, “You said I was lying about a murder!”

From the suddenly startled look on Jon’s face, Tim realized he was right—he hadn’t actually realized they all knew that. Or at least hadn’t realized they’d talked about it. “I, uh, uh, that is to say—” he stammered.

“You think we killed Gertrude,” Sasha broke in.

Martin genuinely flinched at that, and Tim put a supportive hand at his back as Jon sputtered, “No. It’s…I…” He swallowed, and then suddenly his chin came up in a determined, belligerent defiance. “Maybe. Maybe you did. I don’t know.”

Either Sasha had just given Jon a brilliant idea, or he really did believe that, and Tim genuinely wasn’t sure which. Elias shook his head, almost sadly. “Jon, this is absurd. This goes far beyond an unhealthy work environment. I'll admit it's partly my fault for letting it get this bad. I, I should have stepped in earlier.”

Jon puffed up slightly, and Tim decided, no. No, this was where he needed to step in, he needed to stop this now or someone—either Jon or Martin or both—was going to get hurt. “What’s your evidence? Or are you just going on gut feelings?” He gestured at Sasha, Martin, and himself. “You’ve done your research. What are the red flags? You can’t build a case on maybes.”

“It’s not right,” Martin insisted.

Jon’s eyes snapped to Martin, and there was a flicker of something in them that told Tim he badly wanted to agree, but couldn’t let himself. “We’ve gone a long way beyond right or wrong, Martin. There are monsters out there and I don’t know who or where they are or if any of you…” His hand went, almost unconsciously, to his upper arm, where the stab wound he’d refused to explain was giving him yet another scar. “If you want me to trust you, then I’m sorry, but I need evidence.”

Elias sighed heavily and handed Jon what he’d been holding. Not, Tim realized, a folder. A DVD case. “Here.”

“And this is?” Jon asked, but he took it.

“A copy of all the CCTV footage from the week Gertrude disappeared,” Elias replied. “The police finally finished cleaning it up and examining it, and returned a copy.”

Jon gave Elias a suspicious look. “There aren’t any cameras in the Archives.���

“But there are everywhere else, including all of the entrances into the Archives and across all the feeds,” Elias pointed out. “It provides a remarkably detailed account of all of our movements over that week, even yours.”

“And you think this gives everyone an alibi?” Jon demanded.

“The police certainly do. Everyone who was here, at any rate. But feel free to check it yourself.”

Jon pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes, but all he said was, “Thank you. I will.”

Sasha stuck her hands on her hips. “And let’s have no more of this paranoia.”

Tim was pretty sure he was the only one that noticed the recorder shut itself off before Jon reached for it.

He followed the others out of Jon’s office, went over to his desk, and unlocked the top drawer—locking it was unnecessary, the same key worked on all the desks and honestly you could jar it loose with a good hefty shove of your hip, but he did it so nobody would suspect he kept the really important secret stuff he didn’t want anyone to know about in his bag—then rummaged around until he found what he was looking for. Ignoring Martin and Sasha, and not even caring if Elias was still there or not, he stalked back into the Archivist’s office and tossed a stack of papers on to Jon’s desk. “Here.”

Jon, who had been examining the DVD case, started and looked up at Tim, his expression somewhere between annoyance and suspicion. “What is this?”

“Receipts. Hotels, plane tickets, train tickets, round trip ferry ticket, meals and the occasional purchase receipt. Everything I expensed back to the Institute.” Tim cocked his head at Jon and indicated the DVD. “I won’t be on that recording. I told you a while ago, I was away when she was killed, on official Archive business. But, here, you can track my movements anyway. Maybe make a few phone calls, although I can’t tell you how many people I talked to will even remember me. I was trying to be careful.”

He’d either just made things better or made things a hell of a lot worse, he thought as he headed back into the Archives proper to try and get some more work done. Either way, it was done. The die was cast; let the chips fall where they may. Or as that old American television show had put it, the avalanche had begun—it was too late for the pebbles to vote. He was just going to have to keep his head down, keep doing his job, and hope he’d done the right thing.

It was all he could do for the moment.

[woundedheartwithin]

Your mom is in hospital again? Is she going to be OK for now?

Thank you for asking! That’s really sweet, I really appreciate you ❤️❤️❤️

Well… okay is a relative term here I think. Medically, yes, she’s alright now. She apparently got fucking pneumonia the last time she was in the hospital, so she’s been in for like a week and a half this time on really strong antibiotics. But because this hospital apparently doesn’t believe in getting their patients out of bed unless a physical therapist is present, she has to go back to rehab to get back on her feet. That’ll probably be another three weeks. The second she’s back home, I’m requesting all her medical records and we’re getting an attorney to see if we have a case to sue this shithole

I just don’t get it. The first time we went last year for her stomach ulcers it was literally wonderful. The most pleasant hospital stay any of us had ever had. My mom almost didn’t wanna leave because they treated her so well. They had her in the newer building and they were so attentive and had her walking and doing stuff the whole time so she didn’t just lay in bed and atrophy. Then the last time while she was in the ICU, which is also in the newer building, she received exemplary care there too. The nurses were sweet and patient and they got her out of bed the moment she was able to. And like the emergency surgeons saved her life, so I have no doubt that there is absolutely the capacity for good care at this place. But god fucking forbid you get stuck in the older main building. It’s like an entirely different hospital. We took her back to the same place because we, probably foolishly, hoped she’d get the same care she got in the newer building since she’d be on a different floor, but no, it’s more of the same as it was last time. So we’re taking her to a different rehab place this time because fuck this hospital

She’s doing well with her intestine stuff tho, so that’s a bright spot. Everything with that is healed and back to normal, which is wild because I’m personally still reeling from the fact that she had 130cm of her small intestine removed. Now if we can just get her walking again she’ll be great

The crazy part is, I’m no stranger to long hospital stays. I had a few when I was younger, and an over night stay just last year for my kidney stone surgery. I was at a different hospital, and their protocol was so different. I never saw a physical therapist, the nurses would just get me out of bed and make me do laps around the floor a couple times a day. And I was laid up for a few days way back when I was like 12 because one of the fucking nurses had me on an adult dose of morphine (my doctor was pissed, I’m pretty sure that nurse got fired that day), and I was super weak when they could finally get me up, but it was still just like two nurses and my mom helping me walk around. So I’d walk all over the hospital for as long as they’d let me. And like during my overnight stay last year, the night nurse woke me up at three in the morning like hey you have to walk I want you to do two laps around the floor, and then the day nurse woke me up at eight like hey same thing let’s do laps. They were obsessed with getting me out of bed and on my feet and I had a tube with a foley attached sticking out of my back and an IV stand with morphine to carry around. At this place, they’re like well we have to call a PT, and the PT doesn’t even work on that floor so they have to schedule an appointment, and the nurses apparently aren’t even allowed to just move her from the bed to the chair, so she’s just wasted away in this bed for a week and a half (and nearly three weeks last time)

It’s been so incredibly frustrating and stressful and I’m just ready for her to be back home 😭😭

[108garys]

Medicine

So for the first of the randomized smg crossover ships(If you don't count smoke as the retroactive first) I've written something involving Ellis van Huytan/Jefferson Bragg(there's a little Ellis/Bradshaw in there too)

I suppose it sort of sets the tone that not all these name spinner results are gonna be cute and fluffy and given that this is set in blackwoods sanatorium I'd say it's as far from that as it can be

Also there were parts that I took some in-game stuff from hoa and mashed it in there so I hope that works(I once again finished this off on little sleep because apparently that's when my brain figures stuff out so there's probably mistakes I didn't catch that I'll fix up when I'm more awake)

@kassiekolchek22 @delurkr @ivycross @lonnitamongus @devilinlittlehope @eddie-brii @oblivious-troll @ctrvpani @blubary @myscprin @tatjana-fantasy @ultrabananapudding

(Iraq 1948)

The sun shone so brightly that it momentarily blinded him, the painful rays alien after so long in the dark. Ellis couldn't believe he'd been underground for over a year! As his eyes adjusted he was met with the lovely sight of lady Bradshaw; she was understandably disheveled after the close scrape they'd just survived escaping the temple but as always she had a confidence that made her beautiful regardless of her physical condition.

"We did it Agnes!" he drew her into a hug, "I can't wait to share these secrets with the world!" She looks up at him with her pale blue eyes smiling sweetly before grabbing his face and pulling him down for a kiss. She was a little old for him, Ellis knew that but still… He felt there was something between them. He bent down, lost in the moment as her lips pressed against his. As they parted she moved to whisper in his ear and his whole body turned to ice…

"I don't care about the world, Ellis." he felt a sudden sharp pain in his neck, stepping back, heart beating frantically. "A-Agnes…?" she grinned ear to ear. Literally. Her face warping, twisting into something inhuman. He stumbled back as she grew taller than him, wings blocking out the sun. The ground cracks and crumbles beneath his feet. His screams are cut off as he goes tumbling back to hell…

He lands with a wet thud, surrounded by blood he tries to sit up but something grabs him. Panic sets in as the rest of the expedition crawls out of the blood calling him a traitor, their corpses ripping and biting his flesh. He begs them to stop as his intestines are torn from him, for forgiveness as he's pulled limb from limb and for an end as his heart is ripped from his chest-

--

(Canada 1952)

Ellis wakes in his room with a start, clutching his chest bolt upright. drenched in sweat, he looks around as he begins to calm… His room is the same as its always been, small, two beds, two tables, bars on the window and a door that only locks from the outside. He gets out of bed stretching as right on time Abe drops in with his breakfast.

"Hey hey champ, dreams bothering you again?" the orderly sets the tray down and looks up at him, Ellis has at least a foot of height on him… Maybe more? He sits down, to eat. He was vaguely aware that better food existed but he had no recollection of ever tasting something not brought to him on one of the sanatorium's trays. Abe takes a seat next to him looking expectantly for an answer…

"I was somewhere sunny…" Ellis looks out the window at the snow covered mountains. "We could all use a little bit of that," Abe adjusts his glasses as Ellis tries to remember… "There was a woman…" he really did try, "She was beautiful and she-"

"Woah, hold your horses," Abe put his hands out, a joking look on his face, "You remember our talk about private dreams?" Ellis took another bite of his sandwich, thinking about it… "That it's between me and Mr Bragg." he nodded happy that he remembered, Abe laughed lightly smacking his shoulder… "Well what about bat dreams? You we're screaming bloody murder." He smiled like he was discussing the weather.

"The woman turned into a bat… I think?"

Ellis reluctantly took his medicine after he finished his breakfast, Abe wouldn't leave him be until he did. "Bragg will want to hear all about it I'm sure," Ellis couldn't help smiling hearing that. Mr Bragg is so kind to him… He didn't know where he would be if the man hadn't taken him in, his memories of before were… Fuzzy. Abe left him alone and he lay down again, he always felt so exhausted after his morning medicine… The ceiling was floating away from him, his eyes felt heavy. He turned to look at the other bed… Didn't he have a roommate?

He rolled over- wait? …Wasn't he already facing the other bed? He rubbed his face as he sat up. he jumped at the sight of Mr Bragg sitting on his bed… When did he come in!? Ellis's head hurt trying to make sense of it. The old man looked at him, gentle blue eyes staring through him behind his round glasses… Something tugged at the back of his mind that told him he was in danger… But that didn't make sense, Mr Bragg had been nothing but good to him…

"How are you feeling today, Ellis?" He smiled, clipboard in hand. "Good." Ellis responded, he wanted Mr Bragg to see he was getting better… "I'm happy to hear that," Ellis fidgeted with his hands in his lap, looking back as Mr Bragg continued. "You were troubled by night terrors again?"

"A woman turned into a giant bat and then I was drowning in blood…" he felt uncomfortable trying to remember. "The dead tore at me like wild animals and… I feel like I knew them but I can't remember what they looked like or who they were…" He had forgotten a lot but not being able to identify the vengeful dead was the most disconcerting. He couldn't even tell if they were real people or something his mind made up to torment him.

"Your time as a soldier still weighs heavily on you." The older man said sympathetically as his pen scratched away at his clipboard. That's one of the few things Ellis knew for certain about his past, he'd fought in the war and his experiences had infected his brain like a disease, his illness locked away his memories. He looked down at his hands, it took him a moment to recall why his knuckles were bruised. "Is Joe mad at me?" He asked after his roommate, he couldn't really follow the order of events but he knew it started with a bat flying past the window and ended with both in the infirmary. "I'll have to ask when he's awake." Mr Bragg brushes off the severity of the man's condition moving things along. Ellis awkwardly asks the question that's been in burning in the back of his mind since he woke up. "Why bats?" he knew the man didn't have an answer, he'd asked before and no matter how hard he tried he couldn't remember anything significant from before that had involved bats. He looked at Mr Bragg desperately hoping for a different answer this time.

"I don't know but I'm sure we can unlock those answers together." he responds optimistically, getting up and leading Ellis out of the room. Ellis walked behind the older man through a hallway with bright lights that flicker just enough to give him a headache, that strange feeling tugged at the back of his mind again as they made their way through the sanatorium, he pushed back on the sense of unease, getting better was bound to come with a level of discomfort…

Despite his best efforts he was on edge as he sat down in the chair. A nurse strapped him in, gently reassuring him that it's for his own good. He flexed his fingers, looking at his bruised hands before turning to look as Mr Bragg touched his shoulder, his hand slid down Ellis's arm as he walked around him. Holding his hand as he took a seat in front of him, he looked into Ellis's eyes reassuringly. "I'm with you every step of the way."

Ellis's body tensed as a clicking sounded from the equipment the nurse was setting up, his grip on the old man's hand tightened as he felt a familiar sharp sensation. A black substance moved steadily through his blood stream. His vision becoming hazy, Mr Bragg remained in focus as the dim room melted away, his words not making any sense as he too faded away…

"…Monitor the subject's heart rate carefully, Victoria, we can't afford anymore mistakes…"

-- (???)

[The bones of this temple are drenched in blood]

Ellis fights for breath as his pulse races, the dead hold him down as he struggles to free himself!

Blood fills his lungs as he's submerged in the darkness…

[We have set foot on an uncharted shore and roused something ancient and wicked]

He walks numbly through the halls, a light flickers above his hands drip red onto the tiled floor…

[A blasphemy that comes in indescribable shapes and forms]

He hears a familiar voice, a man speaks to him as he writes, harsh lights obscure his features

"…some have reported odd visual effects…we have attempted to secure additional samples of the black saliva present on the maw of the creature… I and others who smelt the substance have experienced heart palpitations and a heightened sense of fear…analysis of blood sample shows high density of adrenaline… Does the organism feed on fear?"

[For eons we've lived as children in this world]

An unholy shriek tore through the air-

He tried to be quiet, to be hidden. "are you feeling alright?" The man crouched down to look at him, his eyes filled with concern, didn't he understand they had to be quiet!?

…Why couldn't he just-

[Unaware of the horrors that slumber beneath our feet]

…Forgive me… I have sabotaged my colleagues… Lady Bradshaw was right to bring me here… There are secrets here that could allow humanity to reach across the stars. Perhaps even achieve immortality itself… Please…. do not think badly of me for what I have done. I only serve the future…

[Now we have blindly thrown open the gates to madness]

"I don't care about the world, Ellis."

-- (Canada 1950s?)

Ellis caught his breath as he came back to himself, his heart rate slowing down. He felt like he didn't fit himself, just a centimetre out of frame… His mind was blank as he looked around the brightly lit room for any sense of familiarity, feeling relief at the sight of an old man in round glasses. His mind put together that he's in the infirmary, Mr Bragg was monitoring his condition, scratching away at his clipboard. He was so kind to Ellis, he cared about him and wanted him to get better and Ellis was grateful…

[ask-healthy-light]

One-Week Update

Hiya y’all, hope you’re all doing well. Wanted to make this post as an update on my health.

It turns out the situation was worse than I thought, and it seems that every new thing I hear about it only makes it worse, for when my belly started to ache on the evening of Saturday the 8th, I thought it was related to the pizza I ate - and threw up shortly afterwards.

Apparently, though, it had to do with my intestines, for in my belly was what the Doctor described as ‘four-quadrant peritonitis, caused by a perforation in the ileum’*, and I was in a life-threatening situation, which could have resulted in dreadful results, had they not acted when they did…

*Translation: a large spread of infections in my belly, because there was a tear in a part of my small intestines

Luckily, the surgery went well, and I’ve been recovering at the hospital for the past week. Yesterday, my stomach probe was removed, and I’m allowed to eat a small, yet expanding list of foodstuffs again, starting with bouillons and tea, which has, since today, expanded to include pudding as well.

The fistula that has been placed on the side of my body will only be a temporary one, though I know not when it’s planned on being put back in. It may be a couple of months until then, but when it does happen, I’ll most likely be out for the count again, so I’ll be sure to make an update relating to this as well.

With my health improving, and the notice about it out of the way:

I wanted to thank you all, so, so much for your kind words and your well wishes, and your patience in waiting for new stories and sketches.

It’s frustrating, being away from home and my laptop, and being unable to do what I love doing. It’s now been a week after my surgery and the previous update, and in this time, a lot has changed, and, fortunately, improved.

The surgery and my subsequent recovery have cost me a lot of my energy, and it’s going to take time to rebuild my strength, but I can assure you that I’m not finished with writing or drawing - not by a long shot!

As of right now, it’s unclear when I’ll be allowed to leave and head home to recover there. I’ve heard a few rough estimates, primarily relating to the staples(!) in my belly, which will need to remain there for at least two weeks.

If all goes according to plan, around this time next week, I should be on my way home from the hospital, and it shouldn’t be too long after that for me to start writing again.

For now, though, I’m going to take it easy, and listen to my body and its needs. Getting back in shape will take a while, but time will pass anyway. Should anything change, or I hear more about my recovery schedule, I’ll be sure to let you all know when I can.

In the mean time, be sure to take good care of yourselves & stay safe, and I hope to be able to get back to writing soon! ^^

- Mod

[lords-of-mayhem]

Chapter eight of Mariners Apartment Complex

Chapter summary: The nervousness Øystein had about Faust potentially mentioning his staring had melted away as the night went on. He watched them on their side of the table, getting closer to one another. Apparently, Varg allowed a lot more physical contact once he was drunk. He leaned into the other man’s side, head often resting on his shoulder as they all talked and joked around. That weird feeling once again returned to Øystein. 

Words: 1,826

Faust had stayed silent about Øystein’s staring, keeping it to himself throughout the night. Varg had kept the drinks pouring and before too long, Øystein was swaying a bit in his seat from how drunk he was. Both Faust and Varg had taken longer to get there, but they eventually did and Øystein felt a lot more comfortable once they were all on equal footing. The conversation flowed easily and everyone laughed together. 

The nervousness Øystein had about Faust potentially mentioning his staring had melted away as the night went on. He watched them on their side of the table, getting closer to one another. Apparently, Varg allowed a lot more physical contact once he was drunk. He leaned into the other man’s side, head often resting on his shoulder as they all talked and joked around. That weird feeling once again returned to Øystein. 

His stomach felt like it was in knots, intestines curled in tight coils of heat. His heart was in his heart and beating so hard he was sure the other two could hear it. It was intense and a bit overwhelming, but he ultimately decided it wasn’t bad. The feeling only intensified when Faust gave him a small smile before turning his face into the side of Varg’s throat, kissing at the skin there. 

It had started innocently enough, small kisses pressed along his neck, but they quickly became open-mouthed. There was less actual kissing and more sucking at the skin, and Varg would jerk every time teeth sank down into the sensitive flesh. His eyes were wide and he looked directly at Øystein, clearly they were both just as surprised as the other was. Varg let out a quiet hum at a rougher movement. 

“Bård,”  Varg murmured and the name surprised Øystein, making him realize he’d never actually learned what Faust’s real name was. His fingers slid into the back of Faust’s hair, caught between wanting to pull him away and wanting to keep him pressed close. “In front of Øystein?” He asked and was met with no verbal response. Instead, Faust gave a soft hum and sucked harder at his skin. 

It looked rough, hard enough that it would undoubtedly leave a mark, but Varg didn’t act like this was the first time. Øystein wondered if Faust did this often and if he did, how had Øystein never seen the marks? He supposed Varg’s hair did cover his neck most of the time. From now on, he’d pay more attention. 

“He doesn’t mind,” Faust assured once he dislodged his mouth from his neck. He looked back at him, giving the same small smirk he’d given when he caught Øystein staring. Suddenly, Øystein’s throat felt as though he hadn’t had anything to drink all night. It was hard to swallow. “Do you, Øystein?” He asked, words feeling almost like a challenge. His mouth wandered back to Varg’s throat and Varg stared at him, obviously waiting and Øystein finally gave a nod of his head at the question. 

“I don’t mind,” He confirmed quietly. And honestly, he didn’t. If he thought about it before now, some part of him would have thought he’d feel jealous seeing Varg with someone else. Especially when that someone else was as close to him as Faust. Now, he couldn’t find any part of him that minded. It was attractive even, watching Varg’s lips part slightly and his fingers curl tighter into Faust’s hair, hearing the soft gasps that escaped him. 

“He’s into it, you know? He thinks you’re attractive. I’ll bet he wants to fuck you” Faust accused, pulling away from his skin again. It took Øystein a moment to realize he was talking about him. His cheeks burned from being talked about like he wasn’t right there, avoiding Varg’s eyes for a moment. Varg’s eyes had turned sharp, narrowed just a bit to see what he might say next. He watched him carefully, the look intense and it made Øystein feel seen in a way he wasn’t comfortable with. 

It was interesting. Coming into this somewhat friendship with Varg, Øystein had always felt he had an advantage over the younger man. The type of advantage you only get from knowing something about someone and them having nothing of equal caliber on you. Suddenly, he didn’t feel that way anymore. He no longer felt he had that inherent advantage, he couldn’t when Varg was looking at him like he knew the very depths of his soul. 

“Do you want to fuck me, Øystein?” Varg asked and he was unsure whether it was a question or an offer, but he nodded quickly either way. Varg’s intensity never wavered and it made Øystein nervous, although excitement for what might come still filled him. His head was spinning, but he couldn’t tell how much of it was caused by how drunk he was. He watched closely as Varg rose to his feet and came to his side of the table. “Stand up,” He encouraged, the small smile on his face putting Øystein’s mind at ease. He didn’t seem upset. 

He stood up as instructed and watched Varg, whole body tense with anticipation. He was certain his heart might stop with how hard it was beating now. His brain didn’t even have time to process what was happening as Varg leaned down, pressing their lips together. It was initially a bit awkward to be kissing Varg with his not quite boyfriend watching, but that feeling was overpowered by everything else. 

It only took a couple seconds before he was kissing back, maybe too enthusiastically. He tried to keep himself under control, sliding his hands to Varg’s waist, but not grabbing any lower than that. Varg’s lips were warm and soft, and Øystein didn’t take very long to deepen the kiss. Almost as quickly as they’d started, he pressed his tongue inside and Varg accepted him immediately. The sharp taste of vodka, wine, and lemonade still clung to the inside of his mouth. Øystein licked carefully, wanting to savor every moment of this. 

Varg’s fingers slipped into his hair which had grown longer over the year and now needed a wash desperately. He didn’t seem to mind it, though. His fingers curled and he sucked gently at Øystein’s tongue. He was a lot more delicate like this than Øystein had imagined he would actually be. It was nice, though. He was sure anything Varg could give him would be beyond perfect. A few moments later, Varg was pulling away from the kiss. 

“Do you want me to suck you off?” Varg asked quietly, one hand already slipping down to mess with Øystein’s belt. He had a tiny smirk on his face, almost unnoticeable, but Øystein caught it. The words felt like something straight out of one of his dreams and he nodded sharply, glancing over Varg’s shoulder to look at Faust. He was leaning back in his chair and watching them closely, giving Øystein a smile and nod when their eyes met. The whole situation didn’t even feel real, but if this was a dream, he never wanted to wake up. 

“Yeah. I really want you to,” Øystein told him. He didn’t even care if he sounded desperate and Varg didn’t seem like he cared either. “Am I going to have to pay for it, though?” Øystein asked, laughing softly. It was a joke, of course, it was a joke. He laughed, Faust laughed, but Varg was not laughing. The smile had left his face, being replaced by a frown instead. 

“Really nice,” Varg mumbled sarcastically, shoving himself away from Øystein and moved to stand closer to Faust again. Faust had stopped laughing the second he’d realized Varg wasn’t amused by it. “I’m glad what I do is a joke to you,” He said more clearly this time and Øystein knew he shouldn’t have said it, he knew it the second Varg hadn’t laughed at it. Faust’s hand slipped to Varg’s back, holding onto him gently. 

“Baby. He didn’t mean it like that,” Faust told him and Øystein was grateful for it. He hadn’t been able to conjure his own words, brain trying to catch up with the situation. He nodded in agreement with Faust’s words, hoping Varg knew he didn’t mean anything by it. “He was just joking, he’s drunk. It’s okay,” He tried to soothe, but that seemed to snap something inside of Varg. He scoffed harshly and stepped away from Faust too. 

“Are you serious right now?” Varg snapped, his voice staying even as he spoke, but it was far more sharp now. Øystein felt relieved Varg’s anger had been turned towards Faust now and shame filled him at that relief. “No. It’s not fucking fine actually,” He was clearly getting more frustrated by the situation and Øystein knew he was out of place, the fight seemed like something he shouldn’t be privy to. It should be a private thing between them. 

Øystein tried to avoid looking at them, shifting his weight from foot to foot. The situation had grown uncomfortable, nothing like the carefree and happy ambience the apartment used to have. It was only made worse because he felt he had been the catalyst for this moment turning sour, he should’ve just kept his mouth shut. He hoped they’d stop soon, that Faust might let the situation drop. To his credit, Faust seemed fully willing to not argue further, but Varg continued. 

“And honestly? Fuck you for sitting there and acting like I should pretend it is. You’re supposed to be on my team,” Varg’s voice was growing shakier and Øystein worried he might cry. He couldn’t handle that, especially knowing he indirectly caused it. “When you’re the one selling your body, you can let assholes demean you however you want. But I don’t see that happening, do you? No,” Varg laughed now, dry and biting. It nearly hurt Øystein’s feelings and he wasn’t even the target. “You just drag in a few kroner from that stupid little record store and act like you’re some kind of provider.”

Faust was no longer looking at Varg, staring blankly off into space. It was obvious it was making him upset and he was trying to pretend it wasn’t. Luckily, Varg seemed to have tired himself out. He didn’t even address Øystein now. He made his way back into the apartment and Øystein assumed he was heading to his bedroom, wincing a bit when the door slammed so hard it sounded like it might break. 

“I think we should call it a night,” Faust said quietly after a few moments of silence. Øystein nodded as soon as the words were out, wishing he’d called it a night a long time ago. He didn’t say anything to Faust before he left, not feeling like anything was the right thing to say. He hoped he hadn’t completely destroyed any chance he had with Varg, but the future didn’t look promising.