#bugs write

[ducktracy]

sharing a very sage bit of advice from The Simpsons' own John Swartzwelder that i've been trying to hamper down in my writing and drawing alike. let your inner crappy little elf do his worst

[lilybug-02]

Sam is catastrophizing.

Bug Fact: Their ears may be on their legs, but katydids hear a lot like humans do! Scientists have found fluid-filled vesicles resembling and functioning like eardrums.

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Volume 2 Masterpost

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[cowboysorceror]

re-vamping and solidifying my Jason design for "door, opening" my in-progress fic! if you don't want to read my handwriting it's all written out in alt text lol 👍 EDIT: see Dick over here!

[crevicedwelling]

here’s a fun animal I saw in Borneo: the mammal!

unlike the rest of us, mammals are endothermic and produce their own body heat—but they’re not birds! it is covered in a thick coat of hair (you guessed it, separate evolutionary origin from feathers) and secretes a fatty liquid from special glands to nurture its larvae. mammals can be found almost worldwide and are highly adaptable. this one was making odd squeaking noises, possibly begging for morsels of food.

here’s another mammal I saw. pretty sure it’s a different species but I’m not an expert on identifying them

fun mammal fact: some are curiously soft to the touch! try palpating the next mammal you see, but please be careful. some may bite!

[yuuchama]

Sometime during the VDC training camp, when everyone on team Night Raven is sleeping over at Ramshackle Dorm:

Ramshackle Dorm has no shortage of spare rooms, but their condition is another story. You've managed to get enough of them decently clean. They're not as nice as your room, which has had far more time invested in it and is well lived in, but your groupmates should be able to spend a few days at the dorm without issue and are more than free to tidy up rooms as they please.

Yet on one of the first nights, you hear the door of your room creak open. It's dark and you can't see the intruder, though you know it's not one of the ghosts. The approaching footsteps aren't as heavy as Grim's, even after he's cleared out the entire fridge in one sitting. You're also pretty confident Grim is fast asleep beside you.

"Hello?" You groggily lift your head and call out to the intruder. If it's anything malicious, you hope the ensuing scuffle will cause enough noise to wake everyone else up.

A weight pushes the edge of your mattress down and there's a gentle touch at your shoulder. "Prefect, do you mind if I spend the rest of the night here?"

"Jamil?"

You almost don't recognize him in the dark with his hair down. You feel around for a bedside light. Grim groans in his sleep when it clicks on and turns over, shielding his eyes with tiny arms.

Jamil looks exhausted. "Please, I'd really appreciate if you could let me sleep here tonight."

"Yeah, sure. Of course." Maybe it's the sleep addling your brain or your trust in Jamil. You see no reason to turn down his request and didn't question why he was coming to you instead of Kalim. You nudge Grim over to make room for one more on the bed.

The vice housewarden does his best to fit in the cramped sleeping conditions, assuring "I'll pay you back for this. Thank you."

He's turned towards the wall, back touching your side so that he doesn't fall. You wait to make sure he's fully secure in bed before turning off the light. In the calm that follows, you notice he's almost imperceptibly shaking. Sure, the dorm is cold, but not that cold. Especially with three in one bed.

"Jamil, are you okay?" The longer you spend awake, the more concerning this whole situation feels.

"I'm fine. Goodnight, Prefect." Jamil already has his eyes shut and seems adamant about not discussing things further.

"Okay... Goodnight."

You lay down and silence settles over the room once more. It's really warm between your two friends. Sleep is quick to catch up to you, you find yourself nodding off within minutes of your head touching the pillow.

Before you fully drift off, Jamil turns to face you. His hair drapes over the side of the bed and he places a hand on your pillow, lightly grazing your cheek.

"Thanks again," he whispers. "I feel a lot better with you here. Your room doesn't have bugs on the wall."

[robo-writing]

Silly little thing inspired by this post

From the moment Logan came home he was acting strange—handsy, far more than usual, a glint in his eyes you’ve never seen before. Really, how could you deny your own curiosity when you felt him against your back, bulge pressing against your backside as his hands wormed their way up your shirt.

“Been waiting for you all day,” he mumbles against your skin, pinching your nipples between his two fingers, sliding his thickening cock against your ass. “Miss me sweetheart? Because I sure as hell missed you.”

In the time it takes for you to nod your head he’s already ripped your shirt open, your gasp of surprise soon overshadowed by the moan that leaves you when his hand moves to rub against your pussy over your jeans. His voice in your ear is sin itself, the sound of it enough to have you weak in the knees.

“Let’s go upstairs darling, wanna show you just how much I missed you.”

Like hell he needed to tell you twice.

Logan’s got you on your knees within minutes, large palms gripping your hips with certainty, the movement of his hips against your backside leaving you starry-eyed—You don’t know what came over him, but you do know that whatever it is, you love it.

Rough, predatory even, he folds himself against your body, grunting with each thrust as his cock batters into you, sweat lining your skin as you try your best to keep up with each movement of his hips. Even so, you can’t help how badly your body burns with exhaustion. An arm wraps around your stomach, pulling you toward his chest, keeping you steady as he fucks up into you like a man possessed.

You’re on cloud nine, floating above your own body, so beside yourself with pleasure that you give yourself fully to Logan, letting him fuck your weakened body like a toy. Your vocabulary becomes limited to cries of his name, your fingers splayed against his thighs, his voice growling into your neck.

“Good girl, stay just like that, lemme make you feel good,” he says, lapping at your open mouth. “Lemme think for you, just focus on how good it feels, yeah? Stay with me doll.”

Your head lolls to the side, a sloppy attempt at a kiss before you separate with a whine. The mounting pressure has your fingers moving towards the base of his cock, surprise gripping you when you feel how it swells beneath your fingers.

That’s certainly new.

Logan’s none the wiser, if anything the presence of your fingers only spurs him further into your warm cunt, drooling at the sudden overstimulation. “Holy shit—keep your hand right there, Jesus Christ—“

Somehow his hips move even faster, battering his swollen cock even further into your poor, abused pussy, desperate to fit himself as far as he can inside you. Your warnings fall on deaf ears, even as you beg him to listen Logan’s far more interested in stuffing you nice and full to give a shit. “Fuck, fuck, Logan—“

“Shh, fuck—“ His fingers against your clit silence your protests, your legs shaky as he continues to fuck into you. “Just be quiet f’me, that’s it—oh god—“

He keeps you nice and pliant in his arms, too cock-drunk and brainless to care about the fact that the pressure inside your pussy is growing, or care about the fact that Logan’s practically drooling against your neck, biting, licking, sucking at any exposed skin his teeth can reach. “Feel so good, so fucking good—“

You cry out his name when you cum, your juices running down your thighs and soaking his cock as he continues to fuck into you, pinning you by your arms even further into the bedsheets. Back arched, face down, ass up—his weight against your back makes you seize, your breath caught in your chest when you suddenly feel something growing larger inside of you.

It’s soon followed by the familiar warmth of him spilling inside of you, so much more than you’re used to. His cum fills you up, so much so that you feel it slipping free from where his cock is plugged inside of you, his hips still moving even if his cock is firmly locked inside of you.

It takes you far longer than you care to admit to gather yourself, your fingers reaching down to touch where his cock swells, your hips tentatively shaking only to find that it doesn’t move from you an inch. The action has him pulling you back into him, his hot breath fanning against your cheek.

“Don’t move, please,” he begs, desperation laced in his voice. “Too fuckin’ sensitive, fuck—“

“Logan,” you whine, trying to pull yourself away again. “Can’t move, you’re heavy—“

He grunts in response, slowly turning the both of you on your side, his large arms hugging you still as he’s locked inside your pussy. It’s now you can look down and see just how fat the base of him is, lodged so far inside of you that it makes your stomach bulge just that bit more.

Your whisper is that of morbid curiosity and a bit of awe, fingers tracing where your stomach protrudes with the weight of him. “Logan, what the fuck?”

“What?” He mumbles half-heartedly, and you have to grab his hand and show him exactly what you’re talking about, his head lifting to see his swollen dick disappearing in your cunt.

“What the fuck…” he whispers back, equally in awe of…whatever the hell this is.

“Is that normal?” You ask, and he shakes his head.

“No it is not,” he says, hissing when he gives an experimental thrust. “Feels fuckin’ good though.”

[memento-morri-writes]

whump-loving writer: *experiences something Bad*

whump-loving writer: I NEED TO TAKE NOTES!! I CAN USE THIS!!

[flamingpudding]

Code: GHOST

It all started when a number code flashed across the screen of the Batcomputer while Tim was working on a case.

7 8 15 19 20

Flashed across the screen several times to the point it made Tim think that someone somehow managed to hack into the Batcomputer. It was also a number code he was not familiar with at all. So Tim reported it back over their comms in hopes that maybe one of the others knew what the numbers meant. Because all he managed to figure out from it was that the number code was an alert on the Batcomputer, one that came with coordinates that lead into the middle of nowhere.

Tim was about to join the discussion Dick and Jason were having on it when Bruce silenced them all apruptly speaking up.

"Answer code 2 1 20, sent them to the coordinates attached. I will be in the cave in ETA3 and take over from there."

The sudden silence on their communication line spoke volumes especially when Tim new the numbers was a simply code for Bat. He still did what Bruce asked him to do but that didn't stop the questions running through Tim's mind. He watched on the screen of the Batcomputer how the moment he sent the code in return, Programs started like on autopilot. A map opening that contained nothing at first but then changed into a map of a whole good damn city. Tim could only gap at what was happening on the Batcomputer before Bruce appeared and pulled him away from his seat to take over himself.

Bruce without a beat of delay started to input more codes and apparently access codes too as more and more windows opened on the Batcomputer. Tim did not realise that with time Dick, Cass and Damian had joined him as they watched Bruce work away on the Batcomputer. At some point an audiotrack opened but all they could hear was only static. They thought Bruce was going to run it through one of the noise filtering programs.

But to the shock of them, Bruce suddenly triggered a hidden compartment on the console, causing it to flip over and reveal communication link build in a way non of them had ever seen before. It was silver with green accents and looked far... older and less sleek than any of the ones they used. It was clearly not designed to stay completely hidden if put into your ear.

They watched how he simply put that earpiece on and then replayed the audiotrack.

The batkids shared a look of confusion. Non of them sure what to make of the situation until suddenly Bruce stood up from the Batcomputer.

"Prepare for a rescue mission. Nightwing, Orphan and Robin will come with me, the rest of you will stay in Gotham." Was all the man said before storming of towards the Batplane.

"Bruce what is going on?!" Dick instead of going to prepare asked stoping the man before he could get away from them. "What is the meaning of that code? Aside from the fact that simply translated it means ghost."

Bruce eyed the batkids present for a moment before letting out a grunt. "Ghost is finally ready to join the family."

"Ghost?" Tim echoed confused, never having heard that alias for any of them.

"Father what do you mean, 'join the family'?" Damian chimed in clearly frowning with suspicion.

The man eyed them once more his eyes going over each of his children, it looked like he was contemplating telling them more for a moment before he stood to fully face them and let out a sigh. "Like Clark, I too have clone child."

There was a stunned silence. No one speaking up until Dick did. "How long...?"

"14 years ago"

The silence continued as they all did the mental math. Once more it was Dick who spoke up first, clearly stunned. "You had a clone since I was eleven and now is the first time I hear of that?! You never bothered telling any of us?!"

There was a long suffering sigh. "We got to Danny before he was aged up, he was a normal baby even if created in a laboratory, so it was best for him to grow up normally, with the league we arranged for him to be sent to selected family since I had my hands full with you and-"

"Danny?!" Dick cut in. "His name is Danny? Does he even know about us?"

"Dick." Bruce called out his tone warning. "Of course I kept an eye on Danny's life. And I did made contact with him when the time was appropriated considering some of the things that were happening for the boy as he grew up, however he is not aware that he is a clone and it will stay that way. He will get to know all of you once we finished this rescue mission."

Before Dick or any of the others could say anything more Bruce spoke up firmly again. "Get ready now, we do not have any more time. Anything else will be handled later."

[heich0e]

shouto always facetimes you when he's wearing a suit even if he has nothing to actually say, so one afternoon when you answer his incoming call and are greeted by the sight of his buttoned-down and lapelled chest, your face immediately feels hot.

"shouto?" you ask, your voice infuriatingly flustered even though you had tried your very best to choke it back. "what's up?"

and then he tilts the camera back up to its usual position—a little too high, so really it's just the bridge of his nose, his eyes, and the top of his head left at the very bottom of the screen. and simply he goes: "i'm wearing a suit."

"i can see that," you reply, resisting the urge to drag your hand down your face—equal parts frustrated and horrifically endeared to your boyfriend's familiar antics. "is that the reason you called?"

"i know you like when i wear them so i wanted to call and show you."

[beetleblunt]

Clowning Around

a (late) halloween special :)

Summary: Trevor drags Mikey out for a night of fun on Halloween, it goes about as well as you’d expect.

Words: 3,822

ao3 link!

Trevor crouched within the tall brush, staying hidden and waiting for his moment to strike.

The Vinewood Hills area was always bustling with life, but tonight it was especially busy, crawling with children of all ages dressed for the occasion, most of which accompanied by a parent or older sibling. Trevor grimaced at all of the happy families walking down the sidewalk. His childhood Halloweens never consisted of family time or even lone trick-or-treating, instead, he always opted for wreaking havoc on the townspeople and stealing candy from the weak. This year, although it had been some time since he even bothered to “celebrate”, wasn’t any different, and Trevor had a plan.

Any parent willing enough to take their kids out tonight would always put up a fight or give chase, and an unaccompanied group of young kids was too easy of a target, it was literally taking candy from a baby. Tonight, Trevor had his sights set on ruining the holiday of some poor teenager trying to grasp onto the remaining shred of their youth.

Just as Trevor started to grow impatient, wondering if his plan might’ve fallen through, his eyes caught a familiar black Obey Tailgater rolling slowly down the road, as if it were looking for something. As the Tailgater grew closer, and Trevor saw that to his (and only his) luck, the driver's side window was rolled down, he decided that now was his chance.

Launching himself from the brush, Trevor threw his hands up and let out a loud, guttural scream. In front of him stood a terrified child dressed in a poorly made sheet-ghost costume, and another in an expensive looking superhero costume, neither of which could’ve been older than fourteen. The one closest to Trevor jumped back and yelped, trying to keep a hold on his candy-filled pillowcase as the scary old man grabbed it from his hands.

As soon as Trevor had ahold on the big bag of candy, he shoved his hand in, and threw a few large pieces in his mouth, wrapper and all, before throwing another small handful in the child’s face, adding insult to injury. Before anybody else around them had time to fully react to his misdeeds, Trevor took a few running steps in the direction of Michaels car, which he had stopped to see what exactly his friend thought he was doing, and took a dive through the drivers window, only his front half successfully making it in. When Michael didn’t immediately put the car into motion, the other spoke up.

“STEP ON IT, FATASS!” Trevor screamed, from michaels lap, not even bothering to get his legs into the car first.

Before he could really think about it, Michael did as he was told. The tires screeched for a moment before the two took off, much faster than they probably should’ve on a dark, busy road.

For a few blocks, Michael was too stunned to speak, focusing only on leaving the neighborhood as fast as possible without any casualties as Trevor shimmied into the passenger seat, and piecing together the utter fuckery he was just roped into.

“Did you,” Michael hesitated, not sure whether he should laugh or scream, “Did you just text me to be your get away driver so that you could rob some fucking kids?”

A deranged wheeze escaped Trevor’s lips, “Get away driver?? I coulda outran those little goblins, I didn’t need a fucking driver, I called you so you could come have a little fun..” Trevor trailed off, muttering something about Michael being an ungrateful bastard.

“Fun?” Michael gawked at Trevor. “Fuckin’ a, T, l’m a father, snatchin’ some kids candy is not my idea of fun.” he finished sternly, looking back at the road and shaking his head.

Trevor stared at him for a moment, his eyes narrowing. Before Mike could notice, Trevors hand was back in the bag, and he launched a large handful of candy at the side of the others head. This surprised Michael enough that he jerked the car to the side, just barely hitting the curb as he did.

As he went to scold his friend about road safety, Michael was cut off by another high-pitched, maniacal laugh.

When the laughter didn’t die down quick enough, an admittedly terrible idea formed itself in Michaels head, and before he could think any better of it he was jerking the steering wheel again, this time on purpose. The car briefly swerved to one side, catching Trevor off guard, his head smacking against the window with a small thunk.

It was Michaels turn to laugh now, but as he did, he noticed Trevor had gone quiet. Too quiet, and when he finally snuck a glance at his now silently seething friend, he could see those glassy eyes glaring through him.

“That… hurt, Michael.” Trevor said slowly through gritted teeth.

“Oh bullshit that fuckin’ hurt-“

“Not my head, Mikey, no no nonono, that hurt,” Trevor hesitated for a moment, clenching and unclenching his fists in a poor attempt to soothe himself, “my fuckin’ feelings.

“y’know, to think I invited my supposed best friend out to have a good- no no, a fucking great time, and all he does is belittle and fuckin’ abuse me,”

Trevor continued his rant while Michael tried to squeeze in half-hearted, and mostly insincere apologies with little to no luck.

When Trevor finally wore himself out yelling, the silence didn’t last very long.

“Seriously, Trev, I’m sorry, I was just messin’ with ya,” Michael said gently, trying to smooth things over with the favored nickname from their golden days, but when Trevor still didn’t respond, Mikey decided on another route, “Hey, why don’t we go do somethin’? Like uh,” he trailed off for a second before a great idea popped into his head, “like a haunted house! I haven’t been to one of those since the kids were little!” he finished with an excited chuckle.

“Ya mean since they started hating you?” Trevor muttered an irritated response, not even bothering to entertain Michaels childish idea.

Michael opened his mouth to say something, but couldn’t. In truth, that comment had stung more than he’d like to let on, as he had a haunted house in mind; one he’d seen advertised on LifeInvader and had practically begged both of the kids to go with him. Obviously they had better things to do than entertain their washed up criminal of a father, as Jimmy had said, and refused. He shook his head, dismissing the memory and sighed, deciding it best to keep the peace.

“C’mon, it’s Halloween, we oughtta do something fun, or were you just planning on traumatizing some kids and calling it a night?” He finally said, leaning back smirking, keeping one hand on the wheel, the other reaching down to playfully smack Trevor’s thigh.

Glaring down at the large hand that was lingering on his leg, Trevor scoffed, “It builds character, can’t handle a little robbery? Ya won’t make it fucking anywhere in life.” He exclaimed, throwing his hands up in an erratic motion.

“Yeah, yeah,” Michael laughed again “you’ve got plenty of character, huh?

“Oh-ho, you know it sugar tits,”

Michael grimaced a little at the choice of nickname, but remained silent until pulling up in front of a run down, tin looking warehouse wrapped up in one of the many industrial sections of Los Santos

“What the shit is this?” Trevor gruffed,

“A haunted house!” Mikey said excitedly, “What, scared?” he challenged.

Trevor didn’t move his head, but his crazed gaze slowly trained on Michael, lingering uncomfortably before he jumped towards him in his seat, his hands landing on either side. “Scared?” he leaned in, lowering his voice, “Oh I’ll show you fucking scared, Michael.”

Michaels breath hitched and something in his stomach stirred. Unsure if it was nerves or arousal, he refused to give it much thought.

“Then show me,” he smirked, reaching for the car door handle. It was a dangerous game he was playing, sure, but Michael had never been too afraid of a little danger, and as of lately, it was something he’d even craved.

Stepping out of the car, he didn’t really bother waiting for Trevor, only listening for the sound of the door slamming, which came about as late as Michael expected.

Jogging to catch up, Trevor grimaced at the thoroughly decorated warehouse when a slightly too realistic skeleton jester animatronic peeking over the roof ledge caught his eye. Looking anywhere else, he pressed on as he clenched his fists. His gaze landed on the back of Michaels head and stayed there as they walked up the porch steps and paid their way in, with only a few crabby comments from Trevor about how ashamed Michael should feel paying that much just to walk through a “cardboard maze”.

Immediately upon entering, any light left from the street lamps outside was gone, replaced by extremely dim, occasionally flashing fluorescent lights overhead. The two made little conversation as they slowly made their way through, Trevor always a little ahead of Michael, hoping to get out as soon as possible. The jester out front had put Trevor’s irrational fear at the forefront of his mind, and while he’d never admit it, the idea of even one clown within his general vicinity made him wish he’d put up more of a fight when Michael made the suggestion. It also made him keep a hand on the pistol tucked into the side of his jeans; for a haunted house in such a big city, it sure did have some shitty security measures.

When the first haunt actor made an appearance, Trevor shut the idea down quickly, lunging at the masked man wielding a plastic chainsaw, and snapping his teeth at him like a rabid dog.

“yo, the fuck-“ The young man yelled, breaking character as he jumped back, using his prop to shield himself.

Michael didn’t take long to at least try to restrain Trevor, grabbing him by a firm bicep, he pulled him away from the nearly cowering worker, insisting that it was their jobs to jump out at them. Of course Trevor knew that, but he was already on edge, and he’d be damned if he was going to let something, especially some kid in a cheap costume, catch him off guard.

Pulling Trevor with him, Michael continued through the makeshift hallways. Most of the actors close ahead had heard or seen the previous altercation, and knew better than to make an appearance beyond standing there creepily, in fact some had even remained in their hiding places all together. This made for a peaceful couple of minutes, mostly Michael though, as the other was busy sending threatening glares towards the already terrified workers and patrons.

When they reached a point where the actors were once again blissfully unaware of the true horror trudging through their halls, and one particularly brave werewolf girl bared her faux fangs at the two, Mike, who had stayed much closer to Trevor than before, grabbed the back of his shirt and yanked him closer before he could make another scene, or worse. Unfortunately, the moment Trevor stumbled back towards his friend, a second hidden actor seized his opportunity to scare the life out of what he assumed were two completely normal men. It was a sturdy framed man in a brightly colored, fake blood stained clown suit, sporting streaky face paint barley visible in the intentionally poor, flashy lighting.

Now in Trevor’s mind, what happened next was nobody’s fault, it was simply the worst possible person at the worst possible moment; just bad circumstances. The kid was just making ends meet, and happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, and Trevor, well it obviously wasn’t his fault he had decades upon decades worth of mental and emotional issues he’d never work through. No no, if anyone was to blame, it was the sick fucks who run this joint, exposing their desperate workers to unsafe conditions, and clearly even unsafer people.

None of that mattered in the end though, not when Trevor was sending his skull into the much larger man’s, or when he reached for his gun when he didn’t go down fast enough for Trevor’s liking. Nothing mattered but the white hot fear coursing through Trevor’s veins and the red clouding his vision. He might as well have been a stranger in his own body the way it moved on its own, without even an initial thought, let alone a second one. Screams rang out in every direction, mixing with the piercing sound of the repeated gunshots that sat heavy in the air, still echoing off of the metal ceiling above.

Even throughout Michaels panic he was able to recognize the sound of heavy footsteps and gruff voices approaching. Of course security cares now. He thought for just a moment; there was bound to be cameras and plenty of witnesses, if either fled, they’d be wanted criminals, not a problem nor a rarity for Trevor, but Michael had been so well behaved lately. Of course he could just leave him here and hope security got to him before he got to Michael, he’d always had a knack for self preservation. Then a twinge of guilt set in, growing every painful millisecond that he didn’t move. Memories of every job gone south flooded his head as he forced his legs forwards, grabbing Trevor’s arm again.

“T- fuck, we gotta move,” he said just loud enough for Trevor to hear over the girl wailing above her fallen coworker.

Snapping out of his fear driven haze, Trevor took a few stumbling steps forward before properly gathering himself and taking off, only looking back to check that Mike was close behind him. When he noticed the three larger men gaining on him, he stopped in his tracks, reached back and grabbed Michaels wrist, hoping to speed him up, or at the very least ensure he’d be there if one of these infinitely more fit men were to get too close. The pair had no such luck though, Trevor had a bad habit of miscalculating his strength, and this was no exception. Michael took a tumble, immediately scrambling back up to his feet, making sure to curse at the other on his way up. Unfortunately his curses were drowned out by three more bullets being fired down the hallway, and two heavy thuds against the floor.

“M, buddy, we have got to get you some cardio in-“

Without responding, or even looking back at the carnage, Michael booked it down the dark path, hardly even waiting for Trevor anymore. They finally neared the exit, spotting a busy doorway at the end of the hall when Trevor fired the remainder of his ammo vaguely into the crowd. To neithers surprise, his method worked, and the group, which Michael wasn’t sure was actually after them, quickly dispersed in all directions, allowing the two to leave, making their way around the few limp bodies that hadn’t made it out of the crowd.

The street was nearly deserted by the time they reached the front of the building again, but the shouts that still echoed from inside the building and the wailing of sirens in the distance promised trouble if they stuck around any longer.

As they drove off, Michael struggled getting his heart rate back into the recommended range, meanwhile Trevor looked right as rain; slouched in his seat with his freshly bloodied boots against the dash, dumping an entire fun sized bag of P’s&Q’s into his mouth. Michael couldn’t help but laugh at the sight, not a good laugh, but one that came out angry, disgusted even.

“How many fuckin’ people did you just kill back there? Innocent people, and you’re sittin there with your feet up eating candy.” Michael waved an angry hand in Trevor’s direction as he chastised him, a habit he carried from years of yelling at two inconsiderate teenagers.

Trevor held his hands up defensively, as if he didn’t know what he’d done wrong, “Five, six maybe?” he thought for a moment before shaking his head dismissively, “Oh, don’t act all high and fucking mighty now that you’ve got an “honest living” pumping out two hours of garbage every so often” he mocked

“I don’t have to act high and mighty, I’m not the grown ass man who just massacred at least five people over what? A fear of party clowns?”

“HE WAS NOT,” Trevor cried, sitting up and slamming a palm down on the dash. “A PARTY CLOWN-“

Michael snorted, unintentionally cutting off Trevor’s tirade. He couldn’t help it, even through his anger and disbelief, something about the awfully familiar banter just felt right.

“What’s so fuckin’ funny, huh?”

“Oh nothing, not a thing about this is funny, T.” Michael replied as he pinched the bridge of his nose, still quietly chuckling. “Not the people you killed, definitely not all the kids you traumatized-“

“Christ, we’ve been through this, Mikey; besides, nothings illegal on Halloween if it’s objectively funny.”

“Not that you’d care if it was,” Michael lit a cigarette as he spoke “in fact, I think you prefer doing things you’re not fuckin’ supposed to.”

“Absolutely,” Trevor finally smiled, it wasn’t a happy one, but his usual crooked, cocky smile. “it’s one of the many perks of not being constrained by your dodgy west coast morals.” he finished, pointing an accusatory finger a little too close to the others face.

Michael laughed again, even he could admit that the phrase “dodgy west coast morals” wasn’t entirely untrue.

“Right right, at least your morals aren’t dodgy, just downright sick and twisted.”

“Exactly!” Trevor seemed to relax now, thinking Michael understood his point; Michael wasn’t going to bother correcting him.

The rest of the drive was silent, Michael resisting the urge to switch the radio to the news in case they were already covering earliers massacre, Trevor watching the world pass without a care. Before he could ask where they were headed now, Michael turned into his own driveway, thankful for the lack of Amanda’s red Sentinel.

“The fuck are we doing here?” Trevor asked, stepping out of the car, abandoning his now nearly empty pillowcase of candy.

“Eh, everyone’s out right now, not like we’ve got anywhere better to be.” In truth, Michael really just wanted the two of them to lay low for the time being, and he knew he could keep Trevor from terrorizing the general public if he tried hard enough.

“Not like you’ve got anywhere better to be,” Trevor muttered, but still followed the older man inside.

The two were immediately met with bickering upon entering, Tracey and Jim fighting over the television from the living room.

“Everyone’s out, huh?” Trevor mused, actually a little excited to see his niece and nephew. Before he could be stopped, he strode into the living room, arms open. “Hey, kids, miss me?” he asked, a bright smile on his face.

Tracey launched herself up from the couch and right into her favorite uncle's arms. “Oh. Emm. Gee!” she dramaticized “Trevor? It’s been like, forever!”

“Yeah, you can thank your shithead father for that, sweetie.” He replied with a brief side eye in Michael's direction.

Jimmy stood up now, but instead of going for a hug he opted for a weird teenage boy sort of handshake that Trevor didn’t really get, but tried his best on. “Yo! uncle T! How you been?” he certainly wasn’t as elated as Tracey was, and might’ve even been a little nervous, but he was friendly nonetheless.

“Good good, just been tearin’ up a haunted house with your fat old man. What about you kids? Staying outta trouble?”

“Haunted house? The one you asked us to go to?” Tracey asked her dad, finally detaching herself from Trevor’s side.

Michael reared his head back a little at the question. “Yes, actually, you little traitors. I thought you two had better things to do than sit around the house and argue all night.” he stated bitterly.

“I did, but…” Tracey trailed off defensively.

Before anybody could press her for details, Trevor spoke up, “Hey, who fuckin’ cares? It was terrible anyways.” He glared again at Michael

“It was? Why, what happened?” She questioned, happy to have dropped the previous subject.

Michael replied before Trevor could, “Nothing, or if you find out, nothing that was my fault.”

“Daddy,” Tracey began worriedly “Mom is gonna be like, so mad if she sees you on the news again, you know-“

“I said it wasn’t-“ Michael cut her off to defend himself, but stopped with a sigh when he realized it was no use, “Speaking of, where is she?”

Tracey took a nervous breath to answer him, but paused when she heard her younger brother snort quietly behind her.

“Check her yogi's house.” Jimmy mumbled, a little too amused.

Maybe some part of him was hoping his father hadn’t heard him, because Jimmy actually looked a little afraid when Michael pointed an angry finger at him to begin his rant, and more than a little afraid when he watched the anger drain from his face as Michael realized that his son was likely right, and even worse, that he really didn’t care anymore.

Michael put his hands up, and took a breath to steady himself. “Y’know what? At least it’s not my ass she’s five feet up tonight.” With that, he made his way to the kitchen to make himself a drink.

All it took was the five minutes Michael disappeared to the kitchen for the other three to make themselves comfortable on the couch with the lights dimmed, an old, admittedly terrible scary movie playing on the TV. He didn’t say anything, just stood there in the doorway, almost admiring the scene, two neat glasses of whiskey in his hands. It had been some time since his family, even excluding Amanda, had been so peaceful. He stayed there for a few minutes until Trevor noticed, and waved him over. He sat in the space between Jimmy and Trevor, passing his friend a glass and almost automatically leaning into the arm Trevor had slung over the back of the couch.

The four remained planted on the couch for the rest of the evening; each old horror film looking worse, but also somehow better than the last. Michael basked in this rare, undisturbed peace. He wasn’t sure how long it’d last, so he let each of his worries wash away one by one and he didn’t let them return, not when his whiskey emptied and he was too comfortable to get up and make another, nor when he noticed Amanda hadn’t come home for the night as he was drifting off with his head rested on Trevor’s chest, and especially not when he felt the morning sunlight creep through his eyelids when he awoke.

[creatingblackcharacters]

“The bulging eyes and the twisted mouth” - Violence, Violent Imagery & Black Horror

TRIGGER WARNING: mentions of death, violence, blood, hate crimes, antiblackness, police violence, rape

Note! I am going to be speaking from a Black American point of view, as my identity informs my experience. That said, antiblackness itself is international. The idea of my Blackness as a threat, as a source of fear and violence to repress and to destroy, is something every Black person in the world that has ever dealt with white supremacy has experienced.

There are two things, I think, that are important to note as we start this conversation.

One: there is a long history of violence towards Black bodies that is due to our dehumanization. People do not care for the killing of a mouse in the way they care about a human. But if you think the people you are dealing with are not people, but animals- more particularly, pests, something distasteful- then you will be able to rationalize treating them as such.

Two: even though we live in a time period where that overt belief of Blackness as inhuman is less likely, we must recognize that there are centuries of belief behind this concept; centuries of arguments and actions that cement in our minds that a certain amount of violence towards Blackness is normal. That subconscious belief you may hold is steeped in centuries of effort to convince you of it without even questioning it. And because of this very real re-enforcement of desensitization, naturally another place this will manifest itself is in how we tell and comprehend stories.

There are also three points I'm about to make first- not the only three that can ever be made, but the ones that stand out the most to me when we talk about violence with Black characters:

One: Your Black readers may experience that scene you wrote differently than you meant anyone to, just because our history may change our perspective on what’s happening.

Two: The idea that Black characters and people deserve the pain they are experiencing.

Three: The disbelief or dismissal of the pain of Black characters and people.

You Better Start Believing In Ghost Stories- You’re In One

I don’t need to tell Black viewers scary fairytales of sadists, body snatchers and noncoincidental disappearances, cannibals, monsters appearing in the night, and dystopian, unjust systems that bury people alive- real life suffices! We recognize the symbolism because we’ve seen real demons.

Some real examples of familiar, terrifying stories that feel like drama, but are real experiences:

12 Years a Slave: “This is no fiction, no exaggeration. If I have failed in anything, it has been in presenting to the reader too prominently the bright side of the picture. I doubt not hundreds have been as unfortunate as myself; that hundreds of free citizens have been kidnapped and sold into slavery, and are at this moment wearing out their lives on plantations in Texas and Louisiana.” – Solomon Northup

When They See Us: I can’t get myself to watch When They See Us, because I learned about the actual trial of the Central Park Five- now the Exonerated Five- in my undergrad program. Five teen Black and brown boys, subjected to racist and cruel policing and vilification in the media- from Donald Trump calling for their deaths in the newspaper, to being imprisoned under what the Clintons deemed a generation of “superpredators” during a “tough on crime” administration. And as audacious as it is to say, as Solomon Northup explained, they were fortunate. The average Black person funneled into the prison system doesn’t get the opportunity to make it back out redeemed or exonerated, because the system is designed to capture and keep them there regardless of their innocence or guilt. Their lives are irreparably changed; they are forever trapped.

Jasper, Texas: Learning about the vicious, gruesome murder of James Byrd Jr, was horrific- and that was just the movie. No matter how “community comes together” everyone tells that story, the reality is that there are people who will beat you, drag you chained down a gravel road for three miles as your body shreds away until you are decapitated, and leave your mangled body in front of a Black church to send a message… Because you’re Black and they hate you. To date I am scared when I’m walking and I see trucks passing me, and don’t let them have the American or the Confederate flag on them. Even Ahmaud Arbery, all he was doing was jogging in his hometown, and white men from out of town decided he should be murdered for that.

Do you want to know what all of these men and boys, from 1841 to 2020, had in common? What they did to warrant what happened to them? Being outside while Black. Some might call it “wrong place wrong time”, but the reality is that there is no “right place”. Sonya Massey, Breonna Taylor- murdered inside their home. Where else can you be, if the danger has every right to barge inside? There is no “safe”.

It is already Frightening to live while Black- not because being Black is inherently frightening, but because our society has made it horrific to do so. But that leads into my next point:

“They Shouldn’t Have Resisted”

Think of all the videos of assaulted and murdered Black people from police violence. If you can stomach going into the comments- which I don’t, anymore- you’ll see this classic comment of hate in the thousands, twisting your stomach into knots:

“if they obeyed the officer, if they didn’t resist, this wouldn’t have happened”

Another way our punitive society normalizes itself is via the idea of respectability politics; the idea that “if you are Good, if you do what you are Supposed to do, you will not be hurt- I will not have to hurt you”. Therefore, if my people are always suffering violence, it must be because we are Bad. And in a society that is already less gracious to Black people, that is more likely to think we are less human, that we are innately bad and must earn the right to be exceptional… the use of excessive violence towards me must be the natural outcome. “If your people weren’t more likely to be criminals, there wouldn’t be the need to be suspicious of you”- that is the way our society has taught us to frame these interactions, placing the blame for our own victimization on us.

Sidebar: I would highly suggest reading The New Jim Crow, written in 2010 by Michelle Alexander, to see how this mentality helps tie into large scale criminalization and mass incarceration, and how the cycle is purposely perpetuated.

You have to constantly be aware of how you look, walk and talk- and even then, that won’t be enough to save you if the time comes. The turning point for me, personally, was the murder of Sandra Bland. If she could be educated, beautiful, a beacon of her community, be everything a “Good” Black person is supposed to be… and still be murdered via police violence, they can kill any of us. And that’s a very terrifying thought- that anything at any point can be the reason for your death, and it will be validated because someone thinks you shouldn’t have “been that way”. And that way has far less to do with what you did, than it does who you are. Being “that way” is Black.

My point is, if this belief is so normalized in real life about violence on Black bodies- that somehow, we must have done something to deserve this- what makes you think that this belief does not affect how you comprehend Black people suffering in stories?

Hippocratic Oath

Human experimentation? Vivisection? Organ stealing? Begging for medicine? Dramatically bleeding out? Not trusting just anyone to see that you are hurt, because they might take advantage? All very real fears. The idea that pain is normal for Black people is especially rampant in the healthcare field, where ideas like our melanin making our skin thick enough to feel less pain (no), an overblown fear of ‘drug misuse’, and believing we are overexaggerating our pain makes many Black people being unwilling to trust the healthcare system. And it comes down to this thought:

If you think that I feel less pain, you will allow me to suffer long before you believe that I am in pain.

I was psychologically spiraling I was in so much pain after my wisdom teeth removal, and my surgeon was more concerned about “addiction to the medication”. Only because Hot Chocolate’s mom is a nurse, did I get an effective medicine schedule. My mother ended up with jaw rot because her surgeon outright claimed that she didn’t believe that she was in more than the ‘healing’ pain after her wisdom teeth were removed. She also has a gigantic, macabre (and awesome fr) scar on her stomach from a c-section she received after four days of labor attempting to have me… all because she was too poor and too Black to afford better doctors who wouldn’t have dismissed her struggles to push.

As a major example of dismissed Black pain: let’s discuss the mortality rate of Black women during childbirth, as well as the likelihood of our children to die. When we say “they will let you bleed to death”, we mean it.

“Black women have the highest maternal mortality rate in the United States — 69.9 per 100,000 live births for 2021, almost three times the rate for white women, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. Black babies are more likely to die, and also far more likely to be born prematurely, setting the stage for health issues that could follow them through their lives.”

Even gynecology roots in dismissal (and taking brutal advantage of) Black women's pain:

“The history of this particular medical branch … it begins on a slave farm in Alabama,” Owens said. “The advancement of obstetrics and gynecology had such an intimate relationship with slavery, and was literally built on the wounds of Black women.” Reproductive surgeries that were experimental at the time, like cesarean sections, were commonly performed on enslaved Black women. Physicians like the once-heralded J. Marion Sims, an Alabama doctor many call the “father of gynecology,” performed torturous surgical experiments on enslaved Black women in the 1840s without anesthesia. And well after the abolition of slavery, hospitals performed unnecessary hysterectomies on Black women, and eugenics programs sterilized them.”

If you think Black characters are not in pain, or that they’re overexaggerating, you’re more likely to be okay with them suffering more in comparison to those whose pain you take more seriously- to those you believe.

What’s My Point?

My point is that whatever terrifying scene you think you’re writing, whatever violent whump scenario you think you’re about to put your Black characters through, there’s a chance it has probably happened and was treated as nonimportant (damn shame, right?) And when those terrifying scenes are both written and read, the way their suffering will be felt depends on how much you as a reader care, how much you believe they are suffering.

There’s a joke amongst readers of color that many dystopian tales are tales of “what happened if white people experienced things that the rest of us have already been put through?” Think concepts like alien invasion and mass eradication of the existing population- you may think of that as an action flick, meanwhile peoples globally have suffered colonization for centuries. The Handmaid’s Tale- forced birthing and raising of “someone else’s” children, always subject to sexual harassment by the Master while subject to hate from the Mistress- that’s just being a Mammy.

There’s nothing wrong with having Black characters be violent or deal with violence, especially in a story where every character is going through shit. That is not the problem! What I am trying to tell you, though, is to be aware that certain violent imagery is going to evoke familiarity in Black viewers. And if I as a Black viewer see my very real traumas treated as entertainment fodder- or worse, dismissed- by the narrative and other viewers, I will probably not want to consume that piece of media anymore. I will also question the intentions and the beliefs of the people who treat said traumas so callously. Now, if that’s not something you care about, that’s on you! But for people who do care, it is something we need to make sure we are catching before we do it.

“So I just can’t write anything?!”

Stop that. There are plenty of examples of stories containing horror and violence with Black characters. There’s an entire genre of us telling our own stories, using the same violence as symbolism. I’m not telling you “no” (least not always). I’m telling you to take some consideration when you write the things that you do. There’s nothing wrong about writing your Black characters being violent or experiencing violence. But there is a difference between making it narratively relevant, and thoughtlessly using them as a “spook”, a stereotypical scary Black person, or a punching bag, especially in a way that may invoke certain trauma.

The Black Guy Dies First

The joke is that we never survive these horror movies because we either wouldn’t be there to begin with, or because we would make better decisions and the narrative can’t have that. But the reality is just that a lot of writers find Black characters- Black people- expendable in comparison to their white counterparts, and it shows. More of a “here, damn” sort of character, not worth investment and easy to shrug off. The book itself I haven’t read, just because it’s pretty new, but I’m looking forward to doing so. But from the summaries, it goes into horror media history and how Black characters have fared in these stories, as well as how that connects to the society those characters were written in. I.e., a thorough version of this lesson.

Instead, I wrote an entire list of questions you could possibly ask yourself involving violence or villainy involving a Black character. Feel free to print it and put it on your wall where you write if you have to! I cannot stress enough that asking yourself questions like these are good both for your creation and just… being less antiblack in general when you consume media.

Black Horror/Black Thriller

We, too, have turned our violent experiences into stories. I continue to highly suggest watching our films and reading our stories to see how we convey our fear, our terror, our violence and our pain. There are plenty of stories that work- Get Out, The Angry Black Girl and her Monster, Candyman, Lovecraft Country (the show) and Nanny are some examples. There’s even a blog by the co-writer of The Black Guy Dies First who runs BlackHorrorMovies where he reviews horror movies from throughout the decades.

Desiree Evans has a great essay, We Need Black Horror More Than Ever, that gets into why this genre is so creative and effective, that I think says what I have to say better than I could.

“Even before Peele, Black horror had a rich literary lineage going back to the folklore of Africa and its Diaspora. Stories of haints, witches, curses, and magic of all kinds can be found in the folktales collected by author and anthropologist Zora Neale Hurston and in the folktales retold by acclaimed children’s book author Virginia Hamilton. One of my earliest childhood literary memories is being entranced by Hamilton’s The House of Dies Drear and Patricia McKissack’s children’s book classic The Dark-Thirty: Southern Tales of the Supernatural, both examples of the ways Black authors have tapped into Black history along with our rich ghostlore.” “Black horror can be clever and subversive, allowing Black writers to move against racist tropes, to reconfigure who stands at the center of a story, and to shift the focus from the dominant narrative to that which is hidden, submerged. To ask: what happens when the group that was Othered, gets to tell their side of the story?”

For on the nose simplicity, I’m going to use hood classic Tales From The Hood (1994) as an example of how violence can be integrated into Black horror tales. Tales From The Hood is like… The Twilight Zone by Black people. Messages discussing issues in our community, done through a mystical twist. Free on Tubi! If you want to stop here before some spoilers, it’s an hour and a half. A great time!

In the first story, a Black political activist is murdered by the cops. The scene is reflective of the real-world efforts to discredit and even murder activists speaking out against police violence, as well as the types of things done to criminalize Black citizens for capture. The song Strange Fruit plays in the background, to drive the point home that this is a lynching.

The second story deals with a Black little boy experiencing abuse in the home, drawing a green monster to show his teacher why he’s covered in wounds and is lashing out at school.

The fourth story is about a gangbanger who undergoes “behavioral modification” to be released from prison early. Think of the classic scene from A Clockwork Orange. He must watch as imagery of the Klan and of happy whites lynching Black bodies (real-life pictures and video, mind you!) play into his mind alongside gang violence.

Isn’t Violence Stereotypical or antiblack?

That last story from Tales From The Hood leads into a good point. It can be! But it does not have to be! Violence is a human experience. By suggesting we don’t experience it or commit it, you would be denying everything I’ve just spoken about. We don’t have to be racist to write our Black characters in violent situations. We also don’t have to comprehend those situations through a racist lens.

Even experiences that seem “stereotypical” do not have to be comprehended that way. I get a LOT of questions about if something is stereotypical, and my response is always that it depends on the writing!!! You could give me a harmless prompt and it becomes the most racist story ever once you leave my inbox. But you could give me a “stereotypical” prompt and it be genuine writing.

Let’s take the movie Juice for example. Juice in my honest to God opinion becomes a thriller about halfway in. On its surface, Juice looks like bad Black boys shooting and cursing and doing things they aren’t supposed to be doing! Incredibly stereotypical- violent young thugs. You might think, “you shouldn’t write something like this- you’re telling everyone this is what your community is like”. First- there’s that respectability politics again! Just because something is not a “respectable” story does not mean it doesn’t need to be told!

But if we’re actually paying attention, what we’re looking at is four young boys dealing with their environment in different ways. All four of them originally stick together to feel power amongst their brotherhood as they all act tough and discover their own identities. They are not perfect, but they are still kids. In this environment, to be tough, to be strong, you do the things that they are doing. You run from cops, you steal from stores, you mess with all the girls and talk shit and wave weapons. That’s what makes you “big”. That’s what gives you the “juice”- and the “juice” can make you untouchable.

I want to focus particularly on Bishop, yes, played by Tupac. Bishop, the antagonist of Juice, is particularly powerless, angry, and scared of the world around him. He puts on a big front of bravado, yelling, cursing, and talking big because he’s tired of being afraid, and he doesn’t know how to deal with it otherwise. So when he gets access to a gun- to power- he quickly spirals out of control. His response to his fear is to wave around a tool that makes him feel stronger, that stops the things that scare him from scaring him.

Now, that is not a unique tale! That is a tale that any race could write about, particularly young white men with gun violence! If you ever cared for Fairuza Balk’s character in The Craft, it is a similar fall from grace. But because it is on a young, Black man in the hood, audiences are less likely to empathize with Bishop. And granted, Bishop is unhinged! But many a white character has been, and is not shoved into a stereotype that white people cannot escape from!

Now would I be comfortable if a nonblack person attempted to write a narrative like Juice? Yes, because I’d worry about the tendency to lose the messaging and just fall into stereotype outright. But it can be done! The story can be told!

“But if Black violence bad, why rap?”

The short answer:

“In order for me to write poetry that isn’t political, I must listen to the birds, and in order to hear the birds, the warplanes must be silent.”

Marwhan Makhoul, Palestinian Poet

First, rap is not “only violence and misogyny”. Step your understanding of the genre up; there are plenty of options outside of the mainstream that don’t discuss those things. Second, every genre of music has mainstream popular songs about vice and sin. The idea that Black rappers have to be held to a higher standard is yet another example of how we are seen as inherently bad and must prove ourselves good. We could speak about nothing but drugs and alcohol and 1) there would still be white artists who do the very same and 2) we would still deserve to be treated like humans.

That said, many- not all- rappers rap about violence for the same reason Billy Joel wrote We Didn’t Start the Fire, the same reason Homer first spoke The Iliad- because they have something to say about it! They stand in a long tradition of people using poetry and rhythm to tell stories. Rap is an art of storytelling!

Rap is often used as an expression of frustration and righteous anger against a system built to keep us trapped within it. I’m not allowed to be angry? Why wouldn’t I be angry? Anger is a protective emotion, often when one feels helpless. Young Black people also began to reclaim and glorify the violence they lived in within their music, to take pride in their survival and in their success in a world that otherwise wanted them to fail. If I think the world fights against me no matter what I do, I’d rather live in pride than in shame with a bent head. Is it right? Maybe, maybe not. But if you don’t want them to rap about violence, why not alleviate the things leading to the violence in their environment?

Whether you choose to listen to their words, because the delivery scares you- and trust, angry Black men scared the music industry and society- doesn’t make the story any less valid!

Conclusion

I am going to drop a classic by Slick Rick called Children’s Story. I think listening to it- and I mean genuinely listening- summarizes what I’ve said here about how Black creators can tell stories, even violent ones, and how even the delivery through Blackness can change how you perceive them. Please take the time to listen before continuing.

I’ve been alive for 28 years and have known this song my whole life, and it just hit me tonight: not once is the kid in this story identified as Black! My perception of this story was completely altered by my own experiences, who told the story, and how it was told.

That’s what I’m trying to tell you. You can tell stories of violence that involve Black characters. I love and adore a good hurt/comfort myself! But you need to be cognizant of your audience and how they’ll perceive the story you’re telling, and that includes the types of imagery you include. It’s not effective catharsis via hurt/comfort for the audience if your Black readers are being completely left out of the comfort. “I wrote this for myself” that’s cool, but… if you wrote racism for yourself, and you’re willing to admit that to yourself, that’s on you. I’d like to think that’s not your intention! You can write these stories of woe and pain without mistreating your Black characters- but that requires knowing and acknowledging when and how you’re doing that!

@afropiscesism makes a solid point in this post: our horror stories are not just fairytales full of amorphous boogiemen meant to teach lessons. Racial violence is very real, very alive, and we cannot act like the things we write can be dismissed outright as “oh well it’s not real”. Sure, those characters aren’t real. But the way you feel about Black bodies and violence is, and often it can slip into your writing as a pattern without you even realizing it. Be willing to get uncomfortable and check yourself on this as you write, as well as noticing it in other works!

If you’re constantly thinking “I would never do this”, you’ll never stop yourself when you inevitably do! If you know what violent imagery can be evoked, you can utilize it or avoid it altogether- but only if you’re willing to get honest about it. You might not intend to do any of this, but it doesn’t matter if you don’t change the pattern, because as always, it’s the thought that counts, but the action that delivers!

[the-raindeer-king]

Simon would love a little freak (affectionate) of a partner. Like you collect weird things, like taxidermy or bones? Say less, babes. He's getting you an animal skull for your birthday.

Is your thing clowns? Man is scouring the internet for some obscure clown clock because you saw it on Ebay once and complained about the price.

You likes bugs? Great, he's got a friend named Roach. Y'all be freaks (affectionate) together. But also he's building you a butterfly garden, or buying you a pet spider, or whatever.

It doesn't even have to be weird. You could just really like the ocean, or horses, or whatever. And I just realized what I'm getting at is that Simon would love a neurodivergent partner...

And he would!! He'd listen to you ramble and rant, and he'd be making a mental list of things to look for when he buys you presents. You could be hyperfixated on literally anything, and Simon would find a way to get you a present related to that interest. This man would move heaven and earth, if it meant making you happy.

[shepscapades]

Posted to Twitter for the first time in 5 years /silly DSFGNFGB So here’s my atttempt at a more finished piece, inspired by Doc’s newest episode :D

Actually recorded a short timelapse for this one too, so that’s below the cut :D

[sleepypatho]

More Coraline AU 🧵🚪

[marc--chilton]

with the way rsl talks about the relationship between house and wilson, and the way he's talked about hugh laurie himself, i find myself wondering what excuses he would have made up had house and wilson ever made out on screen

[foldingfittedsheets]

The mattress store I work at gets transfers once a week. Stock comes in from the warehouse, a few beds on hand for pickup, frames, sheets, protectors. They also pick up stuff from us. Floor model beds that have been sold off mostly.

Today the transfer was picking up a boxspring that’s been languishing in the back room for over a year with a huge tag that says DO NOT SELL. I was elated when I found out what’s what they were taking.

Then the guys pulled it out and froze. Given the small space in the back room I was mostly trapped behind it waiting for them to pull it free.

They communicated rapidly in a language I didn’t speak then finally there was a tiny, “There’s a bug on it.”

“Oh. Gross. Want a paper towel?”

“No, it’s inside the bag.”

I paused in confusion and wiggled out from behind the box to regard where he pointed. A very desiccated dead beetle was clinging to the boxspring. I looked at the drivers. I looked back at the beetle.

“We can’t take it,” he said.

I frowned in confusion before the shoe finally dropped that it was a bed bug safety protocol. No bugs are allowed on any pickups because if we had bugs get into the warehouse it could be catastrophic.

“Oh. Can you send a picture?”

He took a picture and called the warehouse. The three of us regarded the dried up beetle husk.

There were several minutes of back and forth. Finally he turned back to me and said, “Can you get it out?”

“The beetle?” I asked, my voice hitting a shrill hilarity only perceivable by dogs. It was so clearly and evidently not a bedbug that the absurdity of this request was breaking me.

He nodded.

I went to get scissors. I poked the bug corpse down the plastic repeatedly until it reached the ground. I cut into the plastic and tried to flick it out. It went deeper.

Cursing I got on my knees, maneuvering the scissors to get the mummified insect free. It slid away from my hole. I hissed and cut a second hole, reaching hopefully in with the dull side of the scissors. It slid deeper once again.

I huffed and looked up at the guys in defeat, “It’s too far back.”

One of them took the scissors and gestured me away. The other hefted the box to try to slip and slide the bug body to one of the holes while the first guy dropped to his back on the floor like a boxspring mechanic, a frown of concentration on his face.

He and the guy holding it up maneuvered the poor boxspring between them back and forth trying to find an optimal beetle retrieval angle. Finally he managed to free the worse for wear beetle body.

It dropped anticlimactically to the ground at our feet, tiny and unassuming, a faded grey speck on the linoleum that had put all of us to so much trouble.

We cheered anyway.

The guys took the box and the beetle received last rites in the form of a paper towel.