#but it just occured to me and i thought it was funny

[onelonelystory]

prev tags: #it is kinda funny to me when people imagine birds to be upset about eating other species of bird #bc like birds eat other birds all the time #also mammals eat other mammals all the time

I’m gonna be real with you it is only just now that it has occurred to me that the point of the joke is that they are appalled by eating their fellow bird I thought they were hungry and getting distracted about it and had a sensible chuckle thinking about anthropomorphized bird behavior

imagine being a bird watching hot ones. you'd be like "wtf is 'hot sauce,' peppers don't do that" bc you don't have the neural receptors that cause a burning sensation if your tissues that come in contact with capsaicin; you can stick your whole head in a ghost pepper no problem, so you'd think, wow these bald apes are full of shit they are faking a whole big emotional and physical response to normal food for entertainment. weird. and then you'd be like wait, what are they eating? what are they eating?

[theredofoctober]

MANNA- CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: GATEAU

Dark!Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Dark!Will Graham AU fic

TW for eating disorders, noncon/rape, abuse, past child abuse, Daddy kink, cannibalism mentions, death mentions (including of a young people), Stockholm Syndrome

Read after the cut

---

As the night goes on, made odd by the truths held above your head, Hannibal sends you into the kitchen for the wine Will has forgotten there as though you are his little maid to be so imperiously commanded. Grumbling under your breath you slope into that other room, thinking to spit down the neck of the bottle to lend it the flavour of your displeasure.

Your gaze falls first upon a vast chocolate gateau resting on the sideboard, its rich aroma stirring awake your appetite, the pangs of which you now rarely know.

At this you feel an acute disgust at your body’s failing. No doubt some human matter has found its way into this creation, likely by blood to bring salt to its flavour, but even if by a rare chance it hasn’t you cannot stand that you desire it after all the years you’ve abstained from dessert.

Still, even as you scorn yourself you reach with one finger across to the cake and scoop from it a curl of icing, shuddering as it glazes the roof of your tongue with its silken sin.

Guilt rides over you at once: the totting up of numbers, the phantasmic sense of weight already building on your bones. In a panic you smooth over the gap in the cake left from your burrowing finger with a nearby clod of icing, hoping it won’t be noticed when Hannibal comes to cut a slice for supper.

The kitchen door opens behind you, making you jump and wipe your guilty hands together as Will appears in the frame.

“You were taking a while,” he says. “Thought I’d check on you.”

“What do you care?” you reply with a haughty toss of your head. “You’re barely here anymore. Don’t pretend to give a damn now you’re back.”

Will shuts the door behind him and leans against it, his arms folded.

“I thought you wanted me to put my full efforts into this case.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean you should just abandon me.”

With an unpleasant laugh Will says, “I’m sure you and Hannibal get along just fine on your own.”

You think cynically of your elder captor assaulting you against his front door, biting at your flesh. A lean coyote in a gentleman’s clothes.

“You don’t like the idea of him fucking me when you’re not there, do you?” you ask, and Will shrugs, refusing you an honest reaction.

“I’m just aware of what I’m missing, that’s all.”

It occurs to you to question how often he thinks of rutting you in those elongated hours apart, or if it is only Hannibal that inhabits his mind in ire and yearning alike. Will may not have forgiven him the harm he’s done, but he certainly cares for him still.

Perhaps it is the homosexual angle of the romance that prevents him from viewing it as such; if only women have otherwise enchanted him what sense can he make of this new lust?

“Well,” you say, “if you want we can swap places. You stay home with Hannibal and I’ll play detective with the FBI.”

“Funny,” says Will. “I like our arrangement the way it is.”

You look at him doubtfully.

“So you’ve really never considered it? You and him together, the way I am with him?”

“I consider you and me together,” says Will, and he steps towards you, driving you against the kitchen island until its edge impresses a horizontal groove into your back. “How I’m starting to forget what you taste like.”

Your breath jars in your throat, and you’re ashamed by the airless, claustrophobic sensation of desire that his words elicit.

“What would Uncle Jack think hearing you talk like that?” you ask.

Will smirks.

“Not everything I do is for Jack’s approval.”

He loops an arm around your waist, his palm grazing your skin through the smoke of your dress.

“Maybe you should be thinking about him,” you say, wriggling against the hammerhead of Will’s forceful want. “I don’t think he’d put you and dear, dear Daddy onto the Lover case if he knew that you were raping me.”

“Are we?” asks Will, and there is laughter of such an easy cruelty in his eyes that you wonder how you ever thought him good.

“Yes,” you say. “You are raping me, even though you love me. Maybe even because you do.”

Your voice is frail with emotion, no longer teasing. Will touches your cheek, and even that light touch is something evil, knowing of your weakness for him.

“I never thought I’d hear you say that,” he says. “Not about me.”

You shake him with both hands, unhinged with a sudden desperation.

“It’s messed up, but I’m right, aren’t? You love me. Say it. Just say it. I need to hear it.”

With an abrupt motion Will hoists you up onto the kitchen counter, your unmoored limbs flailing around him.

“How about I show you?” he says, and reaching up under the gauzy skirt he pulls your underwear down to your ankles.

How often he disappoints you, refusing to free you, refusing you the words you beg of him.

Will kisses you from your hardened mouth down your clothed body to your unclothed cunt, and his lips are like a roaming spark beneath which you flinch in revulsion and response.

Your hands weave through the thick of his hair, and you kick at his shoulders briefly before the motion of his tongue makes you still.

The sight of Will glancing up at you between your thighs, the stirring of his mouth against the bead on which he strings you out—

You moan, yet through you, as always, is the disgust of having your flesh expressed of its need like juice from a persimmon, that he to whom you’ve grown close engages in this incest, and has you indulge in it, as well.

No longer can you envision an existence with him where that element were not part of it, nor one absent of his envy.

Even as Will devours you it is Hannibal whose taste he seeks, hunting the remnant he’d left in you that morning against the shower wall, hoping there is some trace not rinsed down the drain.

Against Will’s claims you know there is some sleeping shred of him that thinks of the hand, the mouth, the carefully trained form under the designer suits, and resents that you—his subordinate, and unwilling at that—have experienced all in place of him.

You muse upon how it will be if ever Will gives in to the cravings of man, envision him shunting you off into some corner to observe as they make violent love like the dispute of brother gods.

This, in conjunction with the roll of Will’s fingers and tongue-tip upon you, conducts a new music of pleasure, and afterwards an anger that he has transformed you so utterly as to be this easily aroused.

Scuttling your hand across the kitchen island you feel for the wine bottle, toying with the notion of striking Will over the head with it, and wonder if you’ve gone as bad as him to feel joy at the thought of his red brains and the red wine of his warm blood across you.

You’d never do it, yet the thought comes back and back unbidden. Hannibal has beckoned it in with his talk of killing, the resurrection of the poorly buried dead.

It’s as your fingers wrap around the glass that Will says darkly, “Don’t you dare.”

His face is turned against your thigh, its expression stern, though not entirely serious.

“I wasn’t doing anything” you protest.

“You were thinking it,” says Will. “That’s enough.”

Then his jaws are on you again, and pleasure crushes you flat as though between the earth and a stone.

He loves you, you think, in the midst of it. The only man outside your family that ever has, and he has treated you with greater cruelty even than Leland Frost. Yet you cannot resist affection of any kind, and so as Hannibal rightly guessed it is no longer entirely unrequited.

Self-loathing takes over in your orgasm’s decline, and you push Will away with the soles of your feet, not wanting to sully your hands with him.

“I’m bored now,” you snap. “Take your wine in yourself.”

You thump down onto the kitchen floor, swerving Will as he reaches for you with a testy jerk of your shoulder.

“Little One,” he says, and then he corrects himself with your real name, so rarely heard from him now that you are touched that he thinks of its use.

Still you leave the room, finding yourself on the bitter verge of tears.

*

In sleep you have one of those particular dreams that read more of latent prophecy, a canon yet to give itself birth. In a scrub of forest you crouch over the nude body of a woman, pulling from the open mouth of her gut glittering organs upon which you feast with a scavenger’s appetite.

Will and Hannibal oversee this feast in approving silence, their figures a second darkness in the night.

Why they do not share in that meal you do not know; perhaps they have eaten already of their own kills, observing with full bellies as you follow suit.

It does not strike you in this dream to loathe the thing you do, for to eat is to survive, and so to meet the approval of your masters. With eagerness you crawl up the cool length of the cadaver, ripping up carpets of meat as you go.

Only when you reach the face, upturned to the dish of the moon, that you recoil with a spasm of horror and recognition of it. You know this woman, yet cannot in sleep recall her name, nor conjure the place from which you remember her.

“Did I kill her?” you ask, for this, too, you do not know.

“No,” says Will. “Not with your own hands.”

“Your proximity to her was enough,” says Hannibal. “All those who have been even in passive orbit of you may fall foul of death. We have told you this, Little One.”

You stare into the dead woman’s sunken eyes which appear in their stillness like replicas of glass.

“But if I didn’t kill her, and you didn’t either, then why am I eating her?” you ask.

“I fear you will go mad in losing those you love,” says Hannibal. “So you must consume and accept the dead as part of you, as I have. That way both mind and memory will last, if not intact then transformed as you are by the sating of your hunger.”

“It won’t work,” you say. “I don’t believe that. That’s your religion, not mine.”

“You’ll learn to embrace your madness, then. After all, each of us three would be consigned to an asylum for our habits by those that don’t understand us. But I would always understand you, Little One, no matter what condition your broken mind was reduced to, in the end.”

Then your captor’s hand presses down on the base of your skull until you're forced to lap at the dead woman’s blood.

You awake half hanging off the side of your bed, your body having mimicked the acts of your dreaming self as it has not done since you were young. In those years you’d often jarred yourself awake by attempting to speak aloud or to gesticulate to some ephemeral figure.

That you’ve resumed this abandoned habit disturbs you far more than the content of your dream, and in a panicked rush you start out of your bedroom into the hallway, turning not into Will’s chamber—which tonight is occupied by his sleeping form—but into Hannibal’s.

The door swings open under your frantic touch, and a startled figure sits upright in the shadows, as disbelieving of you having come to him as you are yourself.

“What’s happened?” asks Hannibal. “Are you feeling alright?

“I had another dream,” you say. “I’m scared.”

You find yourself sitting on the end of Hannibal’s bed, the first time you have done so willingly. His face is an amazed blank, unable to translate the meaning of this new and impulsive action.

“Your nightmares are likely a side effect of reducing your medication,” he says, at last. “I should have warned you. I apologise; it’s my mistake.”

With a hoarse laugh you say, “What do you have to be sorry about? Everything that ever goes wrong... you know exactly what to do. You take care of me even if I don’t want you to. You’re always so sure of yourself.”

Hannibal switches on the bedside lamp, his face solemn in the belt of its light.

“That is untrue. I have many flaws and failures; you’ve seen for yourself that I’m not always as in control as I’d like to be.”

The attack with the knife, he means, or his tampering with Will’s mind, both grave mistakes, so few of which have occurred throughout your stay that only they, of all, occur to you. That Hannibal is a killer, a defiler of flesh living and dead does not present itself despite its obvious nature, for even in this he is unerring, cunning and clean.

“I’m going to let you down,” you say. “You think you can fix me, and I know how hard you’re trying, but I’m not okay. It’s going to get worse.”

Hannibal runs your cold fingers between his own until they warm.

“You say this because recent developments are frightening you. Because you assume the good that will come of submitting to mutual love will not last. You would rather propel yourself into a fit of anxiety than permit yourself the slightest happiness.”

You turn him a look of reproach.

“You know why I can’t.”

“Because we are killers.”

“Yes.”

“But you love us still.”

Tugging your hands from Hannibal’s own you say, “If I did I’d be a terrible person.”

“We can’t help who we care for in this life. That you are able to love against the bounds of your morality isn’t evidence of personal failure.”

Yet surely it must be, you think, is in fact a marker of how greatly you’ve given in to him.

You say nothing of this aloud, however, only inch across the bed into Hannibal’s arms, kissing him in the hope of ridding your mouth of the taste of blood from your dream.

“There’s time for this tomorrow,” he says, gently, drawing away; clearly he thinks you’re seeking sex, an invitation you’re amazed to see him decline. “It’s very late, and I have patients to see in the morning. Rest now. You’ll feel better for it.”

You sleep nestled against him, his palm on your belly, which for once you neither mind nor think much of, merely consoled by his presence there with you.

*

The following week you are suspended between shame and self-pity, aware that you have fallen by a missing rung on the ladder of pious restraint into collusion with the men that you’re unsure you can arise from.

Will becomes as present in the household as work and commitment to his dogs will allow, the continued, quiet feud with Hannibal still complicating the evident need to remain at his side.

With you Will is tactile, sensual, smothering you with the weight of his covetous desire.

"You need to talk to him about what happened between you," you say to Hannibal one night, your head in his lap as he draws another portrait of Will as some tragic hero. "He's driving me crazy. I wish you'd just hash it out together or something."

"He's lost trust in me," says Hannibal in a tone of martyred sadness. "That can't be rebuilt inorganically. In time I hope his anger will pass."

It's on the tip of your tongue to suggest that he unburden all of his wrongs in one grand gesture, but thinking the better of it you return to placid silence.

This new method of survival you have taken on, though considered wise even in your early days of imprisonment, is so indistinguishable from genuine attachment that you could not confidently distinguish the two from one another.

Amy would be disgusted with the woman you've become, pining for the approval of predators, one of which has struck up a friendship with her own attacker. It is a dark blessing that through hypnosis she has forgotten this, will read of you in Tattle Crime and frown at the strange pang she feels at the notion of you shared by the named men.

In this way you become your own accuser, sparing no empathy for the difficulty of your plight. As others would judge you so you judge yourself, are brutal in the manner your keepers have sought to discourage.

Rebellion comes in strange forms, as of late.

You while away your days in windows frosted with the turning of autumn into its pale sibling, writing the first coherent entries of the journal you've long been unable to manifest. Your prose is clumsy, your handwriting without any particular art, but in this alone you gain some tangible accomplishment and distraction from your conflict.

Knowing Hannibal surely reads your diary you consider caution, but upon realising there are few secrets left between you both you write honestly and without fear of being bent across his lap.

“WEDNESDAY—

I haven’t been allowed to talk to my parents in so long that I can’t even hear their voices in my head anymore. I guess I’m realising that I’ve been picturing strangers ever since I came here, and I don’t know how I feel about that.

Do I even miss them anymore, or is it other, made up people I just tell myself I miss? Were they ever real to begin with?

They call it solipsism, the theory that nothing actually exists outside your perception. I read that it one of Hannibal’s books— George Berkeley was the name of the philosopher. I hope I spelled his name right.

Since I was little I had this fear that I was the only real person in the universe, that everyone else I ever met just vanished the second they weren’t in front of me. I still feel that way, I guess.

My bad memories are the only proof that I’m not alone, as much as I’m afraid—or sometimes find myself wishing—that I am.

I just remembered a day my parents took me shopping around Christmas one year. We went to this huge shopping center, and it was so busy and noisy that my Mom got really worked up and started snapping at everybody as if it was our fault the whole city picked that day to buy presents too.

I guess I did something wrong— maybe I wandered off, or I said something she didn’t like. But suddenly she yelled so loud everybody around us turned to stare at us except my Dad, who looked away just like he always did. Messed with his glasses. Pretended he saw something interesting in a store window when we all knew he hated shopping and was just dying to get out of there and go home to the TV.

Five minutes later Mom tried to hold my hand like nothing ever happened. Like she forgot what she just did, or didn’t realise that it upset me. Then when I wouldn’t let her take my hand she got mad all over again, and I could tell it hurt her feelings.

I’ve always wondered how she justifies those moments to herself, or if she shoves them down so far that she can just pretend she’s never in the wrong.

If I did imagine my mother, why would I make her that way?

Anyway, I think this whole solipsism thing is why I don’t buy Hannibal’s idea of absorbing life, even if it’s just a symbolic gesture. If I can’t see you then you might as well be dead, so really the thought that something would be left of that person after their heart stops beating makes no sense to me.

Only my dreams are real. Realer than I am. But if they’re repeating what Hannibal keeps telling me then what does that mean?”

"FRIDAY —

“I spat out some of breakfast into a napkin today. Daddy Hannibal took me upstairs and hit me with some kind of leather flogger till I said I was sorry. I wasn’t, though, and he knew it. He told me I’d never get to go to nice places with him if I kept behaving in that way, and that would be the real punishment.

I keep forgetting that’s what he and Daddy Will want at the end of all this. To take me out of the shadows of this house into their light.

Haven’t they thought about how weird it’s going to look to everybody? What will they tell people? That I’m their daughter? Their inappropriately young girlfriend?

They’ll have to take me somewhere nobody knows us and no one really cares. Places we can be different people except to ourselves. But maybe we’ll become the people we pretend to be. I’d like that to be true.”

It’s as you’re finishing this particular entry that you overhear voices in one of the many hallways— Hannibal’s, and that of Jack Crawford, who’s been invited to dinner again. Perceiving a hushed secrecy to their dialogue you return to your talent of eavesdropping and sidle up to the nearest door.

It’s Jack you hear first, partway through some muttered sentence.

“—Heard about the fibre sample Beverly picked up on in Lillian Greyflower’s file.”

“A thread from a hospital gown,” says Hannibal. “Yes. She had Turner Syndrome and was undergoing frequent medical checks to monitor her health.”

“She wasn’t the only one,” says Jack. “Bryce Mulligan was struggling with Kidney Disease, Anaïs Foreau was a premature birth— all the Mask Murder victims had conditions that affected their weight and height in some way. None of them were much over five foot tall.”

So these are the details Will did not wish you to know, cautious of spooking you with the implications of the discovery. Your illness is the reason for the Lover’s interest in you: as many differences as there are between you and his first set of victims this is the one great likeness to have drawn him in.

“The killer’s first muse herself was in poor health,” says Hannibal, “and with stunted development for her age. I suggest you search missing persons records for a white, blonde female under the age of eighteen, last seen accompanying an older male family member; I believe she disappeared around the time the Mask Murders began. Look specifically for girls with growth disorders, genetic, and chronic conditions.”

“We need to narrow down a state,” says Jack. “The murderer is clearly a travelling man.”

Then, clearing his throat, he adds, “Speaking of the Lover, have you—”

Hannibal intercepts the question briskly.

“Not yet. As things are now I couldn’t possibly disturb the peace by announcing such unpleasant news. I will attempt it as soon as I can.”

Lost as to the meaning of this abrupt turn in the conversation you strain your ears, frustrated when the men’s voices lower so far as to become incoherent. Only Will’s footsteps approaching behind you compel you away from the door.

“Stop it,” he says. “You want them to catch you like that?”

Turning around, you stick out an irreverent tongue at him.

“Who says they were going to catch me?”

Will scoffs, scarcely masking his amusement.

“Quit screwing around. Go sit at the table. We’ll be eating soon.”

The dinner you find awkward in the deliberate avoidance of the Lover case, small talk expanded into impossible complexity across the courses. Having seen death in its multiples you are both angered and entertained by the senselessness of your fathers thinking you too delicate to endure what you have learned.

Jack’s hesitation you understand, being that of the three men only he thinks you wholly innocent. Your keepers, however, are purely concerned with avoiding the resulting unseemly outburst, and in this you are reminded that no matter what affections you’ve developed to protect yourself from a prisoner’s despair a prisoner you still are.

Glowering at them both under your lashes you crush a slice of ‘fish’ under your fork, watching it take the shape of the tines. It’s as you’re observing this process that an idea occurs to you, brought on by the visitor in the room. A chance to communicate to Jack that he dines with a cannibal, that he has eaten of the same people for whom his officers seek justice—

Stuffing the morsel of fish into your cheek you say, “I’m full. Can I be excused?”

Jack glances at Hannibal, his brows angled, and you realise that he discerns something overfamiliar in your tone or body language he isn’t sure enough of to interrogate.

“You’re free to leave whenever you like,” says Hannibal. “Enjoy your evening.”

“Thanks for joining us,” says Jack, and you offer him a weak smile before rushing out into the living room where your journal and ball point pen remain.

Tearing a leaf out of the back you write

‘TEST THE MEAT!!! IT’S HUMAN!” in a hasty scrawl and spit the fish you’d kept from dinner into your hand.

Your heart clatters in your chest like a train across some treacherous road as you dart through to the hallway. On a rack hangs Jack Crawford’s overcoat, the pocket of which you intend to deliver your grim parcel to.

This is the answer to the question of your freedom, the sole proof required to unlock the criminal mystery of the Copycat.

Upon reading your note Jack will take this meat to the lab where all forensic discoveries are founded, and in the makings of its DNA will realise what creature he has dined with, and what he has been tricked to eat at his table.

He will get you out of this house, give you back to your parents and end this horror you’ve been bent to fit by moulding hands. Hannibal will be imprisoned or institutionalised, perhaps Will too, if he’s discovered to know more than he suggests of his companion, or if your relations are found out.

There will be no more men and women eaten in the grand house of death, and no more will you be abused and infantilised, or forced to take your fill.

Things will be as they were before your abduction, a known unhappiness which from having lived before you know that you can bear.

Yet even as you reach into Jack’s pocket the negative aspects of this plan suggest themselves to discourage you from this rash and unplanned act.

You think of the Lover’s crimes going unsolved and continuing around you, closing in until you too are taken and locked into a doll. Even if the killer does not dare to capture you in your infamy there are the choking attentions of the press to think of, the humiliating questions as to what you have been made to do as concubine to your insatiable men.

Leland Frost would likely make some comment on it, as thoroughly as you’d attempt to avoid him, his eyes bright with a jilted humour.

“Guess you’re not my girl anymore, cher.”

“Shut up,” you whisper aloud. “I never was.”

The cold grease from the meat soaks the skin of your fingers, and your stomach turns over at the smell of it.

All your doubts have surely been injected by Hannibal’s hypnosis to dissuade you from escape, for even as you dismiss those that have already come to mind more follow, each more unpleasant than the last.

After all, these previous concerns assume the success of your attempt to rally Jack to your side. He has been groomed by Hannibal to think you mad, and a conniving lunatic at that, one poised to invent scandal and atrocities abound if it means you’ll be released from treatment.

Upon discovering the note and meat making filthy his beautiful coat Jack is unlikely to follow the command you’d penned there; rather, with a pitying look, he’ll deliver it to Dr Lecter, bringing down, unwitting, another brutal lesson from your keepers upon you.

But even should Jack believe or humour you and process the sample as is your design there is no likelihood of Hannibal submitting quietly to arrest. He is a killer, and as such will fight every man against him until none stand.

Then he will turn upon you in whatever fashion he decides, and the attempt will be for nothing, one you may not even live to regret.

The risk of failure is not worth the pursuit, you decide, and resign yourself to retreat from the hallway and from the temptation of hopeless escape.

As you turn into another room you collide with Will, who has followed you from the table.

“Sorry,” you mumble, and attempt to sidestep him, your full hand held partially behind your back.

Will takes you by the shoulders, pushing you lightly up against the nearest wall.

“Wait,” he says. “I know you’re up to something. You’d better admit it now before you’re in even more trouble. Don’t bother to lie; there’s no reason for you to be loitering out here unless you were doing something you’re not supposed to.”

When you don’t answer his gaze falls to the fist tightened upon your shame, and the set of his mouth steels.

“You’d better show me what you’re holding,” he says. “Let’s hope Hannibal’s feeling more forgiving than I am.”

[alexihollis]

Jealousy the Funny Disease (pt. 1)

*someone said something about a polycule and it grew in my brain*

There was a time where Rembrandt truly did believe that Ajax would figure it out. It being the obvious attraction Ajax had to Swan. Swan's attraction to Ajax. Rembrandt's attraction to Swan and Swan's attraction to Rembrandt that often involved Swan panicking if she so much as accidentally brushed the back of her hand against Rembrandt's. She thought that, once Ajax figured it out, maybe had a minor freak out about it, preferably chose to not fight Swan about said panic, maybe they could bring Swan into their relationship. Maybe it wouldn't be forever, but...Rembrandt thought it could be nice. At least for a little while.

They got close, in a way. There were many nights spent, just the three of them in the night, Swan and Ajax watching Rembrandt's back as she tagged. Swan might have flinched away from physical affection, but she always listened when Rembrandt went on her tangents and offered her quiet insights. She even went to the art museums with Rembrandt, which even Ajax found difficult, as much as she tried for Rembrandt. They went out to the queer bars and Swan hung around the walls, watching until it was time to go home. And despite the fact that Ajax was willing to wingman pretty much anyone, she never tried to find Swan a girl, not once. So. Rembrandt hoped. She hoped the little thing that existed between the three of them might grow.

Except Ajax never did figure it out. Swan became Cleon's number two and the closest her and Ajax came to talking about their mutual feelings was when they were pummeling each other. And Rembrandt never said anything, because she was painfully aware how badly this could go. How quickly Ajax would sacrifice herself if she thought it would make Rembrandt happy and that was simply not allowed.

Then came the night from Hell and, suddenly, Swan had a girlfriend for the first time. It hurt, a bit. To see Swan and Mercy so happy while Rembrandt stressed over Ajax getting out.

Ajax got out, though, sooner than anyone imagined and also too long - two months.

"Did she even go through initiation?" Ajax grumbled, brow lowered as she all but glared across Cleon's living room at where Mercy and Swan were curled up on the couch. Swan read a book and Mercy pretended to read the same book, but spent much more time slowly finger-combing Swan's hair.

"She did more than enough, be nice," Rembrandt chided, nudging Ajax's shoulder with her own where they leant against the wall.

Ajax's jaw flexed, but she didn't say anything. Well. She didn't say anything, then, and she didn't say anything specific.

"Her jokes aren't that funny," Ajax muttered under her breath later that night when Swan was laughing at something Mercy said.

It caught Rembrandt completely off-guard and all she could do was side-eye Ajax.

"Why the fuck doesn't she just wear her own colors?" Ajax grouched a couple of days later when Swan and Mercy were play fighting over Swan's colors, currently on Mercy's back.

Rembrandt looked down at her vest. Then at Ajax, "I stole your original vest."

Ajax gritted her teeth. "That's different."

"We were initiated at the same time."

"It's. Different." Rembrandt did not push it farther.

She thought it was cute, how Mercy stole Swan's colors. A traitorous thought occurred that it would be really cute if she stole Swan's and then Swan stole Ajax's. Then, Mercy and Rembrandt could watch Swan and Ajax fight over- Nope. Not going there, no, bad brain, baaaad brain, there is a snowball's chance in hell at this point.

"I can't believe Cleon sent them out alone," Ajax griped and, at this point, it had been two weeks of this nonsense and Rembrandt was losing her mind a little bit.

"Uh-huh," was Rembrandt's only response from her and Ajax's bed, sketching in her sketchbook while Ajax got ready for bed.

"She always sends Swan and me," Ajax continued. "Swan and I have each other's backs for gigs like that."

"They're still in Brooklyn."

"Swan's a good fighter, she can take me, but she isn't intimidating," Ajax said. "And neither is Mercy! Cleon's asking for them to get jumped!"

"Oh, my God, will you just admit you're jealous?!" Rembrandt exclaimed, looking up at Ajax exasperated.

"I'm not jealous!" Ajax retorted. Then, after a moment, more forcefully, "I'm not jealous! Why would I be jealous?"

Rembrandt groaned, rolled her eyes. "Never mind."

But Ajax was not finished. "Why would I be jealous? Just because Swan barely talks to me anymore. And now Cleon's sending Mercy out instead of me. I'm not jealous. I don't care that Swan thinks Mercy's funny. Or that Mercy's pretty in that soft, girly way. I don't want to be like that. You're pretty like that, though, so I do think it's kind of bullshit, because Swan should have noticed. And Swan needs other things, too. Swan's always taking care of everyone else and she never puts herself first, ever. Ever. She just met Mercy, there's no way that Mercy knows that Swan does that, so what if she lets Swan do that all the time. Not to mention, Swan never hangs out with us anymore! It's always, 'I'm going out with Mercy' or 'Mercy and I are doing-Oh."

Ajax turned to Rembrandt with wide-eyes. "Am I jealous of Mercy?!"

"Yes. Yes, you are, thank you for finally catching up, you have been driving me crazy for weeks," Rembrandt grumbled as she tried to return to her sketchbook.

"But- I-"

Rembrandt finally took pity on Ajax. "We both liked Swan. Swan liked us. Neither of you figured it out enough to talk about it and now we're here." Then, because Rembrandt knew where Ajax was going to go with this, "Ajax, she really likes Mercy."

"But," Ajax's nose crinkled, the way it did when she was faced with a difficult problem. "Were we dating?"

"No," Rembrandt sighed. "No. Dating implies actual understanding. We were...doing something. I don't know, but...No. It is what it is."

"I don't like that."

"I know. But do you really want to mess this up for her? She's the happiest I've seen her in a long time."

It should have been easy, to watch someone you cared deeply for be happy. Even if it was with someone else.

It would have been easy, if Mercy wasn't Mercy.

Mercy tried so hard and there was something about that effort that made Rembrandt's heart ache as she watched it. She wanted to wrap Mercy up and promise that they had her, it was okay, no one was going to send her away, she was a Warrior now. Instead, Rembrandt had to trust that Swan was doing that.

"Why is Mercy funny?" Ajax grouched at their ceiling one night.

"Because she's fucking perfect," Rembrandt grouched back.

"Why are they both- That isn't fair."

"It really isn't."

"We're funny!"

"I'm funny."

"Okay, well, I'm buffer than Swan."

"I'm at least as pretty as Mercy."

"...this isn't making me feel better."

"Yeah, no, I don't think trash-talking women we like is going to help us."

To be Cont'd

Also if y'all have any prompts, they would be greatly appreciated! writer's block is trying to catch me, but i am outrunning it swiftly!

[spacelessbian]

The Giggle is truly like: the Doctor (52) and Donna (54) meet the Doctor's ex-companion Mel (59) and her boss Kate Lethbridge-Stewart (58) to face the Toymaker (50). And then the Doctor (31) shows up to save these senior citizens from themselves.

[beatcroc]

what kind of frivolity would you engage in, mecha?

<

---

[empoleonebuonaparte]

The biggest difference between Phoenix and Apollo is that Phoenix got punched in his first game, but Apollo punches someone in his first game.

[cleverheroine]

"Look guys, it's ISFP and INFP. They're like best friends they go everywhere together...ISFP Is so sweet but so quiet though."

ISFP: "That's because I'm really shy. I find it hard to open up to people I don't know because I'm so quietly misunderstood."

"You pure and uncommon thing...but hey, INFP is pretty quiet too, though. INFP why are you-"

INFP: "Because I'm talking to someone else right now!"

"Uh...who?? And where?"

INFP: "You wouldn't know them."

"I'll bite...I know most of the types. Try me."

INFP: "it's....erm...it's a person I made up in my head."

"Of course it is. How's that going for you?"

INFP: "Better conversation than this one.."

[sysig]

Party (group) party (celebratory)! (Patreon)

[houndfaker]

i dont think ive flat out drawn kikumitsu before but the beast awoke tonight i guess

[ellascreams]

Don’t Blow Up On Me

[You know what, Zor hacking into your radio signal and saying ominous threats at you during a high stakes mission is usually pretty scary. But when the person currently acting as your handler is a very low ranking ex-employee of theirs, it’s only a little creepy, and really more awkward than anything. Phoenix is just trying to diffuse a bomb. This fic does have some serious moments so don’t expect pure silliness.]

Phoenix mostly worked in their own little office these days. They didn’t have much of a reason to stay at any headquarters building. Still, they had to go to one sometimes, and this was the first time in a while they were really really glad they did.

They were still processing what had happened as they ran. It was all so fast. It started with filling out a survey about how well Ollie had acted as their handler while Reginald was sick. Ok, that made sense. That’s why they were there in the first place. To fill out all the required paperwork before Reginald came back to work tomorrow.

Then the alarm came with its flashing red lights, blaring sirens, and a repeating announcement of what was wrong. It started as just “SECURITY BREACH” and then suddenly became “BOMB THREAT.” Neither of those were good. They grabbed their earpiece and nodded at Ollie to show they were ready to help. Ollie quickly conversed with some other handlers. He turned to them and said “The other agents are going to take care of evacuation and look for any hidden traps or Zoraxis operatives. That leaves bomb duty to us!” He looked at the security report which had managed to calculate the general area the bomb was in. Then he looked at some old Zoraxis bomb models and used them to narrow down its location. “If my instincts are correct, it should be in the breaker room down in the basement.” Phoenix didn’t wait to be told to leave before they started running.

From the start of the alarm to the present, only a minute had passed. This whole situation was bad. Usually they would be upset to suddenly be in a situation like this, and they were, but they were still glad they came to the office when they did. If they weren’t there the bomb would probably still have been planted. They trusted the other agents to be capable of disarming a bomb, but they weren’t sure if they trusted the other agents enough to want them disarming a bomb when Ollie’s life was on the line. They wanted to be the one protecting him from this threat.

They got to the breaker room and the bomb was just… sitting there. On the floor. They were expecting it to be hidden amongst the electrical equipment or at least mounted to a wall somewhere. If they couldn’t disarm it they could probably just pick it up and move it away from the building. Hm, maybe not. It was a big bomb, almost the size of a suitcase, and it very well might explode before they could get it far enough away.

They took a crouched down and looked at it closer. They could hear it ticking but there was no visible timer. They didn’t know how much time they had.

“Agent Phoenix,” said a familiar voice in their ear, but it wasn’t Ollie’s voice or even Reginald’s. “I wasn’t expecting you. That was my mistake. You seem to have a knack for appearing at every mission I have a personal interest in.” Phoenix felt their heart beat faster. No matter how many times they heard Zor talk they couldn’t get used to it. Something about their smug tone, their unwavering conviction that they were in control, and that uncanny voice changer just made their skin crawl.

“I suppose you’ll be attempting to disarm my bomb then. Go right ahead. Convenient how we left it right there, on the ground, in plain sight. It’s almost too good to be true.” The agent instinctively looked up from the bomb and started scanning the room for hidden ones. They shouldn’t listen to Zor but they just said, or at least implied, what they were already thinking. Zor giggled ever so slightly.

“I think it’s best you don’t listen to them.” Phoenix was very relived to hear Ollie’s voice again. “If they think you’re smart enough to catch their usual tricks, they just make things simple and hope you’ll overthink it. And while I may not be familiar with this specific model, I’ve seen bombs like it, and that ticking sound is hard to replicate. It’s a real bomb, and the only bomb here.”

“Oh?” Huh. Phoenix didn’t know you could convey raising one eyebrow through nothing but the tone of your voice. “This isn’t your usual handler. How rude of you to not introduce us,” they said, as if Phoenix would ever want to give them information on other agents or was capable of saying the words needed for introductions. Ollie and Phoenix tried to ignore them.

“You’re going to have to get through the metal casing. It doesn’t have any screws, and cutting or melting through it risks the bomb going off.” Ollie paused thoughtfully. “If you could find something thin enough and strong enough to wedge between the gaps maybe you could pry it open?” Far easier said than done but Phoenix started searching the room nonetheless.

“Or maybe there’s no need to introduce us. He sounds awfully familiar… Ollie, was it?” Phoenix inhaled sharply. It was easy to forget he had actually talked to the doctor when he was such a low ranking employee. They even remembered his name. Eh, that wasn’t too surprising. You sort of need a good memory to be an evil genius like Zor.

Phoenix rummaged through a tool box that had been abandoned in a corner. “I didn’t expect to see you working for The Agency. It may be a bit cliche of me to say but, truthfully, I expected you to be dead by now. I’ll admit that I’m impressed.” Phoenix glanced at the screwdriver several times before an idea struck them. There weren’t any screws on the bomb, but the tip of the screwdriver was thin and flat. Not bad for prying things open.

They took a knee again. It was hard to get good leverage with the bomb on the floor so they kept it hovering at head height while they started trying to pry it open. Dr. Zor was still trying different angles to engage Ollie in conversation. “Perhaps I’m impressed enough to let bygones be bygones and allow you to work for me again.” That one did the trick.

“As tempting as that offer is I’m afraid I’ll have to decline on account of you trying to kill me.” When the metal finally gave way it was so sudden Phoenix almost fell. They pried the metal just a bit further until they could see the wires inside.

“Great job! Let’s see, it looks like there are 7 different colored wires… for Zoraxis bombs like that you just have to cut them in reverse rainbow order.” A bit weird, but ok. Phoenix got pliers from the tool box and began carefully cutting. The violet wire snapped in two.

“Whatever do you mean?” Zor continued as if their conversation hadn’t been interrupted by the engineering of their explosives being explained to an enemy. Phoenix cut the indigo wire. “Well, I wanted to excuse the whole leaving me at bottom of the ocean thing, you very well might’ve just forgotten and mistakes happen, but that escape pod was definitely a death trap. I was trying to keep track of all the OSHA violations but I lost count because of oxygen deprivation.”

“It was nothing personal, I assure you.” Blue wire. “That really doesn’t make it any better. Why did you even want me dead anyway?” Because you knew about the experiments, Phoenix thought. They were probably hoping you had just enough food to guard the place until Prism was dead. Then you’d starve so you couldn’t tell anyone about KBOOM. Ollie was very smart but sometimes it seemed like he was too kind to actually understand evil. Green wire.

“Even without the murder attempt a lot of the working conditions were just… bad. For all the issues The Agency has, they still try to prioritize the health of their employees. It’s hard in this line of work, but— Oh, Phoenix! Wait!” The agent froze. The blades of their open pliers surrounded the next wire perfectly still, like it was waiting for their orders to attack. “I know that wire looks like a somewhat orangey yellow, but according to Zoraxis manufacturers, that’s actually just orange. The yellow one is brighter than that.” Phoenix quickly, but even more carefully than before, pulled their pliers away. While they were still too dizzy from adrenaline to understand anyone’s words, they were vaguely aware that Ollie had returned to his previous point. How on earth did he not lose his train of thought from almost exploding?

They broke free from their haze when Zor said “I see. What if I gave you a promotion? I could even make you one of my highest ranking operatives. You’d be paid far better and you’d have my protection.”

“I WAS DIRECTLY INVOLVED IN YOU BETRAYING PRISM!”

Phoenix began tuning them both out after that. It was very weird listening to them argue. It reminded them of being a kid at a friend’s house and awkwardly standing there as their friend argued with their parents. And while Ollie never actually gave anything away, it still made Phoenix cringe whenever he almost mentioned Agency secrets in his frustration.

They still payed a little attention to the fight. It really said a lot about Ollie’s skill as a handler that despite the high stakes of their missions this was the least collected they had ever seen or heard him. Zor slowly sounded more annoyed as they realized just how many of their secrets he’d shared and just how much they’d underestimated him. It was somewhat satisfying to hear some of Zor’s smug tone dissipate.

They only listened fully when Ollie said “Phoenix” or “agent.” They still needed his instructions for the next few steps. Plus, if they’d missed their name being called earlier, well, they wouldn’t still be in this strange situation. Their strategy worked pretty well. The only time it backfired is when Ollie started talking about how kind they were to him and how he was sure they’d agree his old conditions were fair. As nice as it was they wished that they could say please just leave me out of this.

After what was probably a few minutes though it felt far longer, the bomb was finally defused, and at the same time so was the argument. It seemed Ollie had run out of things to say and Zor was finally done provoking him. Phoenix could hear interference from Zor’s radio abruptly halt as they left without a word. They weren’t sure when they stood up in all the chaos but apparently they had, because the second there was quiet, the gravity of what happened finally hit them and pulled them down to their knees.

Oh no. They almost died, didn’t they? That wasn’t anything new but it was still always a little worrying. Ollie almost dying with them was new and definitely not something they liked. But what was really sinking in was what the argument with Zor actually implied. They were very secretive and would not like an old employee of their’s alive. Especially not if they were working for The Agency and especially if he was far more clever than they originally thought he was.

Come to think of it… why did they target this building? Zoraxis as an organization would probably attack any Agency HQ they discovered but didn’t Zor say something about having a “personal interest” in this particular attack? It seemed like they genuinely weren’t expecting Phoenix so they weren’t the target. Zor knew a deserter was here. Phoenix didn’t know how but they were sure of it. Again, Zor’s struggle to recognize Ollie did seem very real, so they probably didn’t know who their ex-employee was. They know now though. Zor even successfully started an argument to get more information about him although it got a little out of hand.

This location would be abandoned now that it was compromised. Even so, Phoenix decided that as soon as they got in contact with Reginald they would tell him to get Ollie a private and well hidden office like their’s. Handler was a job with a lot of official paperwork and a lot of it had to be filled out at headquarters, but even frequent trips to one would be better than staying there all the time.

Phoenix was willing to bet Ollie didn’t realize how much danger he was in so right now it was up to everyone else to keep him safe. He helped a lot of people in this Agency. The Agency could spare a few recourses to help him. If they didn’t, then they would get a proper demonstration of just how terrifying their top agent can be. Reginald always said they were intimidating. Something about stoic silence.

[catboytb]

i think my entire history of drawing has lead up to me making smthing like this tbh

[autisticaradiamegido]

Since your parents have two forms (human and incomprehensible), do you have a fully angel/demon form?

day 98

hm u know i nevr actually thought about it! liek ok without getting TOO grody about it (bc its liek, my parents, ew lol) i didnt exactly get born the "usual" way? i was moar like.... summoned, i guess! liek mom & dad were livin their normie lives on earth n wanted a babby so they got some occult old shit together and basicly willed me in2 existence. and liek at the time they were just trying to merge their own characteristics in2 A Baby soooo i just kinda came out looking liek a normal ass baby! liek p much The Platonic Ideal Of Baby. but obv i inherited shapeshifting powers from BOTH of them so as i started getting a personality & concept of who & what i was i started lookin more & more liek ME! and i nevar had a good reason 2 look like a big ol godmonster before but i mean i can give it a try & see wat happenz!!!

ok anon check ths shit out

[takekawa]

expanding on this while sick off my tits to give me something else to focus on

i love when bitches are CRAZY and/or pathetic which is admittedly funny thinking about my favorite beautiful lovely obeyme wife Solomon who is you know. not THAT crazy and not pathetic in the way i like. like he’s competent and his blustering social incompetence is in the “he just doesn’t know he’s kinda weird and mildly ominous at times” way not the “pathetic whimpering animal” (mammon) (leviathan) way i usually go for

although admittedly im just a sucker for the ‘jovial wizard who is definitely threatening’ trope. merlin fate. shahmat dirtycrown. in hindsight it’s funny all of these guys have white hair. would all be fluffy long white hair if Solomon didn’t have that fuckass cut

obey me in general is such a funny series for me to be into bc like. No one in it is THAT crazy due to the medium/target audience (except belphie I respect whatever the fuck is wrong with him) but they all still enchant me so bad. admittedly im reinterpreting them a teensy bit in my head to be bigger creeps because i have a rare disease where if i don’t make every character a little bit of a yandere stalker ill die. whatever. my vision is true

off the top of my head like

lucifer ok I can’t actually fuck this one bc he lives in my head and regularly talks to me but he’s still moe moe kyun. exhausted brat-tamer father is inherently crack cocaine to me. Cannot say more and still look that alter in the eye. my bad peepaw

satan HATER NATION REPRESENT 💥💥💃 also him being such a stuffy serious nerd gushing about cats is moe. Meow for me boy

beel definitely the least interested in him bc of how aggressively normal he is but it’s fine he’s smexy. and presumably built like a chubbier laios. Sultry little whore body type

belphie gotta love a guy who fakes being your friend to turbo murder you then goes back to being your friend with the limpest apology ever as if the attempted murder and false friendship wasn’t even that big a deal. love you casual psychopath. also a siscon so bonus points

mammon pathetic dog who would wear a leash if you asked him too and act really indignant the whole time like this is SUCH an ordeal UGH he’s so above this (he’s been nuclear levels of wet the entire time)

asmo see appearance wise im not interested. But. not a clue if im bastardizing his character but ive been assuming his total obsession (the like… measuring your body and pointing out tiny traits of yours that are cute/changed scene comes to mind) is in the “he’s definitely stalking you” vindictive possessive way. throwing dead birds at the window whenever you’re hanging out with someone else. starting shit on his fifth alternate instagram account so it doesn’t look like it’s HIM stirring the pot every time you don’t respond to his texts immediately. I like to think he’s very petty and pissy but that’s admittedly my debilitating stalker kink talking

levi pathetic ass neet nerd with zero game you enchant me. bend over while watching mid harem anime boy

the extraneous cast (outside of Solomon) i am woefully less knowledgeable on but at a glance i do like all of them. simeon is obscenely hot and also motherly-but-ominous (sexy). mephi seems like a raging cunt which i respect but he is a devoted cuck so we can’t fuck. diavolo is married to lucifer but i do respect the whole ‘outwardly jovial but will use his status to make you do what he says’ schebang. he’d aggravate the fuck out of me but i can’t diss the hustle

who the fuck else is there. barbatos is also a devoted cuck but i like how cunty and rude he is. luke does not hit the notes i like in that way but he’s a funny little guy i enjoy him. no fucking clue what the one woman with a number name im forgetting does but i like her fit and vibe

[sleepyselkiesims]

Part 27

The next morning, during her daily knitting, Rapunzel felt a strong pressure that let her know it was go-time!

...uh.... sure, Cassie. But can we call back later?

Snow White had always rushed to the baby cradle as soon as labour started, but Rapunzel wanted to do this right. So she gave herself a moment to breathe.

Ok, now she was ready to be a mom!

Rapunzel became the first sim of the legacy to give birth at the hospital! Totally not just for the work experience. She's weird like that.

Karim tagged along for moral support, but the benevolent god couldn't help feeling he was just going through the motions of pre-parental panic...

Yeah, he was actually so thrilled. He left 2 seconds later, but Karim was definitely ready to be a dad.

Rapunzel was a little less thrilled when the ghost doctor showed up. Today was not the day for death reminders!

Still not taking a break, Rapunzel spent her walk to the hospital room messaging her family members to let them know the big news, and setting up her parental leave.

Once she settled in to the surgery machine, Rapunzel couldn't help feeling like she'd do a better job...

ACK!! They killed her!

.... oh no....

While the benevolent god cried about the unexpected twins, Rapunzel couldn't contain her excitement!

Awww look how happy mama and baby are!

Self-care was going to be critical to deal with the upcoming trials, so Rapunzel started off strong with a glass of water!

And can you believe who was waiting at home for her, already cleaning.

Rapunzel wasted no time inviting Ariel over to meet her grandbabies. No one had expected her to still be alive to meet them, so it was a very special moment.

?? Guys, I said "special" moment, not "scary"!!

AAAAAAAAAA

[faaarawayyy]

a casual and very silly reminder to myself that i dont have any reason to be ashamed of or embarassed by my interests. cause literally who care. it just be like that