#but sometimes mobile screws it up

[hrokkall]

Praise no power higher than your own code

[gferamos]

Random assortment of doodles tiem (⁠づ⁠｡⁠◕⁠‿⁠‿⁠◕⁠｡⁠)⁠づ

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[3style3]

what is tumblr even doing messing up core features of the site in favor of mobile when only like 2 people genuinely care about mobile? the app is BROKEN.. work on that first before pulling a “mobile friendly twitter” .. @staff you clearly are Not The thinker.

[eggwars]

@staff hey y'all the new update sucks for visually impaired folks. Also the UI is REALLY annoying.

I really need to talk for a minute about this new mobile update and how much I as a legally blind person hate whatever the hell is going on with the photos and how it's making this app nearly impossible for me to use

I'm not sure the same thing is happening on the desktop version but for those who may not know in the app whenever you tap on a photo it used to just pop up and you could double tap to enlarge it and zoom in and scroll around and all was great.

A double tap now likes the photo and it must be pinched and pulled to zoom in and out. A mild annoyance, and nothing compared to the rest of the update. If you scroll up, which I do frequently when trying to navigate an enlarged photo, it will send you to ANOTHER photo based on the tags of the post.

That's right, a completely different photo!!! A feature no one asked for and no one wants!! This isn't facebook, or instagram, and maybe tiktok but I never had that so this is a guess. When I click on the photo I only want to see that photo (or in the case of multiple photos in a post I want to be able to easily scroll side to side for those). I do not want to be taken to another post!!! Also if you scroll too far to the left you are then sent to the profile of the person who reblogged the post. I do not know why. Who wants this feature? Is it a feature at all?

As someone who only taps on a photo because I cannot see it and I need to enlarge it, this is beyond a simple annoyance. I cannot navigate the photo like I need, there's a hair trigger on whether it sends you to a new post completely or if you are sent to the profile of the reblogger. Neither, again, are things I want. this leaves me having to back track a lot, re-zoom the photo as it reverts back to normal, and hope dearly that this time I can just read the damned text before it freaks out again.

I haven't seen anyone else talk about this outside of the tags, but really this is making the app unusable for me, and I'm sure for many others.

@staff I know you guys haven't cared about your disabled community much in the past (other photo updates that stopped allowing me to zoom into gifs is proof of that) but please don't make this app unusable for me. I would rather not have to leave.

[cy-cyborg]

Tips for drawing and writing amputees: The prosthetic needs something to hold onto

Prosthetics need to be able to hold on to the body.

If you're giving your amputee something similar to 99.99% of modern prosthetics, this will be done through a socket. This is a ridged cup made perfectly for the amputee that holds the prosthetic onto the body. Older prosthetics (mostly anything before the 90's) made the prosthetic socket intentionally tight in spots, which is what held it in place. Some people with sensitive skin still use this style of prosthetic but they've mainly fallen out of use in favour for suction sockets. These sockets create a vacuum seal that holds the prosthetic in place. These can work in two ways, either just by forcing excess air out of the socket and creating the seal that way, or for some legs, sucking that excess air out and into an "ankle" mechanism to offer some extra suspension and padding in the step.

Some prosthetics will also use additional measures as well as suction, such as pin-locks, where the amputee wears a sock with a screw at the bottom that clips into a mechanism at the bottom of the socket, or a prosthetic with movable panels that can be tightened via cables running through the socket.

I've used all of these except the pin lock socket, and they all have one thing in common: The sockets need as much space as possible. For prosthetics using suction in particular, this is to spread out the amount of force being applied to the leg. If all the suction is being applied to the end of the stump, it's going to get sore and could even damage the skin. If that same amount of suction is applied to a much wider area, it's going to feel less intense. Likewise, older prosthetics needed as much space to work with as possible too, as applying tight pressure to a small area as opposed to a larger surface to keep the tension isn't good for your skin or muscles in that spot.

For this reason, the sockets will take up all of the space available without limiting movement, meaning they will go all the way up to the next major joint. An amputee who lost their hand through the wrist will have a socket that goes all the way to their elbow. An amputee who lost their leg through or above the knee will have a socket that goes all the way to their hip.

Sometimes, if an amputation is particularly close to a major joint and there isn't a lot of space left between the stump and the next major joint, prosthetists will opt to immobilise the closest joint and take the socket all the way up to the next major joint. This was something I've actually discussed with my prosthetist. My left leg is amputated below the knee, but I only have a few centimetres of space below the knee. That leg occasionally needs revisions, meaning they take the very tip off of the stump to help correct issues with weird bone growth, scarring, infections etc, but if I get another revision, my leg will be too short to comfortably wear a socket, so my knee will need to be immobilised and my leg will become, functionally, an above knee amputation, despite still having the joint. This is rare, but it happens on occasion, showing that sometimes that need for space trumps even the use of a still functional joint. It's really important.

I wanted to bring this up because I see a lot of people draw sockets on their amputee's prosthetics, but they're much too tiny to be comfortable!

I did mention most prosthetics use a socket, but not all do. Some old prosthetics did not have sockets and were held in place using other methods.

This is a "prosthetic" my prosthetist found in his company's back room. He's not sure when it was made, but together we came up with an estimate of it being made around the 70's for a through-hip amputee (meaning someone who's whole leg was amputated with no stump at all)

It's designed so that the user would rest their hip on the cushion and use the handle to hold it in place and move it in time with their walk. This kind of mobility aid isn't often used anymore (me nor my prosthetist have seen one out in the world), and seems to have faded in use during the 80's as sockets were invented that could better hold onto the hip and pelvis for through-hip amputees and the use of wheelchairs for amputees became less stigmatised.

There's also A new type of prosthetic has been developed called the Osseointegration prosthetic, which also doesn't use a socket either. These are very rare as they are incredibly expensive and still very risky, but these prosthetics bypass the socket and implant the prosthetic directly into the body through a rod planted inside one's stump bone. This rod has a clip at the end of the stump, so the external part of the prosthetic can be removed as needed (and replaced). The reason they are risky though is that they are EXTREMELY prone to infection. I only know one person who had this implanted successfully, but he has to be very careful to keep his leg clean or else it will get infected (and it frequently does, he's constantly on antibiotics). Everyone else I know who got it had to get it removed.

With time these implants will get safer, but we are a very, very long way off from that right now.

[doctorbitchcrxft]

Sin City | Supernatural Series Rewrite | Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader

Warnings: arguing! angst! recovering from a sexual assault (please heed this warning), light smut (MDNI!!! 18+ only), mentions of suicide, canon violence, canon gore

Word Count: 7341

A/N: His beautiful face I will scream and cry

Mobile Supernatural Series Rewrite Masterlist

Supernatural Series Rewrite Masterlist

Supernatural Series Rewrite Playlist

You and the brothers decided to bunk somewhere between Black Rock, New York, and Bobby’s house in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. Although Sam knew about your relationship with Dean, Dean still got two separate rooms for you and the brothers. For a reason you couldn’t quite place, that bothered you.

He eventually did come to your separate room, and you immediately grilled him. “Why do you keep getting us two separate motel rooms?” Dean seemed stunned. 

“I mean, it’s not a big deal, but I don’t know… are you ashamed to be with me? Like, do you not want Sam to see us sleeping together? If you are, I’d rather you just tell me—”

Dean shook his head. “No, (Y/N), why would you think that?” he said. “I just wasn’t sure if you’d be comfortable staying with Sam. And… I don’t necessarily wanna have sex in the bed next to my brother,” he finished. 

“Oh, so you thought we were gonna have sex tonight?” you questioned angrily. 

“What? No! I wasn’t—”

“Because sometimes I feel like that’s all I am to you, Dean! Like I’m just one of your fucking hookups!” you shouted. 

“Why the fuck would you think that?!” he argued. “When have I ever given you that impression?!”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe because whenever we get in the doorway of emotional vulnerability, your solution is to have sex,” you chided. “Maybe because you can’t even tell me how you feel about me. I mean, I’ve poured my heart out to you, and I feel like you’re not even letting me in a little bit!” 

“Why is now the first time you’re bringin’ any of this up?” Dean responded. “Maybe if you would’ve talked to me about this, I could’ve fixed it before you freaked the fuck out on me.”

“Because I feel like if you really cared about me, I wouldn’t have to ask you to prove it to me!” 

“I thought that’s what I was doing!” Dean argued. “I mean, (Y/N), when was the last time you saw me even look at another girl?!”

“You looked at Bela!”

“You did, too!”

You considered for a moment, and unfortunately, he was right. 

“I mean, seriously. When’s the last time I’ve stayed more than a few nights with a girl? If I didn’t give a shit, I wouldn’t be here having this conversation right now. And I told you—!” he cut himself off, seeming to feel awkward. “I told you how I felt. Not in the most direct way, but still!”

“Dean, don’t you think I might wanna actually hear you say it before you go and die on me?!”

“So that’s what this is about. About my deal?” he scoffed. 

“It’s not just about your deal, Dean,” you huffed, “it’s about the fact that I wanna know you love me before you’re gone. I wanna… I wanna be yours, Dean. And I wanna know what’s going on in your head. God, I mean, is that so much to ask for?!” Your voice became louder again. “I mean, you’re gonna die in a year, and you’re acting like you’re goin’ to fuckin’ Vegas. I know you’re fucking terrified, and you won’t talk to me about it!”

“What do you want me to say, (Y/N)?! That I regret making that fucking deal? ‘Cause I don’t,” Dean shot back, and that stung you even more. “I am scared, okay? But I’m not gonna live every day whinin’ about it, either. And I figure, you got so much goin’ on in your head, I might as well not screw you up even more with my problems.”

“You’re right, I do have a lot going on. But you’re not gonna burden me with your problems, Dean,” you responded, voice still angry, but considerably quieter. “I want all of you—” you stepped forward and cupped his face in your hands— “the good, the bad, the ugly; all of it.” Tears welled in your eyes. “I love you. I do. And… I understand if you can’t say it back. I’m not gonna lie to you, it hurts, but I can also… try to understand if you don’t wanna say it.”

Dean grabbed your wrists and pulled them away from his face. He kissed the inside of your right wrist, brought both your hands down between the two of you holding them there, and stared down at you intensely. “I do, I just—” he grimaced in frustration, “I’ve never told anybody. Ever. Not even Sam.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “Ever? Not even Cassie?”

He shook his head. 

“Damn.” 

“Do you get why it’s hard now?” he asked. 

You nodded. 

“And I— I do wanna show you. I’m trying, (Y/N),” he whispered, and your heart suddenly clenched with guilt, “it’s just…” Dean trailed off, unable to find the words. “I don’t wanna hurt you after what you went through.”

“I won’t break, Dean,” you replied, voice soft. “I’m a tough cookie.”

He chuckled. “Yeah. I know.”

“I’m sorry,” you said, becoming serious once more. 

“You don’t have to apologize.”

“Yeah, I do,” you insisted. “I’m… on edge. I should’ve brought this up differently.”

“Can’t disagree with you there,” he commented, “but I’m sorry, too. And if it really bothers you that much, we’ll have a sleepover with Sam next time.”

You giggled, remembering the stupidity of the origin of your fight. Slightly embarrassed, you covered your eyes with your hand. 

Dean took your hand away from your eyes and wound it around his neck, leaning down to kiss you. His kisses were always incredibly passionate and often quite fierce, but this one was different. It was tender and seemed to convey everything he couldn’t say aloud. 

You were surprised when he pulled away. “Where you goin’?” you asked as he headed to the bathroom. 

Dean turned around and cocked his head at you. “To take a shower…?” 

“You’re not gonna—” you gestured to the rest of you. 

He shook his head. “I thought that was what we just fought about.” “I mean, it was, but still. Just surprised, is all,” you shrugged. 

“This may come as a shock to you, but not all men are horny animals, sweetheart,” Dean smirked. 

You rolled your eyes. “The jury’s still out on that one.”

***

Later that evening, you were tucked into Dean’s side. His skin was smooth to the touch, and you loved the shaky breaths you pulled from Dean when you’d rake your nails along his abs. 

“You gotta stop doin’ that,” he groaned.

“Hmmm, why?” you smirked. 

“ ‘Cause,” he returned, the ends of his lips pulling upward. 

“That’s not a very good reason,” you said, trailing down closer to the edge of his v-line. 

Dean gripped your wrist and pulled you flush against him. “Such a tease,” he growled against your lips. 

You kissed him with a grin and pulled away after a moment. “Fine, fine, I’ll stop.” You laid against him, his head nestled under your chin and resting on top of your naked breasts. You found Dean really enjoyed using them as pillows. 

“Can I ask you something?” Dean murmured. 

“Anything,” you replied. 

“What happened earlier?” You knew he was referring to what happened with Willem Dafoe in the motel room. He must have felt you tense under him when he asked. “You don’t have to answer; it’s fine—”

“No, no,” you cut him off. “I wanna tell you.”

Dean pulled away from you and adjusted himself on his pillow until the two of you were eye-level in the bed. 

“The guard,” you swallowed, “he- he held my hands behind my back. Had me on my stomach. I just… I freaked out.”

Dean looked angry, but you knew it wasn’t at you. “I swear, I’ll fuckin’ track ‘im down and kill him—”

“No, no.” You closed your eyes and took a deep breath. 

Dean grabbed the hand you had curled into your chest and stroked it with his thumb. “What do you need me to do?”

“I don’t know,” you answered honestly.

“Is that why you freaked out about the sex earlier?” Dean asked. 

You nodded. 

“Jesus, (Y/N), I didn’t—”

“Dee, I know. It’s okay,” you answered, squeezing his hand. “And it’s not just that, y’know? I still want you to show me that you love me through means other than sex.”

Dean nodded.

“And I still… I still wanna have sex. We haven’t had sex in, like, four months, and it sucks for me, too. I mean, sex with you is like, the greatest thing in the fuckin’ world, but it’s just… it’s hard for me right now.”

He nodded, and then a coy grin spread across his face. “Is it really the greatest thing in the world?”

“Oh, fuck off,” you sighed dramatically, shoving him away from you and rolling to your other side. 

Dean’s arms wrapped around you, and he pressed kisses to your neck. “Hey, be nice,” he said between kisses, “or I’ll withhold the greatest thing in the world.”

You giggled. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Watch me.”

Feeling brave, you turned your face toward him and kissed him passionately. You turned around to face him once more, and Dean rolled on top of you. He ran his hands all over your torso. He was careful to avoid your breasts, and you were grateful he was trying to respect your boundaries. 

You broke the kiss and grabbed his hand, guiding it to your right breast without breaking eye contact with him. A deep hunger filled his eyes, and he quickly leaned back down to kiss you fervently. He squeezed your breasts and kissed down your neck while you threaded your hands through his hair. When his lips reached your nipple, he looked back up at you. “Is this okay?” Dean asked.

You nodded, heat flooding you. The touch of his lips to your skin made goosebumps erupt all over you, and your back arched into him. 

Dean pulled your nipple between his teeth, teasing the bud with his tongue. You writhed underneath him, tugging at his hair, and the action only spurred him on further. 

When he moved further down your stomach, though, you began to get a bit nervous. Dean noticed your body tense, and he immediately looked up to you. “Are you okay?”

You began to cry. “I don’t know,” you admitted, bringing your hands to your face in shame. 

Dean immediately climbed off you and tried to pull your hands from your eyes. “What’s goin’ on? Talk to me.”

You looked at him with watery eyes. “I can’t. I want to, but I can���t.”

“Sweetheart, we don’t have to. Not till you’re ready,” he assured you, running his hand along your hip.

“Yeah, but we don’t have that much time left. I want to before you—” you cut yourself off, shutting your eyes and taking in a shuddering breath. 

“Listen, we got ten months left. We’ll work our way up to it, okay?” Dean promised. 

“But what if you lose interest in me because I’m—” you tried to think of a way to phrase your next statement— “out of commission?”

Dean shook his head, chuckling. “Sweetheart, I love sex, and I love having sex with you, but it’s not the only reason I’m into you,” he assured you. “We won’t do anything until you’re ready.”

“But I thought I was, and look what happened,” you lamented.

“Just means you weren’t ready today,” he shrugged. “And I don’t blame ya. It hasn’t been that long, and you just had that thing happen today. It’s okay, seriously.”

“Are you sure?” you asked. 

Dean nodded. 

“You’re not lyin’ just to make me feel better?”

He shook his head. 

“Like, absolutely positive—”

“Oh, shut up, (Y/N),” he said, pulling you into him and tucking your head into his chest. 

You giggled and relaxed against him, wrapping your small arms around his waist. He kissed the top of your head, and you matched your breathing to the rising and falling of his chest beneath yours. Within minutes, the both of you were off to sleep. 

***

Over the next few days, Bobby and Dean worked on the Colt you handed over to the older man. Their objective was to figure out a way to have it back to being able to kill demons which you knew Bobby was planning on using to figure out how to save Dean from his deal. 

You and Sam were on research duty searching for demons. 

“Think I got somethin’,” Sam announced from the messy kitchen table. 

You and the other two men looked at him expectantly. 

“Dry lightning and barometric-pressure drop,” he continued. “Plus, some guy blows his head off in a church and another goes postal in a hobby shop before the cops take him out. Might be demonic omens.”

Dean shrugged. “Or it could just be a suicide and a psycho scrapbooker.”

“Meh, but it’s our best lead since Lincoln,” you added. “Where in Ohio?”

“Elizabethville. It's a half-dead factory town in the rust belt,” Sam replied. 

Dean sighed. “There’s gotta be a demon or two in South Beach.”

“Sorry,” Sam grinned. “Maybe next time. How's it going, Bobby?”

“Slow,” the older man responded. 

“I tell you, it's a little sad seeing the Colt like that.” Dean nodded toward the deconstructed marvel of weaponry. 

“Well, the only thing it's good for now is figuring out what makes it tick,” Bobby said, not looking up from the gun. 

“So, what makes it tick?” Sam smirked. 

Bobby looked up, not amused. 

Sam held his hands up in surrender, and you giggled. 

“So, if we want to go check out these omens in Ohio,” Dean began, standing up, “you think you can have that thing ready by this afternoon?”

You and Sam snickered while Bobby stared at him incredulously. 

“Well, it won't kill demons by then, but I can promise you, it'll kill you.” Bobby jokingly aimed the barrel at Dean. 

“Alright,” Dean smiled, “c’mon, we’re wastin’ daylight.”

“See ya, Bobby,” you said, grabbing your duffel bag off the seat next to you. 

You and the boys headed for the door. 

“Hey!”

The three of you turned back to face Bobby.

“You kids run into anything— anything— you call me.”

You nodded and left wordlessly. 

***

You met with a priest who, in fact, watched the man commit suicide. Something notable you learned from the priest was that the man went to church every Sunday up until about two months ago. The town had even changed; people just became “unrespectable,” in his words. Additionally, the other man who’d killed himself had changed, too. 

As you’d left the church, Sam had commented, “Two months ago, we open up the devil's gate; all of a sudden, this town turns into Margaritaville? It's no coincidence.”

Now, the three of you were heading a motel room. A shared one, at that. It made you happy to get to share the room with the boys, strangely; you guessed it just made you feel like less of an outsider and more a part of their family. 

As you opened the door, though, Dean’s voice turned you around. “Richie?”

You turned to see a man exiting the room across the hall. 

“I don’t believe it,” Dean said.

“Hey, Dean,” the man named Richie grinned, “Winchester, right?” A tall, scantily clad blonde with smudged eye makeup came up behind Richie. 

“This is my sister, uh, Cheryl,” Richie quickly explained. 

“Hey,” “Cheryl” smiled. 

Richie handed the woman some money, and Cheryl left. “Well, y’know, stepsister,” he awkwardly clarified. 

You laughed and shook your head while you plopped down onto the bed. 

“Come on in,” Dean said, leaving the door open for Richie. “This is my brother, Sam, and my girlfriend, (Y/N).”

Your heart swelled in your chest, and you were completely floored by Dean calling you his girl. The two of you had never discussed it formally, but you kind of liked how he just named it and claimed it. 

“Girlfriend, huh?” Richie teased. “You settlin’ down, Winchester?”

“No, never,” Dean replied. “She’s a hunter, too.”

“How do you two know each other?” Sam jumped in. 

“You were in school—” the older brother began.

Richie cut him off. “It was that succubus, in Canarsie right?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean nodded.

“Oh, man. You should have seen the rack on this broad. Freakin' tragedy when I had to gank her,” Richie lamented, shaking his head.

“Whoa, whoa. Wait. Who killed her? If I remember, your ass was toast until I showed up,” Dean commented.

“Oh, I forgot what a comedian this guy was,” Richie scoffed, making you giggle.

“Richie, Richie, know what? I told you then, and I'll tell you again: you're not cut out for this job. You're gonna get yourself killed,” Dean said, his tone becoming serious as he spoke. 

Richie’s phone rang, and he answered it before he could respond to Dean. “Talk to me,” he said into the phone. He then whispered to Dean, “FYI, Winchester, words hurt.” He quickly finished his phone call, and you and Sam exchanged a glance while Richie did so. 

“So, you find anything in this town, anyway?” Dean asked. 

The other man shrugged. “Ah, no. I got nothin’.” He then seemed to realize Dean wasn’t referring to women. “Oh, wait a minute. You mean as in demons and whatnot?”

The older Winchester nodded as if it was obvious.

“No, I got nothing.”

Dean chuckled. “Typical. What about your sister back there?” 

“Oh, honestly? She definitely had the devil in her, but she wasn't no demon, you know what I'm saying?” Richie laughed, but became serious when he saw Dean’s deadpan reaction. “Right. Seriously. Church guy, hobby-shop guy; they were lunch meat by the time I got there. Hey, maybe they were possessed, but I can't prove it.”

Sam added, “Yeah, that's where we are, too. You know, let's just say that demons are possessing people in this town. Y’know, raising hell—”

“Yeah, but why would a demon blow his brains out?” Dean wondered aloud. 

“Well, for fun?” Richie suggested. “Y’know, he wrecks one body, moves to another. Y’know, like taking a stolen car for a joyride.”

“Anybody else left in the town that fits the profile— y’know, nice guy turned douche, still breathing?” Dean asked the shorter man. 

“There’s Trotter,” Richie noted. 

“Who’s that?” you asked. 

“Oh, she speaks! Lovely voice by the—” Richie cut himself off and cleared his throat awkwardly when Dean glared at him. “Well, he used to be head of the Rotary Club. And then, people say he turned bastard all of a sudden? Brought in the gambling, the hookers… Ah, he practically owns this whole town.”

“Know where we could find him?” Sam questioned. 

“Oh, he'll be at his bar in a few hours.”

***

Off Richie’s tip, the three of you set off for the bar he’d told you about. 

You were dressed in a mini skirt and tank top that showed off your cleavage, and opted to pair the outfit with a pair of sneakers. 

Dean had laughed when he noticed your shoes. 

“What?” you’d asked. 

“Just… you,” Dean had replied. “Wearin’ sneaks to a bar.”

“I’m not wearin’ my heels to go step in spilled beer and possible vomit,” you’d shrugged.

When you arrived at the bar, it seemed more like a club. People bustled throughout the street, most of them heading into one of the several bars or strip clubs lining the street. Some were staggering around drunkenly despite the late afternoon sun; a sight you’d usually see at three in the morning.

“It’s five o’clock somewhere, I guess,” you said to yourself, taking in your surroundings. 

“I thought you said this was some boarded-up factory town,” Dean said to Sam.

“It is. At least, it’s supposed to be,” the younger brother responded, looking uncomfortable.

A girl walked past you holding a cocktail and eyeing Dean wantonly. You glared at her, but Dean honestly didn’t seem to notice her. He moved to you and wrapped his arm around your shoulders. You smirked and wrapped your own around the small of his back. 

“Well, what are we waiting for? Let's do some research,” Dean grinned, guiding you toward the bar. 

Despite your stoic, often introverted, and guarded nature, you really did enjoy nightlife on the occasion; especially if a particular Winchester was involved. 

You were the first to step into Trotter’s bar, sliding out from under Dean’s arm to grab his hand and guide him through the crowded room. The bar was completely alive and seemed more like a club than anything. 

You turned back to see Sam looking uncomfortable and overstimulated, and Dean just smirked down at you with that trademark hard-to-read expression of his. When you turned back around, you nearly bumped into Richie. 

“Oh!” You jumped back in surprise. “Hey!”

The man was wearing an orange short-sleeved shirt halfway unbuttoned to reveal a white wife beater underneath. 

“Oh, Richie. Look at you,” Dean chuckled, shaking his hand. “Bringing satin back.”

“Oh, you like this? Try Thai silk. Canal Street,” Richie boasted. “You'd have to pay $300 for threads like these, easy. Cost to me? Fuggedaboutit.”

“How much is ‘forget about it’?” Sam chuckled.

“Ah, forget about it,” the man shrugged, clearly a little intoxicated. “That's Trotter over there. He sits there all night. Can't touch him.” He gestured to a bald, strong-looking man wearing a sharp suit. He almost reminded you of Kingpin from one of your little brother’s favorite Marvel comics. 

“So, what do we do now?” Sam asked.

“I’m thinkin’ I’ll go talk to the bartender,” you began. 

“Whoa,” Dean cut you off, “why can’t we have a little fun first?”

You deadpanned at him. “In case you haven’t noticed, we’re here to work.”

“Yeah, but—”

You continued your deadfaced stare at him, and he conceded. 

“Fine,” Dean said. 

“May need some of your charm, too; who knows what she’s into?” you suggested, smacking Dean’s ass lightly. 

You smirked over your shoulder at him as you sauntered to the bar. You heard Richie comment, “You feel like sharin’?’ followed by a quick, “Don’t even think about it,” from Dean. 

You looked down the bar to see the priest you’d talked to from the church the latest victim died in talking to the pretty bartender. She turned away from him and to a customer further down the bar from you. 

“Father?” you asked. 

“Knew you kids would find your way here. They all do.”

“No offense, man, but what are you doing here?” you questioned.

“Like it or not, you go where your flock is,” he shrugged.

“Plus, the clergy drinks for free,” the bartender chimed in, handing the man a whiskey neat.

“True, and a certain bartender owes me a confession,” the priest jested. 

“Not in this lifetime, Father,” she replied.

“I better see your butt on Sunday,” he told her, getting up from his chair and leaving. 

“What can I get you, love?” the bartender asked you. 

You leaned up on the bar, pushing your breasts together slightly. “What’s your specialty?” you asked. 

“I make a mean hurricane,” she replied, smirking. 

“We’ll see about that,” you challenged. 

The bartender seemed intrigued by you, and she smiled flirtatiously as she went to make your drink. 

Dean came up next to you at that moment and wrapped an arm around your waist, hand landing close to your ass. “How’s it goin’?” he asked. 

“Just makin’ friends,” you shrugged, grinning. 

“Don’t get too friendly,” he warned. 

You snickered. Suddenly, something near the pool table caught your attention. 

“Hey, what are you doing?!” a man panickedly yelled.

You then noticed the man across from the panicked one was holding a gun. You nodded toward the scene. “Dean—” 

You set off toward the pair, but the man raised the gun and shot the other point-blank. The crowd immediately erupted into chaos as you sprinted over to the man who was raising the gun to his chin. 

Dean tackled the man to the ground, and Sam appeared beside you with holy water. He splashed the holy water on the man, but the man’s skin didn’t sizzle. 

“What are you doing?!” the man exclaimed. He suddenly realized what he'd done and began to writhe on the ground, crying, “He slept with my wife. That bastard slept with my wife!”

You took out your phone and called 911 while Sam and Dean kept the man in a sort of citizen’s arrest. 

When the cops did arrive, Sam seemed to get anxious again despite the bar’s emptiness. “Too many cops here. I say we roll.”

“Just be cool,” Dean encouraged. “Poor jerk. Only thing possessing him was a sixer of Pabst.”

“So, what's the deal, then? People in this town getting possessed or not?” Sam wondered aloud. 

“I don’t know,” you said, furrowing your eyebrows. “Maybe they’re influencin’ ‘em some kind of way?” “Yeah, maybe,” Sam replied. 

“You guys ready for your mug shots?” a police officer asked you and the brothers. Cued by your panicked expressions, the cop tried to soothe your worries. “The photographer's gonna be here in a few and take your picture for the local paper.”

Dean seemed relieved and feigned enthusiasm. “Be an honor, Officer. What a thrill!”

“Yep, time to go,” Sam said, standing.

“Wait a second. Wait a second,” Dean stated, looking around.

“What?’ you and Sam asked in hushed voices. 

“Where’s Richie?”

***

The next day, Dean couldn’t seem to keep his leg from bouncing under the table in his seat beside you at Trotter’s bar. He kept trying Richie’s phone number, but no response ever came. 

“You do realize there's red meat within striking distance, right?” Sam said, referencing the large hamburger sitting in front of Dean. 

“How many times I got to tell Richie he's gonna get himself in trouble?” Dean sighed. 

“Dean, he’s not your responsibility,” you assured him. 

“And you’re assuming he's missing. I mean, maybe he just bailed,” Sam added. 

“He’s a moron,” replied Dean. “I mean, he's a sweet moron, but he's not a coward. He wouldn't just bail. I got to go find him.”

“I’ll go with you,” you said. 

“You guys do that,” Sam said. “Meanwhile, I think I’m gonna trail this Trotter guy.”

“Yeah?” Dean questioned. 

“Yeah. I don't know. Something about the way he looked at me last night.

Maybe there is something going on here.”

***

You and Dean returned to your motel around midday after lunch with Sam at Trotter’s. 

“How well do you even know this guy, Dean?” you asked.

“Well, it’s like I said—” he began as you sat behind your computer screen, “he was toast until I found him. We had a few drinks after, but that was about it.”

You stared at him over the top of your computer screen. 

“What?”

“Nothing,” you replied, a love-drunk smile pulling on the ends of your lips. “You’re just sweet.”

“Shuddup,” he mumbled, looking embarrassed. 

“Seriously! You care this much about a dude you don’t even know that you’re having me track the GPS in his phone. It’s adorable,” you replied. 

He kept his head low, but you could see the smile Dean was fighting. “You’re… annoying,” he murmured. 

“Oh, really? I’m annoying?” you smirked, standing from your chair while your laptop screen began to populate with all of Richie’s previous locations over the last week based on his cell phone’s GPS signal. 

Dean caught you by the waist. “Yeah, you are,” he said. 

You wrapped your arms around his shoulders and lazily dragged your nails up his back. He let out a few shuddering breaths. You leaned in to kiss him when a dinging sound came from your computer and forced the two of you apart. You headed back to the laptop and pointed at his last known location. You pulled an image of the coordinates up. 

“Corner of Piermont and Clinton,” you announced. 

“He did mention having plans with that bartender,” Dean said, “maybe that’s where she lives?”

You nodded. “Alright, let’s get goin’.”

You stood to leave, and Dean smacked your ass as you walked off. 

“What was that for?!” you squeaked. 

“ ‘Cause you’re a tease,” Dean smirked. “And still annoying.”

You stuck your tongue out at him and grinned. 

***

After conducting your investigation, you were charged with the task of staying behind to wait for Dean and the bartender. You hid in the shadows of the cellar with your handgun readied. 

You heard Dean’s voice suddenly coming down the stairs toward the cellar. “Looks like the maid's day off,” he commented. “Everything okay?”

You heard the woman kiss Dean, and you nearly jumped out of your hiding spot. 

“Make yourself comfortable,” the woman said. 

“Oh, I forgot to mention,” Dean tsked, “Richie was a friend of mine. When I realized I could track the GPS in his cellphone, I swung by earlier. Gave him a proper burial. It's better than rotting in some skank's basement.”

You stepped out from the shadows then, and the bartender launched herself toward Dean. She was suddenly stopped by an invisible barrier. 

“Oops,” Dean smirked. He leaned down to the carpet and lifted the corner to reveal the Devil’s Trap you’d spray painted on the floor while Dean was gone. 

“Isn't that a buzz kill?” the older Winchester smirked.  “Sorry, sister, but you're going back to where you came from.”

“I don't think so,” the bartender laughed. 

You took out the book in your pocket and began to read in Latin. “Exorcizamus te, omnis—” A violent gust of wind blowing past you cut you off, and you saw the demon before you with her eyes closed as though in deep meditation. You recollected yourself and began to read again. “Exorcizamus te—”

The pages were then ripped out of the book by the breeze. The woman opened her eyes and grinned at you.

“(Y/N), look out!” Dean yelled. 

Just then, the bricks from the walls around you began to crumble inward. You dove toward the window to avoid getting hit by falling rocks. Dean rushed to you and helped you up. He turned his gaze to the demon in a glare. The demon grinned. 

“What are you laughing at, bitch? You're still trapped,” Dean growled. 

“So are you, bitch,” she sultrily said. 

“So, what, I send you back to hell, and we rot down here?” you spat. 

“Half the plan. Doubt you’ll be able to do that without your little book,” she smiled. 

“I’m sure I could figure it out,” you said. “Exorcizamus te,” you began with authority, “omnis immundus spiritus. Omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio, infernalis adversarii—”

Dean suddenly gasped out in pain and began to grab at his neck. 

You immediately stopped the ritual. “What are you doing?!” you shouted, sinking to the ground with Dean, “Stop it!”

“Stop trying to ruin my fun, then. You’re good, I’ll give you that,” the demon cooed, Dean suddenly able to breathe again. “But I thought Sam was supposed to be the brains of the outfit.”

“How do you know that?” Dean questioned.

“You Winchester boys are famous. Not Lohan famous, but, y’know,” she shrugged. “And you, (Y/N)—” she hissed out your name— “are making your own way through the circles, too.”

“Well, that's flattering,” Dean commented, “I'll be sure to let Sam know when he gets here.”

“If he shows up first.”

The two of you looked to the bartender, surprised. 

“What, you thought I was flying solo?” she asked mockingly. “You shouldn't underestimate, kids, it might be the death of you.”

You glared at her. 

“You can give me hard eyes all you want,” she replied, “but the fact remains, we just have to wait and see who shows up first… the cavalry,” she smiled, “or the Indians.”

***

“Anybody ever tell you how nice your ass is, (Y/N)?” the bartender drawled from the floor behind you. You stood on top of a cask of wine attempting to get cell reception through the small window daylight streamed in from. 

“Bite me, bitch,” you replied without turning to look at her. 

“Look, why don’t you relax?” she asked you and Dean. 

“Why don't you kiss my ass?” Dean flippantly responded. 

“Why, Dean, you're a poet. I had no idea,” she deadpanned. “Look, we won't have any effect on the outcome of this. We might as well be civil.”

“Civil, huh? Killing Richie, that was— that was civil? The guy was harmless,” Dean countered. 

The demon raised an eyebrow. “That knife he pulled on me? Didn't look so harmless.”

“Ah, a knife wouldn't hurt you,” Dean replied. 

“No, but it would damage this body. And Casey has such a fine body, I wouldn't want to see it ripped.” The demon stretched out lazily on the floor, arching her back. 

“Touching,” you said, jumping down from atop the cask when your efforts proved pointless. “But don’t pretend you have a heart. We know what you did.”

“Hey, I didn't pull any triggers,” the demon possessing Casey shrugged. 

“Yeah?” Dean barked. “You did something.”

“You want to know what I did?” the demon pushed herself into a sitting position. “What I really did? I had lunch.”

“Lunch?” Dean questioned.

“Me and Trotter,” she began. “He had a cheeseburger, I had a salad, and I just pointed out the money that could be made with a few businesses that cater to harmless vice. So Trotter built it, and man, did they come. Supposedly god-fearing folk, waist-deep in booze, sex, and gambling. I barely lifted a finger.”

“That’s it?” you scoffed. 

“You don't get it. All you gotta do is nudge humans in the right direction,” Casey continued. “Some whiskey here, a hooker there, and they'll walk right into hell with big, fat smiles on their faces. Your kind is corrupt, kids. Weak. Our will's stronger. That's why we'll win.”

“And that’s how this ends?” you pushed. 

“No. That's how it begins.”

“So, demons take over,” you continued. “And you’re convinced that’ll work… how?”

“Yeah, I thought the meek shall inherit the earth,” Dean piled on. 

Casey rolled her eyes. “Oh, according to your Bible. It's only a book, Dean.”

“Not everyone would agree,” Dean replied simply. 

You stared at him strangely, and he shrugged in response. 

“Because it's god's book?” Casey pressed. “Do you believe in god, Dean? I'd be surprised if you did.”

“I don’t know,” Dean said honestly. “I'd like to.”

“Well, god’s done a bang-up job in my opinion,” you said, unable to help yourself. 

“Finally, someone who makes sense,” Casey snickered. “I like you, (Y/N).” She returned her focus to Dean. “War, genocide; it's only getting worse. I mean, this past century, you people racked up a body count that amazed even us. It's our turn, now, and we're gonna do it right this time.”

Dean heard a noise and turned his face up to the grate you’d tried getting cell service from. 

“Don't be hopeful, Dean. You're not delivered. It's only the wind,” Casey commented. 

Despite yourself, you laughed. 

Dean and Casey turned their attention toward you. 

“Whose side are you on there, sweetheart?” Dean questioned, slightly pointedly. 

“Sorry. Demon or not, she’s funny.” You cleared your throat and regained your composure. “You keep talking about this ‘endgame.’ Pretty vague. How am I supposed to even know there is one?”

“Why would I lie?” she countered. 

“Demons lie,” Dean replied. 

“Some do. Some are true believers.”

“Believers in what?” you pressed. 

Casey scoffed. “What, you think humans have an exclusive on a higher power?”

Dean looked shocked, as did you. “You have a god?” Dean asked. 

“Sure,” the demon shrugged. “His name's Lucifer.”

You deflated and crossed your arms. “You mean the devil.”

“You don’t seem impressed,” Casey noted, seeming intrigued by you. 

“ ‘Cause I’m not,” you replied. “No offense, but he doesn’t exactly put the fear of god in me.”

“Well, he should,” she told you. “Once, he was the most beautiful of all god's angels. But god demanded that he bow down before man, and when he refused, god banished him. Tell me, how do you like bowing before lesser creatures?”

“Lucifer's really real?” Dean wondered aloud. 

“Well, no one's actually seen him,” Casey explained, “but they say that he made us into what we are, and they say that he'll return.”

“Oh, gimme a break,” you said, slumping to the floor. 

“What? Is faith such a laughable concept to you?” Casey remarked. 

“Absolutely,” you said coldly. 

“Well, you’d better start believing. A lot of you humans are in for a real treat when this is all over,” she said coolly. “Dick Cheney?”

“He one of yours?” Dean asked.

“Not yet. Let's just say, he's got a parking spot reserved for him downstairs.”

Dean laughed despite himself before pausing a moment. “Hey, speaking of downstairs… What's it like down there?”

“What, Hell?”

Dean nodded. 

“That's right,” Casey smirked. “You booked a one-way ticket with that deal.”

Dean laughed in discomfort, and you eyed him sympathetically. 

“You're not gonna like it, Dean,” the demon said honestly. “And, um, judging from the trouble you've caused, I don't think you'll be getting the presidential suite. No, it's a pit of despair. Why do you think we want to come here?”

Dean looked somber, as did you. You knew better than to reach your hand out to comfort him, and you just sat against the wall with your knees tucked into your chest.

A few moments passed before Casey spoke up again. “Kind of funny, don't you think? Three of us sitting here like regular folk.”

“Yeah, it's hilarious,” Dean deadpanned, “y’know, in that… apocalyptic sort of way.”

“You're all right, Dean,” Casey said seriously.

Dean scoffed, and you flicked your eyes between your love and Casey.

“The others don't describe you that way. But, you know, you're— you're likable.”

“Well, keep how much you like ‘im to yourself, sister,” you spat. 

“Jealous, are we?” Casey mused. “Don’t worry, darlin’. He’s all yours.”

“A demon likes me,” was all Dean could think to say. “Sorry, I don't know how to respond to that.”

“You could say thanks,” she mocked. “That deal you made to save Sam; a lot of others would mock you for it, think it was weak or stupid. I don't.”

Dean paused for a moment. “It's been kind of liberating, actually. Y’know, what's the point in worrying about a future, when you don't have one?”

Your eyes saddened upon hearing that. You cast your gaze down to the floor, knowing you’d cry if you looked at Dean.

“Still, a year left. You're not scared?” Casey asked. 

“Nah.”

“Not even a little?”

“Of course not.” However, you caught the briefest bit of hesitation in his voice. 

Dean then seemed to notice your sadness. “Hey, I’m—”

“Save it,” you said, feeling brave enough to look up at him. “We’ll talk about this later.”

“Didn’t mean to cause any trouble in paradise,” Casey snickered. 

“Hey, can I ask you a question?” you asked pointedly. 

“I’m an open book,” the demon shrugged. 

“So, the gate opened. The demon army was let out. What now, huh?” you questioned. “I'm not seeing a big master plan here.”

“Honestly, there was a plan,” she replied. “Azazel was a tyrant, but he held us all together.”

“Azazel?” you and Dean asked in unison. 

“What, you think his friends just called him ‘Yellow Eyes’? He had a name. After you did him in—” Casey nodded toward you, “it all fell apart.”

You smirked. “Sorry ‘bout that.”

The demon cut her eyes at you in challenge. 

“So, what? No chain of command?” Dean pressed.

“There was. It was Sam. Sam was supposed to be the grand pooh-bah and lead the big army, but he hasn't exactly stepped up to the plate, has he?”

“Thank god for that,” Dean breathed out. 

“Again with god,” Casey groaned. “You think this is a good thing? Now you've got chaos, a war without a front, hundreds of demons all jockeying for power, all fighting for the crown. Most of them, gunning for your brother.” She looked toward a conflicted Dean, becoming incredibly serious. “For the record, I was ready to follow Sam.”

Before you could ask anymore questions, you heard Sam call yours and Dean’s names.

“Sam?!” you and Dean called, scrambling to your feet. 

“Looks like you win,” Casey smirked. 

You weren’t too sure that you actually had. “What’s that look for—” 

Your question was cut off by a loud pounding on the door. 

“Dean!” you heard Sam calling. 

“Sam!” Dean replied. “Sammy, down here! The basement caved in!” Sam’s voice appeared at the grate you’d been trying to get cell reception through. “Guys, hold on, okay? We’re coming.”

“Who’s we?” you asked.

“I’m here with the father.”

You whipped back around to Casey who seemed almost excited. 

“Sam, be careful—” 

And then suddenly, a gunshot was heard. 

“Sam!” Dean called. 

Then, the rocks covering the entrance to the cellar began to move aside. In came the pastor, who you attempted to rush. You were thrown to the wall and fell to the ground painfully. 

When you recovered, you stood to see the priest and Casey passionately kissing outside the Devil’s Trap. 

“You two?” Dean questioned, face twisting up in disgust. 

“For centuries,” the priest nodded. “We've been to Hell and back, literally.”

“Leave ‘em be,” Casey told the pastor.

He didn’t listen to her and approached Dean, grabbing him by the throat. You tried to rush him again, but you were held to the wall by the priest’s power. 

“Don't kill him. Let's just go,” Casey begged. “Please.”

Sam appeared at that moment and shot the priest without hesitation. Lightning emitted from the priest’s wound, eyes, and chest, and he slumped to the ground. 

“Sam, wait!” Dean told him. 

But it was too late. Casey suffered the same fate as the priest. You looked to the two real human bodies on the ground and mourned a little for both of the humans behind their demonic state. 

***

“I cannot believe you ransacked Richie’s stash,” you told Dean as he rolled a joint under the cover of night sitting on the hood of the Impala. 

“Well, not like he can use it anymore,” Dean shrugged. “Besides, it’s a tribute to him.”

You rolled your eyes and laughed. You took out your lighter and took the joint from your partner. While you lit up, Dean asked you a question. “What do you think? About what we did here; you think it made a difference?”

“I don’t know. Humans aren’t our job, but still,” you replied after taking a hit, “it’s kinda weird leaving knowing things may never be resolved.”

“Yeah, I mean, maybe these people do just want to really destroy themselves. Maybe it is—” Dean seemed to struggle for a moment to find the words, “a losing battle.” He took the joint back from you and took a hit. 

“Is that you or the demon chick talking?” you asked playfully, nudging your shoulder with his. Although, you knew he knew you were seriously asking him.

“Oh, it’s me,” Dean replied. “Demon’s very dead.”

“Well, had to be done, I guess,” you shrugged. “Sam was saving your life.”

“Yeah, but I don’t know, (Y/N),” Dean started, shaking his head and passing the joint back to you, “it was cold.”

“I agree,” you nodded. You took a deep breath and slowly let a cloud of smoke pass through your lips. 

“Back in Wyoming,” Dean began, “there was this moment. Yellow Eyes said something to me.”

You looked to him expectantly, taking a second hit. 

“That maybe when… Sam came back from, well, wherever, that maybe he came back different.”

“Different how?” you questioned, cocking your head to the side. 

“I don't know. Whatever it was, it didn't sound good. You think— You think something's wrong with my brother?”

You considered for a moment. You knew no matter how you answered, Dean wouldn’t be satisfied until he knew for sure. You opted for attempting to provide him comfort. “No. Demons lie. I'm sure Sam's okay.”

Dean nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, me too.”

Series Rewrite Taglist: @polireader @brightlilith @atcamillanorrman @jrizzelle @insomnia-bookworm @procrastination20 @mrs-liebgott @djs8891 @tiggytaylor @staple-your-mouth @jesstherebel @rach5ive @strawberrykiwisdogog @bruhidkjustwannaread @mxltifxnd0m @sunshine-on-marz @big-ol-boat @mgchaser @capncrankle @chervbs @simpingdeadcharacters @nesnejwritings @stillhere197 @tearsforhan @take-it-on-the-run @iloveyou2mia @maxinehufflepuffprincess @ohgeehowdigethere @seninjakitey @berarenado @s0urw00lf @princessleahorgana @quarterhorse19 @isla-finke-blog @silverdoragon @karacaroldanvers @gayandfairycore @examishbookwyrm @star-yawnznn @real-sharena-h @fandomloverrr @metalmonki @onlyangel-444 @yu-winchester @benniwiththefanni @daisychaingirl @immagods @missmieux @yoongi-holland @littledebbieinabigworld

[flamingpudding]

I am keeping him B

A/N: Stress late night writing, while I am supposed to sleep cause I still got work tomorrow but screw my life...

It all started with the disappearance of Box Ghost, followed by Spectra. Back then, Danny didn't realize what was happening, and he still blamed himself for that. What a fine bridge of balance he was....

The next to disappear had been Elli and Danny had mobilize whatever he could to organize a search party when he lost contact. After Elli, Ember was next. Maybe by then Danny should be realized.

Dan was the next in line of disappearances. Vlad was the one making Danny aware of it. Everything Danny had mobilized in his search for Elli was extended to find Dan now, too.

Shortly after Dan, Vlad also disappeared from the face of earth. If he hadn't already be worried Danny would have been now. His events tripled, sleepless nights followed, days in which Jazz practically had to force him to sleep.

One by one all the Ghosts Danny knew disappeared. Maybe he would have realized it sooner if he had paid more attention to certain things, to the news to politics, to anything really. Maybe then Danny would be noticed the appearance of Dalv.Co and his parents invention on the black market. The sudden spike in Meta traficing following or the sudden interest in Ecto-entities.

But he hadn't...

...and that probably what was what costed him too.

Because, one day, he woke up in a dark cell, still in his Phantom transformation but with a collar around his neck. It zapped him any time he touched it or tried to let go of his ghost form. It was like a reverse of the stupid taser Vlad had. There were no mirrors or anything he could use to see himself with, but he had a feeling that collar used Fenton tech. He also realized that he was in a more eldrich kind of transformation. His hands that usually were in white gloves when in phantom form were clawed and inky black with sparks that reminded Danny of the night sky's above Amity Park. He couldn't tell if he looked anything like himself or not, but judging by his hands, probably not.

That day, when Danny woke up in that cell, he realized the reason behind the disappearances of his family and ghost rogues. Just like there was a spike in Meta trafficking, the growing interest had also developed into Ecto-Entity trafficking and worse was, they weren't even protected by law. The Anti-Ecto Acts are making it not even a real or all too big of a crime.

Months passed, and Danny learned to shut his mouth and emotions out. He thought he was even in a state disassociation, Jazz would have been proud of him for his self diagnosis, maybe. With the passing days, Danny stopped remembering who owned him and who he was forced to fight. Sometimes, his eyes came to live when he met one of his old friends in the battle rings. Tho their fights were no longer a form or bonding, it still felt nice to sometimes feel the heat of Ember's flames, the sting of Skulkers blasters or even see a box get thrown at him.

Of course, he had tried to escape or save at least one of the others before, but whoever modified his parents' inventions knew what they were doing. All his attempts were met with failure.

But then the day everything changed came. Danny didn't know how long it had been, all he knew was that a stupid clown was his current holder. The guy spouted some nonsense or wanting to see how a bat, of all animals held himself against one of the strongest ecto-entiies. Danny really wanted to refuse, yell at that fruitloop of a clown and be done with the World.

But what he didn't expect to happen that day was the shock of electricity, the ricochet of a bullet, the crack of metal... and the collar falling of his neck.

Suddenly, Danny no longer felt like he was trapped in his own body, like he was just an onlooker, but at the same time, he had never felt this tired before. He stumbled forward his body losing whatever momentum he had before. It was a single arm that saved him from faceplanting.

"Fuck! That thing was actually a kid!"

"What?!"

"I am going to fucking murder the clown."

Danny blinked slowly as he felt his awareness sliding from him, yet he still couldn't help muttering at least something before the world would go dark. "Get in line, I really hate clowns, and he is the nightmare realm fodder."

Danny felt the arm holding him shaking, and he really wanted to close his eyes and sleep, but right before he did, in fact, black out from pure exhaustion, he heard one last thing. "I don't give a fuck, B. I like this kid so I am keeping him."

[scaly-freaks]

cherry wine stains 8.0

playing it a little differently and rewinding back to their school years but with an Aegon POV this time.

all previous parts in pinned.

"I like your knee-high socks."

"I like the chain you wear like a crucifix."

"Strange way to describe it."

"I don't know. It just - it hangs around your neck like the absence of something."

Her words dissolve like sugar into the cup of his mind.

Clever people don't realise the riptide of their soul is not being fed until they meet another clever person. Aegon's currents slow to a whispered crawl as his eyes trace Amara's profile, creating images in the tangle of her windswept curls.

She's left a lipstick print on his mother's favourite mug. When he sees it, his soul unhooks from where he keeps it folded away, right there at the base of his neck where the silver chain fastens.

Later, he'll kiss that print, see if the measure of his mouth is enough.

Helaena told him in private: You can't! You can't, you can't, you can't! You ruin everything!

The frantic protests of a younger sister who thinks - knows - that her older brother getting involved with one of her friends is going to end up in a loss for her. He's dated one of Helaena's friends before (it ended in the kind of operatic disaster you only ever see on Eastenders).

He does not want to date Amara as much as he wants to pry her open like a game of cat's cradle and weave apart the strings that keep her mobile. Half the time, Aegon suspects she isn't truly awake. Some part of her is drowning in slumber, deep as Briar Rose. He catches that moment sometimes, as she blinks at him with those sleepy eyes.

The texture of her thoughts - when she gives them up - slips like satin over his fingers.

"Do you want a smoke?" He flips the mint-green box in his palm and grins.

Her gaze is longing. "I told my mother I'd quit. Besides, aren't menthol cigarettes banned here?"

He shrugs, slipping one between his pinched lips to hold it steady. "Nothing's banned if you squint."

"Flawed logic," she laughs.

"She said to a drug dealer."

That makes her laugh harder. He likes making her laugh. Feels worthwhile somehow. Not much in his life feels that way these days.

The younger siblings are all growing up, leaving school, moving onto greener pastures, where the chaotic drudgery of the council estate turns into a crystalline vision in the rearview, something to put into personal statements and add what rich tossers would call flavour.

They don't need him like they used to. He and his mother have raised them to become self-sufficient and now Aegon has to figure out what he wants to do with himself because where the kids are going, they won't want to admit what their brother does - has done - for a living to ensure their survival. He predicts he'll be the family embarrassment every Christmas, the uncle that shows up drunk, with a sliver of something in his eyes that suggests he could have been something once.

He knows he won't end up that way. His need to be someone, get somewhere, is far too aggressive. But he does fear no longer being needed by the people who have relied on him so long he can no longer extricate himself from the identity of protector.

Maybe it's why he likes making Amara laugh.

She doesn't have siblings. Her eyes still dart around, nervous, as if aware her protection in this world is lacking compared to that of others. Her parents won't always be around. When they are gone, there won't be siblings to divide her grief up with. It'll just be her.

If his subconscious is turning her into his new surrogate sister, it doesn't reconcile well with the instinct that stirs when her skirt rides up an inch.

Alicent's stained glass lamp flickers, bulb on the brink of permanent death. Aegon reaches over to ensure it is screwed on properly and it affords them a last burst of weak light. Amara reaches out her hand under the dappled glow of its illumination, slipping her fingers under the violets, yellows and greens, as the crook of her elbow turns rose pink.

"I've always liked your mother's taste in furniture."

"Yeah? Take it. She wants to throw it out."

"No. If she's decided it's dead, it should go. I'll just be keeping the corpse if I took it."

Aegon's eyes wrinkle at the corners, smile disguised by the inhale of the cigarette. "It's not organic material. There's no corpse."

She glances at him, as if aware of his mockery despite the affection he delivers it with. "I think some inanimate objects come alive if they are loved enough. Alicent's had this lamp since I've known her. It's lived with her, and now it'll die. We shouldn't interrupt the process."

No wonder Helaena adores her.

They are both odd creatures, his little sister, and this intense, doll-eyed mirage that turned up at their doorstep one day, hungry for oven chips and love. She reached out her cold hands to Alicent, and found herself overwhelmed with the warmth and affection given in return.

He's known her so long, she should feel like a sibling.

What does it say about him if he can't stop wondering what it must feel like to graze his lips over her stomach and tongue that bellybutton ring she got in a short-lived fit of rebellion?

Aegon flicks aside the cigarette, mouth acidic with guilt.

He isn't the kind of person who wants. Other people want. Aegon goes out and gets. There isn't enough time to submerge in the feeling of want and understand the true depth of craving the human soul can achieve.

But he sees the whorl of soft hair at the nape of her neck and the feeling crawls up the rungs of his ribcage like a creature possessed. He pictures being small enough to curl up in the soft folds of her clothing, to soak in the scent of her until he passes out from exhaustion.

That feels like enough wanting for today.

"I'll see you downstairs, yeah?"

If she looks disappointed, it's just wishful thinking on his part. She knows he's not going anywhere. He'll be in the living room with the rest of the family who've put on Shrek and are split into two groups - the half that sings along, and the half that won't.

"I'll be down in a bit."

"Cool."

A sudden gust of wind lifts her hair, and the flimsy ribbon comes loose. He catches it before it finds freedom. She turns, expectant, waiting for the inevitable return of her almost-lost property. He pulls it between his fingers, wonders if it also carries life inside the woven thread, the way she claimed his mother's lamp does.

The weight of her hair rivals Isolde's.

Irish myths were a rooted part of his childhood, laced into Alicent's quiet voice every bed time. She swears the Hightowers are mostly, if not fully, Irish. But she could never be sure of how far back, or of the intricacies of any bloodlines. Rich people have the luxury of unfurling a family tree across the polished mahogany of their dining room table. They get to find their eyes, noses and mouths in the faces of people who lived too long ago to care what has become of their DNA.

Poor people make do with maybes and perhaps because most of the time, the lives of their ancestors are of no interest to anyone but themselves. Unless a mining forefather was crushed in a collapse and the resulting riots tore down a political establishment.

So, his mother pulled them back to times so ancient, the ancestors became common for all, their bloodlines too distant to maintain individuality.

If Tristan and Isolde are in Aegon's ancestry, that past life becomes tangible when he runs his fingers through Amara's hair and tames it into a braid he's practiced on Helaena a hundred times.

"There's something mythical about your hair," he says, and then cuts himself short because he deals drugs for a living, and whatever fancy thought this was about to be would make more sense from someone more booksmart.

She cranes her neck back and gives him the brightest upside-down smile. "That's the best compliment anyone's ever given me."

Aegon bites the inner corner of his lip and nudges her to look straight so he can keep braiding.

Once her eyes are off his face, it splits into a smile. Warmth drains down his spine like gold egg yolk poured from its shell. Once the braid is done, he rests his chin on the top of her head, and passes it off as brotherly with a goldfish-squeeze of her cheeks.

He lingers, inhales deep, smells her, turns her scent into binary code that he will decipher in isolation later.

"Don't be too long. You'll catch your death out here."

[smytherines]

The headcanon that keeps me up at night is the idea that Owen Carvour was this very closed-off, isolated guy who just singlemindedly devoted himself to spycraft (almost as if it were his special interest) and was generally disinterested in any sort of relationship- romantic or otherwise- and suddenly agent Curt Mega strolls into his life and stubbornly insists on being part of it.

And Owen is just completely, utterly fascinated with this guy. Infatuated with him. How could he not be? Curt is perhaps the only person on Earth that can keep pace with Owen, that can best him (not that Owen would ever admit to it). He's so different from Owen, but they're also very much the same.

And over a number of years Curt wins his trust. First by being an excellent (if unconventional) partner, and then they start a physical relationship. And then Owen actually finds himself in love with this person, an attachment he never wanted but now can't live without (in a way he sort of resents Curt for sometimes).

He feels these things in an overwhelming but impossible to articulate way, to the degree that he willingly puts himself in a position to be outnumbered 21 to 1 to rescue Curt from a Russian weapons facility- because that's what you do when you love someone, right? You flip off god and walk backwards into hell for them.

So when Curt leaves Owen to die, part of him just fractures. This delicate, imperfect, but still very real trust he had in Curt is absolutely shattered. He's afraid and helpless and critically injured, and the last thing he can remember before waking up in unimaginable pain, his body and brain damaged in a way he will never fully recover from, is the look of horror on Curt's face as he ran away.

And the worst part is that there is no way for Owen to disengage from those feelings. He will never have any sort of distance from Curt and his betrayal ever again. His body hurts constantly, his mobility is impacted, he gets headaches and vertigo and panic attacks, and every single time he is forced to relive the moment that Curt left him. Forced to relive that terror.

Every time his leg gives out while he's forcing himself to walk without crutches, or the burn scars start to ache, or his vision goes blurry and his heart feels like its going to burst out of his chest, he feels that hurt. The only person he would've ever confided those feelings in is the reason those feelings exist to begin with. That person thinks Owen is dead. And Owen sometimes wishes he had died too.

And Owen hates Curt, but more than anything he hates himself for trusting Curt. For putting himself in a vulnerable position to save Curt, only to be destroyed by Curt's hubris- part of the very same thing that made Curt irresistible to him. That cocky confidence, the effortless charm, the completely intuitive, instinctive way his mind worked- a style that had never let him down before. Owen loved him, and he knows that if the situation were reversed he would've gone back for him. He would've laid down and died next to him. And it's blisteringly painful to him to realize that the same wasn't true for Curt.

And for Curt's part I don't think he was like "oh well, fuck it, time to book." I don't think he thought at all in that moment. He didn't decide to leave Owen so much as his body, his adrenaline, his instinct made the decision for him. It was fight or flight, and his body chose flight. Speaking from personal experience, when you have ADHD and you realize that you've screwed up and you're suddenly overwhelmed with emotion, your body can just kinda carry you away without thinking.

But the leaving being involuntary doesn't help Curt deal with his grief and shame and self-hatred, because he still has to live with the decisions he did consciously make that night- leaving the banana peel on the steps, deciding to blow up the facility instead of just sending the blueprints with the watch, setting the timer for three minutes instead of four.

For years, when he's not too drunk to think at all, he endlessly relives each point where things could have gone differently. He obsessively thinks about how his pride was a bit bruised by needing to be rescued, by being chewed out by a boss who seemed to prefer his partner to him, and wondering if maybe he was more over the top than usual out of spite or insecurity, to save face with Cynthia and Barb, to impress Owen (because he loved Owen and respected him and cared about what Owen thought of him).

He wonders if Owen was right about his drinking, and then he drinks to shut out the pain of that thought.

He has to live with the decision his adrenaline made, tortured by the idea that he should've somehow fought back against that flight impulse in the moment and gone back for Owen. Tortured by the idea that maybe, if his rational brain had been fully present, he might have still made the same decision- leaving Owen to save himself.

He saw Owen twitching on the ground, grasping onto the banana peel, bleeding out on the concrete. He was almost certainly about to die, but when Curt left Owen hadn't died yet. So maybe, maybe, maybe there was a chance and Curt missed it. And every time he thinks about the possibility he feels sick. And he drinks. And he has imaginary conversations with his dead partner before passing out curled up in the corner of his bed, clutching a pillow, his eyes red and burning from the tears.

This was supposed to just be a couple of short paragraphs, but that's what I get for thinking about curtwen I guess

[qqueenofhades]

JSYK the OP of the Crab Day post is a self-identified conservative Christian. Can't speak to anything she may have done or said, but I do know that Crab Day wouldn't actually fix Tumblr - the site is running a 30mil *deficit,* which is different from debt. All Crab Day would do would be telling staff that their current policies get users to send them more money, which doesn't actually change anything. Corporations change only when their business strategy is losing the shareholders money.

Gotta be honest, my friend, I'm... not sure what you're trying to do here? Warn me that the original post was made by a Problematic Person (tm) and therefore that must mean it's all wrong, or.... what?

We know that Tumblr badly needs money, because they have told us that and openly admitted that the unpopular new changes were spurred by a need for increasing revenue. I logged on just now on desktop and got a suggestion that I could purchase an ad-free browsing subscription to help support the hellsite (which is the word they used, because they have very much embraced the joke). I have in fact already bought an ad-free subscription, both because I like the product Tumblr provides and want to keep using it in its current form, and because it makes my mobile experience immeasurably nicer. I am well aware that especially in this era of social media sites dropping like flies, the continued existence of a platform that is 30-million-dollars underwater (however you want to split hairs about exactly how) is not a guarantee. And we all complain about Tumblr, but we have all been here a long time (me, uh, over 10 years), we have a solid community, there's no other alternative that's really ever come up or gotten the same kind of uptake, and if it went under, we would be uh, screwed.

Tumblr is kind of a mess, it's the antithesis of every social media site, and it doesn't (for now) have the crap that makes The Artist Formerly Known As Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram so utterly unusable, or if it does, you can (mostly) turn it off. That's why we all like it and why, even if we are resolutely anti-capitalist gremlins who resist being marketed to with every fiber of our being, it doesn't change the fact that servers, staff, and all the rest cost real human-people money which the site, by their own frank admission, is struggling to raise. Even if staff does often make crappy updates, they generally at least TRY to listen to us and include a feature to make it optional or roll it back, unlike certain unnamed idiot billionaires. Their mockery of other social media sites can sometimes be a little much, but for now, Tumblr is pretty much the last place on the internet that does what it does, and I like it that way. If it went under and took my blog of 10+ years and all my friends with it, I would be incredibly sad.

That being the case, and basic financial realities being what they are, encouraging people to toss a few bucks at a TOTALLY OPTIONAL and fun gimmick that increases functionality for a product we like is actually not a bad thing. TumblrMart has crabs, checkmarks, Ea-Nasir merchandise (seriously), ad-free browsing, etc., and if our choice is voluntarily supporting the site through fun (and again, OPTIONAL) purchases versus having us all be involuntarily subject to some horrible data-scraping mechanism or forced off altogether because they couldn't keep the lights on, that is fine with me. Nobody is making anybody do or buy anything. But if you like the product Tumblr provides and want a fun material way to show your appreciation, then I don't think it's some Great Transgression to participate in that.

[catluniscia]

Okay I keep seeing the sadness of glazing and how you need a strong pc and just lot of you dooming over here. Going "Well I use an Ipad/phone" Okay folks I am gonna teach you all how to do a thing you can do on pc mobile what ever its called

MAKE AN UGLY WATERMARK

Now here is how I do mine when I feel like making water marks and not going through glaze. Now I have mine with my name and my handle, I also have one that is the same and has sample on it (those are for commissions)

Now I made mine as a material and use it on clip studio like this

Now you can also do like insignias, symbols what have you this is just a simple one for my sample!

Now next you make a layer over that and put colors over it use the gradient if you want put the colors in randomly via paint what ever go jackson pollock on it. Now I heard pastels really mess with the thing and also heard using more of a spray pain droplet like brush as well helps. If you want to do that or not up to you

Now here is what I do, so I like to use the distort filters now sometimes I use twirl some times wave what ever your heart desires, I use multiple ones multiple times just to make well this. Again we are hear to make ugly bright annoying watermarks.

If there is a large blob of solid color add anouther later ad some more then merge the colors okay next part, make the layer of pastel vomit as I shall call this into a clipping mask over the letters,

VOILA!

Now you can merge it all down and add like a stroke on it and blur it then you adjust opacity some set it to multiply I dont care do what ever feels right for you looks good and basically do it. And just change it up everytime to add some chaos.

So those of you who don't have glaze due to tech limits, do moblie, etc etc, Here this is a thing you can do, If you got an art program on your phone you can do this, Again doesnt have to be text could be just your signature, doodle of something, just do this, and just make different color layers every time so it screws it up.

Is this 100% protection? Hell no, nothing is lets be honest, but it will cause chaos. If you want some extra ounce of protection here and don't want to deal with Glaze due to what ever.

[loadedchekhovsgun]

Wonderin if you’ve got any cWilbur disability headcanons 🤔 Or just overall headcanons if you want 🙏

Ohoho. depends on the era!!!! i don't really have anything Specific down other than post-finale (my timeline) but 2nd death his left arm is like Fucked and there's a lot of moments where it's straaight up unusable because he was shot in the Shoulder Blade and it got infected and almost had to be amputated 😬 that man for Sure needs mobility aids holy Crap like a cane at Least and a wheelchair for like Really bad days i feel like that man should not be up and about post war

also his eyesight is Screwed but his glasses broke while they were fleeing after being exiled and he just never got new prescriptioned ones? his eyes are super fucked post revival though so thats a big reason for the red glasses and also his depth perception is just as bad

he has a hearing issue i havent fully decided on because of that one incident during election era where straight up his hearing was fucked for like a full minute or two but it's totally amplified by his sensory issues so sometimes the world just goes hella muffled or so unbearably loud he cant comprehend a Thing and also he has Incredibly awful tinnitus oh my god

he's an asthmatic as well the smoking does not help

pre death he suffers consistent horrible migraines but post they are straight up Debilitating. he also suffers intense nosebleeds and chronic pain, alongside phantom pain in his death scar

his height contributes heavily to consistent dizziness and loss of balance for SURE. his centre of gravity? nonexistent

post finale my timeline because of the lightning scars he needs those mobility aids BBIGTIME and suffers straight up occasional paralysis alongside having corneal edema, total loss of hearing in the left and significant loss in the right, inconsistent peripheral vision loss due to retinal + spinal damage, and theres like other stuff too

i'll cut the ramble HHERE but i think thats it anyways he is a man of suffering dear lord someone get him a prescription

[florashifting]

Marvel dr incorrect quotes (eternals edition)

-

Makkari: I dare you to kiss the next person who walks into this room.

Jaz: Screw that, I’m not kissing any of you.

*Thena walks in*

Jaz: Fine, I’ll do it. Rules are rules you know.

-

Jaz: So according to the cease and desist order I got, apparently you can’t ‘legally’ be a lawyer if your license is ‘cut out of a cereal box’.

-

Sersi : Are you a masochist or a sadist?

Druig, deadpan: I’m a Taurus.

-

Sersi : Do you even know what an amulet is?

Jaz: Of course I do! I eat amulets sometimes. I like the ones with cheese and onions!

Sersi : Jaz, those are omelettes.

Jaz: Oh. Then I’ve got nothing.

-

Jaz: You know, when I first met you I thought you were a real bitch.

Ikaris : What changed your mind?

Jaz: Oh, now I know that you’re a fake bitch. Why do you ask?

-

Jaz: You can address me as Eagle One.

Jaz: From now on we will be using code names.

Jaz: Druig is “been there done that”.

Jaz: Ikaris is “currently doing that”.

Jaz: Gilgamesh is “it happened once in a dream”.

Jaz: Ajak is “if I had to pick a dude/gal/enby”.

Jaz: And Sersi is..

Jaz: Eagle Two

Sersi : Oh thank god.

-

Jaz: Why do you think I don’t like you? I do. I would kill for you.

Jaz: Ask me to kill for you.

Thena: ...First of all, calm down-

-

Jaz: I may be antisocial and unattractive.

Sersi : ...but?

Jaz: That's all.

-

*The Squad is gathered in the living room for a meeting*

Jaz: *walks in and sits on Thena’s lap*

The Squad: …

Kingo: Why are you sitting there?

Jaz: There’s no free seats!

Kingo: But we made sure there was enough room for-

Thena: *hugs Jaz tightly* There are no free seats.

-

Jaz: I never tell people off the bat that I'm queer. I wait. I wait until they say some homophobic shit and then I laugh and am like "you know I'm queer right?" and watch the look of terror on their face.

Ikaris :

Ikaris : I like you.

-

Jaz: Onion rings are vegetable donuts.

Gilgamesh, used to Jaz being dumb: Sure...

Jaz: Your stomach thinks all potatoes are mashed.

Gilgamesh: Okay?

Jaz: Lasagna is spaghetti flavored cake.

Gilgamesh:

Jaz: Lobsters are mermaid scorpio-

Gilgamesh: Jesus, that one is a little-

Makkari, interested: No, no, Jaz, keep going.

-

Jaz: We need to open this locked door. Druig, give me your credit card.

Druig: Here.

Jaz, pocketing it: Thanks. Thena, break down the door.

-

Makkari: Are you an ‘arr’ pirate or a ‘yo ho ho’ pirate?

Ikaris : I’m a ‘I’m not paying $600 for photoshop’ pirate.

-

Jaz: Surgery is basically just stabbing someone to life.

Sersi : Please never become a surgeon.

-

Sersi : Treat spiders the way you want to be treated!

Jaz: Killed without hesitation.

-

Jaz: But that place is haunted.

Sersi : Ghosts prey on fear. Just be confident!

Jaz, marching into the haunted house: I AM NOT SCARED! I AM NOT A PUSSY!

-

Jaz: You... you said I could trust you!!

Jaz: You said you were a GAMER!!!

Sersi : Jaz... I only play mobile games.

Jaz: NOOOOOOOO!!!!!!

-

Ajak: Don't joke about murder. I was murdered once and it offends me.

-

Jaz, wiping tears from their eyes: If you love someone, set them free. If they come back, it’s meant to be…

Ikaris : I’m literally just going to the store.

-

Druig: *Gets down on one knee*

Jaz: Oh my god! It’s finally happening! Druig: *Collapses* Jaz: The poison’s kicking in!

-

Jaz: I got grounded for a whole week just because I came home late.

Ikaris : Well, you deserved it. I mean, getting everyone's hopes up like that and then showing up again.

-

Ikaris : Life could be worse, Jaz.

Jaz: Life could be a lot better too!

-

[egg-emperor]

Whenever you play Sonic Forces and you're the avatar, do you ever think "screw you Sonic, I need to be with my beloved, Eggman!"? Haha.

Wanted to send positive vibes after hearing your hardships 💙

ALL THE TIME from the moment the Eggman Empire VS The Resistance was revealed to be a thing I was like aww man why can't I join the Empire instead? I don't wanna fight him, everyone knows I'm the very last person who could ever "resist" Eggman in any sense of the word lol he's absolutely irresistible

The avatar isn't accurate to me at all for that so when I play with one based on myself, it feels so wrong. If I was dragged into the Resistance, I'd encounter Eggman and immediately want to jump in the Egg Mobile into his arms and say take me with yooou you deserve the world because you're so handsome and sexy fjsbgksbgksgks

I mean god LOOK at him

I know he's a terrible evil terrorizing tyrannical asshole doing all the wrong things and getting thousands of people killed and the world would be awful under his control but he's so GORGEOUS Idc. I'd immediately fold in this situation all morals would go out the window and I'd want him to get everything he wants lol 😍

It would've been fun if Eggman visibly directly interacted with the avatar on screen in the cutscenes so I could get good moments and screenshots of us together but instead he hardly acknowledges or even looks at the avatar most of the time, all his focus is on Sonic and co in scenes where they show up with him XD

But I can imagine if he had a direct one on one interaction in a scene, it would've been along the lines of the ones he has with you as the player in other games. So I mean it is very fitting that he barely acknowledged them in Forces, with his "umm who're you? :\ if you want my autograph wait until I epically win this tournament, now shoo"

and "who the heck are you don't talk to me" attitude

^ I WOULD NOT FUCKING THINK THAT!!!

Edit for accuracy:

That's more like it

I'm just an insignificant civilian 🤩 I'd go weak in the knees as he degrades and belittles me like this, so casually too because he's just that confident and firm in his superiority over me and that's so sexy. But I'll happily become a member of the Eggman Empire and actually become something more useful in serving him if he'll have me hehe

He's so rude and condescending, looking down on and degrading strangers because they're nothing compared to his greatness and unworthy of his superior presence! It perfectly captures his egotism, rudeness, arrogance, and feelings of superiority. He'd be a rude asshole to me like this and I'd be like ohhh he's so dreamy and swoon 🥰💘

And to remedy the scenes where the avatar in Forces is OOC for me when it's the one that I made to be myself, I sometimes imagine him as an uncover spy serving the Empire and reporting back secretly, then betraying The Resistance when the work is done heh Though the Eggman bodysuit and shoes I give to my avatar would already make that pretty obvious XD

(Thank you I appreciate it 💜)

[sillygeeseys]

what are some of your favorite hoodie and masky HCs?

Hoodie, and Masky as characters or as a couple? SCREW IT, PLEASE TAKE BOTH

HC'S UNDER THE CUT!!!! THANK YOU ANON, PLEASE COME BACK WHENEVER YOU WANT ANON!!!!

As a couple:

(Hoodie x Masky)

-They're not quite sure they're so drawn to each other, but they feel like they were sewn with the same thread, and are basically inseparable

-Slender didn't create them with any mind for them to develop romantic lives, so they may not radiate partner energy to people that don't know them well, not overly affectionate in public

-In the safety of the manor they're a bit more noticeably involved with eachother:

-Hoodie struggles to sleep unless he's nestled into Masky's in some way, whether he's found himself coiled around Masky's hand, or is resting with his head so deep in the other proxies chest it's questionable whether their breathing properly

-Masky gets cold, especially wearing a plastic mask, after long missions in sometimes freezing conditions Hoodie is the only one he'll allow to slip their hands under the face covering to warm him up again

-They're not sexual, I'm really sorry to tell you this, Tim, and Brian absolutely would've been (that's an answer for a different ask) but Masky, and Hoodie simply wouldn't engage with eachother that way

-Hoodie loves listening to Masky for hours at a time, they'll lay together on the porch while Masky has a cigarette, and rambles on about work, and anything else crossing his mind

MASKY:

-Masky is a little bit disconnected from the standard binary, but doesn't have time to research the right word for him, he's still rather masculine, but doesn't mind neutral pronouns like They or It.

-He treats Tim's smoking habit like a lifeline, chainsmoking eventually becomes the only thing able to distract him when something goes wrong

-Masky is the only one that has seen Slender directly, past the illusion Slender holds up, and survived. (Not unscathed, but he survived)

-He's far more connected to Tim than Hoodie is to Brian, able to recall memories, tap into Tim's fight or flight on command, he knows when to take medications, and why certain things set off his discomfort

-His knee injury still acts up some days, he has a crutch he stole that he keeps in the back of his beat up truck for when his leg gives out on missions

-He was designed to give orders, he has a need for control

HOODIE

-Hoodie has almost no grasp on who or what Brian is, only getting scraps of awful memories through triggers. They're the least human of the proxy pair, and nobody lets them forget it.

-They're heavily disconnected from the gender binary, preferring They/It over He pronouns. They even experience dysphoria at times, feeling like they don't belong in the body Slender made them for.

-Due to this dysphoria Hoodie hardly ever speaks, hating the sound of Brian's voice. They reserve their communication to writing or text to speech. Slender makes them speak however, despite this discomfort. There's no arguing with Slender.

-Hoodie doesn't acknowledge their spinal injuries, usually pushing until it's much too late for them, usually ending in completely losing their mobility for indeterminate periods of time

-They rely on Masky, it's what they were made for. To be a cart horse that does the labor, and follows the forceful guidance of those those above them.

-All of this combined leads to being heavily stressed, so Hoodie has picked up hobbies to distract themselves.

-They've continued to record videos, and they collect trinkets off the forest floor that they display in their room proudly, a few trusted people will get to have Hoodie eagerly show off these finds while pointing out the small details of every single one. (Ex: Super old bottle caps, rocks with different rocks running through them, jewelry with names etched in, ect)

-Hoodie bites.

[danieyells]

I find the idea of Ren being a pervert so nice bc he seems like the least likely at plain sight to be like that, a few times he invited them over to watch movies after working in Jabberwock hoping that you leave something behind and more times than he wants to admit he came to the fantasy of you sitting on his face

He plays mobile games and you think he's the least likely to be a pervert? I guarantee you he is, at minimum, into all sorts of weird 2d shit--trust me, i'm just like that.

But yeah I can absolutely see him being a pervert! He doesn't have anywhere in his room to sit for when he invites you over for movies so, uh, sit on this pillow. He's got more than one pillow for his bed, stop making it weird. Of course after you go home he's huffing that pillow while he jerks off, cursing himself for being so gross but very much lost in the smell.

He doesn't know how to approach you socially so he fantasizes about you instead. After Haru returned the uniform of his that he had you wear he didn't even wanna wash it. It's not like he wore it much at that point anyway, it smelt more like you than it did like him. . .it'd be a waste, right? He's not sure if he wants to wear it or smell it more. (Getting a new one is expensive so he ends up wearing it of course.) If nothing else that you wore it makes it a lot better. If only he'd gotten to see you in it. . .he would never be brave enough(or willing to put forth enough effort) to but it's fun for him to imagine catching you in his clothes, 'getting mad,' taking them off of you. . .all your clothes got wet and dirty, were you even wearing anything under it then? Oh no, he's real hard at the thought. . . .

But most of his fantasies are in line with his usual interests. Not having to do anything at all. You come to him--you seduce him or push him around a little, tease him for getting hard, then. . .it varies a bit from there. You ride him or sit on his face or suck him off or whatever. Sometimes he gets so pent up he turns things around in his own fantasy and isn't so passive. Sometimes he's a little kinder to himself in his fantasies and it's more gentle and loving--you confess and things escalate. . . .

Or you sleep over--in his room for some reason--and he molests you in your sleep. Or you do it to him. . . .

And of course the more fantastical ideas. . .you get to be the couple in every horror movie that sneaks off to screw. Of course, you don't die in the fantasies, but the idea of being in a scary scenario and you only care about him. . .it's stupid, but it pleases him emotionally too. He's nobody special or important or interesting or strong like other ghouls but maybe that's what you'd want, just like him. All of this crazy stuff, the anomalies, it's too much--something ordinary fits you both way better.

. . .on the other hand he's watched enough hentai to think some of the anomalous plants and animals could have more. . .interesting effects. Maybe you're helping out and he told you you should just hide with him instead of working, you shouldn't help them, but you come to him needy and desperate because of some weird plant Towa's keeping. . . .

He can't be bothered to try and get away with being perverse towards you anywhere but in his own head but he thinks about it. If not for that Japanese phones are forced to have the shutter sound on them he'd have so many pictures of you on his phone. . . . He'd be a total hypocrite if he was open about it anyway--he complains about everything minutely able to be interpreted as harassment himself and then he harasses someone else? And who's not gonna believe that the loser loner sexually harassed somebody? He'd get in trouble right away! And with all your connections the last things he needs are members of every house hunting him down. Including his own. He can't hide forever. That's way too much effort just to satisfy himself once or twice.

Nah, he'll keep it in his head. He'll imagine groping you in the dark during movies and sleepovers and acting like some anomaly snuck in and did it if you ask. Try and peek at you in the shower when you stay over--or, think about it anyway because somehow Haru or Towa would definitely stop him. Maybe he could get some kind of little spy cam for the bathroom. . . . If you stay over or get messy while helping out again, they'll take care of the laundry here, he'll let you borrow his clothes again, and if your underwear occasionally go missing well. . .that happens with laundry sometimes, right? Hey, you think that's an anomaly too, whatever makes clothes go missing?

He'll bump his leg against yours to know what it feels like to touch you. You'll be watching scary moves in the dark and he'll grab you to startle you--no, it was too dark, he didn't realize he was grabbing your ass/thigh/chest, he swears! He did clamp his hand over your mouth on purpose though--he just didn't want anybody else to wake up! And yeah maybe that ended up with him holding you to his chest--that was incidental. He just thought it'd be funny. Sorry. Feel something against your back? What're you talking about?

I think he'd make a great pervert, just a very cowardly one haha. He keeps it inside or just hopes things end up working out in his perverse favor. Probably hates himself for it a little bit too--he'd hate if someone was like this towards him after all! Why should he think he's any less repulsive?