#hes actually infecting me like a fucking disease

[itzblu77]

Woah Sebastian Solace art!! (He has me in a chokehold.)

[oflgtfol]

just saw interstellar in imax. love this movie so much. literally any critique of it that i see just shows that the person critiquing it didnt actually watch the fucking movie or havent seen it in ten years and think they remember it perfectly still

[ratatatastic]

you ever think about forsy being faced with an always have a small rock in your shoe or always have wet socks would you rather question and going "its not a fun situation... i would say yeah wet socks probably" like what possessed him to choose wet socks

[dbphantom]

Hmmm lungs and throat pain. Don't like that.

[pygmi-says-hi]

writing tips - sick/poisoning fics

so since you guys ate up the injury thing like holy fuck 1.5k notes in 24 hours??? hello?? I thought I'd do a semi-related one about sickness.

disclaimer because you guys thoroughly reminded me of this: medicine is fucking weird and everybody reacts differently. this is blanket statement information, not the mayo clinic. idc that 'oh my cousin had that disease and he didn't have that symptom' okay whatever like sorry but that's not the point of this post. this is just to eliminate egregious mistakes. I'm not looking into every possible way this illness will show up. chill your tits. the comments on the last post were just like. dude. chill.

aurkay so.

poison-related illness.

okay poisoning is such a cool concept and there are literally so many cool effects it can have. Idk why everyone goes with the holy trinity of hallucinations, fainting and nausea. like yeah those are good but there are so many other things???

like internal bleeding. literally the best. I love it. It's slow but hella deadly and sometimes people can't even feel it/don't know what's happening. that's such a great option for whump or some angst. like they didn't know until it was too late. gold.

also - some poisons are not dissolvable in food or drink. Like certain medicines, they lose effectiveness if digested instead of injected intravenously. obviously you don't have to know that but if you wanna get into it, do a lil bit of research. could bring up some intriguing scenarios.

infection or sepsis

yoooo. sepsis is lowkey terrifying. infections are similar to actual illness but are caused because of an unsanitary wound. lots of interesting symptoms to browse here:

fever, cramps, fainting, hallucinations, dehydration, delirium, nausea, sores, sepsis, organ failure and on and on and on.

infection happens so fast too. like forget to change a bandage once and boom it could be infected. (is that a whump opportunity I hear...?)

sepsis is like the point of no return pretty much. Unless you've got crazy medical technology, sepsis is really really bad. basically, it's when the body overreacts and starts to damage its own tissue. leading to organ failure and then eventually death. spooky.

regular illness

this just means like a virus or something. a key point of viruses is an elevated temperature and dehydration; the body's primary responses. burn the bug out and dehydrate it.

depending on the illness, symptoms will vary. respiratory infections or viruses involve congestion, coughing, sore throats, a rattly breathing sound, and productive coughing (phlegm and mucus). Stomach illnesses include cramps, nausea, dehydration, dizziness, low blood sugar, weight loss, and diarrhea. these can overlap but mostly those are the groupings.

with fevers come achy joints and sensitive skin. fever is inflammation, like mild swelling everywhere because of how intense the antibody reaction is.

dehydration sets in really quick. really bad dehydration induces dizziness, nausea, diarrhea, delirium, lethargy, and fainting. great motivation for a whumper to possibly restrict whumpee's water intake...?

just some prompts! kinda low energy today sorry I haven't been posting, xox

[fiercynn]

oh my fucking god can people stop coopting the term "harm reduction". i know language can change but i refuse to let this term change into the literal opposite meaning just so people can justify their decision to vote for a genocidaire.

harm reduction is literally, meaningfully, about reducing existing risk of harm. a person who uses drugs is at risk of disease or illness because they only have access to dirty needles? provide them with a needle exchange program to make it safer for them. a teen who is sexually active is at risk of becoming pregnant or contracting a sexually transmitted infection? provide them with sex ed and protective devices like condoms or dental dams to allow them to have safe sex.

and yes, there is a part of harm reduction that is aimed at not moralizing about the behavior that you're trying to reduce harm from. but if you're a progressive - as most of the people lecturing us about "harm reduction" purport to be - you should already understand that these behaviors are not ethically bad in and of themselves. it is not inherently unethical to use drugs or be sexually active as a teen, so the fact that harm reduction efforts could "encourage" that behavior is also not unethical! if you think that it is, then you're actually a conservative!

and, importantly, the people who benefit from harm reduction were only at risk of harming themselves in the first place. so helping someone make those activities safer for themselves is not only reducing the risk of harm to that person, but, in doing so, it is not increasing the risk of harm to anyone else either.

voting is giving your active support to a candidate, and thus to that candidate's platform. so please tell me how giving your vote to a president who is actively driving a genocide, perpetuating a pandemic, funding cop cities and a border wall, and driving up deportations - none of which he has pledged to stop if reelected - is reducing existing risk of harm? because harm reduction also isn't "choosing an option that you believe is better than the hypothetical even worse alternative". and voting for biden is, in fact, increasing the existing risk of the harm that he is currently enacting on other people, and encouraging his despicable behavior!

if coopting the term "harm reduction" is the only thing making you feel okay about your decision to vote for biden despite all the people who are dead, disabled, deported, or destitute because of him, then honestly, that seems like a you problem. STOP COOPTING THE TERM.

(and if you feel the urge to respond with something along the lines of "but biden's just doing his best! i'm just telling people to vote for him because i'm scared of trump!" then please at least read this post as well before you say anything to me about it)

[lovebot444]

Sweet angel of mine - Ballet!Art AU

I apologize for taking so long, school just started again and so did my social life! But here it is, I hope it’s up to expectation💋

Disclaimer: this is barely proofread, and halfway through the writing I realized I sucked at dialogs. English is not my first language. Read at your own risk!

Warnings: slight stalking/obsession. Cursing. Mentions of porn and masturbation. Patrick just kinda pops up out of nowhere. Writing based on Art’s pov, which is why it kind of belittles him.

Art knew her. They never spoke, she has never even looked his way, but he knew her. He has walked by her classes too many times not to.

Not in a creepy way, no! Ask anyone who knows her just like he does, she’s just too enticing to go by unnoticed. Seriously, it’s almost mythical, she is so inhumanly beautiful that it’s sickening. Back straight and head held high, every aspect of her is set to absolute perfection, in a way that it’s obvious she’s either: A) An Angel or B) A ballerina.

C) Both, was Art’s best guess, because she seemed to lack all ballerinas number one characteristic — the crippling fear of being perceived as anything less than perfect. The type of fear that feeds the need to knock down the competition from the very start, a fear that’s hidden by enough fake confidence to present yourself as a higher being, the fear that keeps them skinny, uptight and miserable.

His Angel was never like that, she was only the good parts of ballet. The class and the beauty, but never the pain. Which is why he didn’t dare to speak to her, she’s just so perfect, he can’t risk tainting her pure clear soul with all his greed and shame — infect her — like the disease he is.

He’s happy just memorizing her class schedule, what time she’ll be at the cafeteria, and the exact way she moves behind the big glass windows of the dance studio. Never unhappy, never bothered. After all, she’s his Angel, and he’s just Art Donaldson.

That changes tho, at a college party. Art never went to parties, he uses all his energy studying for classes and practicing tennis. His friends try dragging him out of that lonely dorm room every goddamn weekend. Art never went to parties, and yet there he was at the rooftop looking for Tashi.

He spots her with her back turned, wearing that same pink top from that night at the hotel. It must’ve been destiny, because when he tapped her shoulder and she turned around, it wasn’t Tashis’s face.

“Hi!”

“Oh! Uhm… sorry, I was looking for Tashi.”

“No way! I’m her roommate!” Art had to fight the urge of blurting out “I know”.

“What’s your name?”

“Uh, Art”

“No way! I can’t believe I’m finally meeting the Art Donaldson.” The Art Donaldson? Not just Art Donaldson, but The Art Donaldson. She knew him, or heard of him… but still! Maybe this one sided, weird, parasocial relationship he has built her wasn’t one sided after all. Maybe she knew all his classes as well , maybe she watched him play like she watched him dance, maybe he’s her angel too…

“Tashi has told me so much about you! I don’t know why she didn’t introduce us sooner…”. Or maybe she’s his friend’s fucking roommate.

And before he could beat himself for being so foolish, she grabbed his hand. She guided him through the party and talked to him like he was worth talking to. Back straight, head held high, the same drill he had watched from afar, but this time is the first time he can watch from up close. He would’ve described her as reachable, except she has already been reached, since she was holding onto him. She told him how she loves Tashi and they get along so well, well enough to share absolutely everything — especially clothes — and he wondered, if one of those rare times Tashi would hug him goodbye after practice, he was actually hugging her.

Eventually they did find Tashi, and only then she lets go of his hand. Art thinks he might come to parties more often, because this evening went better than he could’ve ever imagined. He got to be part the cool kids in their very secluded and exclusive little group, not talking to loud or being to wild, but still being the stars of the evening.

And he got to know her.

From this night on, she would never be just the girl he’s weirdly obsessed with. Now, she’s the girl who loves iced coffe, the girl who’s only at Stanford until she’s good enough for Julliard. She’s the girl who said she was glad to meet him, that said he is funny, and smart, and they should hang out again some time.

Time flies when it’s spent with endless praise, and soon enough, the pink skies turned a deep shade of blue, most people left and the party is now a game of truth or dare with only their friends.

Tashi had left about ten minutes ago to grab more alcohol from the deli nearby. Art had taken his shoes and socks off for refusing to say both what Patrick used to tell him about ballerinas, and what he used to do while listening. And she has been answering pretty invasive questions, refusing to strip since she was only wearing sandals, shorts, and nothing underneath Tashi’s sweater. The others were merely background characters. And of course, Patrick was the asshole who kept making the invasive questions and disgusting dares.

“When was the last time you touched yourself?”

“What’s your porn search history?”

“Common Art, I think she’d like to hear it”

“I dare you to dance on the edge of the rooftop.”

This time, instead of laughter it was awkward silence, everyone froze.

“If you don’t you have to take your shirt off.”

“Get some music playing then.”

What?

“You don’t actually have to do it!”

“Yeah Patrick is just being a jerk!”

Everyone tried to stop her, but she was already sliding out of her sandals and playing classical music on her iPod.

“Oh my God, I was joking, I just wanted you to take your shirt off!”

Now she pushed herself up the edge, standing until the right part played through. She started slow — but not scared — in fact, she seemed as confident and collected as she always did. The parapet of the rooftop was quite thin, and she hopped and twirled from side to side at such a rapid steady pace that everyone just sat still and observed, their mouths agape but with no sound coming through, scared that if they shouted for her to stop they’d distract her and she’d fall.

The tense atmosphere and background music was abrupt by Tashi barging in through the door.

“What the fuck is she doing.”

She sounds angry, the second most scary thing happening right now.

“Performing Kitri’s variation on the edge of a rooftop…” A girl who Art has seen dancing alongside her answered, she too seemed more mesmerized than terrified.

“And why the fuck is nobody stopping her.”

Tashi started shouting for her to stop. Saying how this is stupid and dangerous and she’s completely insane. As the music intensified so does the choreography, and suddenly she’s pirouetting all the way until the very edge. Tashi’s demands start sounding more like begs, her voice almost crack when she sees her roommate stop, one centimetre forward and she would’ve fallen.

“That was- the most, stupid fucking thing someone has ever done.” She tries to sound tuff, but her heavy breathing makes it obvious she’s in the verge of crying.

“Not if you know you’re good.” She hops of the parapet, walking towards Tashi, close enough to her face to whisper — “And I am.”

God, Art has never been this fucking hard in his entire life.

[anonzentimes]

*guy who loves talking about despair disease voice* wait can we talk more about despair disease. i have so many thoughts on despair disease and esp how it pertains to nagito

i feel like when a lot of people first play/watch the games they see nagito as someone who lies to manipulate people, which while i can’t super blame them for thinking that way bc of how hajime tries to reconcile his conflicting feelings over nagito, i get SO frustrated when ppl call nagito a liar bc no!!! no he’s not!!! you’re falling for other characters’ perceptions of him!!! nagito almost never lies and when he does he’s either really bad at it (cough cough final FTE. “i got it all from a book” you are not slick buddy) or comes clean as soon as he’s achieved his desired outcome- it’s more bluffing than actual deception, and one thing he’s especially sincere in is his beliefs and admiration for the people around him. and the despair disease PROVES this without a doubt!!

ok. i know in-text the despair disease is described as “reversing people’s personalities,” but i’ve always interpreted it a little differently. ibuki isn’t the opposite of gullible, akane isn’t the opposite of a coward, and nagito isn’t the opposite of a liar. to me, it’s always seemed like the despair disease gives its host the trait they’d most hate to have— whatever trait would instill in them the deepest despair. ibuki hates conformity- stick her with a disease that makes her blindly follow whatever she’s told. akane hates showing weakness- force her into a state of constant crying. nagito hates the idea of deceiving his classmates- make him incapable of being sincere. this interpretation makes mikan’s disease make a little more sense too imo, since remembering her brainwashing isn’t exactly reversing her personality but instead literally filling her to the brim with despair. ANYWAYS.

nagito Actively Despises not being able to tell the truth. he hates the despair disease, he sees it as a complete waste. in the ult. luck and hope and despair mangas, we actually get to see some of his internal monologue right before he passes out, and he is In Hell. he’s pissed that he can’t serve as a proper stepping stone in his state, he thinks the whole disease is stupid, and he gets so frustrated about not being able to properly encourage the group that he Literally Starts Foaming At The Mouth ????? like if you EVER wanted undeniable proof that nagito is sincere look at the despair disease. it’s basically a roundabout truth serum for him and that’s a huge part of why it’s one of my favorite motives

sidenote i feel like the despair disease has a shit ton of analysis potential in general just bc of how it turns characters into what they hate the most!! i loveeee brainstorming what symptoms certain characters would have gotten were they to get infected. hajime especially. maybe he’d get a fawning disease where he starts praising everyone nagito-style (this would highlight their bystander parallels and also make hajime feel MISERABLE bc he fucking hates when nagito points out how similar they are lmao). or maybe he’d get an apathy disease that’d essentially izuru-fy him (wonderful foreshadowing potential there, not to imagine the incredible angst of izuru being the thing hajime would hate to be most in the world.) alas i am not a fanfic author so i will sit with my concepts but it is a wonderful daydream with any dangan characters i’d highly recommend it :]

YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEESSSS!!!!! I SCREAM IN UNISON WITH YOU I LOOOVEEE THE DESAIR DISEASE!!!!! MAN… I’M SO OBSESSED WITH HOW YOU INTERPRET AND ARTICULATED THE DESPAIR DISEASE💗💗💗 The Despair Disease is genuinely so good for analyzing I really do believe Danganronpa 2 Chapter 3 is the best Chapter 3 out of the franchise. I think the reserving of their personalities truly meaning the traits they would hate to have is soo good I’m eating up, sealing it in my heart, and using it forever such a delightful way to explain it. The interpretations on what disease Hajime would get is so fun, I’ve seen some people interpret him getting the honesty disease which is fun in concept but I don’t think it works as well as other ideas could, y’know? Your ideas for a potential apathy or fawning disease are really fun to me, I like the idea of the fawning disease tapping into how much of a realist he is and giving him the opposite attitude Lol. Thank you so much for sending this it’s so fun I’ll be thinking about this forever, I wish I was a fanfic writer aha! I really want to become a fanfic writer, soon with time I suppose. Thank you again for sharing your daydreams with me, you’re very right it does have a lot of analysis potential! :D

[a1ecmcdowell]

taste — john b x pogue!reader!

part of the short n' sweet x obx collection, found here!

ㅤㅤㅤㅤincludes, conniving!reader. exes dynamic. i promise i love sarah cameron.

❛ heard you're back together . . . and if that's true, you'll have to taste me when he's kissin' you! ❜

it’s gotta be some sort of fucking sickness, the way you plague his every thought. he’s infected with the disease that was you — fully contagious, too, with the way that you sashay up to him every day like you know it. 

you’d broken up months ago. months! he’d moved on ( didn’t he? ) and yet every night on the cut, he’s always two natty lites away from clicking on your contact in his phone ( still saved with a heart by your name; maybe he didn’t actually move on ) and telling you to come over. 

stupid, stupid, stupid. he was stupid.

and you knew it, too. you didn’t used to have the balls that you do now. like, walking up to him in the middle of a kegger and planting your red-painted lips on his stubbled cheek? yeah, that’s new. he used to have to physically drag you from the twinkie to go to these things with him — that’s how afraid of showing any sort of pda you used to be. 

and now, here you were. they’d all gathered at john b’s for the weekend get together that had unofficially become a tradition, the thick smell of weed and sweat from the humid summer nights. 

you’d stopped being invited when you and john b broke up.

that didn’t stop jj from texting you to come anyways. he’d learned about your efforts to stir shit between john b and his kook girlfriend, and ever the instigator, he made sure that you were going to be there that night. 

and god, were you there. little black dress, that special pair of boots that you saved for special occasions because you didn’t want to muck them up with dirt or wet sand. you sure as shit didn’t seem to care that they were getting mucked now, as you danced with your arms above your head, a solo cup between your manicured fingers. 

if you couldn’t have him back… well, the least you could do was make him grovel over what he lost. and make sure that his new girlfriend was well aware that there was a past here.

a very warbly past, its surface constantly on the verge of shattering beneath the both of your feet. a couple more pushes, and the tension would give, and the past would start to mingle prettily again with the present. 

john b, of course, didn’t look too happy about your presence. was he ever anymore? you were a constant reminder of how he’d fucked up — something that was accumulating a list. 

you stepped over a couple of thick tree roots in his yard as you all but danced up to him, your hips never stopping their swaying, and the knowing smile never leaving your lips. the kook girlfriend left his side for two seconds to talk with kie about something, and obviously, that was the time to pounce. 

“what the hell are you doing here?” john b asks, exasperation and irritation thick in his voice, deep in the furrow between his brows. 

your head cocks to the side. “i was invited.” 

“jj’s invites don’t count.” 

“they do, because i’m here, aren’t i?” 

that makes his cheek twitch. it always did that when he was pissy; that little twitch to the side, right above his jawbone. how was it fair that you still knew all of these details about him, and he was making every bit of effort to forget all of the details about you?

john b’s eyes rake over you, drinking in the outfit, the styled hair, the smile that you planted firmly on your lips even though you were so angry and bitter on the inside. 

“you shouldn’t be here,” he says, and it sounds like a sigh this time. what authority does he have over you anymore? none. the defeat in his tone makes it evident that he knows it too. 

you’re not deterred. probably even the opposite. your arms lift to drape over his shoulders, pressed up on the toes of your shoes, as you graze your lips ever so slightly against his frowning, plush pink ones. 

the sharp inhale that he takes is evidence enough to you that he does miss you. at least the way you kissed. “i just wanted to drop in… see how happy you are…” 

“don’t do this,” john b whispers, his breath hot on your mouth. he tastes like cheap beer and expensive weed. he always tastes like home. 

so how could you ever resist pressing your mouth firmly against his, capturing that homely taste in between your lips? 

he doesn’t kiss back — not for a few seconds, anyways. and then his hands are sliding down your ribs, circling around the small of your back and dragging you in closer. 

this wasn’t supposed to be for pleasure, though. it was the best sort of punishment that you could conjure up; invoking regret, planting the seeds of it in his happy new relationship. 

you break the kiss, even as he doesn’t let go of you just yet. 

“let me know when you stop screwin’ around with that little kook of yours,” you say finally, softly, with one last peck to his mouth. 

then, you pluck his hands off of your hips and step out of them. it’s easy to not want to look back and see the expression on his face as you walk away, because you know him well enough to know that he is watching. 

sarah cameron steps out of the house with kie; you hear her voice to your right and then a sudden gasp of silence. john b’s probably kissing her, you think, and she’s tasting you on his mouth. 

quite an impression.

[marc--chilton]

house md warrior cats au. house is unaffiliated with clan cats, claiming he prefers loner life due to his kittypet heritage that leaves him open for clan-typical prejudices. still, sometimes he can be persuaded to be a hired cat for clans swept through with surprise illness or those without a medicine cat -- he's fickle but he bores easily, too, so he can bear some jeering in exchange for something to do. the only clan leader that seems to like him somewhat is codstar (cuddy) (cudstar is too unfortunate a name for her she's too pretty to be named president barf)

i'm thinking...... house used to be in plainsclan [codstar's clan, before she was leader] until his leg. maybe it wasn't an infarction, maybe a snake bite, maybe an infected wound?? either way he was out of commission and his judgment on his own treatment was not trusted (despite literally being a medicine cat) and instead deferred to those closest to him -- his best friend, codstar, and his mate, stillsight (stacy. like 'stay-see'. i thought actually saying 'staysee' but that looks awful like incredibly caucasian take on the name stacy)

as he was the only medicine cat at the time, no one's actually sure if them doing as house said while fevered and ill would have given him a better outcome than he got, but as it is, he's left with a lame leg that never stops hurting and the sick feeling of betrayal in his fur. he leaves the clan and stillsight steps down from her position as deputy. at least they remembered poppy seeds were for pain and had set some aside for him.

the little area house claims for his territory he uses to tend to his own personal poppy garden at the cost of not being able to stray too far from it. over time, though he takes more than he replants, flowers are ruined by bugs or disease, and he needs new seeds. how convenient that he remembers seeing some poppies in one of these yards.... all he has to do is swipe some before the twolegs or pets of the place catch him.

well that's how he met wilson. pretty as a showkitty and meowing through the mesh covering the patio -- a catio, ha. "hey, careful with those, too many of them can knock you out." which isn't really how house thought that would go but okay.

because like. duh. i know medicine, just look at me (house, looking haggard as hell from chronic pain + withdrawal)

"(sarcastically) yes, thank you.... (pretends to read wilson's collar tag from an entire backyard away, yes they're just meowing from like 20 ft away) princess, but i know my way around medicine. it's kinda my thing."

and wilson, unfazed, just. "that's not my name. you look like you know your way around medicine. if you didn't have that edge of desperation i'd assume you're overdosing, so i guess you're leaning the other way? withdrawal? so if you take as many as i think you have right now, you're gonna overdose since your resistance is down, and i'd really not want the kid of this house to find a dead kitty cat in the flowerbed."

and house just blinks. because holy fuck that sounded?? intelligent???? he's heard countless kittypets cry about the wild cats eating kittypet bones when the notion is downright stupid, because when has a cat even been able to digest other cat bones

needless to say house doesn't just hang around that yard for the poppy flowers.

[ghostaholics]

ᴍɪsᴄᴏɴᴅᴜᴄᴛ

SUMMARY: Ghost doesn't tolerate bad behavior. PAIRING: Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x fem!Reader (drabble) WARNING(S): illicit relationship & power imbalance; dom/sub vibes (brattiness); this is not that fleshed out but I think their background is enemies-to-lovers; fingering; ruined orgasm, but he makes it all better, sorta; oral sex (receiving) A/N: this is OOC but I still wrote it anyway because my mind would just not shut the fuck up W/C: 2.1k

HE HOLDS YOU THE SAME WAY HE HOLDS HIS GUN – with all the confidence that he can take you apart and put you back together again like it’s muscle memory.

It's not pride. It's just fact.

He wants to know the inner-workings of your brain. He wants to know what makes you tick. Hell, all he wants to know is what it's like to be inside of you.

He’s still wearing his clothes – jacket, trousers, and boots – everything down to the signature gloves and the fabric balaclava that masks his face.

You, in turn, have nothing. It’s a very unfair playing field – one that you hope to level soon. But Ghost has always been mountains above you even before the current circumstances; you've never turned down a challenge, though.

"Maybe..." he says, musingly as he stands at the foot of his bed, "I won't let you come."

It's a taunt, one that you happily indulge.

You wet your lips in anticipation. You're excited – hungry for it. Back and forth. Pressing his buttons, and in return, learning your place under his direction.  A provocation to take up with the same kind of resolve you'd had when the rules said that you couldn't do it because he's your superior, your Lieutenant – it swells inside you, profuse – fills you up to the brim.

(Illicit. A violation of boundaries. Conflict of interest.)

But look at where you are now. You’ve managed to fucking do it.

It's so overwhelming that you can't possibly stop the next words that you fire back, like loaded bullets, full metal jackets shooting off at the mouth: "Maybe you just can't make me."

Ghost seizes you by the throat – hand so big it engulfs your lower jaw too; sick with power, the thought infects him like an all-consuming disease: he could crush your windpipe if he wanted to. It’d be so easy. Apply pressure. But only enough to provoke a sharp intake of breath. (You can take it.) "God, the fuckin' mouth on you," he growls.

Your voice, breathless under the force of his hand and far too flirtatious for your own good: "I can show you what else it can do." A shameless smile stretches over your mouth as if he doesn't have a noose around your neck – a palm instead of rope but equally as unforgiving.

His eyes burn holes into you. They smolder. And his temper? He's fuming. Underneath the surface, but raging all the same, make no mistake. There are a lot of things he’d like to do to you that would wipe the grin clean off your face and scrub the insubordination from your brain. "Think I’d rather take an apology, first."

"Oh," you lament around a pout. "You'll be waiting a long time before you hear one out of me."

The answer is an act of arson; it reeks of gasoline. Octane. It’s a fuel that you douse onto ever-growing flames. Scorched earth policy, like you want to sit back and watch the world go up in smoke, embers and all.

"Trust me,” he says, shucking his gloves off –doesn't want to get them dirty with your recklessness. (At least he can wash this sin from his hands later.) “You’ll feel sorry by the time I’m through with you.”

So how far can you push him? Turns out, a lot. More than you’d anticipated, actually, because earlier:

“Don’t test me.” “Why?” “You won’t want to find out.” “I think I do.”

His fingers brutally stuff your cunt, and your walls eagerly accommodate the stretch around the width of him. An uninhibited moan wretches itself from your throat at the intrusion. You clamp onto his arm instinctively for purchase. He's got you filled to capacity.

"You're so tight," he murmurs, feeling around for a bit, searching for – there it is. He hits that little spongy spot inside, and he knows he's got you. His digits slide through your hot core in that come-hither motion, and he's enticed by the way your body convulses at his discovery. He's addicted to the sensation, already knows he'll never be able to find anything else that gives him a high as good as this – that he'll never be able to quit you. Perfect, so perfect. The craving is bad, like he's been stabbed full of needles and shot up with something that he knows will have him hooked forever.

You rut down, hips canting as you fuck yourself down on his fingers, meeting him thrust-for-thrust because you're just that needy for it.

He collects every moan like it’s payment, and after the defiance you've been throwing his way, it's the least that you owe him.

And—

He doesn't need to do it – you're already soaked. But he fucking spits on your pussy anyway. Yeah, that’s good. So bloody fucking good. He watches it mix with your arousal. Slickness, everywhere. It leaks out of your puffy folds, juices running down to the juncture of his wrist where his tattoos start – floods the gaps in between the ink of his sleeve. He's aching for more.

Filthy. Filthy. Filthy.

You prop yourself up on your elbows to watch the sight. It's lewd. You nearly collapse on the spot.

But still, you capture his wrist, nails sinking into his flesh as he continues to pump in and out of your sopping cunt. You’re so wet, it’s almost embarrassing. You don’t want him to stop. You have to keep him there forever. "I'm close," you croak out. "I'm—"

"Gonna come now?"

A familiar wave of heat starts to crest within you. "God, yes." It surges, rises hard and rises fast. The feeling is blinding.

"That's it," he says around a low rumble of approval. "Give it to me."

It's the final tipping point to send you over the edge – no return. Euphoria is within sights. You're flying to a climax and it's right there, so close you can almost touch it and—

He snatches his fingers away.

You come around nothing.

You're yanked back into a cold and disappointing reality. It's disorienting. The heat fizzles out so fast it’s like a bonfire during a downpour.

That ecstasy that had been building up passes through you like a phantom. It's just gone. Goddamn it.

"No, no, no! Fuck, Ghost! What the fuck?" 

You didn't finish. You didn't get to the end, because he took it from you and snuffed the life out of it with no remorse.

It's what he does best.

You're drowning in your own bitter rage, reeling between riptides of ire and violence. The feeling is highwater. You want to commit atrocities against this man.

He draws his fingers into his mouth, mask pulled up for a fraction before he sucks, eyes lazily flicking over to you – you’re the picture of red-hot anger and burning insolence. Deep satisfaction settles in his bones. He lowers the balaclava back to where it was. "You taste sweet," he comments, almost absentmindedly. "Shame the personality doesn't match."

You're seething, a temper bristling with unfathomable resentment. "You're so fucking mean."

"Hate me all you want, love. We both know whose cock you get wet for at the end of the day. You wouldn't be here otherwise."

He calls you the term of endearment as if he cares. You aren't stupid. That’s not what this is. His tone is laced with derision.

"Unbelievable," you mutter. "I'm gonna have you court-martialed for being such an asshole."

He chuckles darkly. "Let's try this again."

The first day he met you: Your file, in big bold letters with an extensive skillset, and one section that stood out to him: INTERROGATION. Everything redacted. "How good are you?"– he'd asked. "That's classified, sir. But all you really need to be worried about is that I know how to make people talk." Smartass.

"I wanna... oh, God. Let me come. I want it, need it," you moan. He's been continuing his onslaught for too long, and you can't handle it.

"Where'd all the attitude go, huh, love?"

The whimper is high in your throat. "Please."

"The begging's a nice touch. Unfortunately, it won't save you now. I’m already fresh out of fucks.”

“Simon—”

He wouldn’t call you a whore, but that’s exactly what you sound like.

Your composure snaps.

"I'm sorry," you gasp, wrecked.

Finally.

His voice is devastating – a sawtoothed-edge that threatens to tear you apart. "Done playing games?"

It sends cracks throughout your fortitude – fractures spidering along your backbone. It’s a thousand splintered fragments.

Something in you shatters. It feels a lot like your self-respect.

“Yes, sir.”

This is rock bottom, a callous reminder of where the two of you stand. You despise using his title now more than you do out on the field.

“Yeah,” he agrees, “thought so.”

He kneels in between your legs, has your thighs wrenched open between the sheer size of his bulky shoulders. Simon lifts the edge of his mask up to settle onto the bridge of his nose, just to expose the bottom half of his face – sharp contour, a determined set to his stubbled jaw. It’s not all of him, but it’s enough. Simon’s mouth is on you in no time flat. It's not something he'll admit, but he’s starving for this. Ravenous – a carnal appetite. He wants his fill. Lust gnaws at his gut; it bites away at his resolve.

"Tastes so good," he grunts, sending vibrations rocking through you. His tongue laves over your clit, your entrance, lapping it up, taking what he wants. "Anyone ever tell you how much of a brat you are?" he asks, voice like gravel.

"Christ, shut up," you mumble pathetically.

Simon sinks his teeth into the side of your thigh to show his displeasure before turning his attention back to the task at hand. He's amused at the way you curse at him for being a bastard. More passes at your clit that make you tremor under him – he could get drunk off of this. It sends a nice buzz to his head better than his favorite whiskey.

His tongue is wet and soft, dipping between your engorged folds and making the nastiest noises. He's licking his way into your cunt. "Fuck." Again and again, using his mouth to rip those pretty sounds from you – the moans and everything, he'll drink it all up.

He adds his fingers back to the foray, knuckle deep. A high-pitched whine leaves you, cresting into another low moan as you adjust around the familiar feeling of the heavy and thick drag of his fingers through you; it almost makes him come, untouched.

"Ah, Simon," you whimper.

He lifts his head, chin drenched. There's a glossy sheen to his lips. Thoroughly wet. So much. You can feel it pooling under your ass, too. The sheets are saturated. That's all you. "I'll let you come this time," he rasps, sounding just as bad as you.

And at that, you don't care. Nothing else matters anymore.

You chase the high, white-hot pleasure mounting to a fever pitch. It strikes somewhere deep inside you. Blinding ecstasy swallows you whole. It’s cataclysmic. Bliss surges through your veins. “Oh, fuck me,” you choke out, arching off the bed. Your body's wracked with spasms. It's the hardest you've ever come in your life, and you hate that he's the reason for it.

Beginning and end — everything in between, and all at once — he's there. Simon continues, even after you ride out the rest of the orgasm, working you through the entirety of it – a mercy that he grants you for your earlier penitence until you're spent and oversensitive. It's charity. He's just that generous.

"Fuckin'... just drippin' all over my fingers," he growls, "can't wait to see what kind of a mess you make on my cock. I'm gonna ruin you."

"Yeah?" you say, in between shuddering breaths.

"Mm."

You've gotten what you wanted from him already, so a vain attempt to save face: "Do your worst."

The switch is instant. His eyes flash to yours in warning. "How many times am I gonna have to prove you wrong today?"

That same smile again, the one that spells trouble –  it's what started this in the first place. “However long it takes until you make me cry, maybe.”

[milksuu]

Imagine Yone having a wife, which the rest of Heartsteel doesn't know about, I mean they never asked, and then one day he brings a child to the bands apartment. Since his wife has to work late hours and the nursery is already closed, he has to take care of their child. What would the reaction of the band be? And how would they be with children? (Also the wife is the reader since I love self indulgence with Yone)

❥ prompt: Yone never talked about his personal life. The Heartsteel gang had a few assumptions, but they were just theories. Nothing proven. Until the gang found a toddler running around the apartment. ❥ content/warnings: fluffy fluff, gang shenanigans ❥ characters/pairings: v!Heartsteel & yonexreader!gn!kid

KAYN

"What the hell is that thing!? And since when did Yone spawn anything into existence!?"

Kayn isn't used to children being within a five-foot radius of his presence. He tends to not surround himself with booger eating, snot crying, whining little crotch gremlins. Even worse, their damn parents.

Kayn's chaotic nature in public can't be stifled. And he's met his fair share of parents trying to lecture him on his behavior. He always has two words ready for such an occasion: Fuck off. And then proceeds to flash both middle fingers in the air, and laugh when the child behind the fuming parents drops their ice-cream. Absolute poetry.

This was a little different. Scratch that—a lot different. Not only does he know the damn parent (Yone) but the child has managed to infiltrate his room, and infect everything with a thousand unnamed child born diseases. He's about ready to blow a casket. Until the kid accidentally starts playing his Pentakill vinyl album on the record player. That's when he saw a rockstar be born. The way that little tyke started headbanging would put a bunch of mosh pit psycho's to shame. And the screeching? A future screamo lead-singer, easily.

An all out heavy-metal concert ensued. With Kayn rifting his guitar with the song instrumentals, and the kid jumping and screaming into a cheap cordless mic he found under his bed. When the song ended, Kayn chanted "Jump! Jump!" into the mosh-pit of one. And you don't need to tell a child to launch themselves off of anything twice. The tater-tot squealed and laughed, being caught in Kayn's hands and praised into the air for a killer performance.

From the bedroom door, an audience member leaned cooly against the frame. Clapping at the spectacle. "Dada!" The kid raised their fists higher into the air. "I'm a rwockstar!"

Yone lifted a brow, crossing his arms in pure amusement. "I can see that."

"Y-Yeah. Next time, tell your kid not to barge into other people's rooms," Kayn coughed, quickly setting down the kid and patting them towards Yone. "Teach it some manners, o-or whatever. So that I don't have to deal with it."

Yone chuckled under his breath. Taking his child by the hand, he smiled. "Come with me. We should go before someone gets a little too attached."

Kayn huffed red. Slamming the door and shouting behind it, "WOULD NOT!"

APHELIOS

".........!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!?"

So, there was a child. An actual living, breathing one. Stumbling. Running around. Knocking things over. Yelling at the wall and ceilings like some deranged lunatic out on the city streets. What a disaster. What a nightmare. Aphelio's wasn't scared by most things; monsters, zombies, ghosts, spam mail. But children were terrifying creatures. Destructive and loud. The worst kind of combination in a singular human being. Kind of like Kayn.

He swore he broke out into a cold sweat when the child barged into his room. Not quietly at all. His heart pounded. His fingers turned cold. And his eyes trembled against his computer screen. He hoped the child would grow bored of terrorizing his room like some miniature version of Godzilla. He also hoped someone would see the calamity, take pity on him, and come to his aid. Someone like Sett.

He then heard a familiar note. He cursed himself twice. He shouldn't have left his electric portable keyboard out in the open. Aphelios turned cautiously in his chair. He swallowed hard and braced himself for a horrific sight. He thought he'd find the child bashing the keys in or trying to pluck the knobs right off. Instead, he saw a small round face filled with wonder at the sound. Carefully, the child pressed another. Smiling, delighted by the next note. Aphelio's eyes rounded. That's when he saw a little bit of himself.

It didn't take long for Apehlios to gather his spare headset and cord link. He plucked the kid up and placed him right on his lap at his desk. He was going to show this little one all the instruments in his digital toolbox. The workflow of an absolute musical genius. And they were going to make a mixed bite that would leave people speechless.

"Oh! Oh! Dat one. Dat one." The toddler tapped Aphelio's hand against his computer mouse. A few clicks and the instrument was spliced into the mix. When Aphelio's replayed the bit, the child kicked their legs back and forth, clapping their hands together. Wanting to gauge the tots overall opinion, he flipped between thumbs-up and thumbs-down. Back and forth. The little one took his hand, and kept it thumb-side-up with a cheeky grin. And they both nodded in agreement. This mix was a certified banger.

EZREAL

"Hey, guys. Has anyone seen my phone? Nevermind. Found it! Someone's totally random kid has it. Wait—HUH!?"

Ezreal doesn't mind kids so much. They could sometimes be a lot of fun. The only thing Ezreal can't handle is once a crying session starts, or a random tantrum erupts. He gets a little nervous when the meltdowns start. Because he has no freaking clue how to handle it. So for the most part, Ezreal does like kids—from a distance. Where he can smile and laugh at their antics, without having to actually deal with an emotional ticking time bomb. Kayn was bad enough already.

The other thing he can't deal with is someone messing with his phone! And unfortunately, his habit of misplacing it has caught up to him. Because now a toddler has it. Deleting and messing up his apps. Possibly trying to look for some silly game he doesn't even have installed. And if Ezreal thought he was fast, well, this kid took the crown. Call that tyke 'Lightning McQueen', because they were leaving sneaker marks on the floor.

But this game of chase had to come to an end. Ezreal caught up to the road-runner, and slipped the phone right out of those tiny fingers. Ezreal cheered himself thinking he won. Ezreal quickly figured out he was actually about to be the biggest loser. He witnessed those round eyes growing in watery magnitude. Face wrinkling with pure, unfiltered raw emotion. The hiccups increased in volume, and those puffed cheeks were getting more red by the minute.

"H-Hey! Don't cry. No, no. Shhh—Shhh! It's okay." Ezreal smacked his hands together, begging and pleading for mercy upon his sensitive soul. Ezreal sunk his top teeth into his bottom lip. He wasn't prepared for this at all. And if Yone ever found out he made his kid cry, then mostly likely, he'd make sure Ezreal was crying too (and bleeding) on the floor. Then forced to clean up his own murder scene!

A few quick taps and he knelt down with the hiccuping toddler. With the cat filter setup, Ezreal pretended to be a kitten; meowing and licking his paw and rubbing his cheeks to clean himself. The kiddo sniffed back their brimming tears, giggling when they saw they had their own whiskers and ears! After a couple of loud meows, the child hopped up and down. "Doggy next! Doggy next!" One tap and now they were puppies, barking and panting.

Many cute pictures were taken. Ezreal picked out a few and messaged them to Yone.

[Yone:] Thanks. The wife will be happy to have these. [Ezreal:] np! 😋 [Yone:] By the way. Have you finished cleaning the bathrooms? [Ezreal]:..............................................yes. 🤗 [Yone:] Finish the bathrooms. Now. Or I'll be confiscating your phone for a week.

Ezreal almost broke down in tears, falling to his knees. He was so close to having his own meltdown. Just from the sheer thought of losing his phone privilege's. Honestly, he should be off the hook for entertaining the kid and sending cute pictures. Life totally wasn't fair!

SETT

"Well, hello down there. You wanna play a game or—shoot. I didn't mean to scare ya'h off! I swear I'm a nice guy if ya'h give me a chance!"

There was no doubt about it. Sett really, really, liked children. There was something about them that brought him joy whenever they were around. All of his personal baggage and adult stress would simply melt away from a simple giggle or smile. And Sett had his fair share of babysitting other single-moms' and their children while growing up. It was one of his part-time jobs from middle to high school. All to help Ma' with paying the bills.

Unfortunately, kids didn't seem to like him too much (at first). With his overwhelming mass, they'd think he was some sort of monster. The one their parents told them would gobble them up if they didn't shower before bed. So, here he was, trying to entertain the little one. But anytime they caught sight of him, they'd cry in terror and scamper away. Sett had to think bigger. He tapped his chin a couple of times before a light bulb went off above his ears.

He laid out the scene in his room. He thanked his Ma' for one of the plushies she sent came with a tea set in the box. He went as far as to grab a few outfits and materials he stitched up as small replicas of larger projects him and K'Sante worked on. Him and the surrounding stuff toys were dressed appropriately for the most exquisite tea-party. Dress, hats, neck pearls and all!

Curiosity always got the best of any child. When the tater-tot heard the laughs and conversations, they had to sneak a peek. And once they entered the room, the child found Sett sitting on the ground, surrounded by his plushies, all served with tiny cups and plates.

"Oh! Quiet down everyone. The prince/princess has finally arrived. Mr. Chonk, please. Show our honored guest to their seat." He motioned his tea-cup to a free spot at the 'table'. The child glowed with excitement, scurrying to their designated placement. With a fancy tilt of their teacup, they took prim and proper sips of their tea. "More tea, Mr.Swett?" The toddler wiggled forward and picked up the teapot.

"Why, yes. I would love some more. Thank you." Sett raised his cup at the offer. The giggles and excitable conversation could be heard throughout the entire apartment. It wasn't long till the rest of the gang stuck their noses through a crack at the door. Opening the door, they couldn't help but burst with laughter at the display. Ezreal, of course, snapping pictures. Aphelios chuckling to himself behind his mask. Kayn roaring with laughter and tears. And K'Sante commenting on how he'd never expect some of his designed outfits would be used at a kid's tea party. "Nuh-Uh. You can't come in." The toddler hoped on their feet, pushing all of them all out the door. "Dis invitation onwy. No stinkers!"

"That's right, fellas. No stinkers." Sett laughed, raising his pinky into the air. "This is an exclusive tea-party. Better luck gettin' invited next year. Right?"

K'SANTE

"He-He. You think you have what it takes because you are Yone's kid? Show me and prove it."

K'Sante grew up with a large family. Brothers, sisters, first cousins, second cousins, the neighbors next door and their kids. Heck, even that laundromat lady his mom was friends with and her kids. Actually, just about everyone in the community. Seemed like it was always a party at his parents home. No matter the day or week, K'Sante had always dealt with a high-energy household. And when the adults pulled out the bottle of Akpeteshie, you knew it was going to be a rager. And at the kids table, K'Sante was in charge of watching over the parade of younger children.

Being a certified older sibling within his family unit, and apparently, Heartsteel as well, handling one little wasn't going to throw off his cool or cramp his style. In fact, he was more than prepared. If there was one thing he knew from growing up, kids loved to play dress up. And he had a full wardrobe of runway worthy outfits.

K'Sante busted out a long carpet down the hallway. Borrowed some plushies from Sett, and made them the audience and judges. Dimming most of the surrounded lights, the hallway bulbs illuminated the catwalk with intensity. Let the show begin!

"Higher energy! Yes, show them a 'ting or two about what fashion truly means." K'sante clapped his hands as the kiddo strutted down with dramatic sass. "That is it. Right there. Now, finish them off with the look." At the end of the carpet, the child titled their head back, and narrowed their eyes before sharply turning with a fling of the boa around their neck. K'Sante cheered, pushing one of the stuffed animals as if it passed out from sheer cut-throat fashion! He blew kisses into the air. "They can't even handle you right now. You are new, you are fresh, but also timeless. Molded by the hands of Gods. Your power is infinite."

Wardrobe changes were a must. K'Sante wasn't going to let such talent go to waste. His work of art and the tiny fashion model would display it all for the world to see. Well, the stuffed animal world, he had to remind himself. Seemed like a game of pretend was feeling like a real runway gig! And after the runway show was over, it actually wasn't truly over. K'Sante had pulled out a magazine from behind a display case. Showing the kiddo a picture of their father walking down a runway in an all black-attire event. "Dada," the kid placed a hand against the glossy page. "Supah cool."

"That's right." K'Sante said proudly, puffing his chest. "And your Dada looks cool because I am the one who designed his suite. But, I'll give him credit. He is a pretty cool guy all on his own."

an: this req was too cute to write omg. sorry if i just focused on the gang and the kid, rather than the yone x reader part you also requested. felt it was getting a bit long, and i wasn't sure if i could incorporate it well enough. very sorry about that. but don't worry! i have another yone x reader req. incoming.

[drdemonprince]

Hello! You have opened a fascinating door into kink communities I didn't even know existed. Thanks for that. I was describing some of your steamworks adventures to my partner, who works as a Disease Intervention Specialist (aka DIS, a government healthcare worker who administers free/low-cost STD testing and then attempts to track down and notify+test the recent sexual partners of any infected individuals). (He brings some INSANE stories home from work and gets to give sex ed talks at the local Christian college using a model penis that actually ejaculates--but I digress.) He was horrified by the hypothetical situation where an infected person could have blindfolded sex with an unknown number of nameless strangers. It's hard enough trying to track down partners when the patient only knew them by their Grindr username. How do you have safe sex in these situations? Some STDs can be transmitted via skin-to-skin contact even with a condom. Do venues like steamworks enforce any rules around testing/protection/etc.?

If your partner is 'horrified' by the actual sex lives of the populations he ostensibly serves I think he needs to read more from harm reductionist thinkers and queer activists from a variety of past eras and work on processing his feelings of judgement to ensure it doesn't impact his actions in that line of work.

The books and Melancholia and Moralism, Saving Our Own Lives, and Beyond Shame: Reclaiming the Abandoned History of Radical Gay Sexuality are good places to start.

If you're having anonymous or blindfolded sex in cruising spaces, one route of managing risks is to assume that every person there could be infected with STIs you do not have and to plan accordingly. Vaccines, condoms, PreP, testing, and education are just some of the tools at one's disposal, and one should always be cognizant of the risks that one is consenting to. Steamworks has sexual health educators and testers present within their space regularly, but they don't gatekeep based on serostatus, health status, drug regimen or use of protection -- doing so wouldn't be feasible and would be problematic on multiple grounds.

I don't believe the goal of a public health initiative or a life well lived is to eliminate all risk, or to regard the presence of any infection in any human body as unacceptable, but rather to empower people to make informed decisions about the level of risk they are comfortable confronting, or that is worth the numerous benefits to them.

Personally, I was in far greater danger when I didn't have access to such spaces. Cruising spaces make negotiating sexual consent far safer than privately dating and hooking up with someone, and Steamworks are vitally important queer community spaces, and for me are well worth the trade off. No one should have any illusions about this ever being an experience that they can eliminate all risk from, rather they should anticipate it and plan for it.

I think "safe sex" is an unhelpful framework to pursue because it is so binary and can't ever be guaranteed. What does safety mean? Which types of exposures do we consider to be "unsafe"? Am I unsafe if I encounter another person who, like me, has had a cold sore before, like 80% of the population? Or someone who has a strain of HPV I am vaccinated against? What about if I have an encounter with somebody with a cold? I'm "safer" being fucked by an HIV positive person who is undetectable and wearing a condom than I am having barrier free sex with a long term partner who cheats. I can't even know I'm taking a risk in the latter case; at Steamworks, I'm assuming my risk level to be on the high end and planning accordingly.

I understand that testing and tracing are important parts of public health for our populations. It was vitally important when monkeypox broke out. Maybe Steamworks should collect member emails and alert them if there was a reported transmission on a night that they visited. Though even then, there are some negative public health implications to dozens of people panicking. But there is no means of eliminating all risk entirely or tracing all human sexual behavior and I would be myself pretty horrified if there was.

[scri--bble]

MOLD LORE DUMP TIMEE

So before Chara fell into the underground and caused the disease to happen and all Mold was one of the royal scientists (in undermold there was more than him and alphys,fight me), he was this nervous little guy that had somewhat of an attitude, When Chara did fall down and die in the Dreemurr's home, the mold disease spreading made Mold turn paranoid before eventually getting infected and being taken over by it

now he's this almost non-talkative but angry guy, hes sorta dead??? the mold disease keeps him alive like almost everyone else

after getting infected he kinda lost his mind and he turned violent, he still cares dearly about Papyrus even tho his mind is flooded with paranoia

he usually just sits at his booth and tries to rest,even tho the tendrils crawling around him make it uncomfortable all the time(same for the other characters who got tendrils :P), it's painful too cuz the tendrils grow out of his bones (arms and legs and his ribcage)

he likes laying in the snow for some reason and no he doesnt make snow angels (unless ;3)

notes:

the reason his pupils are gone is because the tendrils got to the inside of his head and are crawling outta his eyes (his left eye is entirely covered up,while the other one just a little,enough to let him see), so hes half blind

you cant get rid of the tendrils, theyre a part of him now, they can regen too (depending on how strong/powerful the monster is )

his attacks are slower now,since he feels alot more easily tired and uneasy

he also needs to puke every now and then because the disease cant contain his power which causes him to vomit tendrils (so you might see black liquid dripping from his mouth,idfk hoe), he doesnt puke often like idfk 2 maybe 3 times a week

Mold is... probably bi? still haven't entirely decided but he's definitely a man liker

he's in distress and paranoia most of the time, 1. because hes worried about Papyrus (who's doing actually alot more better than him💀) and 2. He hates having to vomit every week and is walking back and forth nerve-wracked that he can puke any second now without realizing early(he needs a bucket... or a toilet???? fuck)

he puts on this big boy act around others, when it comes to Frisk falling into the underground, Mold would probably be this quiet but tough guy who's a real alpha male...heh.

he has trouble reading obviously (the tendrils tend to move around in his skull,making him distracted easily or making his eyesight worsen or better every now and then ( IDK THE WORDS)

his character in a few words: cold hearted,paranoid, nervous, introverted, sarcastic, a whiny ass bitch when he's drunk (very real of him), easily disgusted (like by a comment or opinion or something)

OK IM MAKING THIS TOO LONG MOST OF YALL WONT WANNA READ.

the color palette i used in the first drawing is

cant find the blog i got it from

[smolcinnamonchipmunk]

Vampiric Thirst

(Old note: Throws this at you guys. Haven’t written in a while. I don’t know if that will change, but I couldn’t help but make this after the whole vampire event. Once more I end up disappointed by Obey Me events. I really need to lower my standards like I do for Ark, because as fun as the concepts can be, every event ends up feeling rushed and half-baked. They’re not gonna stop though because suckers like me will pay money for a dopamine hit because I have no meaning in life.

New note: Obviously taking some liberties to make it so that Solomon does actually have vampiric urges rather than just being a horndog because this game is literally mostly horny, but I crave plot and substance and have no interest in horny. Maybe I don’t want to fuck anyone, maybe I want actual stakes and near-death because if there’s no threat of dying, then what’s the point of living? Anyways, have something started last July, haha. It’s short, but I want it out of my WIP pile where it’s been judging me from the goddamn corner. I have a bunch of lore ideas with this given the events status being introduced after Nightbringers release, but I won’t get into it cause I’d need to refresh myself on OM.)

Word count: 3668

TW/CW: Soft, safe, nonsexual G/t vore, fearplay, blood, bloodsucking (I hate any word with suck in it, but it’s in here), prey in a stomach full of blood

__________________________________________________________

“Because I’m always craving you, Kat. So much so that I honestly could devour you.”

That… hadn’t really been what I had expected when I asked him why he seemed to be acting odd today when he walked into my room at Cocytus Hall to give me something, kind of freezing when some sort of realization went over him.

I couldn’t help the way my heart picked up the pace anxiously, despite having come across multiple situations similar to this one. Seeing Solomon with a similar hunger to Beel that was uncharacteristic of him made my anxiety spike a bit. “Buuut, you’re not. Right,” I asked nervously, unable to NOT notice the way his eyes glowed slightly as I lowered the book I’d been reading. I couldn’t help but keep my desk chair facing him, something instinctive decidedly not wanting to turn my back to him despite having been in far worse situations.

It didn’t seem to matter much as he touched his throat lightly, stepping slightly closer and replying, “I don’t think I could actually stop myself if I wanted if this keeps up… Kat, I know this is a sudden request but… would you mind if I drank some of your blood?”

“Wha- blood?” I blinked a bit in surprise, feeling a slight epiphany as I realized. “Ooh! I thought Vampiritis couldn’t affect you. Or did your hubris come to bite you?”

I intended no pun, but Solomon still let out a snort of amusement, though he also looked a tad sheepish like I had hit the nail on the head. I had told him that he should still be careful with the brothers himself, but he’d mostly brushed me off and said that he needed to keep his ‘precious apprentice’ from either catching Vampiritis or becoming a human-sized CapriSun to the afflicted demon brothers while that whole situation was figured out. But, it seemed like his rather attentive nature to me hadn’t extended to himself and he ended up contracting Vampiritis despite all boisterous assurances that he wouldn’t.

“Unfortunately, it appears that being around the brothers so much has infected me,” the sorcerer sighed, looking a bit dejected at having contracted the disease. His eyes seemed slightly glazed over and unfocused like he wasn’t fully in the conversation.

“Well, Barbatos might still have some of the antidote,” I replied, seeing him perk up slightly at the reminder, eyes refocusing with his normal clarity from the pretty obvious distractions on his mind. I set my book down on my desk and started to get up, adding, “I'm sure Diavolo will be able to-."

I yelped when there was a sudden weight against my shoulder and I was shoved back into my chair, looking up at Solomon with startled eyes. His own glowed slightly as he unintentionally loomed over me, looking caught off guard at his own actions.

“Uuuuh, Solomon?”

“I'm a bit a-... worried that I may not be able to hold back against my current thirst on the way to Diavolo or Barbatos,” Solomon admitted. “I'm afraid that if something isn't done NOW that I'll quite literally see red.”

“Really? Did you really try to make a shitty joke in the current situation,” I asked, but I couldn't make myself add any bite to it. His grip on my shoulder was firm and I could feel it tightening slightly each second, able to feel the shake in his grasp. Feeling overly aware of him with the proximity, I could barely hear the slight pant beneath his breath. I took a steadying breath of my own. “Look, I'll give you a LITTLE bit of blood. Just enough to hopefully ebb the hunger pangs, alright? Then we can go to Diavolo with your mind clearer.”

He jolted slightly at my suggestion, or maybe it was just my voice, and a conflicted expression passed across his face. He opened his mouth to say something but it didn’t come out for a few seconds, straining before saying, “I… Yes. Yes, perhaps that will help abate the hunger.”

I didn’t like how he hesitated as he said it or how his expression looked both extremely guilty and eager. But, despite the anxious feeling settling in my gut, I trusted him. To a point.

“Alright, well, first of all, you gotta back up a bit there, bud,” I planted a hand against his chest and shoved at him. His lips twitched in the barest frown before allowing himself to be pushed back away from me, giving me some much needed breathing room and some relief from being pinned by my shoulder to the chair. Absentmindedly rubbing the back of my neck, I thought aloud, “I kind of don't really trust you with my neck, so we're gonna go with… a wrist, I think, yeah.”

“R-Right.” Solomon looked like he was barely paying attention, hands shaking slightly as he bit his lip, seemingly trying to keep his mind clear enough. I saw a bead of his own blood from it.

I reached down and began to roll my sleeves up nervously, only slightly comforted by the sight of the protective charm on my right wrist. Once my sleeves were rolled I felt a bit awkward as I kind of held both out towards him. “Uhhhh, take your pick, I guess. Just don't bite too deep? I'm not sure if you could break my wrists by biting them, but I'd like to not test that too much.”

“I'll do my best,” Solomon presumably tried to give me a reassuring smile but it came out as more of a grimace. He gave up pretty quickly and carefully grabbed my left wrist like it'd snap at his touch. If Vampiritis gave him the cliche super-strength that movie vampires had, maybe it was for the best.

I was a bit surprised when the sorcerer kneeled to get better access to my wrist, feeling more than a little awkward - I probably should have stood up or figured something else out before offering my blood to him since he wasn't really in the headspace to think clearly - but the awkwardness was tempered by a familiar squeamishness that settled in the pit of my stomach. It was similar to, but wasn't quite as bad as, the nauseous anxiety I felt anytime I had to get my blood drawn or a shot. 

I managed to watch as Solomon raised my wrist slightly to his face, saw him open his mouth to reveal a glimpse of the elongated canines that were a symptom of Vampiritis and felt a bit of his breath against my skin. But I felt myself pale right as he opened his jaws wider and averted my gaze before he bit down, warned by the slight tensing of his hold on my wrist. 

There were two points of pain that suddenly bloomed along my wrist vein as the skin was pierced, making me yelp and stiffen. I managed to mostly resist the urge to pull away as I bit down on my tongue, but my heart skipped a beat as a twitch from my arm told me that he probably wouldn't have budged if I had tried to pull away properly.  

I swallowed thickly, wondering if he could taste adrenaline in my quickened pulse for a moment before the pain in my wrist faded startlingly quickly. It was cold and numb, like novocaine to my system, and I couldn't help but blink in surprise and look back. 

Only to immediately avert my gaze again with a fresh wave of dizziness and queasiness. 

"Okay, nope," I muttered to myself, trying to push aside the image of Solomon latched onto my wrist with a thin stream of blood trickling from the corner of his mouth and an almost blissful close-eyed expression out of my head. At least one of us was having fun. 

Thankfully, it wasn't too long before I heard the small gasp and slight panting as he detached from me. It had maybe been several seconds, probably enough for a full mouthful or two with the smaller veins in my wrist compared to my throat, but it had felt awfully long, and I felt the lingering squeamishness that I knew would remain for the rest of the day. 

"I hope that helped clear your head a bit," I pulled my wrist back to myself and gingerly touched a finger to the two beading puncture wounds as I started to turn my head to look at Solomon. My hand had a pins and needles feeling.  "I was a bit worried you'd-." 

My voice immediately became muffled as my mouth was covered by a hand, eyes widening and crying out in surprise when the force of Solomon lunging upward caused the desk chair to fall back. It hit the desk edge first before sliding to the ground, rattling my skull as the chair back hit the ground, making me grunt from the fall and ending up pinned beneath the feral sorcerer. 

"Mmph!" I blinked away my brief daze, looking up at Solomon's face in the shadow of the desk as panic flared across my pacts. His slightly glowing blue eyes were replaced by an intense red and I could see streaks of my own blood from the corners of his mouth. The feral looking expression was something I'd never seen in him before, but I couldn't summon anyone or use a spell with my mouth currently covered. 

There was a sharp tug against my neck as my choker was broken off, jolting me from my frozen shock. I squirmed and bucked beneath the sorcerer, twisting up and elbowing him in the face. The man HISSED at me and I took advantage of his surprise to shove his hand off of my mouth. Kicking at his chest to push him off me and retreat further beneath the desk, I began to recite a summoning spell. 

"Hear me and heed my call," I exclaimed as quick and clear as I could, feeling a pressure behind my eye. Solomon was sat from where I'd pushed him back, hand against his cheekbone where I'd struck him. His expression went from indignant surprise to one of uncharacteristic, raw fury. I saw him tense like a coil before trying to push forward off the ground to lunge towards me again. I quickly raised my leg, shoe planting firmly against his chest as it barely stopped him, knee almost buckling painfully against the force. “In the name of the sorcerer Katherine, I draw upon my pact with the ring of li-GHT!” 

My voice hitched as Solomon grabbed the ankle of the foot against his chest, pulling it to the side and yanking me closer. My heart raced, gritting my teeth as we scuffled in the cramped space beneath the desk. I tried to not fuck up saying the summon, while trying to stop him from stopping ME from saying it, while also trying to get my foot loose and scramble further back again. 

“Come forth, Mam-mphf!” I narrowed my eyes and grunted as Solomon let go of my ankle and managed to wrestle both of my wrists in one hand, covering my mouth again with his other. The pressure that had been building behind my eye fizzled out and disappeared dead in its tracks.  

The sorcerer wasted no time in descending on me, making me gasp in pain as my throat was bitten. I squirmed but could do nothing as restrained as I was, my pained panting lessening as the numbing began to settle in my neck, my hand still tingling from loss of feeling in the wrist. I heard the first swallow as he began to drink greedily and felt a rush of lightheadedness. Lightheadedness that lingered as more blood was stolen and less was able to reach my head properly, making my thrashing lessen alarmingly fast.

I tried to call out Solomon’s name, to try and appeal to him past the feral fervor that had overtaken him. But, of course, it came out as an easily ignored muffled shout that I barely heard over the blood rushing in my own ears and the sound of gulping.

Time slowed painfully as I remained pinned beneath the sorcerer, the lightheadedness and weak feeling in my body increasing every second. My limbs felt more and more like lead until my arms simply hung by my wrists in Solomon’s hold, now struggling to just keep my eyes open and focus on the wooden grain of the desk underside above, trying to not pass out with the fear that if I closed my eyes that I wouldn’t open them again. However, even that became too much effort and my eyelids slid closed.

I felt cold and tired.

I wasn’t sure how much time passed with my eyes closed but I realized that I was being nudged, barely able to focus on the voice, “Sh-Shit, Kat? Kat?!”

“Nnngh,” I groaned at being nudged again, eyelids twitching a few times before I managed to groggily force them open. My sight was blurry and I had to clear it with a couple blinks to look up at Solomon, who gazed down in worried panic with slightly glowing blue eyes rather than the red from before. I just felt an overwhelming wave of relief at seeing that he seemed to have come to. “Oh, thank god..”

I let out a relieved sigh, eyes closing again tiredly, adrenaline either long gone or drained and feeling exhausted relief at seeing Solomon alright. My brow twitched and furrowed as I was shaken, struggling to get out of the dazed stupor I’d almost immediately fallen into without realizing it.

I just wanted to sleep now, man, leave me alone.

“Come on, stay with me,” Solomon said, something brushing against my neck as he murmured some words under his breath. “I can’t have my adorable apprentice dying on me.”

“Mmmn-n-not adorable,” I grumbled weakly, managing to open an eye in an attempt to glare at him. He pulled his hand away from my neck and the glow of a healing spell dissipated in his palm. The healing spell didn’t clear away the blood on his hand and chin, making me wonder how bad I looked if HE looked this disheveled and blood-covered.

“I can’t believe that worked. You’re ridiculous,” the sorcerer laughed, but it was strained. He reached for something nearby and muttered another spell, adding louder, “Just try and stay awake while I try to fix this before the bloodlust becomes unbearable again. If this is how Beel feels all the time, no wonder he goes mad with hunger as often as he does…”

I groaned in acknowledgement, fighting to keep my eye open. I gave up and lifted a lead-heavy arm to drape lethargically over my eyes. “How much blood can I lose before dying?”

“Well, the average person can lose up to a fifth of their blood on average before going into complete shock. However, more than forty percent is almost certainly lethal.”

My lips pursed at the information, quiet for a few seconds before lifting my arm slightly from my eyes to peer at him and  mumbling, “I don’t like that you just know that.”

“You did ask,” Solomon replied lightly in an attempt to lighten the mood. He seemed satisfied with whatever he cast and started reaching for my neck again. His expression fell when I involuntarily flinched slightly away from his hands. 

“I-... s-sorry…”

“No. No, it’s… understandable,” he sighed slightly, grabbing my other wrist instead. My hand curled defensively as he lifted it up and tied my choker around the wrist. 

I let out a surprised noise as I felt a sudden surge of energy and slight warmth, having not realized how chilled I was with my lack of blood. Not enough to be jumping up and down or anything, but I didn’t feel like I was about to die anymore. I blinked at not feeling like death and gave Solomon a bleary quizzical look.

“It’s to magically help your blood levels. I can’t make something from nothing, especially in my mental state right now, but it'll keep you from dying to blood loss,” Solomon explained, giving me a guilty, apologetic, and shameful expression. He sighed and I felt like his eyes flickered for a second. “It's also to help you breathe and hopefully keep you clean.”

“Solomon. I don't like that you said that…,” I narrowed my eyes at him and shifted to try and push myself into a sitting position, yelping when my elbows buckled beneath me. Yup, still too weak to move much. 

“Don't strain yourself,” a hand planted against my shoulder to keep me down as the sorcerer looked at me with concern. He tried to give me a reassuring smile despite the obvious mental strain it was taking him to maintain control. 

Probably would have been more effective if there wasn't a slight discoloration on his face where I'd elbowed him as bruising started setting in, he hadn't literally just overpowered me, was on the verge of relapsing, and we were both covered in my own blood. In my slightly delirious state, I had to internally admit that it was quite a look.

“Sol-.”

“It's nothing you haven't handled before,” the sorcerer continued, interrupting whatever further protests or questions I had before he started reciting the now very familiar shrinking spell I’d grown accustomed to hearing from the brothers. 

Almost immediately the lightheadedness and vertigo took over, dazing me and making my vision swim. I barely registered the sensation of being lifted from the ground, my eyesight refocusing in time to see Solomon’s mouth open above me. The elongated canines that had punctured my skin minutes prior now framed the dark confines of his bloodstained jaws and the warm, shaky exhale that washed over me was saturated with the scent of iron. My heart skipped a beat.

I knew any protest or words would fall on deaf ears but as I was lifted closer to Solomon’s open mouth with his tongue extending slightly to lay over his lower teeth I couldn’t help but weakly say, “If this ends up killing me, I’m gonna kick your ass.”

There was another, sharper exhale from the sorcerer and a slight upturn at the corner of his lips before I was transferred from his palm to the slick, textured surface of his tongue, the muscle curling behind me and drawing me into his jaws. Saliva instantly soaked into my clothes as teeth lightly clicked shut behind me to leave me in darkness, able to hear and feel everything around me flex as Solomon instinctively swallowed some excess saliva.

His breathing was more noticeably ragged from within his jaws, huffing as his tongue quivered beneath me. I was confused, laying in a tired daze and wondering why nothing was moving, used to being tasted, sometimes with aggressive fervor. From the way I could feel drool pooling beneath my back I could tell that I was appealing to him, but the question of whether or not it was brought on by the Vampiritis would have to wait until later. I realized when his tongue only gingerly lapped at me a couple times before gravity began to shift that he seemed to be desperately holding himself back.

“Right,” I mumbled, letting myself slide toward the back of his throat. “Kind of attacked me.”

Solomon probably didn’t want to hurt me more.

I grunted slightly as a swallow quickly dragged me into his gullet and more hastened my descent down his esophagus, breathing restricted by the tight confines and each inhale laced with the tang of blood. Slipping past the collarbone was more constrictive and I was able to hear the sorcerer let out an exhale of relief, felt the odd sensation of being tightly hugged on all sides by peristalsis pulling me yet able to discern the sensation of him leaning forward slightly.

“I can’t tell how much of it is the Vampiritis but… this is unnervingly satisfying,” he admitted, voice resonating down to my bones in my descent. “I really hope you’ll be able to breathe. I guess I’ll find out if you don’t flail.”

There he went, mentioning breathing again. I was almost confused but as I felt the slight pressure beneath me that precluded spilling into a stomach, I realized that he quite literally had his fill of me. There wasn’t even a splash as I was forced into the organ, just slipping into a chamber of blood that I was thankful I couldn’t see. Whatever he did to my choker was allowing me to breathe, which I was thankful for considering I hadn’t exactly braced myself to hold my breath, and oddly enough each inhale was clean air instead of iron-saturated liquid. Potentially some sort of personal breathing bubble, I wasn’t exactly going to summon a light source in here.

“You’re good, Solomon,” I mustered the energy to shout up, feeling for the nearest stomach wall in the space expanded with my own blood. I tried not to think about it too much.

“Thank goodness,” Solomon let out a sigh of relief. Everything sort of sloshed around as he moved, the force of him shifting and standing up making me sink a little. “It seems eating you has tempered the bloodlust slightly. I was worried that I was going to drain you, felt like I was starving and greedy even though I feel full. Now, to get Barbatos and-.”

Solomon was interrupted by the sound of the door breaking open and slamming against the wall, Mammon’s voice shouting in a panic, “KAT!”

“Uh oh.” Solomon and I muttered at the same time.

“I assure you, this looks far worse than it is,” Solomon told Mammon, and considering how bloody and disheveled the sorcerer and my room was, I didn’t think the demon would believe that. 

All I could do was wish Solomon luck and prepare to potentially be sloshed around.

[lord-squiggletits]

You know, I feel like Pharma had the right idea about the rust plague. Oh there's a group of supersoldiers at the door who were handpicked by Megatron and specialize in torture threatening to kill everyone here? They're also complete powerhouses that can wipe out a ship of 200+ bots? Ok, but how well are they against a disease that slowly makes them fall apart? Can Tarn talk it away? Is Overlord immune to every illness? At that point I'd be willing to make a few sacrifices to find out, it's not like the alternate is any better.

Lost Light but-Pharma-is-there au where whenever they run into op enemies and everything seems hopeless, Pharma suggests making another plague. Megatron refusing to get off his ass to help fight off the consequences of his actions? Let me just use this little disease I've been cooking up for this exact scenario :)

Yeah I mean the problem is that Pharma was dealing with Tarn-- JUST TARN-- all by himself, and bringing in Ambulon and/or First Aid wouldn't have helped because they're not any better fighters than he is! If anything, getting them involved might've just gotten them all killed since First Aid would probably try to call for help and Ambulon... well, on the alt Lost Light, the DJD didn't care about going in List order and just killed all three of their targets plus everyone around them besides, so who's to say seeing Ambulon wouldn't have just made Tarn kill them all immediately, blackmail deal and List order be damned?

Pharma stands no chance against just Tarn, much less all of the DJD together, based on physical prowess alone. Even if he somehow managed to kill Tarn by himself, there's the whole rest of the DJD to cope with too.

With the rust plague, there's basically two options:

The request to evacuate is honored and Prowl pulls them out of Delphi, saving everyone bar a few who die to the red rust. Maybe if they're lucky, some pieces of Delphi are still infested with disease particles and the DJD get infected when they come looking for Pharma.

The worst option, Tarn/the DJD come to collect, rampage through Delphi and kill anyone they find, but get infected in the process (likely Kaon, Vos, and Tarn first, since they need to transform to fight or torture, and Tarn has his addiction). A shitload of people at Delphi die, but the DJD are infected and die either immediately or eventually.

But like, if Pharma didn't use the red rust, his only options would've been to try and beat the DJD head on (literally impossible) or ask for an evac on his own (the DJD can cut off those signals and hunt you down anyways) or just keep harvesting t-cogs (nothing gets better and Pharma keeps having to kill people).

So like, fucking genuinely what exactly was Pharma meant to do in this situation? Yeah it's easy to go "he could've found a solution that didn't kill anyone" but bro was literally under a blackmail deal delivered by Tarn himself in the flesh FOR AT LEAST TWO WHOLE YEARS STRAIGHT like yeah I think under psychological and moral torment that intense for that long, feeling like escape is completely impossible and will be punished with death, I too would go nuclear and pick an incredibly violent/messy solution if I saw it as my last resort to get out (kind of) unscathed and not being blamed for my own torture and suffering.

Also, re: that last paragraph, honestly all I could think of was this meme:

But also fun fact, I actually do want to write some variety of a "Pharma lives" AU in which he actually gets to live his dreams of slaughtering Tarn and the DJD like diseased animals, so... stay tuned. Eventually.