#if anyone knows the original source lmk!

[seventh-district]

Figured I'd try my hand at some Redacted character post/text edits!

[ 1 / ? ]

Credit to @/sainthowlzon for all the Listener icons, and to @/elisacaleisa for their google drive with all the canon icons!

(slightly alternative version of the Solaires' GC edit below the cut bc i had a lil too much fun with what Vincent would name his contacts)

[roxy206]

Stoppppppp

hat tip trixiescrown | original source unknown

[sophaeros]

arctic monkeys @ pappy & harriet's palace, pioneertown, ca, usa / 18/04/2010 (x)

[sakamotokaori]

victory lap!

[incorrectstarvs]

Marco, utterly defeated: love is an illusion Star, patting his head: Aw, c'mon buddy! I'm sure I can uh, salvage this situation somehow! Marco, head in his pillow: how?? Star, humming in thought: I could uhhh... ask her to also date you??? Marco, in disbelief: would she really want to date me? Star, checking her phone: Well, I just texted her and she said yes sooooo Marco, tearing up, stars in his eyes: love is real

[0hpotato]

photo study 05

ref

[princema-k]

U N L I M I T E D

original ref + individual transparent characters below :)

[cabbagesoupfanatic]

ok i didn't think this would get any traction but now that it has i just wanna clarify: i didn't make this picture! i found it on an instagram account called @thgprequel! i don't take credit for this masterful piece of image editing!

my pfp for anyone wondering 😌

[pluto-sims]

PRETTY IN PUNK - Pastel Punk Rock Posters

YES i am posting more simlish posters YES i very much hope you're not super bored of me NO i will not stop doing them. ANYWAY a very lovely anon asked if i could do some pastel punk posters, and that sounded like a genius idea, sooooo here we go! as always they're bgc and use purely simlish text. these were really fun to do, so thank you for the suggestion anon!

@maxismatchccworld @emilyccfinds @mmfinds @mmoutfitters

details, full swatch preview and download under the cut >:)

Details

BGC pastel punk rock music posters

Original poster designs sourced from Freepik, recoloured, edited and Simlish-ified by me

20 swatches (preview below)

Custom thumbnail, correct colour tags and all that jazz

Swatch Preview

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand I think that is it! Like I said, these were super fun to do. I love doing wall art cc, so if anyone ever has any requests/suggestions, please do let me know >:) any issues at all, please lmk, but if not, i hope you enjoy them!

Download: Curseforge / Patreon (both 100% free to everyone, always)

[the-real-loser-otaku-girl]

Different fashions reddit user say is the same thing and why they are not

i cant believe this is a post i am making lol but ima clear up how these reddit users r wrong lol (pls dont harass anyone this is just for educational purposes)

Dark girly vs Jirai

Dark girly kei is a fashion that predates jirai (jirai is a lifestyle!!!) The only reason Girly kei is associated with jirai is cuz the girly kei style is what was trending when jirai became a thing. i go more in depth about jirai here

with the next sections i do not know as much sadly but i shall use the knowledge i do have and please feel to jump in!

Cutecore vs Jojifuku

cutecore 1 2

jojifuku 1 2

As we can see there is a lot of overlap. Cutecore is a style that emerged around 2020 (🩷) meanwhile jojifuku is from the 2010s (🩷)

Cutecore often has themes of spookier stuff (not always tho!!!)

Jojifuku (女児服) translates to girls clothing. the look of it is to look like youre wearing kids clothes.

(again i dont know much about these styles so feel free to correct me!)

Coquette vs Hime kei

Honestly I dont know what they are really talking about here lol. Hime gyaru? Hime lolita? Himekaji? So ill show how each one is different form one another

Coquette 1 2

Hime gyaru 1 2

Hime lolita 1 2

Himekaji 1 2

Coquette is a style thats super popular on this app (tumblr) and imo its recently gotten pretty popular. meanwhile ive seen styles like himekaji dwindle in popularity (at least from what ive seen) i think its pretty obvious to see the difference with just pictures so i wont go into a lot of detail (unless you would like me to)

yes all styles of similarities but they also have noticeable differences. Some similarities include 1. all being a more feminine style 2. all often having pink colours 3. all are fashions (and more) But some differences include 1. where/when they originate 2. the silhouette/certain parts of the look 3. the popularity (and more)

Kidcore vs Decora

kidcore 1 2

Decora 1 2

Kidcore as the name states is a more "childish" style. Its very colourful and gives off nostalgic vibes.

Decora is a style that is about decorations/accessories. You cant have a decora fit without them.

Cottagecore vs Mori kei

Cottagecore 1 2

Mori kei 1 2

I dont even know where they got the idea these were the same thing lol

Cottagecore is based around wildlife, farming, cottages, nature. it has a "rural and pioneer" vibe

Mori kei is is more earthy. The best way i can think to describe the difference without rambling is cottagecore is the ppl living in the forest and mori kei is the forest? idk lol.

Rococo vs Lolita

if anything its flipped. Rococo inspired lolita. Also there is so many different types of lolita. sigh.

If you take anything from this I hope its to do your research. And not just listen to the voices you agree with. Listen to the history. Listen to the people who know what they are talking about. Pls lmk if I can explain anything better and feel free to add on! have a good day! (also i am just one source pls go do ur own research!!/nf)

[mademoisellesarcasme]

can't get a provenance on the meme but it needed to be shared

if anyone knows whence it originated please lmk so i can edit this post with a source

UPDATE: this appears to be the origin (a May 3 post from user <@BenSmithDC> on the website formerly known as Twitter)

[d3adbr3inc3lls]

Kieran x Reader | Part 2/?

After what happened whilst fighting Terapegos, you were hospitalised and Kieran reflects on what he has done,

The white walls were something Kieran grew to dread and despise.

They indicated the uncertainty of your fate.

He knew internal bleeding wasn't something to mess around with.

But how would they fix it?

Can they fix it?

Will you get better?

Hopefully you get better.

You must get better- it's their job!

What about the tera crystals?

A slap on Kieran's shoulder quickly jolts him out of his thoughts to stare at his attacker, Carmine.

She still blames Kieran for the mess you're in now.

To some extent, she's not wrong, but it's not his fault Terapegos turned on him and tried to kill him.

After the doctor mentioned that it was okay for the two siblings to visit you, Kieran quickly slipped into the room, getting an annoyed grunt from Carmine as he disappears behind the blank door.

Kieran glances around before he looks at you. You are laying in the hospital bed, most of your body is hidden under a blanket -which Kieran couldn't imagine being comfortable- to probably hide the severity of your wounds.

Kieran gently calls out your name before he sits down next to you. His hand ghosts your hidden form before landing beside him.

You look better than you did after the fight- it doesn't mean much, of course you looked better. You aren't spitting out blood, nor are you looking like you are in pain.

It was a good sign, the doctors were doing their job.

Kieran's grip on the white sheets tightens as his thoughts run back to what could possibly have been your last words.

The pain in your voice as you whispered how sorry you were back then, how you were a horrible friend for befriending Ogrepon behind his back -sure he was a bit salty, but he has grown. He would give up Ogrepon within a heartbeat if it ment that you were going to be okay.

An unexpected touch results in Kieran yanking his wrist away before he glanced down to see you softly looking up at him. Your e/c gaze was so soft. Too soft. He didn't deserve this kindness from you. Not after everything that he has done.

"I'm sorry,"

The words rolled off of Kieran's tounge. The pained gaze in his eyes was clearer as you slowly adjusted to the lighting.

"I'm so sorry."

"I'm so so so sorry."

"I'm sorry for everything,"

A string of endless apologies fell from Kieran's mouth as he looks at you, the bandages covering whatever harm resulted from his selfish desires.

Tears begin to prick from his eyes as your gaze stays soft. There is no hatred or fury in them. It's like he had done nothing wrong.

As if you didn't almost die because of him.

"It's okay," You whisper. To an extent, you feel at fault for pushing Kieran to his limits, capturing Ogrepon and lying to him about what truly went down with Carmine.

"Kieran, it's okay,"

. . .

Part 1 / Current / Next

A/N: I'm sorry this took a while, I wanted to have quite a bit in it,,, and I didn't know where/how to end it, so I left it off there,- by the way, if anyone knows how to post three separate images in one row, please lmk. Thanks again for 100 followers (:

--Image credits--

Hospital 1 -- Pinterest Hospital 2 -- Pintesrest (I couldn't find their original sources)

[suzdin]

Belly of the Beast: Part I

Dark!Dave York x F!reader

Warnings: it’s Dave, so…buckle up! No use of y/n. Homicide with a gun, reader is shot and grievously wounded and dying, graphic descriptions of murder and gore, use of medical equipment/terminology, amateur triage and medical care, Dave is a voyeuristic creep, Stockholm syndrome?, physical restraints, partial nudity, divergence from EQ2 plot and major character deaths mentioned. No mention of wife or kids. No smut this time! (Shocking, I know.) Dark themes obviously, I mean, Dave DOES kill for money, after all.

Summary: You’ve been Dave’s housekeeper for two years. When you arrive for your morning shift, the last thing you expect to see is Dave standing over a body.

This was going to be a one shot but I decided it worked better as a two parter. Enjoy!

Word Count: 4,700

Taglist: tagging the people I know for sure want to be tagged. If you want to be tagged for part II, lmk!

@ohheypedrito @kateispunk @survivingandenduring @kellybelly1978 @awilderi @oberynslady @natdeandar @daddy-dins-girl @heavennumber2 @guelyury

—

The sky is still dark, a faint slice of jagged light cast across a slate colored horizon, when you arrive for the day at Dave York’s home.

You notice his car parked in the driveway as you pull in, checking your messages to make sure you hadn’t missed anything from him, finding nothing. You frown.

Normally, he would tell you when he would be home if he knew you were also going to be there that day. He simply must have forgotten to mention it this time. It wasn’t a big deal; you could just work around him like you always did.

He was gone for work more often than not. What that entails, you aren’t entirely sure of; all you knew was that he worked in D.C. Something bureaucratic, most likely.

What was even more curious than his unannounced presence, however, was a second vehicle parked behind his.

You pull up next to aforementioned vehicle and get out, gathering your bucket of cleaning supplies from the backseat. Dave provided most of what was used, but there were a few items you preferred for various reasons, with his approval, of course. You had been his housekeeper for the last two years, servicing his home bi-weekly, and he paid you well, plus tips. You had few complaints.

Although the home was large and stately, he lived alone as far as you knew. You couldn’t recall seeing anyone there before now.

As you walk along the edge of the driveway to the side door, you note the pale illumination filtering out through the kitchen window onto the concrete, which makes sense considering the time of day. He’s most likely just sitting down to have his coffee and breakfast. You hope you don’t startle him too much.

The sun is ascending rapidly, already burning brighter in the short walk from your car to the door, providing you with enough light to get your key out.

You unlock the side door, which steps directly into a small utility and mud room. The interior door to the kitchen is drawn shut, which wasn’t unusual, but an unfamiliar noise registers as you enter, immediately followed by what sounds like chair legs scraping along the tiled floor, and Dave’s voice saying what sounds like a name. Mac? Is that what you heard?

Your mind fumbles over the original sound, knowing it’s familiar, but that you can’t quite place it, trying to trace its source. You can best describe it as a muted pop, loud enough to notice but not so loud as to sound any alarm bells. Or so you think.

You smell the strong waft of coffee and eggs cooking as you enter. And something else.

The scene that is laid out before you as you push open the kitchen door is the last thing you would ever expect or want to find, and the realization of what the unidentified sound was hits you like a freight train.

What you discover is Dave standing above a body, pistol clutched tightly in his right hand, knuckles turning alabaster, with what you’re certain is a silencer screwed to the end of the barrel.

The body sprawled across the floor belongs to a man you don’t recognize, a pool of fresh blood spreading rapidly from a single gunshot wound to the front of the skull, bone and brain matter studding the kitchen island and wall, the stink of crimson iron filling the air.

Dave’s head snaps up when he hears you enter, his face gone pale, but otherwise completely blank and devoid of emotion.

Your eyes lock.

You think you say his name. You aren’t sure, and the only reason you know you’ve said anything at all is because you feel the muscles in your esophagus stretching and vibrating, your heart thundering inside your rib cage.

You’re smart enough to deduce that this isn’t some home invasion gone awry. The unknown car in the driveway and the trained, emotionless nature at which Dave currently presents himself is testament to that.

The only option left is that Dave killed a man. And now he has his sights trained on none other than you.

You drop the bucket of supplies, the hollow sound of plastic hitting ceramic reverberating in your skull as you turn, your brain screaming at you to run, run.

In hindsight, running was a bad idea. But panic doesn’t always create rationale.

You feel your legs pumping, your lungs sucking in air. You want to scream for help but when you attempt it, the only sound that comes out is a small, strangled croak of terror. You feel like a damsel in distress in every horror movie you’ve ever seen, almost as if you aren’t actually moving at all, like you’re just running in place while the villain slowly catches up to you.

If you could just reach the neighbor’s house. If you could just… reach…

You manage to make it to the driveway, but you’re barely a few steps onto the concrete when that same muted pop registers again, and you instantly feel a sharp, burning, agonizing sting that rips right through you like a hot knife through butter, knocking you ass over teakettle just paces from Dave’s car, your face slamming hard against the ground.

You look down to see the spreading circle of blood on your shirt against your lower abdomen, a geyser of red bubbling up from the wound. And Dave is on you in an instant, hovering above you, gun trained right at your head.

You know you’re a goner. Abdominal gunshots are frequently fatal, at least according to the kind of shows you like to watch. And at the rate you’re seeing your blood spill out, you know it’s anything but good.

Before you fully comprehend what is happening, your vision already waning, you’re pleading for Dave to end your life as quickly as possible, ‘please, please Mr. York, I’ve been good to you. Please do it fast’, you choke out.

But Dave doesn’t kill you. His dark eyes bore into you, through you, and he hesitates. He’s watching you die and beg for him to put you down and yet he can’t bring himself to actually do it, regardless of how many names he’s scratched out of his ledger without remorse. Maybe because you’re just an innocent, wrong place wrong time, but he can’t seem to do it.

“Please, don’t let me suffer,” you sob as you lift a single, quaking hand that is slicked deep burgundy, and still he doesn’t put you down, only lowering the gun to his side, and you can’t help but wonder what you did to deserve to suffer slowly like this.

Finally, some sense of self preservation washes over you, and even as you’re dying, in your final throes of desperation, you start ripping and clawing at your shirt, managing to somehow tear a sizable chunk out of it, in order to make some kind of makeshift tourniquet that could potentially save your life.

Your hands shake and slip, blood pressure dropping rapidly, and your vision wanes more, the edges of the lightening sky fading and blotting away. You suddenly feel very cold and you can feel your heartbeat gradually ebbing to a slow, dull throb.

The last thing you see before your vision goes completely dark is Dave crouching over you, his face screwed up in regret.

——

God damn it.

When Dave had found out only days before that McCall was still alive, and that his old compatriot had sniffed out the details shrouding Susan’s death, Dave had lost all sight of anything else, completely forgetting you were scheduled to clean his house that day.

Had he realized, he would have canceled. It would have made things far less complicated.

But God fucking damn it. He didn’t want to kill you, his militaristic training and instincts piloting his actions when you fled instead of surrendering, intending to put a round in your skull but changing his mind at the last possible fraction of a second so that he totally FUBAR’d the shot and hit your abdomen instead. A gut shot wasn’t much better. In fact, it was worse. Way worse.

You’re still breathing when he finishes applying the crude tourniquet that you had started, which didn’t completely stop the bleeding but slowed it enough to make a difference. That way, he could get you down into the basement where he could apply proper triage.

His medical training was rudimentary and archaic at best, but it was better than nothing. And it was his best chance at keeping you alive.

Your blood soaks through the light blue dress shirt Dave is wearing as he carries you through the house draped in his arms, the one you once told him looked nice on him. He takes you into the basement and places you on his work table — which isn’t sterile — noting no exit wound as he sets you down, which can be good or bad, all things depending.

Thankfully, he locates the bullet readily enough, fishing it out with a narrow pair of forceps, discarding it into a medical pan as he lets out a sigh of relief when he sees the bullet didn’t strike anything crucial, an incredibly lucky feat.

He grabs a skin stapler to close up the wound; a messy and rushed method of closure that would leave behind a pretty significant scar, but he didn’t have the luxury of time to close the wound properly with a needle, especially considering the rate at which his hands were already shaking.

He takes in a deep breath when he finishes stapling you back together and leans over you, examining your face and body visually, his mind racing as to what he should do now. You still had a pulse. You were breathing. But you had lost a lot of blood, and your prognosis wasn’t good.

Frowning, the crease deepening between his brows, he cleans and sterilizes the wound, wrapping you up in proper dressing, which he hopes is enough to stave off any infection. He can’t risk taking you to a hospital. Especially when there’s still a dead man to deal with only a floor above.

The good news is that he knew no one would come looking for McCall, the majority believing him to already be dead, so disposal would thankfully be swift and painless. You, on the other hand, he was unsure of. He knew your parents had passed and you didn’t have siblings, but he didn’t know if there was a boyfriend or girlfriend in your life, or friends who would notice your absence.

His mind reels with every possibility. Dave isn’t a man who enjoys loose ends. Loose ends make his ass itch.

Your shirt is shredded and bloody, so he removes the remainder of it, leaving you in a soft black cotton bra. He doesn’t let his eyes wander, although, at the back of his mind, he realizes he has always found you attractive. Just as quickly as it dawns on him, he shakes the thought from his mind; it is neither the time nor place for such endeavors.

He removes your shoes but not your socks, knowing you would be cold from having lost so much blood. He might actually put one of his pairs over your own, for good measure.

After a long beat of silent contemplation, Dave scoops you up into his arms once more.

——

You wake up from a fitful sleep some hours later, in a bed you’ve never slept in before. The room around you is dark, shades drawn, a faint light flooding in from beneath a closed door.

When you attempt to sit up, pain lances through your torso and you cry out, your back hitting the mattress. You immediately realize, much to your horror, that you’re also handcuffed to a bedpost. Even if you could move without effort, you aren’t exactly going anywhere.

Your memory suddenly comes flooding back in a tidal wave of images, recalling all of the events that lead up to this point; the body on the kitchen floor, the gunshot, Dave staring down at you with a pistol in his hand.

But you aren’t in a hospital and this isn’t a hospital bed. You’re in Dave’s bedroom. In Dave’s bed.

The door clicks open and a familiar silhouette steps into the room, regarding you in steely silence. You recognize the broad shoulders right away, the thick arms, the short cropped hair.

Your pulse quickens, your body and mind telling you to flee again, even though you know you can’t, causing you to flinch with a choked whimper when he takes a step toward you.

“I wouldn’t move, sweetheart. You lost a lot of blood,” Dave explains, his voice low and soft to your ears as he approaches the bed.

Your body is trembling hard. So hard that it makes the entire bed vibrate.

He’s no longer wearing the blue shirt or black slacks from before, now dressed in a slate gray t-shirt and Adidas sweats. His dark eyes study you as he sits next to you on the edge of the bed. If you weren’t so weak, you think you would strike him.

He lifts the back of his hand to your cheek and you flinch again.

“Shh,” he tuts, “I’m not going to harm you.”

His hand presses to the soft round of your cheek, your forehead, checking for fever.

“Y-you— you s-shot me—?“ you croak.

“I reacted poorly,” Dave agrees with a small nod, his lips parted softly, “but you also shouldn’t have run.”

“You k-killed… that man…”

“I did, indeed.” His eyes grow a shade darker, his brow knitting together, lending him a sinister appearance. “But that man was threatening me. That man was going to kill me…” Dave explains, an edge of malice and contempt to his voice. “I was left with few options.”

You stare back, unblinkingly, trying to decide what to say next, if anything.

“My family will come looking for me,” is what you settle on, a wash of bravery suddenly welling up within you.

To that, Dave smirks, eyes remaining dark, hand lowering to the bed by your hip.

“What family?” Dave asks, smirk slanting even more, his tone semi-mocking. “Do you really think I would hire someone to come into my home without doing a full investigation on them?”

Your jaw drops open, hanging slack in the air, as it dawns on you that a trained killer has been right under your nose this entire time. You would scream if you had the lung capacity to do so.

You should have seen the patterns. Noticed the signs. The constant travel, the lack of personal touches to his home, the pinpricks of blood you occasionally found on his clothes that you excused for other things. That one room in the basement he forbade you from entering.

But you hadn’t, causing you to nearly pay with your life.

Truth is, Dave had picked you for good reason, and it wasn’t just because of the exemplary reviews. You were naive and trusting, you had no family, no criminal record, you didn’t work for an agency; you worked solo. Your work ethic and reliability were just cherries on top.

You look down to notice the IV needle in your hand, and you lift it in examination, your hand shaking and sputtering weakly. No… no, you really had no clue who this guy was at all.

Dave watches you for a beat before he gently grasps your hand and places it back down on the bed, regarding you with uncharacteristic softness and empathy.

You feel your consciousness starting to drift then as Dave pulls the covers back to check the dressings, finding they’re still intact and that the wound hasn’t reopened from what he can tell. He’ll clean and redress everything in the morning. For now, you need rest.

“I’ll be right back,” he tells you, stepping out of the room for what feels like only a meager blip of time to you, but when you open your eyes again, he’s hovering above you once more with a thermometer and an ice pack.

“Open up,” he instructs, and you do so obediently.

“Good girl,” Dave praises as he checks your temperature, and you close your eyes.

When the thermometer beeps, which feels like an eternity later, he frowns, exhaling a long sigh. “101.5. Here,” he says, leaning to the side where he opens a drawer on the night stand, a bottle of aspirin rattling somewhere next to your head. The sound is grating, making your head throb, and suddenly the lamp seems too bright.

He feeds you some pills and gives you a drink of water from a nearby tumbler, which you guess was also on the nightstand, but aren’t too sure.

He pulls the blanket back up all the way to your chin and places the ice pack on your forehead, staring down at you. Although Dave was the reason you were even here at all, he is treating you with a surprising amount of tenderness.

“You need to eat,” he says after a moment. “Dinner is almost ready.”

——

You must pass out again, because when your eyes reopen, Dave stands next to you with a small tray table filled with food.

“Chicken and dumplings,” he explains. “It will keep the cold away.”

You nod your head weakly as he places the tray over you. When you reach for the spoon, he stops you, blocking your hand with his own.

“Let me,” he says, picking up the spoon. “I don’t want you moving anymore than necessary.”

You have to keep reminding yourself that he’s the one who shot you. He’s why you’re in this mess in the first place. Why you’re here, injured, with a hole in your abdomen, chained to his bed.

The way he’s acting shouldn’t be trusted.

You try to resist, but he grabs your jaw with the other hand and forces it to pop open, pressing the spoon past your lips as he ladles the soup into your mouth, much to your displeasure.

“Eat,” he says softly, but sternly, his features darkening in regard.

The food is warm, as promised, and delicious. You aren’t sure of the last time you ate, not knowing what time or even what day it is, but you soon realize you’re starving. Because of this, the second spoonful is not met with as much resistance as the first, your mouth hinging open in resignation and acquiescence.

Dave’s eyes zero in on your soft lips. The way they twitch ever so slightly as they divide. The way your tongue looks so velvet and inviting…

He feeds you slowly, thoughtfully, watching your every move, his own lips parted in concentration as you take in the much needed sustenance.

By the end of it, you’ve managed to polish off about half the bowl. Seemingly satisfied with that, he makes you drink some Gatorade.

“Why are you doing this?” you ask weakly as soon as you swallow down a couple gulps of the blue liquid, your consciousness ebbing and flowing by the second. Dave looks at your face, but he doesn’t give you an answer. He doesn’t have one to give.

Part of him wishes he did.

“I have to pee,” you tell him suddenly when you notice the familiar stab of discomfort in your lower region. A realization that sends a jolt of anxiety rushing through you, your pulse racing when you watch his face fall. He hadn’t even thought of that…

His skills and equipment were limited to wound care, so of course he hadn’t put a catheter in. He wouldn’t know how even if he did happen to have one.

He deliberates on what to do. He didn’t have a bed pan. But, he was sure he could find something comparable to use.

Or he could help you to the bathroom. He has an en suite, it was literally only steps around the bed. But the space was tight. It would take some maneuvering. And he would have to be close to you the entire time. Not to mention uncuffing you from the bed.

In the end, that’s what he settles on.

“Let me help you to the bathroom, sweetheart,” he says to you, pulling the blankets back, and you are cold. So cold. Your flesh pebbling with the lick of cool air against your skin.

He unlocks the handcuffs and you massage your sore wrist and shoulder the moment you have full motion of your arm again.

“Slowly,” he instructs, his voice low and even. “Grab the IV stand.”

You do as you’re told, gripping the cool steel in your hand as you grasp his forearm with the other while he gingerly manipulates you into a sitting position. You cry out at the sudden dagger of pain that slices through your lower gut, and he does his best to steady you against him.

He did this to you, you keep reminding yourself. He did this to you.

He lifts you carefully, slowly, and you groan at the swell of pain when he places you on your feet.

“Easy, easy…” he murmurs, one arm circling your waist to keep you upright. You flinch at the contact.

You make it to the bathroom easily enough, light flooding the small room as Dave flips the switch. A bathroom you’ve cleaned countless times. There was rarely much to clean in here, save for the occasional whisker in the sink, or some light trash in the bin.

Dave was neat and fastidious, and not frequently home. You often wondered why he needed someone to clean his house in the first place.

The space looks no different than usual, but right now it feels… different. You shouldn’t be here.

He guides you to the toilet, and when you get there, you stare down at it, pondering to yourself how this is going to work.

He seems hesitant to leave your side.

“Go ahead,” he tells you softly, “I won’t look.”

You freeze. The last thing you want is to expose your body to him when he already has several advantages on you. But your bladder is screaming at you to go, especially now given your proximity to the porcelain bowl, and you can barely stand on your own, your arms and legs wobbling.

You watch as he turns his back, placing himself between you and the exit. You bend just slightly to tug your bottoms down, but it’s too much, more pain coursing through your body. You yelp, unable to even budge the fabric.

“Hey,” Dave says, turning back to face you, “Let me help you.”

“No, I—I got it,” you protest, your arms shaking, attempting it again, only to end up with the same result. “Fuck—“

“Hey,” Dave says a second time, more sternly than before, as he moves in to your space. “Let me help. I promise I won’t touch you.”

You tremble. You’re cold, you’re frightened, you’re weak. So weak. You’re in your bra, partially exposed to him already. Yet, you concede with a nod anyway. You’ll piss yourself if you don’t.

He mirrors your nod in silent confirmation and moves closer, crowding into your intimate space, his fingers finding the waistband of your leggings and underwear. He slides them down your hips and legs in unison, all the way to your knees. As promised, he doesn’t touch you more than he needs to.

But he has to look. He needs to see where his hands are in relation to your body in order to keep himself from accidentally breaking his promise of touching you in a way you didn’t consent to, and another part of him just can’t help it, either. He is a man, after all, and he wasn’t currently seeing anyone. Romance wasn’t exactly optimal for someone in his position, his attention honed in on his work above all else.

When the nights were long and lonely enough, he would, on occasion, share his bed with a sex worker, but aforementioned nights were few and far between. He enjoyed his job. He got off on it. Romance was often placed on the back burner.

But there’s just something about you. Especially now, with how vulnerable you are, that he finds irresistible.

His gaze only lingers on your bared skin for a moment, big brown puppy dog eyes roving over your soft curves, holding on to you as he lowers you down to the commode. And, god, you’re just as beautiful as he imagined, his skin heating at the sight of your soft folds.

“Call for me when you’re done,” he grates quietly as he takes a step out of the bathroom, blood rushing to certain parts of his body, shutting the door to give you a modicum of privacy, which you’re more than grateful for.

His eyes on you had not gone unnoticed. You weren’t stupid and you weren’t seeing anyone either, currently; his attention, regardless of how brief, had made your skin heat and your core pulse with need. You clear your throat and try to discard the thought.

Dave is why you are here. Dave is dangerous. So dangerous he can’t even take you to a hospital to get proper medical attention. Stop it.

It feels like you pee for ages. You aren’t totally convinced you’re awake for most of it. Eventually, you finish, even managing to wipe yourself, in spite of things, which you’re relieved for. You wouldn’t want him to do it for you; that would be humiliating and degrading.

You call for Dave when you’re done and he returns in an instant, hoisting you to your feet as he pulls your pants and underwear back up and over your hips, trying not to think about your soft cunt. You can see how hard he’s trying not to look at you.

“Good?” he asks. You nod.

Bracing yourself against him, he helps you back to the comfort of the bed. It smells like him, despite how little he’s actually in it. You hiss through your teeth as he manipulates you into position, adjusting the pillows and covers until you’re as comfortable as possible.

You’re cold. Freezing, in fact, despite it being the swell of summer.

“I’m c-cold,” you lament to Dave, crossing your arms over your chest beneath the blanket.

Dave’s lips pinch to the side in thought. “Hold on.”

He returns a moment later with an extra blanket, tossing it over you, tucking the edges neatly around your form, taking extra care to be gentle, noteably around your abdomen.

As you watch him, his face and eyes soft, his hair mussed and unkempt, you ask yourself once again why he’s doing all of this for you.

Guilt? Shame? Something else?

You don’t have much time to ruminate on it for too long before your consciousness peters away once more.

——

Dave sighs as he watches you slip back into listlessness. You’re doing better than he anticipated, but you aren’t out of the woods yet. He knows how much blood you had lost; he’d spent hours cleaning it. Not to mention McCall, the remains of which he had delivered to an acquaintance who works at the industrial incinerator on the outskirts of town, after tending to you.

He loops your hand back through the cuff on the bedpost and peers down at you. You’re so beautiful; he hopes you make it. He wishes you hadn’t run from him. God, why did you run? He doesn’t want you to meet the same fate as McCall. He doesn’t want to know what your incinerated body smells like.

Every body has a different smell, in his experience.

He gives you another dose of morphine to reduce any pain you may be feeling and to keep you knocked out for a few more hours, checking for fever again, which is currently holding steady. It was good that it wasn’t going up. Any higher and you could potentially be in trouble. He’ll keep checking throughout the night to be on the safe side.

He sighs, knowing he’ll have to stay in town for weeks, which he detested doing. He hated staying in one place for longer than required. But he didn’t have much of a choice at this point.

He turns off the light and shuts the door behind him as he leaves you to rest.

Part II coming soon!

[modawg]

im bored let’s dissect “alison”

firstly this is what i’m talking abt incase anyone doesn’t know:

this is so far the ONLY news we have abt this character rick hasn’t said anything about it the official pjo show insta/twitter hasn’t said anything abt it this is it

and this is a fan account which is smth i feel like many ppl don’t know; here’s that account

here are some other accounts:

both the actual along with another pretty reparable fan account both have stayed silent abt this which seems a little sus to me

you might be wondering “but mo that original pic has screenshots of interviews/articles!! they have sources!!” this is true however the source has no source lmao

from the article the original post pulls from they simply said “we’ve heard” girl heard what and from who

this article was written by nexus news point which idk abt y’all i’ve never heard of

so i took my ass to twitter

this is the only post i found “but mo it’s verified!!” that’s what i thought i thought “well shit there’s the end of that” but when i was looking at the account i realised three things

rick does not follow this account

who’s that linked in the bio? oh wait is that..is that nexus ???

anyone can pay to buy a verification

here’s the actual pjo account

followed by rick

not verified bc why would they have to when rick literally follows them

has said nothing abt this

after all this i don’t think alison is real im gonna be honest however if she does show up in season 2 i will be apologizing with tears

unlike nexus however i will be tagging my sources and will also be adding that rick hasn’t updated his website since may which is the exact opposite of what he did when he was looking for the cast of season 1

lmk y’all’s thoughts bc this is kinda wack if they just made this shit up LMAOO

[lmkimagines]

I don’t know if this is still an argument happening but… I’m gonna throw my two cents in. I’ve seen a lot of people say that it’s gross to ship Nezha with anyone because he’s an eternal child. Well, it’s complicated.

What a lot of people forget is that since Nezha is from Chinese mythology, he’s a really old character. Which means there’s a lot of versions on him. JTTW was also mashing up a few different religions in its narrative. While Nezha is almost always said to be a protector of children, he’s not always depicted as a child himself. There are a lot of credible sources that show him as both a child and an adult so there isn’t one depiction that is more accurate than the other. It kinda depends on the version that you’re working with. In the original JTTW, Nezha is cited as being an eternal child, noted as looking and acting like a 12 year old.

However, LMK doesn’t seem to go that route. Nezha reads to me as a young adult who takes himself too seriously. Nezha in LMK has no indication of his age and acts/ looks very much like an adult. Which is why I treat him as such in my writing on this blog. Because I’m working with the LMK version.

Child characters like Bai He are noticeably shorter and have a different voice tone than the adult characters. Nezha has none of those indicators as far as I’ve seen.

[greenesmyfavcolor]

What year does Little Shop of Horrors take place?

Alright, as you can tell from the title, Imma bout to dissect which exact year LSOH takes place since there’s never been any concrete answer from an official source to my knowledge and lemme tell ya, it’s harder than you think lol

Ok so we know that Audrey II came to earth on September 21st/23rd (21st in the stage version and 23rd in the movie version) during the 1960’s “in an early year of a decade” but they never tell us the exact year.

However we do know that Kennedy was president during the events of the movie as he is mentioned on Seymour’s radio and his presidency lasted from 1961 to 1963.

And in the directors cut (which I consider canon to some extent), Jason and the Argonauts is shown to be playing in a theater during Don’t Feed the Plants and that movie came out in June of 1963 so that must mean LSOH has to take place after that date. So the year has to be 1963 if Kennedy is still president and that movie is playing in theaters.

However Audrey II mentions during Feed Me that Seymour could be on Jack Paar’s radio show and that ran from 1957 to 1962.

So now it can’t be 1963 as Jack Paar would have already ended by then and it can’t be 1962 as Jason wouldn’t have been playing in theaters yet.

However LSOH can still take place in both years. Who’s to say that Audrey II didn’t take over the world until the year 1963? It could have been 1962 when the events of the film started but by the time Audrey II gained enough power to start to destroy NYC, a few months could have passed for it to be 1963. And the film does begin in September which is late into the year so it is plausible.

But here’s when this whole theory really starts to fall apart lol.

Before the shop is renovated, there’s a calendar in the back that’s very hard to read but based on the positioning of the dates, it matches up with the year 1964 as the first day of the month starts on a Tuesday. And it’s shown at the very beginning of the movie so the solar eclipse has to have happened in 1964 which goes against everything else that has been brought up so far. Although the year the calendar says doesn’t necessarily mean that’s the actual year, it’s kind of a long shot to assume that they would have the wrong calendar year hung up.

Also neither the 21st nor the 23rd of September fall on a Thursday in 1964 which is the supposed day of the week the eclipse happened according to the same radio broadcast that mentions JFK.

Also also I looked up what exact month Jack Paar’s radio show ended and it just so happened to end in March of 1962 so LSOH can’t take place in 1962 if it starts in September.

So right now, it may sound like we’ve officially hit a dead end. But the thing is, I’ve mainly been listing off things that show up in the movie which isn’t the original source material. That would be the 1982 stage version. We have to remember that anything in the movie that contradicts what year it takes place in in the stage version is not solid evidence because that’s not what was originally intended. So technically, we only have to go off what the original stage production states if we want to figure out the year.

So in the stage version, it’s still mentioned that it takes place in the 1960’s “in an early year of a decade” and that Jack Paar had a radio show before 1962. The only things the movie brought up were the argonauts, Kennedy, the calendar, and what day of the week the eclipse happened. If you want to go ahead and count anything in the movie as canon evidence as to when LSOH takes place, be my guest but there’s so many things that contradict when it does happens that I’m just going to go off the original stage production.

Because of this, my bet is that the events of LSOH start on September 21st, in between the years 1960 and 1961.

I wish I had more of a solid answer so if anyone has any more evidence that suggests what year it might take place from either the stage or movie version, lmk cause I’ve been thinking on this for way too long 🥲