#if you do make your own post please tag me

[j3lly-fish]

God I had WAY too much fun making the swatches for these, LOL. But at last, the shrooms are finished! I'm trying not to torture myself by making a gazillion versions for all the cc i make, so this one is a single version with 4 categories available... Maybe I'll convert for younger ages in the future but we'll see! (Still having problems with CASTools so definitely future me's problem LOL)

As you can see I just shut off my brain and started doing some video game mushroom swatches at the end there, kudos if you can recognize a few! 👀

Unisex

All LODS

New Mesh

1 version

Teen to Elder

Polys: 2824

Assigned to Birthmarks, Body Scars, Occult and Skin Details

Disallowed for Random (At least im 99% sure I fixed that)

Known issues: These antennas use a small portion of the Hat texture slot, meaning hats will most likely not be compatible with this. If you can't find some of my cc in your game, its likely you'll need CAS Unlocks for it (like occult detail slots).

You can recolor and edit my meshes, but please just link back to my original post! ♡

DON’T reupload, claim as your own or put behind a paywall

You can tag me so I can see what you do with my cc!

✦ DOWNLOAD (SFS) ✦

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Meet the Family 1

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Your boss needs a last-minute favour for the holidays.

Characters: Lloyd Hansen

Note: um I woke up to this in my head. Sorry.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Asking for more or putting ‘part 2?’ is not feedback.

Love you all. You are appreciated and your are worthy. Treat yourself with care. 💖

You honk your horn as another driver slowly veers toward the line. You’re not letting them in. If they can’t weave in, then they aren’t fast enough to leave the slow lane. You sigh and gesture at them as kindly as you can in that instant. You have enough going on. 

Your phone starts to ring. Again. You tap the button on your steering wheel to answer. You would know who it is even without his custom ringtone. Your boss allows no space for breathing, even on a call. 

“How far out are you, pixie?” Lloyd asks as you growl and lean on the gas pedal. You hate driving on the highway, especially at night, and the sky is steadily dimming. 

“Close,” you assure him. “Next exit,” you flip your blinker on. 

“Thank god. You got everything?” 

Yeah, everything you forgot. You don’t give the dry retort aloud. You know better. Where your boss has no filter to be found, you find yourself often censoring yourself. As much for his ego as for others’. Arguing never gets you anywhere. 

“I believe so--” 

“You believe or you do?” He asks impatiently. 

“Mr. Hansen, I got everything on the list,” you assure him. “All with a bow on top.” 

“A life saver, pix, I swear,” he praises, but a compliment from him is rarely genuine, more transactional. You did him a favour so he’ll give you a treat. 

“Alright, I need to get over, ramp’s coming up. So--” 

“Yeah, yeah,” his ends rustles and you hear a muffled female voice, “I got shit going on too. You got the address, text me.” 

He hangs up first. You can never be the first to end the call. He has to make the decisions. You just know how to guide him to the right one. You merge into the exit lane and follow the ramp away from the whirring stream of headlight. Finally. 

You’re less than pleased to be within minutes of your destination. This isn’t how you envisioned your holiday. A last-minute itinerary change to fix yet another of Mr. Hansen’s oversights. It’s never a mistake, he’s just a man with so much going on that it slipped his radar. Another bandage for his ego. 

The slower pace feeds your agitation. At least on the highway, you felt like you were getting somewhere. The lazy roll of the cars in the town tweaks at the nape of your neck. You just want to be in one place and that won’t happen even when you get to Mr. Hansen. 

You’ll be lucky to have two hours of sleep before you have to catch your rebooked flight. Yep. You’ll play Santa and drop off your lot before hiding at the hotel long enough to dread the airport jungle. Then it’s off to your own familial obligations. Those are rarely enjoyable and being a day later than promised will hardly please your mother. 

Your phone announces your arrival at the destination. The long drive of the over-sized suburban mansion is full. You park on the street and turn on the interior light. You get out and open the back seat. The whole medley of shiny paper and quaffed bows stares back at you. 

You text Mr. Hansen and wait, huffing and puffing with impatience. Of course, you have to upheave your plans to meet his deadlines, but he’s taking his time. It’s not a surprise, not even a disappointment, you expected as much. 

“Pixieee,” Lloyd drags out the last syllable, “there you are, pretty pixie.” 

Pretty Pixie? He’s drunk or he’s going to ask for something else. You brace yourself as his shadow struts up the long driveway and passes beneath the cone cast by the tall street lights. Coloured lights glimmer over him from the eaves of the surrounding facades. 

“Mr. Hansen, wrapped, labelled, everything you requested,” you gesture to the backseat. 

“An angel. A true saviour, pixie,” he surprises you as he grabs your head, his palms pressing to your cheeks as he bends to kiss your forehead, “did I ever tell you you’re immaculate?” 

“Mr. Hansen,” you gently pull his wrists until he drops his hands. You smell the alcohol radiating off of him. 

“It’s the holiday, call me Lloyd, sweet cake,” he insists. 

“Right,” you tut and turn to drag out the largest gift bag, “here, you better just take all this, I have to check-in--” 

“About that,” he ignores the gift as you hold it out. “We’re just about to start dinner, you should pop in, have a bite.” 

“I can’t, Mr. Hansen--” 

“Of course you can,” he insists. You look up at him. His eyes gleam in the spectrum of lights shining from your car, the houses, and the tall poles. You sniff. He’s only tipsy, there’s still the hint of authoritarianism firmly implanted in his tone. “I told everyone you would.” 

“Everyone?” You echo anxiously. 

“The family,” he exclaims as if it should be obvious. 

“Okay, I can come say hello but--” you wiggle the bag at him. 

“Damn right you can,” he catches your hand and takes the bag. He drops it on the ground carelessly. 

“Mr. Hansen, that’s fragile,” you say. 

“Shhhh,” he grabs your hand and you curl and unfurl your fingers desperately, “Lloyd, remember?” He feels around in his pocket as he keeps you in his vice, “now, you just need to slip this on.” 

He struggles to line up the ring with your finger as you squirm in confusion. What is he doing? 

“Mr. Han--” 

“Lloyd,” he growls, all humour trickling away. He squeezes until you whimper. “Look, I just need you to smile and bat those long lashes of yours, alright?” 

“What’s going on?” 

“As far as anyone knows, I proposed to you on Thanksgiving,” he says. 

“Proposed?!” You nearly shriek. 

He hushes you again and finally rams the ring down to your knuckle. “Look, pixie, mommy’s being a real pain in my ass so you just need to play along.” 

“Mr.--” 

“If I have to tell you one more time--” 

“Lloyd,” you gulp, “please. I... this is... strange. What? Why? I have a flight in eight hours.” 

“Cancel it,” he sneers. “Double time and a half for holiday overtime. See the family in the New Year.” 

“What? That’s-- This is insane--” 

“This is your job, honey,” he clings to your hand. “To do what I say or you can spend your January trawling the job boards.” He squeezes until the band digs into your flesh. “Now, I know Mr. Walker thinks you’re darling and he offered you a role last year but once I tell him about your little defiance issue, I don’t think he’ll be interested--” 

“Huh?” 

“I know a lot more than you think,” he grits. “Alright? So let’s start getting this shit inside. That’ll give you a chance to get yourself together.” 

“Lloyd,” you gasp. “Why--” 

“No more fucking question. Since when did you get so uppity,” he barks. 

“Sir--” 

“Ah, none of that, either,” he lets you go and waggles his finger in your face. “Relax. Have some eggnog when we get inside and take the edge off.” 

“This can’t be happening,” you murmur. 

“It’s fucking happening, alright?” He picks up the bag off the ground. “I keep you around ‘cause you’re quick on your feet, Pix, so let’s get to it.” 

“Oh god,” you utter. 

“Keep it to yourself,” he warns. 

Your disbelief has you a bit dumb. You’re panicking. He knows you have an insurance policy with Walker and you have no doubt he’ll do all he can to spoil your future if you fuck around with his present. You’ve worked long enough for him to believe his threats, even when everything else is dubious. 

You turn and grab several gifts from the backseat. You move out of his way and he gathers some more himself. He backs up and uses his knee to close the door. He nods you toward the house. 

“Smile, act like you’re excited,” he commands. 

You pass him and stare up at the blaze of holiday lights. The lawn is decorated with a Santa and sleigh, complete with all his reindeer. You make the march up the walk and towards the glowing windows that trim the front door.  

Lloyd comes up next to you and kicks it, “open up.” 

It isn’t long before obedience appears from the other side. You do a double take at the man who answers the door. He looks a lot like Lloyd but not. He doesn’t sport the same bristly stache and his hair neatly combed, the sides unshaved but tidy. He rolls his eyes. 

“Was hoping you got lost in the snow,” the man scoffs. 

“Shut up,” Lloyd shoulders through, “always a fucking prick, Hugh.” 

The other man snarls, “don’t fucking call me that.” 

“Aw, I’m sorry, baby boy,” Lloyd puts the gifts on the bench against the wall, under the large mirror with an elaborate frame. “Why don’t you go suck on mommy’s teat?” 

“You’re disgusting,” the other man, Hugh, hisses. 

“Speak for yourself. We’re the OnlyFans thot? She not joining us?” 

“Oh, fuck you.” 

“Fuck you, fuck me, we already did this, remember?” Lloyd faces him. 

“And who’s this slut?” The man tosses you a sharp glare.  

“Woah, man, that’s my future wife,” Lloyd lies so easily it startles you. He sounds almost genuine and you’ve never heard him sound like that. “Not a slut, so keep your eyes and your hands to yourself.” 

“Huh, I didn’t believe it,” the man puts his hand on his hip as he looks you up and down, “she’s tiny.” 

You narrow your eyes, speechless as they talk about you like a new lamp. 

“Ransom,” Lloyd gestures to him derisively, “Pixie. Now you’ve met so you can skedaddle back to the liquor cabinet.” 

The man, Ransom, snickers, “good luck, sweetheart,” he scoffs. “If you need a drink, just look for me. You probably will. At least for the next forty years.” 

He struts off through the archway behind him and you look at Lloyd. He takes the armful of gifts from you and grumbles. He stops and crosses his arms.  

“Well, get your boots off. Mom will kill you if you’re tracking salt all over her freshly polished floors,” he shakes his head. “And a bit of advice, stay away from my cousin. Ransom’s a fucking pest.” 

“Right, sir.” 

He tilts his head and you show your palms, “Lloyd.” 

“Good girl,” he says and slips free of his loafers. “Now, you’re going to have to meet my parents before anyone else or I won’t hear the end of it. I’ve already got an earful. I know I shoulda booked that resort...” 

You unzip your boots and set them aside on the rack. You stand and he beckons you past the open archway and down the hallway. You take in the decor; gold on beige on ivory. It’s all very luxurious. 

He pushes through a white birch door and warmth enshrines you along with the smell of turkey. There’s a clattering beneath a shrill voice snapping out orders, “oh, not mashed, whipped!” 

A tall blonde woman crosses her arms as she hovers like a vulture over the aproned staff crowded around the large marble island. Lloyd grabs your hand and drags you after him. Your socks slip on the tile as dread coils up your limbs. 

“Mom, she’s here,” he announces as he gets close to her. 

“Ugh, about time, they already set the table and I was dreading the empty plate,” she slithers. She turns her chin down to see you, “Oh, look at her. She’s so... petite.” She levels her hand with the top of your head, “much different than I envisioned.” 

You look at Lloyd as he pushes his shoulders back. You’ve never heard anyone talk to him like that and you’ve never seen him so uptight. You turn your attention back to the woman. 

“Hello, Mrs. Hansen, it’s nice to meet you,” you offer your hand. 

She considers it then grabs it, turning the ring up. You examine the jewel as she does the same, your first glimpse at the thing. She harrumphs, “that’s the ring?” 

“Mom,” Lloyd utters. 

“Mm, very well. Dear, you may call me Gwenyth, not Mrs. Hansen,” she lets you go. “Now, dear son, out of my way. I’m trying to get dinner done.” 

Lloyd stares at her, almost expectantly, the takes your hand again and leads you away. He pulls you back through the door. You don’t dare say a word. He leads you away from the kitchen and the wall of voices buzzing from the front room. He guides you through the archway opposite and around to another door. 

He knocks and there’s a lull as you wait. He taps again. There’s coughing from the other side. “What do you want?” 

“Just me, Dad,” Lloyd answers. 

“Ugh, get in here then,” the timbre calls back. 

Lloyd twists the knob and urges you in ahead of him. The smell of cigar smoke blows in with the cold wind. A gray-haired man puffs by the window, his efforts to puff through the opening sabotaged by the wintry gusts. 

“Close the door. I don’t need the banshee sniffing me out,” he growls. 

“Sure,” Lloyd shuts the door. “Dad, uh, this is her. The woman I told you about. My fiance.” 

“Took you long enough,” the man sneers. You flinch and his grey eyes soften, “him, I mean. Forty-three years--” 

“Dad,” Lloyd rasps. 

“Well,” his father looks you over, “she’s young. Bit small...” 

You do your best not to let your annoyance show. So you’re a little shorter than average. 

“William,” he introduces himself, “and you are?” 

“Pixie,” Lloyd answers for you. 

“Didn’t ask you, boy,” William rebukes and keeps his eyes on you. “You smoke?” 

You mull his question and sigh, “never tried it but I guess it’s never too late to start.” 

William snorts, “truer words.” He puffs, “I don’t recommend it. Horrible habit.” He tamps out the stogie in a copper tray. “Well then, is the food ready, or did you just come to show me your woman?” 

Lloyd stiffens and touches your lower back, “guess I just came to do that.” He mutters, “come on, let’s go get something to drink.” He turns and opens the door. 

“Don’t let the smoke out,” William snips as you spin around. 

[creatingblackcharacters]

hi there; first, thank you for making this blog and all the lessons you do, i really appreciate them as a Black person because it highlights a lot of struggles i face with fandoms in general, and why i dont interact more in certain spaces. it makes me feel seen

with regards to your questions, i'd also like answers to them from nonblack fans, especially nonblack anime fans. i don't even mean consuming anime with overtly racist caricatures of black characters (because numerous anime fans pirate their anime and never send a cent to the creators anyway), i mean how can they make fanworks of it?

how can they look at something that they are told is wildly offensive, but then defend with "well, this is how it looks in canon"? where is the line drawn between what's okay and what isn't? as long as it's slow and gradual, is there no line at all?

these are probably just rehashings of your own followup questions, so please excuse that, but i do have an anecdote

i joined a casual anime server the other day and a lot of folks were lamenting one Black character's racist design and how often those on social media will replicate it without thinking/caring. The thing that struck me is that, I've checked this character's tumblr tag regularly for a long time. There are always people who will post art/fanworks of this character with his racist design. Yet hardly ever, if ever, (outside of Black fans) have I seen any of these folks- the ones in the discord server- try to talk to artists/writers/fan creators/etc via asks/replies/etc. There's a notable amount of people in that server and a notable amount that agreed the design was outright racist and that they'll never make fanworks like that, and yet still silence

i'm not entirely sure what would be the line, or the "okay, that's enough" moment to spur any of these folks into action. i'm not sure if there is one. the only reason i don't make my own "hey what is wrong with all of you" post and blow up is because I've made a wonderful little friend group in this fandom who get it, and I don't want them to get caught up in whatever happens if I were to make a post like that

And this is just for getting people to stop using the canon design of the character, i.e., to stop drawing him as a racist caricature. This isn't touching on the people who 1) lighten his skintone [he's been horribly whitewashed over time, which has been reflected in some fanarts and fan merch], or 2) give him a looser hair/straight hair texture, rather than his type 4 hair (there's also #3, which is fanfiction with straight up slurs, and horribly racist writing in it that my friend heavily warned me not to read, but that was more of a one-off case and I've had the creator blocked a long time now).

my point being, we (Black fans) can't even get folks to stop with the caricatures, which we have to start with, and then there's even more of an annoying uphill battle with the other stuff. I'm just so tired of all of this; it makes me want delete my own works and turn away from fandom all together because i can't stand it.

trying for polite and assuming ignorance hardly ever works, speaking bluntly doesnt work at all, making public posts hardly goes anywhere (partly because of how rarely people reblog things anymore, partly because it makes people 'uncomfortable' to share this information with others). Black fans so obviously need help to combat this, and yet it's like sitting at a tea party and hearing all these pretty words in this one setting, yet nobody does anything different/better when the party's over/outside this setting.

sorry for dooming a bit, but like, genuinely i would like to know where the line is for nonblack folks? what is the point/are the points where you would speak up against antiblack racism? have you ever considered speaking up? if there's ever a moment you recognized antiblack racism and didn't say anything, why didn't you? did you consider how your lack of speaking up might affect your fellow Black fans? or how Black fans may be interpret this as silent agreement with the racists/with the racist 'norm'?

..those could maybe be alternative ways of asking your last followup question?

(if i've made any blunders or overstepped here, please let me know!)

No, I'm glad you spoke up! I too would like to see answers!

[evanbuckleyrecs]

Any recommendations on hurt-comfort Buddie that will make you cry? HEA please!

I started to answer this but accidentally clicked on a Tumblr link so I gotta start over 😂

I haven't read Buddie fics in a while so these are a bit older. (I'm going to catch up soon! I've just been in a phase where I'm either reading Teen Wolf fics or physical books)

Also haven't updated my bookmarks yet. Sadly a lot of great authors I'd normally recommend have turned anti-Buddie since April and I'd rather not promote them in Buddie posts if they're not safe to follow anymore as a Buddie fan.

Please check the tags of a fic before reading in case something is triggering for you!

the things that haunt me in the middle of the night by justhockey

2,4k, rated G

He gasps for breath and it feels like a reflex - like coming up for air after being sucked under. Like a desperate, manic thing.

He’s safe, he knows that. Knows he was never really in much danger anyway. But the sound of it all - the waves, the rain, the crashing and the thundering - it echoes in his head, ricochets through his bones. It lives inside of him, he guesses, even after all these years. That fear, the exhaustion, the crippling terror of finding the surface only to realise that Christopher was gone.

He rubs at his sternum, tries to breathe deeply, tries to blink away the memories of the day the water nearly took everything from him.

I let my guard down by bucksclipboard

6,5k, rated M

"It didn’t stop. Buck went from hoping the packages were from someone special to suspecting someone was toying with him. The hopeless romantic in him was slowly wilting. When he opened the latest letter, suddenly he was not so sure his secret admirer was of the good-natured kind. "

or: who needs police protection when you have eddie diaz by your side?

Cut me slack (I've watched your heart stop) by kat_atthewisco

Rated G, 5,4k

“Well, unfortunately I am calling you specifically for your role as Mr. Buckley’s power of attorney. He does need a couple of decisions made about his care that he’s not fit for at the moment. If you’re able to get here soon that would be best, I can’t tell you much over the phone.” To her credit, Deirdre does sound apologetic, and Eddie’s panic has begun to ratchet back up.

“I’ll be there as fast as I can, is he- please, how bad?” Eddie repeats.

In which Eddie gets The Call from Cedars-Sinai while he's off work thanks to a healing injury. Being Buck's emergency contact is suddenly a very real thing.

Never More To Leave Here by devirnis

Rated T, 10,2k

"Can you remind my brother that we were supposed to get lunch?” Maddie asks.

“Uh sure,” Eddie says slowly, confused. “But why don’t you just call him yourself?”

“I did, a couple times, but he didn’t answer. I assumed he was still with you?”

Eddie thinks back to last night, to Buck specifically making plans to go back to his own place so he wouldn’t be late for lunch with Maddie. Buck had texted him when he got home, just a simple night :) that still made Eddie’s heart flutter, so obviously Buck had made it back to the loft… But there haven’t been any texts from Buck all morning. Not that that is necessarily unheard of, but especially over the last few weeks it’s become rarer and rarer for even a few hours to go by without Eddie’s phone dinging with a message notification from Buck.

A small tendril of worry curls around Eddie’s ribs.

BTHB: locked up & left behind

Diagnosis: Dumbass by snarkymuch

Rated T, 2,7K

Christopher scrunched his face, then stopped rummaging through his pack to grab something from the ground—something that turned out to be his phone.

“No, nope—who do you think you’re calling?” he asked, trying to reach for it, but Christopher had already hit the button, dialing someone—whom he’d bet anything was his father.

Christopher pulled away, out of reach, phone to his ear, then a moment later saying, “Yeah, I’m okay, dad—yeah, I know—no, but he fell out of a tree—”

“He is fine, though!” Buck yelled, hoping to stop the inevitable freakout from Eddie. “Eddie, do you hear me? I’m fine!”

--or--

Buck takes Chris out for a light hike, somehow ends up falling out of a tree, and Chris patches him up while waiting for his dad to arrive.

Presumed Dead by inkonmyheartandonthepage

Rated G, 4,4K

The fresh air was supposed to have been good for Buck. A small hike that he had done a million times. A nice hike that gave him a workout and at the same time allowed him to sift through his thoughts and feelings and to focus on what he really wanted.

Instead, he’s stuck in the middle of nowhere at a rest stop watching some asshole drive away in his jeep.

OR

The 118 crew arrive a fender bender only to find it's Buck's jeep on fire and the body inside dead and burning.

The monsters turned out to be just trees by Ink_Dancer

Rated T, 8,4k

Buck and Eddie are searching for a missing person, and they're already lost in the woods when Buck gets injured and makes their situation a lot more complicated. With the sun going down, they're forced to spend the night outside, with only each other for warmth and shelter.

(set post-buck's recovery from the firetruck, but no other specific time markers. nebulously within the show's canon.)

It's what my rotting bones will sing when the rest of me is dead by heartbeatdiaz

Rated T, 12,4k

"Eddie? Eds, can you hear me?” Buck rubs his knuckles against Eddie's sternum, a little too harsh, a little too desperate. "Eddie!"

Eddie croaks out a weak, barely there, whine as Buck's knuckles do the trick and his eyes open in slits.

"Evan?" He chokes out, his voice so hoarse and raspy that it must have been hurting his throat. "You're real?" He whispers in awe, his hand twitching as his side like he wants to reach up to Buck— touch his face— but he's too weak to do that. Eddie's brow furrowed but a small smile graces his lips, barely there. "I didn't give up. I made it home to you."

or;

the one where a call goes wrong and leaves everyone thinking eddie was dead, buck finds about the will through a letter and comes to some other revelations in the process.

and in which eddie finds his way back home and finally gets to be happy with the love of his life.

BTHB Prompt: Missing and Presumed Dead

Let me go by tawaifeddiediaz

Rated T, 8,1K

For the first time since he met him, he wasn’t sure where Buck was, and it was driving him insane. His shift ended three hours later than Eddie on Tuesdays, and today, he had texted saying that he was going to pick up groceries.

After that, he hadn’t returned back home.

Kindness: What Connects Us by FandomLife54

Rated T, 9,6k

Still off balance, Buck slams his left heel onto the roof, heaving forward to catch the collar of that yellow shirt. And there’s no conscious decision making here. It’s all instinct, and he’s grateful for it. If he’d given his overzealous mind the chance to consider another way, he would have missed his shot. Instead, his arms hurl the boy into the hands of another survivor...

And his right foot misses the edge.

OR

Buck catches Chris before he rolls off the firetruck, and it's him who falls back into the retreating waters of the tsunami. Unconscious and seriously injured, he's unaware that his team has been searching for him, never giving up as the days pass.

A leaf falls on loneliness by iimpossible_things

Not rated, 11,1k

Buck doesn’t think that if he were to say, “I’m in a bad place”, that anyone would turn him away. Really, he doesn’t. The 118 has too many good, kind people for that.

But every time he wants to open his mouth, to say something, to reach out to Eddie or Bobby or Hen or Chim, he hears Eddie yelling, “you’re exhausting.”

—you’re exhausting, you’re exhausting, you’re exhausting—

So each day he does his job and he laughs and he jokes and he pretends he’s the care-free goofball he’s always been. And each day he packs away his bruises and his worries, takes them home to his empty loft with its quiet rooms, and licks his wounds in silence.

And I watched a part of myself die 'cause no amount of freedom gets you clean by himbobuckley

WARNING: rape/non-con. Rated T, 10,2K

Buck goes out drinking after a particularly tragic call and the night takes a turn for the worse when he's targeted and assaulted. Struggling in the aftermath and unsure how to handle it, Buck tries to distance himself from his friends and family, believing that with time he can simply move past it on his own. Eddie notices something is wrong with Buck and desperately tries to get through to his friend, fearing the worst.

or:

Buck goes through the fucking ringer. eddie notices something's horribly wrong. you can contact my lawyer for emotional damages.

or:

“I heard about what happened yesterday,” Eddie says softly. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there. And that I didn’t know. I should’ve gone out with you, or made you come over, or-”

“Eddie,” Buck interrupts. “It’s- it’s okay. I just went out drinking. It’s fine.”

“Drinking alone?”

“Yeah,” he stammers. “Yeah, alone.”

“Hey listen, why don’t you come over tonight? We can do a movie night. And… I have something to tell you.”

“I’m sorry, Eddie,” Buck murmurs, feeling the tears welling up again. “I don’t think I can tonight.”

“Hey, wait Buck-”

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Blue skies by spaceprincessem

36,7k, rated T

“Most babies are born as accidents,” She says suddenly, like she’s decided that Buck has passed, that she can trust him with this.

Buck doesn’t really have an answer because that question hits way to fucking close to home. A year or so ago he would have said, yes, I was an accident, so I know how that goes, but Buck knows better now. Knows that he would almost give anything for that answer to still be yes. Evie’s finger works under the seal to rip it open, a stack of important looking papers dumping out onto the table in front of her.

“Not me,” she says without looking up as she organizes them into a neat stack, “I was engineered.”

And.

And Buck’s pretty fucking sure a giant, cataclysmic hole has ripped right open, dragging him down to the earth’s core where he vaporizes into dust.

{or Buck meets another savior baby and everything comes crashing down}

Leave The Light On (I'll Be Coming Home) by HMSLusitania

Rated M, 44,4k, fandom classic

“We’re here for our grandson,” Helena says.

“Chris is still sleeping,” Buck says.

“I meant, we’re here to take him back to Texas,” Helena clarifies.

“Yeah,” Buck says. He’s too tired, way too tired to be tactful. “Over my dead body.”

--

An accident on a call leaves Buck with custody of Chris after Eddie is... missing presumed.

While they navigate their new family circumstances -- and fight to stay together, despite Eddie's parents' best efforts -- a John Doe wakes up in a coma ward with no memory of his own life beyond the knowledge he has a son named Christopher and, somehow, he needs to get home.

Over The Age, Over Again by mintedwitcher

Rated E, 16,5k

EXCERPT:

He would’ve fallen down the cliffside if it hadn’t been for Bobby on the winch. Because that… that’s Buck’s jeep. There’s no denying it, no mistaking it. That is Buck’s jeep. Hanging almost sideways off a ledge, the driver’s side doors flung open with the force of the fall. And further down… no. No it can’t be… a man, smashed against the rocks. A massive pool of blood. But Eddie can see the familiar white sneakers against the dirt.

No Sight For Heart Eyes by znks

Rated E, 20,5k

“Buck, Karen, and Eddie stayed on the couch and talked while the kids settled on the floor to draw. It all felt so wonderfully normal that Eddie found himself forgetting that he hadn’t just closed his eyes in serenity as he leaned against Buck.

That’s what made the spell breaking so painful.

“Dad! Look! I drew the firetru- Oh, wait, it’s okay you can see it when you’re all better!” Christopher said it so cheerfully, not even hesitating before going back to swapping out pens with Denny.

But Eddie felt it like a shot to the chest.

He couldn’t see his son’s drawings.

Buck and Karen had barely paused in the conversation, but Eddie could hear how strained it became, both of them obviously knowing exactly how heartbreaking the moment had been. Buck’s arm wrapped more tightly around Eddie’s waist, chin resting on his shoulder.”

losing your sight for a week sucks but at least eddie has buck to guide him through his healing or at least through his own house

This has inspired me to go read more recent hurt/comfort Buddie fics! I haven't been super active on this account but hopefully I can update this soon :)

[firstprincehornyramblings]

I'm posting this Sentences Sunday at 3am, because why the hell not, it's Sunday. This one is going to have 3 snippets, all very nsfw, all very under the cut, but I'm doing to try and keep them shorter, for mysterious reasons. *wiggles fingers*

- kissingchambers (🤭) pwp 💊

He couldn’t look down at Elliot, he managed a glance before giving up and looking back at the ceiling. Those hungry eyes and wide pupils narrowed and nearly predatory- that look was lethal. It would make impossibly quick work of Marco if he allowed himself to watch. His hand tugged harder at the hair between his fingers, legs spreading wider, to what end he had no idea. But it was rewarded with one of Elliot’s hand sliding along his inner thigh, squeezing at soft skin. “I- uh, Ellie…” Marco swallowed hard, gasping for air between moans as he spoke. “Can you uh-” With a hum, Elliot lifted his head, still sucking hard as his mouth popped free. “Ellie, that’s cute, what, are you about to cum?” he chuckled, somehow still sounding sarcastic. All Marco could really do was nod.

--------------------------------------------------------------------- doctor alex and patient henry 🩺

“Oh, I didn’t make you dinner,” Henry sneered, “You can do that on your own.” “Wh-” “You need to get tested,” he didn’t even allow his boyfriend to respond to the initial jab. “You fucking gave me chlamydia,” he hissed, already standing up and emptying his plate, “Don’t apologize, don’t make a fucking excuse, be an adult, take care of it. And for christ’s fucking sake,” he snapped, tossing his plate into the sink nearly hard enough to break it, “Use a Johnny next time, will you?” “Baby, wait,” Charlie pleaded, following behind Henry who was already in the process of storming toward the bedroom. “Do not,” the blond whipped around with lightning speed, a finger shoved only centimeters from his boyfriend’s nose, “Do not fucking ‘baby’ me, right now.”

-------------------------------------------------------------------- dystopian prince's consort alex 👑

All at once, Alex got his wish, Henry’s hips jerking forward as he spilled onto the bed. Streak after streak of white painted the linens, loud husky whines and moans coming from deep in the blond’s chest. That tightness squeezing Alex’s cock like a vice grip, it was an incredible feat that he didn’t finish on the spot himself; he’d thank whichever god did that for him later. His own hips finally slowed to a moderate pace, now just rolling into deep, slow slamming motions into the other man. His hand worked the last few drops from Henry’s tip, the opposite hand leaving the blond’s throat to lovingly cradle a warm cheek instead. His thumb brushed over Henry’s lips in a way that was far too affectionate for what they’d just done, but he couldn’t help it, Alex was a romantic at heart. “Where do you want me to cum, baby?” “On my face, please,” with that answer, the blond leaned forward, falling into the mattress with no regard for the mess. He rolled over onto his back after a moment, still breathing hard as he looked up at Alex. There was a smile on those plush lips now, a quiet blissed out laugh, and half-lidded cock drunk eyes. Henry was more beautiful that way, Alex thought.

—

🏷️(no pressure tags darlings)

@taste-thewaste @henrysfox @mikibwrites @eusuntgratie

@softboynick @catdadacd @sheepywritesfics @henryspearl

@basil-bird @caressthosecheekbones @henfox @anti-homophobia-cheese

@redlipstickandglitter @onthewaytosomewhere

@thesleepyskipper @tailsbeth-writes @thighzp @lfg1986-2

+ literally anyone else I'm tired and forgot. (i say as if im not always sleepy) or anyone who sees this and wants to tag me, I love reading yall's stuff. <3

[transtundras-fr]

Design a Breeding Pair, Win a beautiful G1!

I recently acquired TurtleShell and Licorice to be my new breeding pair, but gosh darn it I’m having a tough time designing them!

Reblog this post (or make your own and tag me) with one scry per dragon, ideally scries that would produce cute kids!

The winner gets a very special prize… details and rules below the cut!

RULES:

Please only submit one scry per dragon!

I want this pair to be a ridgeback and pearlcatcher pair, but you are welcome to scry either pose as either breed :)

The rest aren’t really rules but more so some tips about my personal tastes!

Try to keep gem genes to a minimum. I do not like smirch, keel, crackle, or the orb/weaver gene sets. If you really think they work well you’re welcome to submit, but it’ll probably lower your chances. You can change the eye types but I’m not going to count that ^_^

Now… ONTO THE PRIZES!

The winner gets something real special.

An Authentique g1 sandsurge named Reliquary! Extremely beautiful scries on this one :)

I will also select two runner ups, who get to pick a g1 from my hibernal storage den.

It’ll end on Monday, November 25th at 12pm CST! If you have any questions feel free to ask them in the comments or dm me :3 good luck, and I can’t wait to see what you come up with!

[howlsofbloodhounds]

Want to know more about canon killer, but honestly Tumblr is kinda hard to navigate, ya got like a post about it, outside or in your blog, please?

Here’s a Google doc. It wasn’t made by me and some of the links are very out of wack, but it’s there. I’ve been thinking about making my own canon Killer google doc sometime.

I made a ao3 canon killer facts thing like awhile back, like a year. It has absolutely 0 links and I need to go back and fix it sometime, some of the stuff is outdated and worded weirdly so im not really gonna link it, but you can find it on my pinned post.

But I would mostly recommend going to the search on my blog and looking up/clicking on the tag #canon k1ll_sans. You’ll find canon posts I reblogged from his creator and posts I made/reblogs I tagged with it.

I would also definitely recommend giving Killer’s friend, Color and his AU, Othertale, a look if you haven’t already. You can find stuff about his canon on my blog under the tags #0thertale and #canon c0lor sans, but if you don’t want to do that, there’s a link to a google doc I made highlighted in green on my pinned post.

[hauntingofhouses]

Very interesting to me that a certain subset of the BES fandom's favourite iterations of Mizu and Akemi are seemingly rooted in the facades they have projected towards the world, and are not accurate representations of their true selves.

And I see this is especially the case with Mizu, where fanon likes to paint her as this dominant, hyper-masculine, smirking Cool GuyTM who's going to give you her strap. And this idea of Mizu is often based on the image of her wearing her glasses, and optionally, with her cloak and big, wide-brimmed kasa.

And what's interesting about this, to me, is that fanon is seemingly falling for her deliberate disguise. Because the glasses (with the optional combination of cloak and hat) represent Mizu's suppression of her true self. She is playing a role.

Take this scene of Mizu in the brothel in Episode 4 for example. Here, not only is Mizu wearing her glasses to symbolise the mask she is wearing, but she is purposely acting like some suave and cocky gentleman, intimidating, calm, in control. Her voice is even deeper than usual, like what we hear in her first scene while facing off with Hachiman the Flesh-Trader in Episode 1.

This act that Mizu puts on is an embodiment of masculine showboating, which is highly effective against weak and insecure men like Hachi, but also against women like those who tried to seduce her at the Shindo House.

And that brings me to how Mizu's mask is actually a direct parallel to Akemi's mask in this very same scene.

Here, Akemi is also putting up an act, playing up her naivety and demure girlishness, using her high-pitched lilted voice, complimenting Mizu and trying to make small talk, all so she can seduce and lure Mizu in to drink the drugged cup of sake.

So what I find so interesting and funny about this scene, characters within it, and the subsequent fandom interpretations of both, is that everyone seems to literally be falling for the mask that Mizu and Akemi are putting up to conceal their identities, guard themselves from the world, and get what they want.

It's also a little frustrating because the fanon seems to twist what actually makes Mizu and Akemi's dynamic so interesting by flattening it completely. Because both here and throughout the story, Mizu and Akemi's entire relationship and treatment of each other is solely built off of masks, assumptions, and misconceptions.

Akemi believes Mizu is a selfish, cocky male samurai who destroyed her ex-fiance's career and life, and who abandoned her to let her get dragged away by her father's guards and forcibly married off to a man she didn't know. on the other hand, Mizu believes Akemi is bratty, naive princess who constantly needs saving and who can't make her own decisions.

These misconceptions are even evident in the framing of their first impressions of each other, both of which unfold in these slow-motion POV shots.

Mizu's first impression of Akemi is that of a beautiful, untouchable princess in a cage. Swirling string music in the background.

Akemi's first impression of Mizu is of a mysterious, stoic "demon" samurai who stole her fiance's scarf. Tense music and the sound of ocean waves in the background.

And then, going back to that scene of them together in Episode 4, both Mizu and Akemi continue to fool each other and hold these assumptions of each other, and they both feed into it, as both are purposely acting within the suppressive roles society binds them to in order to achieve their goals within the means they are allowed (Akemi playing the part of a subservient woman; Mizu playing the part of a dominant man).

But then, for once in both their lives, neither of their usual tactics work.

Akemi is trying to use flattery and seduction on Mizu, but Mizu sees right through it, knowing that Akemi is just trying to manipulate and harm her. Rather than give in to Akemi's tactics, Mizu plays with Akemi's emotions by alluding to Taigen's death, before pinning her down, and then when she starts crying, Mizu just rolls her eyes and tells her to shut up.

On the opposite end, when Mizu tries to use brute force and intimidation, Akemi also sees right through it, not falling for it, and instead says this:

"Under your mask, you're not the killer you pretend to be."

Nonetheless, despite the fact that they see a little bit through each other's masks, they both still hold their presumptions of each other until the very end of the season, with Akemi seeing Mizu as an obnoxious samurai swooping in to save the day, and Mizu seeing Akemi as a damsel in distress.

And what I find a bit irksome is that the fandom also resorts to flattening them to these tropes as well.

Because Mizu is not some cool, smooth-talking samurai with a big dick sword as Akemi (and the fandom) might believe. All of that is the facade she puts up and nothing more. In reality, Mizu is an angry, confused and lonely child, and a masterful artist, who is struggling against her own self-hatred. Master Eiji, her father figure who knows her best, knows this.

And Akemi, on the other hand, is not some girly, sweet, vain and spoiled princess as Mizu might believe. Instead she has never cared for frivolous things like fashion, love or looks, instead favouring poetry and strategy games instead, and has always only cared about her own independence. Seki, her father figure who knows her best, knows this.

But neither is she some authoritative dominatrix, though this is part of her new persona that she is trying to project to get what she wants. Because while Akemi is willful, outspoken, intelligent and authoritative, she can still be naive! She is still often unsure and needs to have her hand held through things, as she is still learning and growing into her full potential. Her new parental/guardian figure, Madame Kaji, knows this as well.

So with all that being said, now that we know that Mizu and Akemi are essentially wearing masks and putting up fronts throughout the show, what would a representation of Mizu's and Akemi's true selves actually look like? Easy. It's in their hair.

This shot on the left is the only time we see Mizu with her hair completely down. In this scene, she's being berated by Mama, and her guard is completely down, she has no weapon, and is no longer wearing any mask, as this is after she showed Mikio "all of herself" and tried to take off the mask of a subservient housewife. Thus, here, she is sad, vulnerable, and feeling small (emphasised further by the framing of the scene). This is a perfect encapsulation of what Mizu is on the inside, underneath all the layers of revenge-obsession and the walls she's put around herself.

In contrast, the only time we Akemi with her hair fully down, she is completely alone in the bath, and this scene takes place after being scorned by her father and left weeping at his feet. But despite all that, Akemi is headstrong, determined, taking the reigns of her life as she makes the choice to run away, but even that choice is reflective of her youthful naivety. She even gets scolded by Seki shortly after this in the next scene, because though she wants to be independent, she still hasn't completely learned to be. Not yet. Regardless, her decisiveness and moment of self-empowerment is emphasised by the framing of the scene, where her face takes up the majority of the shot, and she stares seriously into the middle distance.

To conclude, I wish popular fanon would stop mischaracterising these two, and flattening them into tropes and stereotypes (ie. masculine badass swordsman Mizu and feminine alluring queen but also girly swooning damsel Akemi), all of which just seems... reductive. It also irks me when Akemi is merely upheld as a love interest and romantic device for Mizu and nothing more, when she is literally Mizu's narrative foil (takes far more narrative precedence over romantic interest) and the deuteragonist of this show. She is her own person. That is literally the theme of her entire character and arc.

[inkskinned]

you wanted to be a good friend, because you loved your friends, but the truth was that everyone else somehow had a pamphlet on being normal that you never received. most of the time you learn by trial-and-error. you are terrified of the next big mistake you make, because it seems like the rules are completely arbitrary.

you've learned to keep the prickly parts of your personality in a stormcloud under your bed - as if they're a second version of you; one that will make your friends hate you. it feels feral, burning, ugly.

instead, you have assembled habits based on the statistical likelihood of pleasing others. you're a good listener, which is to say - if you do speak up, you might end up saying the wrong thing and scaring off someone, but people tend to like someone-who-listens. or you've got no true desires or goals, because people like it when you're passive, mutable. you're "not easy to fluster" which is to say - your emotions are fundamentally uninteresting to others around you; so you've learned to control them to a degree that you can no longer really feel them happening.

you have long suspected something is wrong with you, but most of the time, googling doesn't help. you are so-used to helping-yourself, alone and with no handbook. the reek of your real self feels more like a horrible joke - you wake up, and, despite all your preparations, suddenly the whole house is full of smoke. the real you is someone waiting to ruin your other-life, the one where you're normal and happy. the real-self is unpredictable, angry.

your real self snarls when people infantilize the whole situation. because if you were really suffering, everyone seems to think you'd be completely unable to cope. but you already learned the rules, so you do know how to cope, and you have fucking been coping. it's not black-and-white. it's not that you are healed during the other times - it's just that you're able to fucking try. and honestly, whenever you show symptoms, it's a really fucking bad sign.

because the symptoms you have are ugly and unmanageable for others. your symptoms aren't waifish white girl things. they're annoying and complicated. they will be the subject of so many pretentious instagram reels. if they cared about you, they'd just show up on time. you care, a lot, so deeply it burns you. you like to picture a world where the comments read if they loved you, they'd never need glasses to see. but since that's a rule you've seen repeated - "one must never be late or you are a bad friend" - you constantly worry about being late and leave agonizingly early. there are no words for how you feel when you're still late; no matter how hard you were trying.

so you have to make up for it. you have to make up for that little horrible real you that you keep locked in a cabinet. you are bad at answering emails so every project you make has to be perfect. you are weird and sensitive so you have to learn to be funny and interesting. you are an inconvenience to others, so you become as smooth as possible, buffing out all the rough parts.

all this. all this. so people can pass their hands over you and just tell you just the once -how good you are. you're a good friend. you're loveable.

[thatswhatsushesaid]

i think fandom spaces would become much more enjoyable across the board if people stopped flipping their pancakes over other fans enjoying characters that they don't like. or, god forbid, like them but in 'the wrong way.'

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Meet the Family 2

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Your boss needs a last-minute favour for the holidays.(petite!reader)

Characters: Lloyd Hansen

Note: I love writing toxic people.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Asking for more or putting ‘part 2?’ is not feedback.

Love you all. You are appreciated and your are worthy. Treat yourself with care. 💖

“Mr. Hansen--” You begin, choking on your error, “Lloyd, my flight--” 

“Christ, I told you, cancel it. I’ll add the difference to your next check,” he grits under his breath. 

You plant your feet, shifting despite your effort as he keeps his grip on your hand. He turns back with a grunt. 

“What’re you doing?” He asks. 

“No, what are you doing?” You throw back. “What the hell is going on?” 

“First, watch that sweet mouth of yours. Second, we’ve been through this, Pixie pie. You just need to play along,�� he keeps his voice low and peeks over his shoulder. “Loosen up a bit.” He loosens his hold on you and runs his hand up your sleeve. “Hm, I guess I shoulda told you to dress up a bit.” 

“What?” You look down at your black cotton tea-length dress. You chose it for comfort but it’s not entirely frumpy. The ribbed stockings might not add much to the attire however. 

“Just...” He grabs your shoulders and nudges them back, “push the chest out a bit.” 

“Ugh,” you clasp onto his wrists, “stop. Okay. I’ll stay for dinner but I can’t miss my flight--” 

“You have to,” he argues. 

“You realise this is wildly inappropriate,” you say. 

“Do you really expect anything different?” He tweaks a brow. “You’re staying. I’m not doing this alone. I put it off for a decade already--” 

“Jesus--” 

“No blasphemy either,” he lets go of you and presses his finger to your lips. You growl and shove his hand away. 

“I want a bonus, a big bonus--” 

He hushes you and waves his hands. He leans back and once more looks over his shoulders. “Later. We’ll deal with numbers in private. Right now, you need to come meet your in-laws.” 

You squint at him. It’s an act, you remind yourself, but something about his commitment to it makes you uneasy. You know better than to believe a word that comes out of his mouth but there’s a degree of earnestness in him that’s unsettling. 

“Baby, please, don’t look at me like that,” he steps closer, “I need you to look at me like I’m the second coming, okay? We’re madly in love, you and I.” Your eyes widen and he sighs, “okay, you’re not scared of me.” 

You neutralise your expression and blow out a long breath. You shake away the tension and shrug. It’s as good as you can do. 

“Here,” he grabs your wrist and turns, guiding your arm through his, “just smile pretty for me.” 

He hooks your elbow with his and urges you onward. You steel yourself for the room of strangers as their voices drift through the archway.  

You enter the front room and quickly scan the space; there’s a large-mouthed hearth, lit and draped in evergreen and berries; a long cream sectional, a matching duo of armchairs, and a chaise in the same shade; a low glass coffee table with a golden perch and a console table in a similar style along the wall crowded with bottles and crystal; an area rug in a smooth white with patterns in dulcet beige and rich butterscotch; and the low din is cast by tea lights daintily set around the space in glass holders and candelabra. 

More pressing than the decor are the bodies that fill the room. You recognise Ransom as he speaks with an older woman with short white hair and thick-framed glasses. She wears a red pantsuit with a gold blouse. Very festive. 

You glance over at Lloyd and take him in fully. You hadn’t paid much attention for the whirlwind all around. He wears a pair of evergreen slacks and a sweater with a reindeer's face on the front. He wouldn’t even let you put tinsel on your desk but now he’s dressed like a kid in a holiday parade. 

“Looks like someone didn’t get the memo,” a tall blonde woman approaches with a glass of pale wine in hand. You try not to look with concern at her rounded middle; it sticks out starkly as her long limbs are thin and lithe. “A very grim Christmas indeed.” 

“Lillian,” Lloyd faces the woman about his own height. She has his eyes and his lips. You assume their relation before he declares it. “My sister, Pixie,” he gestures to her carelessly. 

“Older sister,” she preens and rests her hand on her swollen stomach. Your eyes flick away from the crystal in her hand. 

“By about thirty-one seconds,” Lloyd scoffs. 

“Oh, sweetie, it’s non-alcoholic,” she swirls the wine in her glass, “she’s so tiny and quiet.” 

“Ahem,” you clear your throat, “it’s nice to meet you.” 

She laughs, “oh, so polite. Entirely not his type.” 

You try not to react. You agree. You know the women that Lloyd really likes. You’ve screened their calls until they just give up on getting a second date. 

“Believe it or not, Lil, you’re not everyone’s type,” Lloyd retorts. “I think your ex-husband would agree. The second one too.” Lloyd lifts his chin and looks around, “is the third here or are we on number four?” 

“Lovely,” she spits. “Love you too, brother.” 

He shakes his head and draws you away from her. She raises her brows and her glass and sips. You let him take you away. You already despise most of these people. The room radiates with derision. Your family might have some grudges but there’s a general air of good will. 

“I need a drink,” he mutters. 

You gladly follow him to the table. He pours himself a tumbler from the boxy decanter. He sighs as he picks it up but stops himself from drinking. 

“Well, help yourself,” he says. 

You hesitate but not for long. You need something if you’re going to get through this. You pour yourself some chardonnay and sidle away from the table. You check your watch as you raise your glass. 

“Don’t fucking worry about your flight,” he hisses under his breath. “If I’m not getting out of this, you aren’t either.” 

“But why?” You ask behind the glass. 

“Not right now,” he warns and nods at another figure as they approach. “Uncle Benson.” 

“Junior,” the man returns. You drink your wine and don’t comment on the epithet. “Where’s the old man?” 

“Where he always is,” Lloyd replies. 

“Mm, and this is...” the older man looks at you pointedly, dipping his chin to do so. 

“Pixie. My fiancee,” Lloyd answers dully, almost deflating. 

“Benson,” the man offers his hand, “but a pretty girl like you can call me Benny.” 

“Benny,” Lloyd repeats to himself in confusion. 

You shake Benson’s hand, “um, thanks, nice to meet you.” 

“Mm, very nice to meet you,” he lifts your hand and smushes his lips to your knuckles. He clings to you, petting your hand. “You’re gorgeous, what’re you doing with this lump?” 

“Uncle,” Lloyd drones. 

“Adorable,” Benson inches closer, “my inheritance is bigger than his, among other things.” 

“Alright,” Lloyd snatches your hand away from him, “go have some water, Benson,” he growls, “think you’ve been into the brandy.” 

“I’d like to get into something else,” Benson snickers. 

You almost laugh, despite your disgust. You’ve heard that line before. Lloyd puts himself between you and the older man. “I think that’s why Carolyn filed the papers, huh.” 

“Oh, you little twat,” Benson snarls. “Fine, fine, I’ll leave you to disappoint her on your own.” 

Lloyd tuts and shakes his head as the man lumbers off. He turns around and drains his glass. It’s strange, seeing him in his natural habitat; he’s not so ‘alpha’ here. 

“Let’s get the rounds over with.” He grumbles. 

Your wine lasts you through the introductions. Two more uncles; Carter and Linus, along with their wives, Andrea and Angela. Then the full-blooded aunts; four of them, Raquel, Shanna, Beatrice, and Lana. All of them tall, blonde, and bold in their own way. Then a batch of cousins you can’t keep sorted; Ransom and his mother Linda, among them, with no explanation as to the rest of their tribe. 

Lloyd pours himself more whiskey. You abstain from a refill and stand near the wall, observing the wilderness of entitled trust-funders. It explains so much yet inspires so many more questions. You never expected Lloyd to be the dark horse. 

“Lonely?” The timbre startles you along with the twisting pinch on your ass.  

You yipe and snag the attention of several sets of eyes around the room, not least of all Benson, drooling over another snifter of dark alcohol. You swat Ransom’s hand away and face him amid the row of laughter. Despite the airs they put on, your audience is more amused than appalled. 

“Where’s your prince, huh?” Ransom asks. “All that whiskey and...” He holds up his index then lets it go limp, “don’t think it’ll be a very peppy after party, sweetheart.” 

You sniff and cross your arms. These people are at least consistent, grossly so. It makes you wonder why Lloyd was so insistent that you watch your mouth, especially when you’ve never stooped to his level before. 

“Is it much of a party if there’s only one attendee?” You counter. 

He narrows his eyes and tilts his head, “what?” 

“Nothing,” you shake our head. You don’t need to explain the joke. Besides, this is all fake. Don’t let it get to you. 

“So, how long did he wait to put that ugly thing on your finger?” Ransom asks. 

You shrug, “long enough.” 

“Did he do the whole schtick? Get down on one knee? Put the ring in your wine glass?” He prods. 

“I’ll let him tell the story,” you say. 

“Hm, never knew a woman so unexcited about a wedding,” he snorts. 

“Maybe I’m just unexcited by my company,” you back away as his hand jiggles at his side. You eye his fingers, wary of another pinch. 

“Fine, marriage is boring anyways. What’s his favourite position? I always figured he lets the ladies do all the work,” he snickers. 

You stare at him. Not quite as offended as annoyed. You could ask him which hand he uses but you are not letting Lloyd drag you that low. Why are you even letting him put your through this? 

“Hugh,” Lloyd appears and slides his arm over your shoulders. 

“Little L,” Ransom retorts dryly. 

“Shut up,” Lloyd sneers as you resist the urge to shrug him off of you. 

“Where were you then? Leaving your woman all on her lonesome,” Ransom rubs his fingers together subtly and you scowl at him. 

“Broke the seal,” Lloyd deflects. “What do you care? You wanna hold it next time? 

“Hands are too big,” Ransom cackles. 

“Speaking of,” you pipe up. “The bathroom, where would that be?” 

Lloyd clucks and looks down at you, “down the hall, opposite the kitchen.” 

“Thanks,” you carefully slip away from him, “I’ll be back.” 

“Wait,” Lloyd catches your arm and pulls you back. “Not without this.” 

He leans in before you can react. He bends to press his lips to yours and you can’t repress a surprised squeak. He purrs and the vibration makes your skin crawl. What on earth?! 

You part and ignore the stares you can feel all around. Not just from Ransom but the rest of the room. What is he doing? That’s so embarrassing. 

You force a smile, “uh, be back.” 

You spin and scurry away. That room, those people, are suffocating, and Lloyd, not least of all. You hide in the bathroom, locking the door, and you take the moment of stillness to think. Big mistake as it all starts to set in. 

You drove all the way here under false pretenses. It’s believable that Lloyd would forget to bring the gifts. That tracks but this? The whole pretending to be engaged? What is his game? Is he really trying to impress anyone or is he torturing you? Why? 

You can’t figure any of it out. You gave up trying to understand your boss ages ago, you suppose you should do the same with these people and just get through this. For all your trouble, the food better be fucking delicious. 

You let yourself out of the bathroom and flatten against the door as you nearly collide with another person. Lillian nearly stomps right over you as she holds her stomach and rushes down the hallway. She lets out a sigh. 

“Oh, are you done in there? I’m splitting at the seams,” she trills. 

“Um, yeah, all done,” you sidle away from the door. 

“Could I trouble you for some help?” She asks. “This thing,” she pats her stomach, “I can get down but I can’t get up.” 

“Hm?” You furrow your brow in confusion, “help?” 

“We’re both girls,” she giggles. “And we’ll be sisters soon enough, won’t we?” 

“Um.” 

“You know, a pregnancy at my age, I really can’t strain myself,” she explains. 

“Oh, er, I guess--” 

“Thanks, sweetie,” she nudges you back into the bathroom. You have no choice as she heard you through. 

You stare at the wall as she slams the door and hustles over to the toilet. She pulls up her white dress and turns to sit, her silhouette a blur in your peripheral. You flick your eyes to the ceiling and bounce on your heels. 

Her stream flows out and fills the tense silence. She sighs. 

“Thank the lord,” she groans. “I swear, the little twerp is right on my bladder right now.” 

“Mm,” you nod and glance at the door. 

“I knew we should’ve gone with a surrogate,” she sniffs. “A piece of advice, when he puts one in you, make him suffer.” 

“Puts one...” you blink. “Um, I don’t...” 

“I mean, he’ll have to start trying as soon as the wedding night,” she laughs. “He’s getting up there. His swimmers won’t be as fast, will they? And the way he drinks, they’ll be too groggy to know which way is which.” 

“Um, we’ll worry about the wedding first--” 

“Enjoy it. Once you’re tied down, it’s not very much fun,” she says as she tears of tissue. “Alright then, darling, I need you.” 

You do your best not to see all of her. She reaches for you and you get close. You pull her up to her feet and she squeezes past you to the sink. You look at the toilet and shut the lid, flushing it with a push of the button. She washes her hands with a hum. 

“You’ll be so adorable when you’re big. Like an overstuffed teddy bear,” she chimes. “He’ll love that. He always did hate feeling small.” She twists off the faucet and dries her hands. “You must make him feel like the man he wishes he was.” 

You just look at her. You have no true reason to defend Lloyd, but because she’s so smug it irks you. You look her in the face, even if you feel ridiculous having to look up. 

“Well, he can piss on his own, so I think he’s just fine,” you step around her and swing open the door. The silence that follows you is the only satisfying thing about that night. 

[triglycercule]

horror being very specific with table manners and he berates people (dust and killer) for eating like fucking pigs

i think it'd be morbidly funny that because there was no food in horrortale but the cutlery and stuff was all there that maybe he would pretend to eat with no food on the plate. it was in a satirical way that he would joke maybe around horror paps or alone where he would pretend to eat and have really good table manners but then the satire joke became REAL and now horror is incredibly specific about how to eat food

you MUST hold the fork in the left and knife in right says horror. no killer you can't duel wield the fucking knives this is a table not a slaughterhouse. dust pick up your elbows off the table. actually how about you get your entire upper body off the table tf why are you SLEEPING ON THE FOOD??? killer's sitting fetal position in the chair because of course he wouldn't sit normally like the idiot he is. dust is forced to put his hood down and reveal his face no more mysterious shadow style because it puts horror at ease. they cannot have a single peaceful meal because once they get past the table manners phase it then becomes a completion to see who can eat the least (because they suck at everything including eating)

[goldkirk]

hey this isn’t aimed at anyone in particular but I’m saying it for the record here: if I tell you no, please stop messaging me about fundraisers and mutual aid.

I get enough messages that it’s impossible for me to keep up without devoting at least half an hour each day, when I’m not even on tumblr that long most days. Me having a boundary about this isn’t a moral failing, it’s a lifeboat for me on my own blog.

In my personal life I’m already advocating and donating literally as much as I can spare. This is not me not caring, it’s just me not willing to interact with that on the one place I go online to not interact with irl news and world events for the most part.

I cannot be upset all the time. I cannot be upset everywhere. I cannot use all my emotional and mental energy fielding my own upset from ongoing events. My options are to hold boundaries about this or stop coming online at all.

I’m all for sharing information and signal boosting to reasonable extents, but the scale of it this year is so large and so enduring that it is literally not possible to for me to participate on every account I have. I’ve previously shared links to Gaza eSIM donations and a major hub of verified Go Fund Mes here and elsewhere online. We, the online humans, know how to look those things up ourselves by now. There are many, many people choosing to do advocacy work, and right now, I can’t be one of them.

If you’re extremely upset when I tell you I can’t share/donate right now about a Gaza family or personal fundraiser you ask me to share here, just unfollow and block me. That’s what those buttons are for. Protect your own emotions and energy and get me off your feed instead of staying upset and continuing to engage with online people or content that upsets you.

Please don’t send repeated angry messages based on manufactured purity politics and moral outrage into my messages and inbox when I exercise the right to run my own blog.

[lunarharp]

figured i'd do this again..bit early i guess..

[remyfire]

Now I'm thinking too hard about some of the surgeons and my personal headcanons for them again, god fucking help me.

Thinking about Hawkeye raised in a rural community with Daniel being more of a horse-and-buggy doctor who made house calls just as often as he saw people in his office or his home. Thinking about Hawk who was a child when he was first needed to hold pressure on a belly wound, not yet a teenager when he became the only person who could assist if someone made it to the Pierce house in the middle of the night and needed emergency care. Thinking about how money never even occurred to him because Daniel's been getting paid more often in eggs and bread and fresh crops and delicious fish and services in turn for as long as Hawk's been alive. A man who walked into medical school already having seen and experienced far, far more of the visceral parts of surgery than anybody else there, who got mistaken for a prodigy, who never thought to correct them but instead expected them all to keep up.

Thinking about Trapper growing up in the thick of Boston slums where it was so much harder to get adequate healthcare, just a kid hearing about how almost all of his friends were supposed to have a baby sibling on the way, but now they're not. How often the men in his area—physical laborers—would be laid off after they lost a limb, how it would pull his friends out of school one by one once they completed their requisite education because they needed to work when their parents no longer could. How many times he had to see someone sick or injured and having nowhere to go for care because they couldn't afford it, coughing on the side of the road, bleeding in an alley. A man who walked into medical school with more fucking determination than anyone else there, gritted teeth, fire in his chest, because he'd be damned if he watched that cycle continue.

Thinking about BJ in a fine home, expensive neighborhood, upper class, parents determined to tick their way up the ladder into new money by marrying their kids into wealthier families so that by extension, they can experience the height of luxury. His grandfather's legacy which led to his father's excellent private practice, high prices, tied up neatly in a bow of how disdainfully he'd often speak of his patients or colleagues at home. The Depression hitting and wiping out his father's and grandfather's money—stored in banks, in stocks, in bonds—instantaneously, and how his father had to pivot to barely making anything because there was so little that his patients could give, and how cold it made him because why should he be a surgeon if he doesn't even get paid for his work? Why should he help anybody at all when he'd receive so little personal benefit? A full eighteen years immersed in his father's bitterness, every minute spent distancing himself from him. A man who walked into medical school having already cut them off cleanly, a mission in his chest, the drive to provide care out of compassion, his principles already firmly locked in place, his desire to be the best out of anybody else around him so that no one ever has to feel like they need to beg him so that he would deign to save their life.

I'm unwell about the surgeons. I don't know if y'all knew this or not.

[batsplat]

jorge martin is just an off-brand motogp version of george russell. both incredible qualifiers, hard racers, have issues sometimes keeping their tyres together, have stayed in a satellite/backmarker team for three years begging the big manufacturer to accept them into the main fold and will randomly decide that they are actually done with race by beefing it into the gravel/walls on the last laps.

this is why ducati did not hire martin, he hasn’t done the power point presentation

strong last line but hm... do I agree with this...

I don't entirely disagree with the profile of racer, though jorge's a bit more in the flame bright and early mould (partly also just because of the different rhythms of those two racing series). he cut his teeth not just on being an exceptional qualifier but also a starter. even though this year, you do kinda have to say pecco's just?? uh?? he's never been a BAD starter but I swear he didn't used to be this good? some of his starts from the second or third row this year have been genuine works of art. this isn't relevant, just needed to mention it. that's part of why jorge does so well at sprints... he's really good at that abbreviated format, where it's just all out from the very start. mr russell was considered quite a poor starter in his williams days (though lbr that may have partly been car characteristics) - the qualifying's very strong and very consistent, but for a while the question was of capitalising off the line. he's got a few more drives that are about working his way through the field... like qatar last year. I just don't really associate jorge with that?

the bottling thing is debatable and we could get into that debate, but like, never mind that. we're leaving sports analysis now and getting back into vibes territory. the thing about jorge is that he has had a competitive bike from the word go. mr russell, whatever you think about how clutch he is or isn't, did not set a foot wrong in terms of making the mercedes case for himself. what happened with him was basically just... a series of unfortunate events that got him stuck in a spectacularly uncompetitive car for three years. got one shot in a good car in said three years (sakhir 2020) and delivered the perfect performance. but jorge!! jorge had 2022!! he blew it!! he did get unlucky with the gp22 vs the gp21 comparison early that season and how bastianini was able to take advantage of the early stage factory spec malaise, and he's far from the only gp22 who was struggling early on (cf one 'pecco bagnaia'). but still, some of his rides that year were. truly horrendous. and the way the whole thing played out left him with a massive chip on the shoulder.... that's the thing, right, I think what's so key about jorge is that sense of grievance, the fact that he was rejected for that factory seat and we're now several years on from that. and it's a really thin line between that being a good thing and a bad thing. like, anything that's a potential source of motivation fundamentally can be helpful, right? in 2007, casey showed up at ducati as not their first choice, kinda a stopgap, and also after yamaha had pulled the plug on a potential contract not once but twice. he has spoken again and again how yamaha and honda's behaviour towards him made him want to show them exactly what they were missing out on. he used that! it was good for him as a competitor that he had something to get worked up over! he's done it throughout his career! but on the flip side, if you're so busy feeling victimised that you're kind of already... primed for failure, then you've got a problem. like, if the takeaway is you're probably screwed anyway because you're being sabotaged by the factory, then even if that were true you're fucked before you start competing. you've already lost in your own head, you've made excuses before you've even started. it's a thin line! thinking the world is out to get you can either be a good way to get yourself to going, or it can be a loser mindset

quickly circling back to georgie boy, my main feeling is that they kinda have a different type of malaise. one is an overthinker and the other is at times very much an under-thinker. grussy actually shares the overthinking trait with his fellow 63 more than anyone else... all three kinda have this fun meeting point of a lot of cockiness and a lot of insecurity - they just balance them in other ways. and russell reminds me more of pecco in that kind of... being constantly thrown up against a Big Legacy of someone you admire, being in the shadow of greats and having to make your own name... you're very much part of a succession plan that leaves you with massive shoes to fill... (though admittedly grussy has also gone through the unenviable experience of getting to work closely with his hero and eventually having most of said hero's fans absolutely despise him. can happen, I suppose.) jorge is a bit more baggage-free. he's very much the main character in his own story, not so much faffing about with the narrative implications of all this shit. more straightforward! if jorge wins, it's about him. if he loses, it's also about him. ducati has been his world for the past few years, to the point where he's gotten a bit parochial about the whole thing. early this season, he was talking like - sure, the championship lead is important, BUT this is also giving him power in contract negotiations!! which... yes, that's true, but also that should be way down the order of priorities my man. jorge martin might be the only person in this universe who... genuinely might be more obsessed with beating pecco than marc? like, beating the marc marquez would be great and all, 8x world champion bla bla, but pecco is his personal antagonist! he's known him for years! that's ducati's golden boy! he needs to beat pecco so badly! there's something really fun about a rivalry where it feels like at least one side's feelings towards the other... kinda go beyond a personal relationship, like at a certain point it becomes about what the other guy Represents. jorge isn't worried about legacy and the shoes he's got to fill and can he truly live up to all those expectations as much as he's worried about himself and also occasionally pecco bagnaia

anyway, I've been thinking about the bottling thing... what jorge said about it earlier's been rattling around in my head since I saw the quote

man, it must be really tough, right? like, you don't know why it's happening... it's not just cockiness - though there is an element of someone who's kinda used to bulldozing his way through problems with sheer obstinacy and stubborn self belief (another distinction with the 63's, who are more introspective and prone to self-flagellation following mistakes). but it's also just... you can't figure out why it's such a fundamental shortcoming of your game! today, from the way pecco and also luca (apparently) were talking about it, it seems like there was something noticeable about how jorge was gradually losing a bit in his control and precision as a result of how the tyres were going off, as a sort of precursor of the fatal error. which... well, it's at least a somewhat understandable mistake, because it comes from pressure? it's not just the tyres going off each time - the mugello sprint crash was lap four, jerez was lap ten. but an interesting thing about his big errors this year is that they have all come as a result of serious pressure - as a result of pecco directly behind him in the case of jerez and sachsenring and like... in anticipation of the massive points damage he knew he was probably going to take in mugello. it sounds obvious to say pressure is more likely to generate mistakes, but of course that's not always true of our title contenders! pecco only really wakes up when he's already dug a hole halfway to the centre of the earth - but when he faces actual pressure, his track record is mostly very strong. his biggest howlers this season, portimao + catalunya sprints, both came when he was leading comfortably. martin has also made these pressure-light mistakes in the past, most memorably indonesia last year but... well

one of the most fascinating bits of sports are like... limits and ceilings and how your build-up as an athlete kinda determines what's possible for you. like, sports is sort of where you experiment with notions of fate and inevitability and all that, where you question whether it's possible for anyone to ever really change. is it once a choker, always a choker? if you know that you have this problem, this flaw that is always just there in the background, waiting to be actualised - what can you do? does it give you more or less hope that there's not a clear root cause? how debilitating that must be for confidence too, always knowing that you could cause everything you've worked for to crash down in a moment.... this is where. y'know, the thing with pecco, right, is that he's now gotten to a weird place where psychologically he has to be wary of the mistakes he himself makes - but he knows that he can also bounce back from them. he has that muscle memory, because he's done it before. he chucked it down the road in india and he won the title! jorge did it in thailand and he didn't! and the problem is that it becomes a self-reinforcing cycle of sorts, because even though the margin between the two of them at the end of last year ended up being relatively slim... one of them still won and one of them still lost. which actually means that even though pecco and jorge both have made serious mistakes this year (though pecco's track record is cleaner - in portimao the points punishment didn't quite fit the crime and in the jerez/le mans sprints he was kinda just unlucky), only one of them knows they can do this shit and win the title anyway

and now jorge has an entire summer break to go away and think about that. can be a good thing, get some distance, and it's easy to slip into a run of bad form that you can't escape if there's no interruption. can be an awful thing because you're sitting with your mistakes for weeks on end with no chance to rectify them. I'm naturally a pessimist on the 'can any athlete ever really change' question because life has very much worn me down on this topic over the last few years (aka some sports results made me really sad). but I always want to be optimistic! I want to believe athletes can fix their fatal flaws! I want to believe they can get better at managing their tyres and not folding under pressure. and pressure works weirdly... sometimes it's not really a test of 'mental strength' as much as it is of what kind of in-built margin an athlete has (btw this is my best guess for what goes wrong with martin). sometimes it's beneficial in sharpening the mind and erasing the possibility of you just... not being sufficiently concentrated (which is my best guess for what happens with pecco when he's not being pressured). can you truly get better at dealing with that? or at a certain point, have you already accumulated so much mental scar tissue that you're always going to get in your own way? who knows! maybe we're all doomed to repeat the mistakes of the past forever and ever. who knows

anyway. in response to this ask. I do think it's more a case of 63's aligned in being too stuck in their own head, too concerned with legacy, and walking a very thin line between arrogance and insecurity. all three of them, though, have a bad case of 'coming through the ranks in an era of greats they'll always be disparagingly compared to'. what's new can never be as good as what came before, right? and they're constantly struggling to manage or maybe even overcome basic flaws that seem to be embedded in their make up as competitors... maybe they'll make it, just a little. maybe they never will. but it sure is fun to watch them try!