#might clean it up sometime to make the lines more visible but for now i am very happy

[rebrandedbard]

Repurposed an enamel pin from some other fandom to make my beautiful boy 💙

[hold-him-down]

Hold Him Down (pt. 1)

TW: Med Whump, Gratuitous Med Whump, Medical Restraints, Chemical Restraints, Noncon Touch, Referenced Noncon, Parker Destin, Institutionalized Slavery, Noncon Drugging, Conditioning, Referenced Food/Water Restriction, Referenced/Described STI testing, Referenced/Described Shock Collar, Whumper POV, literally over 4k words wtf, get leo a pet fish and warm hug when.

Notes: This is one of those things that I'm, as usual, not sure needs to or should exist, but I spent so much time writing it that I couldn't just NOT post it, sooo here it is. Parts 4-6 coming eventually. Takes place in the 12-ish hour span after Leo is prematurely returned from our best guy, Parker Destin. This may be one that I revisit and try to refine down the line.

✥ ✥ ✥

From behind a two-way mirror, Handler Otto Gray and an unfamiliar intake handler stand, arms crossed over their chests. They watch Leo quietly, relieved that, at least for now, the dust has settled. 

His eyes finally closed, a few hours earlier, following a massive fight that ended in a sizable dose of Lorazepam. Even drugged, it took what felt like ages for him to settle down, and even longer for his body to finally go limp. Hours later, the salty tear-streaks are still visible on his cheeks.

The doctor asked them to wait on cleaning him up; in spite of the second handler’s objections, in spite of the apparently innate desire to put this unconscious boy in his place, the handler turned on his heels and left in a huff. Otto hesitated, sparing a quick glance at Leo. He wondered, briefly, how he had managed to fail so spectacularly, before dismissing the thought all together. Against his better judgment, he squeezed Leo’s hand briefly, then he checked to make sure the restraints were appropriately secured and exited. Today was sure to be a long day, sure to be even longer if they could not get a handle on whatever panic-induced psychosis Leo was clearly grappling with.

Somewhere in the middle of it all, shift change happened. The handler who had spent the evening scowling at Leo’s lifeless form clocked out, muttering a, “Good luck,” to his replacement. Otto stayed, though, with a quick glance at handler Nick Ford, according to his name tag, and a muttered greeting. Hopefully, he thinks, this one is better suited for this type of work than the last. The doctor comes up behind them, and the three stand in silence for a moment.

“He’s asleep?” the doctor asks, which is a question that could ordinarily be answered with a quick glance through a chart, but Leo has a notoriously unpredictable response to sedatives and that, if nothing else, has been noted numerously in his file.

Otto nods, his jaw locked. “I think so.”

Leo’s wrists are red, raw where each strap hugs them, but for the last few hours, they have been still. Mostly.

“For how long?” the doctor asks, thumbing through the notes from the night before. A colorful account of the events that led to this moment, which, although maybe not immediately helpful, might lend insight into the inner workings of Leo Evans.

“A couple hours,” Handler Ford supplies, and Otto is struck suddenly with a potent distaste for how this night has played out. 

It’s not out of the ordinary, exactly, for a worker to require this level of support after a contract.  He hoped, though, maybe naively, that Leo was more resilient than this.

He’s been drugged out of his mind, and as hard as he fought it, the drugs eventually dragged him under. To Otto’s understanding, it was only after several hours of trying to calm him down using other methods that he was eventually medicated, and, to Otto’s understanding, the doctor intends now to keep him drugged until he’s under control. He idly wonders if there’s a chance at modifying those plans. Leo is tough, sometimes damn near impossible to work with, but they had found a kind of balance when Otto was his handler. And he thinks, now, he can perhaps spare everyone some heartache if he can have a go at his former trainee.

Otto peers in closer to the window as Leo gasps, his wrists pulling once, lightly, at the straps.

“Alright,” the doctor says, at the same time that Leo’s eyes crack open. As Handler Ford reviews the notes with the Doctor, Otto studies Leo. He hadn’t been an easy trainee. He had been downright defiant at times, resistant to every standard training tool the DLS employed. Otto had been called in in his second month, after his primary handler was fired for, more or less, losing his patience with Leo one time too many, with Leo landing in the ICU. Even after that, success came in short, nearly unpredictable bursts.

When Leo had finally been cleared to take his first contract, that would usually have been the end of Otto’s time with him. But, at least in some of his most challenging successes, he liked to keep an eye on them, if not just to see how they did. He would tell you he did this to improve his own methods, and to help him understand the longer term implications of his work. That wouldn't be the whole truth, though. 

Leo was one of the select few that Otto found himself keeping an eye on. He had gotten through his first contract easily, and Otto recalled the feeling of immense relief as he read through Ms. Smith’s post-contract interview. Leo had been put in a short term holding site and almost immediately secured his second contract. That one wasn’t set to terminate for three months still, so when Otto got the notification that Leo’s file was being updated last night, he called in some favors with the intake department.

He stands here now, mostly frustrated, a little bit confused, and perhaps, maybe slightly sympathetic. Simmering beneath all that is anger, misplaced but a constant undertone that, he worries, may drive some of his decisions today. He buries it as deeply as he can. It serves neither him nor Leo.

Leo blinks hard toward the ceiling, but seems to clock his circumstances quickly. His head turns toward the mirror and for a moment, Otto thinks Leo can see him, right through him, right into the place Leo used to occasionally access and attempt to exploit.

Otto stares at his eyes, red, heavy, and unfocused, and wills Leo to remain calm. Leo swallows, and pulls again against the restraints.

Stop, Otto silently commands. But he doesn’t. Of course, he wouldn’t.

“What are the odds he’ll take it on his own?” Otto hears from next to him.

“What?” Otto responds, shifting his focus.

“The meds?” Handler Ford says as he holds up a small cup of pills in one hand, a syringe filled with an off-white liquid in the other.

“Oh,” Otto responds. The odds, he thinks, are nonexistent. The good news is this isn’t explicitly his problem anymore. 

“Any pointers?” Handler Ford asks then. At Otto’s look, he says, “You worked with him, right?” 

Otto nods, but doesn’t offer any pointer. Handler Ford stares at him intently, so, out of some misplaced desire to prove that he is not, in fact, completely incompetent with his trainees, he says, “A long time ago. I did his initial training after his first handler got canned.”

“What for?” Ford asks. He’s stalling, Otto thinks. 

“Assault,” Otto supplies. He inclines his head toward the room, and turns away from Handler Ford, re-orienting himself toward the window.

“Wish me luck?”

“Good Luck,” Otto says, not unkindly, as the handler disappears behind the door. Moments later, he is in Leo’s room.

Leo’s demeanor immediately shifts, from alarmed and fighting to gain function to panicked, but he stills, he swallows, he forces his eyes on the handler, and takes a breath. Good boy, Otto thinks.

He’s whispering something, but Otto can’t make out the words. He thinks he’s heard Parker’s name, and Handler Ford shakes his head.

Leo nods, then, and takes one of those deep, shuddering breaths that usually mean he’s on the edge of some big feelings. Otto, once more, leans closer to the window.

Handler Ford begins listing out the things he needs Leo to do this morning, and Leo’s brow creases as he takes it in, nodding after each item, but seemingly oblivious to the actual requests.

Inside the observation room, the doctor joins Otto.

“Do you know what happened?” Otto asks the doctor. Otto, immediately realizing he could be asking any number of things, clarifies, “That led to this. He didn’t have an issue after his first contract.”

“Sometimes they get freaked out after spending some time with a particularly cozy buyer,” he replies. 

Otto nods. 

In the room, Handler Ford’s hand is on Leo’s neck, pressing under the collar. Leo stays still, but Otto can see the fear in his eyes, behind layers and layers of grief. It’s odd, seeing him like this.

“You didn’t last too long, did you?” Handler Ford is saying, dripping condescension, as Leo swallows, holding in a fresh wave of tears.

✥ ✥ ✥

“It’s nothing personal, Leo.” Parker’s driver waits for Leo just beyond the threshold. In his hand, Parker holds out a DLS-issued bag.

Leo nods.

Parker grabs his face between his hands and presses his lips to Leo’s forehead. “You have to understand I didn’t plan for this,” he’s saying, but Leo’s ears are ringing. “I would have waited to take on a worker if I had any inclination I would be called away.” His words are kind, Leo thinks, but there’s almost a note of condescension under them. 

Leo feels a sort of emptiness spreading throughout him, a cold void that precedes what he could only describe as terror. For what’s next. For losing this thing, that he isn’t sure he should want, but he wants, so desperately. He clings to it. 

“Parker, I– I can,” Leo starts, taking a step back. He can, what? fix this? do better? be better? “Please don’t do this…”

Parker’s thumbs glide across Leo’s cheeks.

“I thought they beat that out of you,” Parker says, his lips pulled into a half-smile. Leo falters, the words he has prepared are completely knocked out of him.

“I– I’m sorry,” is all he can now formulate. He can feel his circumstances changing as every second passes. He’s going to be sick. The feeling of bile rising wars against the knowledge that if he is sick at this moment, it will be unforgivable. 

Parker’s hands drift down to Leo’s shoulders and he pulls him into a half-hug, pressing his forehead against Leo’s.

“Don’t worry about it,” Parker says. He wants to say more, Leo thinks.

Instead, Parker uses the grip he has on Leo’s shoulder to push him away and rakes his eyes slowly over Leo, from his head to his toes. He smiles and grabs the collar of Leo’s shirt, poking out from under a deep blue sweater. It’s Parker’s favorite.

He inclines his head briefly toward the door and Leo counts every breath he takes.

“They said not to send your books and clothes and things,” Parker explains as he pulls open the front door. “It’ll just go to waste. I can donate it, if you’d like?”

And Leo, in that moment, hesitates. Can he ask Parker to keep it, for when he gets back from his trip? Maybe, he thinks. Maybe Parker hasn’t considered that Leo could stay in the house and look after it, and he doesn’t need to send him away. 

And then it occurs to Leo that maybe Parker is using this time to help figure out the gaps in his training, because they’ve been butting heads lately, and if that’s the case, he wants to tell Parker that he will take this time seriously, and will be better suited to be what Parker needs him to be when he returns.

Leo opens his mouth to say this, to say any of it, even just to tell Parker that he will try harder when he gets back from his trip.

But the panic wraps itself around Leo’s throat, and Leo says nothing.

✥ ✥ ✥

“Are you ready to behave?” The words distort around the edges and Leo blinks hard, willing himself to focus.

This handler, Leo thinks, is unfamiliar to him. There is a fuzziness to both his vision and his thoughts, compounded by blurry memories of the night before. The handler is standing just outside of his line of sight, offering terse reprimands each time he fails to respond. He is trying, though. He wants to tell them he’s trying, but his tongue feels too thick and his voice won’t work.

There’s an added danger that Leo tries not to acknowledge, even silently. They’ve put a training collar on him, but they haven’t gone so far as to shock the world into focus. Even if his limbs didn’t weigh a thousand pounds, he would not be able to lift them. Thick canvas straps wound tightly around each wrist and ankle keep him in place, and Leo blinks at the unexpected wave of terror: these people can and will hurt him with no regard for the fact that he is wholly unable to protect himself. 

The drugs help him accept these facts, but do not help him to forget them.

Memories of the night before claw their way to the surface. Of the sound of his own screaming, of gloved hands pinning him down, of his clothing being pulled off of his body. Of Parker's favorite sweater, which he held tightly to his chest, as it was ripped from his arms. He flinches at the memory of himself, just [some?] hours earlier, as he begged them to let him keep it, as a needle digs its way deep into his thigh. The darkness was quick to swallow him up after that.

And then there are other memories, too, from later in the night. Distorted flashes of the handlers coming to visit him, of cold hands pulling off the thin blanket that had been draped over him. He wondered if the drugs might ease the pain. When they didn’t, he allowed himself a moment of relief in the hope that this might all just be written off as a drug-induced nightmare in the light of day.

And now, the drugs fading, and the light of day doing nothing to erase ache deep inside of him, he swallows, blinking slowly, and longs only for the reprieve that unconsciousness may bring. That maybe they will drug him again, before they touch him again. His stomach turns over, and he draws his focus to the lights on the ceiling.

“He’s lost some weight,” he hears the doctor say, but they aren’t speaking to him, so he closes his eyes and taps each finger on the pad beneath him, just to see if he can feel them all. 

“His buyer kept him hungry,” the handler replies. He can, he thinks, feel them all. “My understanding is he kept him on a pretty strict eating plan.”

Leo recoils, hearing Parker’s voice in his head. The DLS has asked that you start out on a kind of strict meal plan for a little bit. He blinks back tears at the unwelcome memories. Of Parker, event after event, selecting everything he ate, everything he touched. Of the imperceptible nod Parker would give him when he reached for something at the dinner table. Or the terse shake of his head when he moved to something unacceptable. 

Leo wants to tell these men that Parker didn’t keep him hungry. That he was just enacting the plan he had been given.

“I’ll need a copy of it,” the doctor responds, and Leo squeezes his eyes shut, forcing his mind blank.

“It’s in his file,” the handler says. Leo’s ears ring. 

“Good.” The doctor presses his hands fingers into the back of Leo’s neck, the collar momentarily tightening as the fingers explore under it. “He’s dehydrated,” he says, and Leo can picture the handler typing his notes. “Are you going to tell me the buyer restricted his water intake too?”

From somewhere far away, the handler laughs, and Leo’s expression tightens, momentarily stunned by the mockery.

“It’s alright,” he thinks he hears, but the voices are so far away now. He doesn’t know that he’s crying until he feels a thumb wiping at his cheek, and Leo sucks in a breath. “You’re alright.”

The world stands still for what could be seconds or minutes or longer. When the doctor’s hand finally migrates upward, and a light is shined into each of Leo’s eyes, he is momentarily blinded, but immediately aware that he has lost time.

The doctor’s fingers, inches from his face, snap once. “Hi, Leo,” he says simply. And then, “I’m Dr. Grant. Are you with me?”

Leo swallows, which hurts, and other memories slide to the surface of the night before. He tries to nod. The movement makes his head pound. “Yes,” he whispers, but based on the doctor’s– what was his name?– grimace, he doesn’t think it came out right.

The doctor sighs and seemingly gives up on Leo’s active participation, instead pulling the blanket down to Leo’s waist and putting a stethoscope to Leo’s chest. It’s nothing, Leo thinks, but it’s never just this. He closes his eyes again and begins counting in his head. Every so often, he forgets where he left off, and he starts over.

The doctor explains what he’s doing as he works, and Leo wonders idly if it’s for his benefit or for some other reason. To pass the time, and maybe to distract himself, Leo imagines a new doctor in the adjacent observation room, learning this trade. He wonders if it’s a good doctor or a bad doctor, and opens his eyes just enough to glance toward the mirror, to see if he can spot him back there. There are no good doctors here, he decides, and starts counting again.

The doctor looks at Leo’s wrists and describes them to the handler, who writes it all down. He examines Leo’s arms and his shoulders and his chest and his stomach as he searches for signs that Parker hurt him beyond what would be considered reasonable, which he didn’t, Leo wants to say, and that Parker will come back for him after his trip, and that he needs to be ready to go home. Then he starts counting again, because the idea of telling this man that Parker will come back for him will be met with laughter, and Leo doesn’t know if he can handle it. He’s pretty sure he can’t.

Fingers prod at Leo’s stomach and he can’t suppress the accompanying flinch, and as the drugs start to wear thin, he feels himself less and less able to accept what is being done to him.

“Alright, Leo,” the doctor says, and Leo opens his eyes and is met with mostly, he thinks, concern.

“I’ll be back.” The doctor shoots the handler a look, and Leo wants to close his eyes again, but as the handler approaches, Leo knows, acutely, that it’s a bad idea.

“Are you going to cause a scene?” the handler asks, before lifting the blanket from Leo’s lap. Leo shrinks back, an instant passing in which his entire body goes rigid, but shakes his head ‘no.’ He hopes it’s enough.

He holds his breath, waiting for it to be over, or, waiting for it to start, and feels the handler’s eyes sliding down his body.

He thinks he might be shaking, but he isn’t sure. 

The doctor returns a moment later, and after a quick assessment of how things have evolved, issues a quick but gentle, “It’s alright.” It’s not, though, and Leo locks his jaw to keep from crying. He wants to ask if he can close his eyes again. Sometimes they would let him, when things were about to get really bad, in initial training. Sometimes, if he asked clearly, and if he caught them on a good day, they would let him.

“No wonder he was returned,” the handler says, leaning back against the wall. 

“Can I close my eyes?” he whispers then, before he can catch the humor in the handler’s expression. The doctor looks at him once, and nods. Leo doesn’t hesitate to clamp his eyes shut, unwilling to chance opening them at all, maybe ever, and instead continues counting in his head. 

“Continue working on your empathy,” the doctor says evenly, but Leo is pretty sure he isn’t speaking to him so he works on breathing and counting and nothing else.

He tries to block out the words. This is another moment in training, and it too will end eventually. 

“They put him through hell in training. He has a right to be mistrustful.” And then, to Leo, he says, “I’m going to give you something to help balance you out,” and his touch disappears. “Just hang tight, Leo.” 

Without warning, a hand clamps around his neck, pinning him in place. His eyes fly open, his arms pull instinctively against the restraints, as the tip of a syringe is pushed past his teeth and to the back of his throat.

He gags, his head knocking back against the thin pillow, but the handler’s grip is merciless, and in the next instant, a thick, bitter liquid is sliding down his throat. Tears well in his eyes, and he would swear the culprit was simply the bitterness of the medicine.

It’s mistaken for something else, though, and the handler releases him as the doctor runs a hand through his hair and says, “You’re alright.”

Leo’s shaking harder now, and his fingers grip into the pad he lays on and he urges himself to still. His chest aches as he tries to catch his breath, the taste of the medicine still heavy on his tongue. But still, almost immediately, he can feel his body lightening, the tension pulling back until the shaking eases, and the doctor nods, and approaches. Leo can’t feel the fear he knows he should feel. 

He can feel nothing.

Even with the memories of the night before, even with the doctor and the handler so close to him, he can breathe again.

Still, Leo can’t contain the subconscious jerk of his body as a flash of sharp pain shoots through him. The doctor issues an apology, along with a soft, “almost done,” and turns the swab, over and over, as Leo’s legs fight against the hands that hold them in place. He tries to find a place in his mind to retreat into, but he hasn’t been there in months, if not longer, and in that moment, it offers no reprieve. He thinks he cries out, locking his teeth and pressing his head back into the pillow as hard as he can to distract himself from what goes on lower. When the doctor is finished, he wipes Leo down and drapes the blanket over his lap.

What he doesn’t say is ‘Good, Leo,’ because they would both know it to be untrue. 

Still, in the next breath, the restraints are being unbuckled, and Leo is lifted at his shoulders until he is sitting, and his wrists are being examined, and there is a hand rubbing his back. He blinks slowly, willing the room back into focus, and he can hear voices but he isn’t able to follow their conversation.

“It doesn’t need to be this hard,” he thinks the handler is saying, and even though his head is hung low and his shoulders are scrunched to make him as small as possible, in his peripherals he can see the doctor shooting the handler a sharp look. “What?” he bites back. “It’s true.”

“Alright, Leo,” the doctor says then, ignoring the handler entirely. Leo keeps his eyes locked on the ground and he takes the blanket in a white-knuckled grip.

The doctor lets him catch his breath, rubbing his back every few seconds. Leo thinks he’s using it to get a read on his heart rate, but he doesn’t care just then. The doctor explains what’s next, and moves to ease Leo onto his side. Leo, for his part, cooperates, lowering himself slowly, watching as his fingers shake. He wraps his arms so tightly around his stomach he think he might leave bruises, but when the doctor touches him, he doesn’t flinch.

“There’s some bruising,” the doctor says neutrally, but Leo can’t look at the handler to see if he types it. It could be from the handlers, or it could be from Parker’s friends the night before. Leo chokes on his next breath, and in spite of the drugs, he can feel the panic rising.

“Leo?” the doctor says. “Are you doing alright?” 

The handler takes a step forward.

“I don’t consent to this,” Leo whispers, so softly he isn’t sure anyone hears him. The look the handler levels on him is scathing. “I–I kn…know it doesn’t… I know it doesn’t matter.” His voice is soft, slurred around the edges, but clear enough. “But I… I j-just– I want to make sure you know.”

The doctor says nothing, and the handler frowns. Leo wants to ask him to type it into his chart, but the doctor moves behind him, and Leo’s vision is suddenly and immediately blurred by his tears. 

By the time they finish, by the time the doctor drapes the blanket over his hips, letting his hand rest on Leo’s head briefly before retreating, Leo’s body is wracked with sobs. They leave him to calm himself down, and he finds himself, for a moment, grateful for the simple mercy.

But he cannot stop crying, as he stares into the mirror and thinks of all he’s lost. Of what, in spite of what he tried to convince himself he could have, he will never have. Of Parker, laughing with his friends as he picks out a new worker. Of the handler, and all those that came before him, smiling as they hurt him. The door opens with no warning and a familiar voice, a voice warm enough to burn Leo’s entire world down, issues a commanding, clear, “Stop this, Leo.” 

And almost instantly, Leo stops.

FIGHTER TAG LIST:

@whump-cravings

@afabulousmrtake

@crystalquartzwhump

@maracujatangerine

@pumpkin-spice-whump

@distinctlywhumpthing

@thecyrulik

@highwaywhump

@batfacedliar-yetagain

@finder-of-rings

@dont-touch-my-soup

@skyhawkwolf

@suspicious-whumping-egg

@also-finder-of-rings

@whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump

@peachy-panic

@melancholy-in-the-morning

@urban-dark

@nicolepascaline

@quietly-by-myself

@pigeonwhumps

@whump-blog 

@seasaltandcopper

@angstyaches

@i-msonotcreative

@mylifeisonthebookshelf

@anonintrovert

@whump-world

@squishablesunbeam

@considerablecolors

@whumpcereal

@whumperfully

@pirefyrelight

@whumpsday

@whumplr-reader

@lonesome--hunter 

@darkthingshappen 

@alexmundaythrufriday

@whumps-and-bumps

[dangopango00]

Demonic Features HCS (2)

Om demons HCs + Om demons x gn reader

Pt. 1 (123) | Pt. 2 (Satan, Asmo, Beel, Belphie) | Pt. 3 (Royal trio) Coming soon (again)

CW: Teeny but suggestive I think. Mostly asmo’s part if anything

A/N: THIS IMAGE IS SO FUCKING KEWYWTTTTT 😭😭😭😭😭 i cant w them ue i am unhealthily attached to this family goodbye world also sryy these are so long, honestly after recharging for a couple days I js started going crazy on the hcs 😭😭

Hcs UTC

Satan: The Unicorn

- I think he should look more beastly overall like hes some wild creature that just emerged from the forest

- His pants should look like hooves like those bellbottom esque fuzzy ish pants like

Shout out to someone in 1545 ig. Unicornis

Also spots should look more like. Horselike like speckled or splotchy

- Has two black stars and one green in the middle on his forehead

1. As a reference to Lucifer who created him and

2. A reference to how biblically unicorns were out of control beasts that could only be tamed by a virgin maiden (honestly im a lil tempted to write a fic of satan x sweet innocent reader but gn. Goodbye even)

- HES A UNICORN HE SHOULD HAVE A UNI HORN PLEAADEEE 😭😭😭 they should be a similar shape to Lucifer’s but one short one and should be able to summon a longer one below where the star diamond is on his forehead is when he gets pissed enough and both should be black with green tips + it would actually make him look more vicious too

- I appreciate them making the little bow look like ribs but I think it would be much cooler if his ribs just were sticking out and wrapping around his body and they were black and green

- Ribs should also have patches of fur resembling flames where they start (near his back or at his sides)

- I also think his tail should have short rugged fur lining the outside and it should get longer at the tip; I’m going heavy on the beast agenda I fear. He may clean up pretty well in his human form but he can’t hide his sin in his demon form cmon now y’all

- Since we don’t see his markings I’m making shit up and I think his markings should be fur lining his back and arms

- Just wanna say I resemble the fur wrap thing because it kinda resembles a horse tail/mane and the gray shirt bc it resembles a rhino (What unicorns in the bible were based on I think)

- A bit insecure about you seeing his demon form tbh. Thinks he will scare you and a little afraid he might do sth he’ll regret if he loses himself; he sees himself as beastly in that form, anger is a hideous emotion and he doesn’t want to scare his loved ones away like he used to when he was first born and always lashed out with full force, scaring his brothers (Don’t get me wrong if he’s angry he’ll show it but he wont let all of his anger out at least not at once and if he has to do sth drastic he’ll first isolate himself)

- Very nearsighted but refuses to get glasses and only wears them when reading (glasses are weakness)

- Bulks up a bit and gains more strength in his demon form frs

- Snarls when hes angry and sometimes sneezes in the middle of his anger often (it would be funny)

- Pact mark is only visible on your temple but internally spans throughout your veins and is not very big but grows the angrier you get post activation; that shit is freaky it can even cover your whole face and put your body in autopilot (like how anger issues people black out) if you get angry enough

- It’s pretty wicked its first shaped like a small spade but bulges like flesh; is similar to tanjiro’s mark somewhat

- Pact mark allows him to enhance your rage by giving you some of his own (can be a pro or con depending on the situation but i mean u can just tell him to stop iykyk policy)

Asmodeus: The Scorpion

- I THINK HE SHOULD BE VAMPIRIC Feeds on sexual energy and life force yk incubus/succubus thingz but he should have the fangies too imo

- Tired of them having collars and looking prim and proper so I’ve arbitrarily decided that his shirt should conjoin with his skin and become kind of like calcharos ult for VERY loose reference; hes the avatar of lust he can be shirtless ish

- IK I SAID NTM ON THE CLOTHES BUT UGHHH Imagine if he was wearing like a robe similar to aphrodite bc its like a nod to his past as a high angel but also how he’s steeped in desire and lust. Like its being held up by the roses, sheer will and the fact that it is conjoined with his skin

- Hc that he is like cupid and can see connections between people SO I think his spine should be lined with like. Arrow-like spines

- Despite being like cupid, he finds it really hard to genuinely connect people and find someone who enjoys his presence beyond his looks and will typically avoid people on his recharge days (he likes partying and being around people but its also pretty draining keeping people entertained which is why he usually brings someone with him. I also imagine this is how he and Levi connect “I guess we aren’t so different after all” type shi)

- He should have a tail. I thought about it for a while and like. ???? Scorpions tails are like their whole thing I think he should either have a tail or towards the bottom of his spines one of them is long enough to resemble a tail (his wings are cool but like he should have a. Tail)

- Tail/spines should have venom

- I think his markings should be connected, like the hearts are good but they should be connected in like a segmented line and wrap around his arm; preferably 7 to represent the scorpions seven chamber heart

- He needs glasses too and he only wears them when they go with his outfit otherwise its contacts (which he also introduced satan to)

- He should have more eyes on his face smaller eyes below his main two that only appear when open (otherwise his face looks normal just with slight slits you’d only notice if u were REALLY staring)

- Very tolerant to weather changes. He still acts like he’s dying but he def doesn’t have it as bad as Levi who is literally dying over there

- Pact mark is a tramp stamp and he won’t stop asking to see it gn. Its shaped like a hollowed heart with a design inside and becomes a spade with a similar design when activated as well as spreads a bit (as all the others do) its very classy and pretty tbh

- Activation is almost like. Erotic? It feels good but its almost like it steals the air from your lungs and makes your chest tighten; its a mix of pleasure and panic (not quite pain because it gives you urgency but not so much that it makes you want to stop) Unfortunately this isn’t something that really wears off but rather wears down and just becomes leas intense as you get used to it/stronger

- Pact mark allows him to shapeshift into you and anyone who you have had a sexual or romantic encounter with

Beelzebub: The Fly

- MOUTHS ALL OVER: A mouth on his forhead where his horn comes out of and the markings spread across his body can open, revealing mouths (def gotta have some on his hands I fear. Can also change the locations of his markings and can consume things such as magical energy through his mouths

- Should be able to create a third horn in the middle of his forehead to make his horns appear like a crown (Lord of the flies had a teeny lil crown its a bit funny)

- Should have more fur aspects like his wings should have fur at the base and around the outline maybe

- His markings should be furry and the fur makes it look like they’re black flames 🔥

- Should have four wings that appear like two until he gets ready for takeoff, to which they spread out real wide

- Ik he’s a really simple guy so his design is simple too but I think he’s just missing some of that demonic flair. He should have insect arms that he can control (they might look like sticks but they’re actually very strong and useful)

- Always wants to be around you. Always. Even though he moves insanely fast he always loops back around to match your pace

- A bit colorblind and nearsighted but is fast enough to make up for it

- Almost never gets sick but he’s usually the one who brings sickness in the house so his brothers have to make sure he cleans off before coming in 😭 (I imagine demons don’t get sick in the traditional way but its typically some behavioral or magical illness like a common cold for suc/incubi causing like them to be less efficient in seducing humans; like how asmo has his power with his eyes maybe his vision gets blurry for a few months/years or it makes HIM fall for the person he was trying to seduce)

- Lucifer has had to ban him from the kitchen because he kept eating food that already went bad especially if he was sleepwalking

- Can make a protein shake/smoothie out of anything !!!! No matter how erm. Odd the combination

- Always rubs his hands together and licks his lips before eating a meal

- I would like to propose….. him being in charge of the Devildom air force like how Levi is in the navy…. Ik ik came outta nowhere but Flies having those big ass eyes gave me the idea to out goggles on him that look like Fly eyes and then I was like ok well what if that was for when he’s flying and here we are

- OK STAY WITH ME NOW. He used to do the equivalent of illegal drag racing but flying and Belphie would always bet on him and thats how they made food money for Beel sometimes until Lucifer shut the whole thing down after finding out bc its a bad look for Diavolo he also doesn’t want his baby brother getting hurt but he wont say that (Belphie thought he was a killjoy)

- To him. It feels like wherever he goes death and despair follow and has gotten stronger and stronger so that no one close to him will ever die again (“I should’ve been strong enough so that the safest place for her would be by my side” -Marius von Hagen [he makes me so emotional]) (If you’re wondering how this is related its because flies symbolize triumph over adversity as well as death and decay)

- Pact mark is right on top of your stomach (above the bellybutton) and it looks like two triskelions (three wheeled spiral) stacked over each other to create six wheels as a reference to his prior angelhood but as well as a nod to his transformation

- Activation costs you a lot of energy and it feels like you’re starving like you haven’t eaten all day even if you just ate a hearty meal (you go back to normal a bit after activation but its a little maddening while its taking place)

- He can possess your body for a limited amount of time (typically only accidentally triggers this power) during this time any damage that his body takes transfers to you and vice versa (tbh this is much more risky for him than you bc his body is extremely strong so he’ll only take minimal damage but it’s a gamble with you)

- He can also steal some of the nutrients from your body so um. I’d be careful of that (he won’t ever actually do it but now that your bodies are connected he can)

Belphegor: The Cattle

- STOP SHOWING HIS FUXKINH EYE BEHIND HIS EMO HAIR/ sorry had to get that off my chest. It coulddd be something that could make him more eerie and off putting like a demon but his whole thing is that he looks cute and sweet but is actually intelligent and dangerous so maybe just. It shows in his demon form only if anything

- He should have a bell on his tail. It would be kewt. Not something he inherently has but he wags his tail in his sleep often so the brothers put it on him so they don’t trip over him (he hates it but he’s too tired to gaf)

- He should be more fuzzy too like having his right arm have an arm warmer rather than that sleeve that doesn’t even look connected like. Also theres a mix of fuzz and thorns on his person. It’s a gamble. Proceed with caution.

- His boots should be more like hooves kinda like what I said for satan but boots and more comfy looking

- They were way too shy with his cow spots imo. I think it should almost look like he has vitiligo (but with more melanin rather than less yk)

- HE SHOULD HAVE A LITTLE EARRING THAT LOOKS LIKE THE CATTLE TAG

- Got a nose piercing (septum I think?) after learning about piercings in the human world but doesn’t use it much anymore

- Nitpicky but I think his horns should end while sticking forward rather than curling out all the way to resemble a bull thats ready to charge

- Appreciating the fact that he has four belts likely to represent the four chambers of cows’ stomachs

- Separation anxiety victim NUMBER ONE. Especially after Lilith died he’s gotten so anxious being without his loved ones and never really wants to leave their sides bc he never knows when they’ll be gone

- He is Beel’s eyes and probably has the best vision in the family tbh 25/20 vision fr

- A lil colorblind though; affects his drawings and when levi asks him to doodle with him he always uses a unique set of colors (hes grabbing at them randomly)

- Likes to just watch his brothers socialize and be with them. An observer in his own home. The only reason he gets out of bed everyday is to see the people he cares about most

- Likes silly little puzzles, games and toys like rubix cubes and bouncy balls n shi but gets annoyed if you just give it to him and expect him to play by himself like !!!!! Keep him company !!!!!!!!!

- When he was trapped in the attic Lucifer would sometimes bring him enrichment toys and fill him in on current news or just sit there in silence to keep him company while turned away from him (If he looks at him too long he might fold and let him out; he loves his brother but. He thinks this is what needs to be done)

- Pact mark is on your thigh probably snug on the inside and whenever he’s laying on your lap he looks at it and maybe traces it before drifting off

- It probably looks like a symbol of a moon or spiral inside of a sun representing the midnight sun and the neutrality of the sloth sin (a sun that never rises or sets)

- Can sap your energy and make you see hallucinations or make you want to sleep; can probably put you in hibernation as long as it doesn’t hurt you and can eat your nightmares # dreamcatcher

[thegreyunderstanding]

Praying Drunk

Our Father who art in heaven, I am drunk.

Again. Red wine. For which I offer thanks.

I ought to start with praise, but praise

comes hard to me. I stutter. Did I tell you

about the woman whom I taught, in bed,

this prayer? It starts with praise; the simple form

keeps things in order. I hear from her sometimes.

Do you? And after love, when I was hungry,

I said, Make me something to eat. She yelled,

Poof! You’re a casserole!—and laughed so hard

she fell out of the bed. Take care of her.

Next, confession—the dreary part. At night

deer drift from the dark woods and eat my garden.

They’re like enormous rats on stilts except,

of course, they’re beautiful. But why? What makes

them beautiful? I haven’t shot one yet.

I might. When I was twelve, I’d ride my bike

out to the dump and shoot the rats. It’s hard

to kill your rats, our Father. You have to use

a hollow point and hit them solidly.

A leg is not enough. The rat won’t pause.

Yeep! Yeep! it screams, and scrabbles, three-legged, back

into the trash, and I would feel a little bad

to kill something that wants to live

more savagely than I do, even if

it’s just a rat. My garden’s vanishing.

Perhaps I’ll merely plant more beans, though that

might mean more beautiful and hungry deer.

Who knows?

I’m sorry for the times I’ve driven

home past a black, enormous, twilight ridge.

Crested with mist, it looked like a giant wave

about to break and sweep across the valley,

and in my loneliness and fear I’ve thought,

O let it come and wash the whole world clean.

Forgive me. This is my favorite sin: despair—

whose love I celebrate with wine and prayer.

Our Father, thank you for all the birds and trees,

that nature stuff. I’m grateful for good health,

food, air, some laughs, and all the other things

I’m grateful that I’ve never had to do

without. I have confused myself. I’m glad

there’s not a rattrap large enough for deer.

While at the zoo last week, I sat and wept

when I saw one elephant insert his trunk

into another’s ass, pull out a lump,

and whip it back and forth impatiently

to free the goodies hidden in the lump.

I could have let it mean most anything,

but I was stunned again at just how little

we ask for in our lives. Don’t look! Don’t look!

Two young nuns tried to herd their giggling

schoolkids away. Line up, they called. Let’s go

and watch the monkeys in the monkey house.

I laughed, and got a dirty look. Dear Lord,

we lurch from metaphor to metaphor,

which is—let it be so—a form of praying.

I’m usually asleep by now—the time

for supplication. Requests. As if I’d stayed

up late and called the radio and asked

they play a sentimental song. Embarrassed.

I want a lot of money and a woman.

And, also, I want vanishing cream. You know—

a character like Popeye rubs it on

and disappears. Although you see right through him,

he’s there. He chuckles, stumbles into things,

and smoke that’s clearly visible escapes

from his invisible pipe. It makes me think,

sometimes, of you. What makes me think of me

is the poor jerk who wanders out on air

and then looks down. Below his feet, he sees

eternity, and suddenly his shoes

no longer work on nothingness, and down

he goes. As I fall past, remember me.

- Andrew Hudgins

[for-those-who-wait]

How do you color in your art?? I can never make mine look right, i’m still relatively new to procreate and I just wish I could instantly know how to use it because AGEGGS

I don't use Procreate and I'm not sure what you're personally having problems with, so I'll just go through my process using some of my old drawings and try to give some general advice that might help

So I have the line work of "Hunter wants pancakes" here. I usually copy images from screenshots of the show and paste them onto the canvas so that I can eyedrop the colors, but I probably had it on a different canvas there.

Sometimes I'll change the colors a little bit for clothes to make them a bit brighter or less saturated (depends on what I think looks better), but really for fan art of characters that already have a color scheme, I just copy the colors.

But your line work is going to be your topmost layer the majority of the time. All the coloring stuff should be underneath the line work so that if you do color into the lines, the linework isn't impeded

I typically put all my colors on the same layer, but feel free to use layers in whatever way is more convenient for you. (When I'm doing lineless, I'll typically make a new layer for each color so that I can shade them individually later on. Idk if that's at all smart or convenient but it's just a thought)

As for the actual act of coloring, I pick a large, textureless brush. You could use whatever you want depending on what kind of look you're going for, but for my finished pieces I usually like the coloring job to look cartoonishly clean. Like you can see that the second brush changes opacity as it reaches the end of the stroke (or with lighter pressure, since I use a pen), which I don't want, since I prefer the colors to be uniform in shade and texture. So I use the first one instead. Also less texture helps keep the color in the lines from my experience.

I don't use the paint bucket tool very often because it typically won't fill in all the white space, especially when your work is more detailed (which would lead you to have to go back and go over all of the edges again with a brush anyway), so I color most everything manually now. But for "Hunter wants pancakes" I think I did use a paint bucket and then probably went back to fill in some of the gaps since there are clean white gaps where the line work would be.

That is to say you should color with your line work visible (I don't know who wouldn't but I'm trying to cover all the bases here). You made yourself a coloring page, now you get to enjoy it. Without the lines it can look pretty silly and very messy, but it doesn't really matter if it's going to be covered up by your line work anyway.

Sometimes when you're coloring with lighter shades on a light background, it's hard to tell if you're missing a spot. I like to use a really REALLY saturated color like neon green or red to see any gaps in the color. Put the layer of neon green under the color layer and it will become very obvious where you missed haha. Sometimes I'll look at the neon color for too long and will need to change it to refresh my eyes

This colored sketch isn't very clean but it shows that you can also make a clipping or masking layer (if you don't know what that is the Internet could honestly probably explain it better than I could), color over the whole thing with a different color, and lower the opacity to give it a cool-looking tint

I don't know what your specific issue was but hopefully I was able to clear at least something up for you

[handoverthekawaii]

We Go Together | Homelander x You | Chapter 22

Note: This chapter contains explicit sexual content.

Taglist: @hom3landr @theaudacitytowrite @lover1307

“So is it true?” you ask suddenly.

You’re seated on the sofa in Black Noir’s living room as John scrounges together dinner for the two of you. And it really is scrounging — it is blatantly obvious that John was never taught to operate a microwave, a truth that is simultaneously tragic and funny by virtue of being so fucked up.

Still, you can tell he is making a genuine effort, just like you could tell by the way he laid out clean clothes for you and bundled you up in a blanket before starting on dinner. Even though he hardly knows how, John is doing his best to take special care of you in the aftermath of your captivity.

In the kitchen, John freezes at the sound of your words. After what Vogelbaum had said to you back at the lab, he knew it would only be a matter of time before you asked a question like this. And, frankly, it terrified him because, once he tells you about all the shit he’s done… what if you don’t like him anymore?

John forces himself to take a deep breath before he turns to face you. He made a promise that he would never, EVER, lie to you, no holds barred, flaws and all — and, by God, he is going to abide by it.

“Is what true?” John responds, answering your question with a question.

“Well… Jonah Vogelbaum said you killed a lot people,” you say, seeing John visibly wince at your words. “Is that true?”

The captain of The Seven walks around the kitchen island, enters the living room, and sits down on the couch alongside you. After a long moment he answers, “Yes, it’s true.”

“H-how many?” you ask, your heart rate beginning to pick up as John’s words sink in. What if you escaped one danger just to end up faced with another? And you don’t feel any better when his next words are,

“I have no fucking idea.” At this, John puts his face in his hands. “Too many… way too goddamn many. Sometimes I lose my temper in the heat of the moment, like today… but usually it’s an accident.”

Usually? you think to yourself. There’s a “usual” way he kills people?! Forcing yourself to push down your panicked thoughts until you get all the facts, you ask, “What kind of accident?”

The Supe bows his head silently, eyes shut as he revisits memory after painful memory. After a beat of silence John says, “Like one time, in th-in the Bad Room… I tried to give my teacher a hug, but I… I squeezed too tightly. I broke her spine, and sh-she died.”

“Jesus Christ!” you blurt out. “And none of this was ever made public?”

“Of course not!” answers John with a mirthless laugh. “No matter how many people Vought’s Supes hurt, the company doesn’t fucking care… anything to protect that bottom line.”

It wasn’t just Mom and Dad, you realize now. For decades, Vought’s been covering up the crimes of the company AND its employees. They have been selling the American public on a lie, when all along they cared more about profits than people.

And John might be the best (or worst) example of all — raised in a lab, by people with no conscience, tortured and desensitized to the value of human life. America’s favorite hero, with the potential to become the entire world’s greatest enemy.

But it’s only potential. You see that now, by the way he’s risked life and limb to protect one life — yours. The way he’s tried so hard to make you feel comfortable and safe, and the way he’s sitting next to you now with his head buried into his hands, body shuddering as waves of emotion crash over his shoulders.

“I want to be different, Y/N,” John says now, in a near-whisper. “I don’t want to be that person anymore.”

And with every fiber of your being, you know he’s telling the truth — you believe him. So you outstretch your hand and place it on John’s knee. The Supe lowers his hands and looks over at you, his expression changing rapidly from fearful to hopeful to wistful and back.

“Well, I have good news,” you say. “It’s not too late for you to start over.”

“With you?” John asks, the vulnerability in his voice cutting, like a chainsaw to the heart.

“Yes, with me,” you reply, offering a small smile. “Like you said, we go together, right?” [continued on AO3]

[specialinterestshows]

A continuation of my Rhea Ripley x lady!reader fic.

Warnings for this section: Dirty talk

-

Absolute Smokeshow (Part 28 of ?): Siren Song (Caught In A Riptide)

Drying yourself off, you walk over to your closet to put on another outfit. Securing the towel over your chest, you use both hands to peruse your selection of clean clothes, smiling as you glance at your bandaged knuckles. Thinking of Rhea, you listen to the steady sound of the shower for a moment and swear you can hear faint singing. You shake your head, now concerned you hadn’t slept as well as you’d thought and might be hearing things as a result.

Grabbing a few things you thought would look good together, you turn to set them on your bed so you can get dressed carefully. By the time you’re fully clothed, the sound of the water has stopped and you’re sure you hear something this time. You walk past the bathroom door, listening intently and manage to catch Rhea singing “sweet dreams are made of this.” Suddenly, the handle begins to turn and you scramble over to sit on the couch, wincing at the pain as you habitually try to cross your ankles.

The singing had stopped as soon as the door opened, changing instead to humming for a few bars as Rhea rounded the corner. Wrapped in a towel, hair still dripping, she sees you and immediately walks over to give you a kiss.

“How are you feeling?” she was referring to your injuries, but you decided to share more.

“Lucky to have spent the last few days together,” - you give her a kiss - “less than thrilled that you’re leaving, but overall? So happy to know I’m going to see you again, eventually.”

Rhea smiles, leaning in for a kiss you pucker your lips for, but lands on your nose instead.

“I meant your hand and ankle,” she says, genuine concern on her face, “Are the bandages too tight?”

“They’re perfect,” you assure her, “Thank you.”

Rhea visibly relaxes and gives you one more peck before walking over to her suitcase. Your eyes follow her as she crouches in front of the mess of clothes, looking for something to wear for the day.

“Might as well give up the search now,” you say, feeling clever, “I guarantee there’s nothing in there that’ll make you look better than you do naked.”

Rhea playfully threw a shirt in your direction, making you giggle as it landed nearby. After laying out a few pieces of clothing, she let her towel fall in one smooth motion, winking as you watch her.

“Unfair,” you complain in response to her wiggling her hips, a slightly sadistic grin on her face. Fidgeting with your phone, you decide to ask, “Mind if I get a picture? I don’t have any nudes of yours.”

“Go for it,” Rhea says, posing for you. Opening your camera app, you snap a photo, biting your lip. Looking up from the phone, you realize that, gorgeous as she was on camera, the image couldn’t possibly compare to reality.

After she was dressed, Rhea took out a makeup bag and sat next to you on the couch.

“Music?” you offer, setting it up once you get a nod in response. Sitting back down, you stretch out on the couch, legs laying across Rhea’s lap. She gives your thigh a gentle squeeze before continuing with her routine. Looking on, you were impressed with how quickly she put the look together - though not entirely surprised she was so good with her hands. What struck you most was the speed and steadiness with which she did her eyeliner, movements lining up to the beat of the music. The space on her cheek she usually saved to represent the Judgment Day or Dominik was instead given a small heart this time, making yours skip a beat.

“You’re looking at me like I just performed some kind of magic,” Rhea laughs once she’s done, seeing your baffled expression.

“Do you mean to tell me that what you just did wasn’t witchcraft?” you ask, half joking. You’d never done makeup that good that quickly before.

“It’s what I do most days,” she says, shrugging, “Not that big a deal.”

“You’re going to have to teach me sometime,” you say, still impressed.

“Or I could just do your makeup,” she counters, smiling.

A very particular image appeared in your mind of you lying down on the bed, Rhea straddling your lap, face just above yours. Having to stay perfectly still with her on top of you, her eyes never leaving your face as she did your makeup.

“Both?” you ask hopefully, making her laugh.

“Sounds like a good excuse to look at you more,” Rhea says in a voice that makes you melt.

“How much time to we have?” you check, wondering what you might be able to get away with before she has to leave.

“Should start heading to the airport in less than an hour,” Rhea sighs, looking at the time, groaning, “Guess I should start stuffing all my shit back in the suitcase.”

“Let me help,” you offer, standing up, “I can gather up all the kinky items from my bedroom.”

“Good girl,” she says, reminding you of every other time she had said it and making you shiver, “Do it quick enough and we might have time to continue what we started in the shower.”

[end part twenty-eight of ?]

Part 29: https://www.tumblr.com/specialinterestshows/726219197322035200/absolute-smokeshow-part-29-of-good-bi-for

-

Tag List (thank you!)

@cherryberryshine , @littlemiss-fanficlover , @elisewithak , @babybatlover , @girlofpink

[bokutos-last-brain-cell]

Randomly Generated Haikyuu Character #50: Sakishima Isumi

Date drawn: September 29, 2023

I believe this is our second Nohebi player from the list? I was actually looking at his wiki just now and realized that Sakishima has the same birthday as my college roommate from last year, that’s pretty interesting

Screenshot redraw, comparison and my thoughts under the cut!

I’m not really sure why but there’s something I really like about Sakishima’s design. He’s not a character I particularly like or have an attachment to but for some reason it just itches this very specific part of my brain

Sometimes when working on these I realize I’m starting to cave into my perfectionism obsessions more than I want to and so I have to let some of them be messy or be less cleaned up or sketchy so that it’s enforced in my brain that I can make art that isn’t perfect and still put it out there for people to see and enjoy. That’s why you might notice my construction lines are more visible on some of these, especially if I do several in a relatively short amount of time

[lazywitchling]

Hey, I'm the arachnophobe anon from a while ago.

You see, my fiancé got sick, mental health wise. He's on meds (got them upped and they gave him more) and therapy, but most days are incredibly hard for him. I became his full time caretaker now (I'm happy to) and I wish I could give him extra strength to be able to fight this fight. Do you have some spell or similar to give someone energy, peace or such? He's the one who has to fight, but I want to be able to help more.

Also, when I try to look for answers for the future with my tarot cards I realise it's very hard because I really, really want them to tell me that everything is gonna be ok, so I block myself? Any advice with that too?

I know this is a lot to ask for and kinda unfair, so you don't have to answer at all!! I guess just asking made me feel better. Oh, and excuse any English mistakes, please.

Hope you have a great day!

Hi! Yes, I remember you! 👋

Okay, so first disclaimer, covering my bases: make sure you're taking care of the mental health as much as you're able, ask for help when you need it, trust the professionals around you, blah blah, you know the drill. You know your IRL situation better than I can, and I'm no therapist, so I trust you to have a handle on all of that stuff that you need to have a handle on. Cool? Cool.

Now the witching part I can help with.

Go get you a container. It's going to become a little home decoration. You can clean out a clear jar or glass drink bottle, get a fancy vase, use a shallow dish, whatever. We're gonna fold some paper stars, and you'll want to put them somewhere they'll be visible.

PAPER STARS! Here's a video tutorial:

Cutting the paper into strips is easiest if you have a fancy paper cutter thing, but if you don't have way too many craft supplies like me, you can use a lined paper and cut along the lines.

When you have time, make a decent stack of these paper strips and keep them near your container, along with a pen.

When you want to (daily, every couple days, before bed, first thing when you wake up, whenever you feel like it, etc), write a little something on the paper star, fold it up, and add it to the jar.

These can be things like "Give him energy to fight today" or "Give him peace and rest today" or even "Remind him that I love him and am here for him". He can participate too if he wants to! Even writing things like "Today was very difficult" can help.

This is pretty customizable with magic, as you can bless/charge the papers, or the pen that you'll use to write, or the container itself, or all of the above. It might be something you want to keep on an altar, or you could designate it as its own kind of altar. You can occasionally leave it in the moonlight if that's your thing, or pray over it, or whatever works in your system of magic.

As far as your tarot cards go: [gently takes them from you and sets them down]

Hey.

It's going to be okay. And sometimes it won't be. And then it will be again. Okay? 💚

[dsudis]

12 and 16 for the fanfic writer's asks!

12. How does receiving or not receiving feedback/support impact you?

I am definitely susceptible to both! Having someone interested in and excited about a story makes me a lot more eager to work on it, and that sound of crickets chirping will convince me that it's not worth it (although it can take longer to get through with some stories than others--a lot also depends on how excited and invested I am in a story or idea myself, naturally).

16. How many fic ideas are you nurturing right now? Share one of them?

So one reason I feel slow as a writer sometimes is that I can pretty much never just write one thing, unless it's very short. I'm always juggling several, and trying to force myself to focus on one thing rarely works well. So I'm currently working away on the next chapter of When Two Become One, and a followup to England and Nowhere (Never and Always) (and thinking about what other followup(s) I might want to write), and the next story of Never Refuse You, and the smol/de-aged Dream story, and what was meant to be a quick little PWP that is dragging its feet, and after a chat with a friend tonight I'm rotating a new kinky Dreamling idea in my brain...

Anyway! Here, I'll share a bit from Chapter 4 of When Two Become One, in which 1489 Hob gets a slightly different reaction despite being very fundamentally the same 1489 Hob we know and love...

Dream asked Hob what he himself had been doing, this hundred years, and after airily summarizing what must have been decades of his life as "soldiering, mainly" and "a little banditry here and there" he began to speak about his new line of work. "It's called printing," Hob said, as if the mass reproduction of text were not the most exciting development this part of the world had seen in hundreds of years, as if it had not figured in the wildest dreams of the brightest minds for generations. "Don't need to be a guild member, not yet," Hob went on, as if the sheer attainability of the work mattered more than the wondrousness of the development he was playing a role in. "Never be a real demand for it," Hob went on, full of the confidence of a man who was utterly wrong, "and it's hard work, but--" Dream entirely lost the end of whatever absurdly idiotic thing Hob was saying, caught up in the horrible realization that, one the one hand, his husband was as foolish as he was cheerful, and very literally on the other hand, the black flecks visible here and there on Hob's well-scrubbed skin were ink. These were the marks of stories that had gotten quite literally under Hob's skin, because he was engaged in the most important, beautiful work anyone on this continent was doing in this century. Dream wanted to kiss him so badly it hurt--and if he did, then Hob would stop talking. Hob had trailed off into silence and was watching him with wide eyes, a flush starting to rise on his clean-shaven cheeks.

[Fanfic writer ask meme questions here!]

[actually-eldritch]

She's holding him on a leash in public, the leash is attached to a collar around his neck but the scene isn't sexual. Whether or not they are getting gratification from this is simply not visible; they don't appear to be revelling in attention—the morality of such aside—they are visibly doing their own thing.

In the comments of a post someone pipes up a highly anticipated response. “People in public didn't consent to your scene! ...” and continues with its inane repetition of puritan propaganda translated in to therapyspeak.

“Nobody consented to seeing your comment, and yet here you are.” says another.

I want to answer, but the comment is years old; at this point it's better to fall on nebulous ears rather than to be shot at any particular target.

So I'd say,

Do you also believe people wearing cat ears and tails are preforming public sex acts because they (people wearing tails and ears) are akin to furries and—god forbid—some of them get off to it? Choose carefully now; children of their own accord and volition wear these things, and mascots are widely deemed family friendly.

Did you know suit fetishes are a thing? Well they are, and I know many people that have them. Does this fact make suits sexual too now? Is a professional conference a sex act to you because of this? And, if it's not, why is this different to you?

Can you not comprehend the idea that something can be inherently neutral and it's our approach and our feelings that paint the tone of their usage in any given circumstance? Is it totally beyond you that people can fill their glass with a variety of feelings and reactions for a variety of reasons and that they don't owe it to you to beam it in your head instantly and telepathically nor to hide from society all because Joe Random might get a bit squicked and call—however ineffectively—to summon a mob?

You might think me obtuse but sincerely, where do you draw the line. Perhaps he needs domineering to be alright; any sexual association if present could have come after that need, to deal with the vicious self-loathing that came with being a grown ass man with socially unacceptable needs. Or maybe it started as a sexual thing because his subconscious couldn't convince him to allow himself what he needed if he didn't feel like he simply wanted it. Or maybe it's totally nonsexual. Or maybe it's more complicated.

Or maybe it doesn't matter and you should mind your godamned business, if only because what you have been taught or lead to believe or otherwise convinced yourself was an inherently sexual act does not actually involve any of the direct acts that constitute sex inherently.

And in allowing yourself to believe otherwise you justify to yourself adding your power to the reinforcement of the censorship of human beings existing as they are.

And in doing so you forget yourself, you forget the rainbow flag in your icon and it's history. You forget the fight queers have fought and continue to fight to not have our existence viewed as inherently sexual as a means to scrub us out of public spaces.

We're QUEER because we're WEIRD. To say “We're HERE and we're QUEER” is to say our existence is WEIRD TO YOU but YOU'VE JUST GOTTA DEAL WITH IT.

You cannot simply sweep away “degenerates of society”, and you sound no different to me than the guy that openly states that and, if anything, you're less self-aware—and that's more dangerous because you'll share your beliefs with people as though your words come from a place of concern rather than reactive disgust you're failing to control.

So I'll humble you with a reminder that if you feel comfortable assigning non-sexual things as sexual purely because you know that sometimes or even usually it is involved in sex, that this will arguably be true of your interests too no matter how ""clean"" they seem to you. Someonelse could argue that you're a public sex freak for simply being who you are, and you contribute to this issue by helping spread this ideology.

Because it's also not that different from the arguements that make me feel violently uncomfortable being crippled in public either; I see how people react. Do you think they should be able to remove me too, just because I make them a little uncomfortable?

Try thinking for yourself for a change; start by asking yourself why these words are really leaving your mouth and where they came from. Is this really who you want to be?

[lulullia]

Vladleen Photo | Lyphuriaa

Isn't Lulu so cute?? She probably had to beg for days to convince Vlad to make such a cheesy gesture…

God this one was especially hard, not really because of what I was drawing but because of how. It made me learn about a bazillion things not to repeat ever again.

All things considered though, it came out pretty good! I wanted to give up so many times and there were so many catastrophes I'm really surprised in how clean it looks.

I'm even more surprised that I was able to push through and bring it to the finish despite it all, it's something to celebrate ;-;

A lil' summary of what this piece taught me ⤵

I really need to study the rest of the human anatomy. The legs were difficult, the feet too. I only realize this now because I mostly draw torsos and simple poses. Also, first time I draw characters interacting – it was fun but it's really something I need to practice more!

If I plan on using the sketch as lineart, please for the love of God use an opaque brush. The amount of time I spent fixing the lineart because it was semi-transparent, I might as well have drawn 3 layers of proper lineart.

Keep an eye on the background color. Because of some transparency stuff, I didn't realize some parts of the drawing only looked right with the current bg color – so when I thought I was done and changed it, I stared in horror at the ugly artifacts all around the drawing. It was painful to fix.

Sometimes it's easier to just draw over the sketch, taking the lines I like, instead of cleaning it up. Because using the sketch layer – especially with an opacity brush – leaves around a ton of barely visible artifacts. I had to "select opaque" to see them and clear them out, and it was also painful.

Generally, going into a drawing without a plan for what style it's gonna be is a bad idea and results in a lot of problems down the line.

Better fix any problems I have with the drawing as early as possible, because I'll end up fixing it anyway, only if I'm too far in the process it'll cost me more time.

I need to stop drawing too detailed an anatomy if I know it's gonna get covered by clothes anyway… T-T

Phew, I'm still shocked that I managed to make a decent piece even after all these problems. Somehow I feel pretty good about it, I think the joy of seeing it finished made all my bad experience with it go away.

It's great, especially since I've been struggling a lot with self-doubt about my creative projects recently; this shows me that no matter how crappy something seems to be, if only I push through and finish it, all that bad energy turns into incredibly good feelings of accomplishment and pride.

Hope that's useful; now I really want to make a mini story game and see how it turns out…

[youmissedone]

“Is someone there?” the young girl whispered, holding her legs close to her chest. She didn’t dare to peek out from the cash register of the K-Mart. It was her only refuge from the harsh, unforgiving apocalypse around her, and while there were initially other survivors, they’d all left her to brave the outside world.

The shuffling of footsteps instantly put her on edge. That never led to anything good… maybe it was more of those zombies. She’d boarded up the windows and used the flashlights available when the power blew, but she never knew what would happen in an apocalyptic situation, especially now that she was on her own. Elizabeth Jane Case took a breath and reached for the pistol she carried at all times, aiming it directly at Carlos.

“If you’re with Umbrella, I-I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you, you bastard! I’m not afraid of you!” The look in her eyes betrayed her. She might’ve said she wasn’t afraid, but the way her hands trembled as she took aim made her true feelings clear enough. “Leave me alone… I don’t need your pity. I can handle myself.”

Still, they were other survivors. The blonde let the pistol clatter to the tile floor. It echoed throughout the store. She lifted her hands in surrender, and her eyes darted between Claire and Carlos. She never gave them a name - she’d always hated Elizabeth Jane, and they could call her what they wanted, so long as they didn’t actively try to hurt her like some of the other survivor groups that had came through and tried to raid the place back when it wasn’t just her.

“Who are you? What do you want from me?”

{K-Mart and Carlos first meeting! My girl is… not having a fun time, ahahaha}

__________

{ Awww, poor K-mart! XD }

Larger stores were pretty good bets for supplies, usually. Smaller ones were picked clean because there wasn’t a lot of ground to cover, but with large stores, people generally didn’t look everywhere. There was always a locker, a desk, a drawer, a closet, or something that someone overlooked, and that’s where the best supplies could sometimes be found. So when the convoy came across a mini mall with a K-mart in it, Carlos heard Claire over the radio as soon as the thought had entered his mind. Yep, she wanted to check it out. He didn’t blame her at all.

They pulled the convoy into the center of the parking lot, paying no mind to the lines painted to demarcating the spaces, because who cared anymore. A lot of rules and laws that civilization had thrived on were all but meaningless now. And although being out in the open, exposed and visible, might have seemed like a detriment, it also meant they could see anything or anyone coming from a long distance away. Once all the vehicles were situated, Carlos began gearing up and getting his rifle ready. He saw Claire approaching as he got out of his vehicle, and when she asked if he wanted to go with her to clear the K-mart, he nodded. “Let’s do it,” he said without hesitation.

When they first entered, it began like any other routine clearing. They started checking every aisle, every corner, making sure there were no undead or anything else harmful. It was of absolute importance to be certain there was nothing dangerous in the building before they sent civilians, including children, in to more thoroughly search for supplies. They didn’t even get a third of the way through clearing the store when they heard noises up by a cash register. On instinct, Carlos lifted his rifle at the ready, but when he heard the girl’s voice and saw her aiming a gun at him, he knew he wanted to try and do whatever he could to help her.

“It’s alright,” he said, remaining calm and moving very slowly as he moved his rifle to the side and let it hang by its strap. Putting up his hands to make himself less of a threat, he tried to talk her down. “We’re not going to hurt you.” He could see how scared she was, but she also had a fair amount of pride to work around, too. He just hoped she wouldn’t do anything stupid. “We’re not with Umbrella,” he said, though he felt a twinge of guilt at that. Not anymore. “We’ve got a convoy of survivors, all we wanna do is help you.” He smiled a little at her feistiness even in the face of being so afraid. “If you want to take care of yourself, that’s fine, but you don’t have to. Let us help you. It’s alright, I promise. I’m Carlos, and this is Claire. We’re not here to hurt you,” he said, trying to humanize the situation a little in the hopes of making her feel more comfortable.

When she dropped the gun, he nodded to her, as if to say she’d made the right decision. “We just wanna help. Are you injured at all? Hungry?” he asked. He started slowly moving a bit closer, not wanting to scare her but wanting her to better see him and understand that he wasn’t there to cause her any harm. 

[apoemaday]

Praying Drunk

by Andrew Hudgins

Our Father who art in heaven, I am drunk. Again. Red wine. For which I offer thanks. I ought to start with praise, but praise comes hard to me. I stutter. Did I tell you about the woman whom I taught, in bed, this prayer? It starts with praise; the simple form keeps things in order. I hear from her sometimes. Do you? And after love, when I was hungry, I said, Make me something to eat. She yelled, Poof! You’re a casserole!—and laughed so hard she fell out of the bed. Take care of her. Next, confession—the dreary part. At night deer drift from the dark woods and eat my garden. They’re like enormous rats on stilts except, of course, they’re beautiful. But why? What makes them beautiful? I haven’t shot one yet. I might. When I was twelve, I’d ride my bike out to the dump and shoot the rats. It’s hard to kill your rats, our Father. You have to use a hollow point and hit them solidly. A leg is not enough. The rat won’t pause. Yeep! Yeep! it screams, and scrabbles, three-legged, back into the trash, and I would feel a little bad to kill something that wants to live more savagely than I do, even if it’s just a rat. My garden’s vanishing. Perhaps I’ll merely plant more beans, though that might mean more beautiful and hungry deer. Who knows?                 I’m sorry for the times I’ve driven home past a black, enormous, twilight ridge. Crested with mist, it looked like a giant wave about to break and sweep across the valley, and in my loneliness and fear I’ve thought, O let it come and wash the whole world clean. Forgive me. This is my favorite sin: despair— whose love I celebrate with wine and prayer. Our Father, thank you for all the birds and trees, that nature stuff. I’m grateful for good health, food, air, some laughs, and all the other things I’m grateful that I’ve never had to do without. I have confused myself. I’m glad there’s not a rattrap large enough for deer. While at the zoo last week, I sat and wept when I saw one elephant insert his trunk into another’s ass, pull out a lump, and whip it back and forth impatiently to free the goodies hidden in the lump. I could have let it mean most anything, but I was stunned again at just how little we ask for in our lives. Don’t look! Don’t look! Two young nuns tried to herd their giggling schoolkids away. Line up, they called. Let’s go and watch the monkeys in the monkey house. I laughed, and got a dirty look. Dear Lord, we lurch from metaphor to metaphor, which is—let it be so—a form of praying. I’m usually asleep by now—the time for supplication. Requests. As if I’d stayed up late and called the radio and asked they play a sentimental song. Embarrassed. I want a lot of money and a woman. And, also, I want vanishing cream. You know— a character like Popeye rubs it on and disappears. Although you see right through him, he’s there. He chuckles, stumbles into things, and smoke that’s clearly visible escapes from his invisible pipe. It makes me think, sometimes, of you. What makes me think of me is the poor jerk who wanders out on air and then looks down. Below his feet, he sees eternity, and suddenly his shoes no longer work on nothingness, and down he goes. As I fall past, remember me.

[404writes]

Scars - (Carl Grimes)

Masterlist !! Taglist !!

Summary: Reader helps Carl clean his eye wound after discovering he couldn't bring himself to do it.

Word Count: 1.3k Pairing: None A/N: Forewarning, this story is very conversation heavy, tbh I wrote it for myself so I wasn't really thinking about that stuff. Hope you enjoy anyways! -S404 !! Trigger Warning: Mention of scars (Presumed but not mentioned that they're the result of physical abuse) !!

You open the door to the Grimes’ house to see Michonne smiling and Judith bubbling away in the kitchen, both organising the pantry. “Hey Y/N! what can I do for you?” Michonne called out, diverting her attention from Judith and her shenanigans. “Not much today, I was just here to see if Carl was home? I haven't seen him around today,” you felt bad, coming for him and no one else. “Oh yeah! He’s up in his room, don’t know exactly what he’s up to right now though,” Michonne tried to respond whilst stopping Judith from eating raw ingredients. “Thanks Michonne, we’ve gotta catch up properly sometime soon, I feel as if I don’t see enough of you anymore.” It was true, you spent most of your time out on runs or with Carl. Michonne was one of your best friends, and you saw less and less of her every day. “Yeah definitely Y/N, maybe sometime next week, I'll leave Judy with Olivia and we can have a coffee!” Michonne replied, enthusiastic. “Sounds great, I’ll be on my way now but let me know when you have that free day.” You felt as though you were disrupting something, as Judith continued to cause havoc for Michonne to attempt to prevent.

“See ya Y/N!" Michonne cheered from her position in the kitchen. “Bye Michonne! Bye Judith!” You said, waving and blowing raspberries at the 4 year old.

~

You swiftly walked up the stairs, making your way to the door of the Grimes you know best. Approaching the vacantly silent room you knock. “It’s me!” You call out although unnecessary, he’d open the door even if he didn't recognise your voice. “Yeah, uh, come in.” You take the offer and open the door. Seeing the empty-presenced room, you follow through to the bathroom, leaning on the door frame, looking at the familiar face in the mirror. Just as a smile begins to form on your face, you see the distress on the one in front of you. “Oh, not a good day?” You ask, your brows furrowing just enough for the three lines he loved so much (for a reason unknown to man) to appear. “You could say that.” He said, avoiding eye contact. “Talk to me, Mr Grimes.” You venture, leering for an answer. “It’s nothing much, just some dust and dirt got under the bandage. Now I have to clean it to 'avoid infection' or something, that's what Carson said." It may have been a satisfactory answer, but you knew better than that. “So- What’s so bad about that?” You ask, becoming more curious than sympathetic. “I just uh, I don’t think I can look at myself with it off-” He finally gave in. “Oh.” You replied, unsure of what to say, not having given any prior thought to the fact he might have felt that way.

~ A few moments passed before you had collected yourself enough to speak again. “How long have you been staring in that mirror for?” You ask. Still curious, but feeling immense pity for the boy. He turns around to look at you, appearing defeated, “too long.” “I could do it for you if you’d like, away from the mirror?” You offered your help. “I couldn’t ask you to do that.” He replied with a sense of urgency. You couldn't tell if he was rejecting your help because he genuinely thought it was something you shouldn't have to do or see, or if he just didn't want to open up to the vulnerability of the process. “Yes you could. It’s still bothering you isn’t it? Taking it off?” You urged.  “I don’t know. I’ve just, never really taken it off for anyone before,” he replied, becoming more open by the second. You were aware he was uncomfortable having his missing eye visible to other people, even you hadn't ever really seen it before. However you weren't aware the problem stemmed this far back, had he even seen it off before? “You wouldn’t be taking it off for me. Plus, it needs to be cleaned, that’s not really an optional thing.” You sought his approval, longing for him to find the smallest bit of inner peace. Maybe allowing a sense of vulnerability would do some good for him. “Alright.” The single word brought you an intense wave of relief. “Okay, just sit on the bed, I’ll grab the cleaning stuff.” You walked into the bathroom as he walked out, grabbing the bag of things that were sitting idle before you had touched them. You came out, put the bag down on the side table, pulled a wheelie chair over, and gazed at the boy in front of you. ~

“Tell me if I need to stop. No exceptions.” You pleaded, to which he nodded. You started to brush the hair from his face, deeply analysing the insecurity his features wallowed in. Like painting porcelain, you took to the bandage with the most gentle of touches, slowly unwrapping in a way not to bring suspense, but in hopes to make the boy feel secure. As the last of the bandage came undone a single tear fell from Carl’s face. Not in any way prolonging the process, you picked up some damp cloth and began to clean, as the boy continued to weep. “You know, everyone has scars. I’m not going to give you one of those talks about how you should be proud of it, and wear it with that pride, because that’d be complete bullshit. As I was saying though, everyone has scars, some are larger, and some are easier to hide. But none of us want to wear them, and all of us feel just as vulnerable and exposed when they’re all we wear. I just don’t know why we give them that power.” It's something you'd been thinking about for a while. You looked into the boy’s remaining eye to see it staring back, you hoped that he resonated with your words. “I’ve seen yours.” The three words momentarily paralysed you. Gaining back your composure, you replied, “figured.” His brow drooped. “Sorry, I thought you should know… Why do you hide them?” He was distracted, good. “They aren’t me.” You responded, finishing up the cleaning. “Anyways, you should probably let air get to that for a few hours at least. Did Rick bring you back any new comics on his last run?” You asked, genuinely curious. “Yeah, he found the one I was missing from that Marvel series, and he brought back another series I reckon you’ll like.” A slight smile was forming at the cracks of his mouth. “Well indulge me then, let’s read.” You stood up from the chair and shifted to the bed.

~

“Alright we should probably get a bandage back over that eye about now.” You declared. Standing up from where you sat, the boy subtly looked at you up and down. You walked into the bathroom to fetch a new bandage for him, “Y/N, can I ask you a question?” Carl ventured. You walked out, sat again on the wheelie chair, and pulled your body closer to his, so much that your legs were touching. “Yeah what’s up?” You replied, beginning to work. “How does it look?” All his focus was on you. “Well to be honest, I think it looks totally kick-ass and banging at best. It’s a cool scar, and it has a lot of story to tell. I get why you’re insecure about it though, can’t blame you. I just hope you come around to it at some point.” You wanted to say that for a long time, but never wanted to make him feel uncomfortable. He smiled “You really think so?” You smiled too “Yeah, I do.”

[wallflowerimagines]

I love your writing so much, it's very great! Anyways, can you make one with the lords with a s/o who can see ghosts, but everytime they see one they tensed up ? Thanks alot! <3 <3 <3

In a horror game???? With a horror villain s/o?????

Anon, you are so brave 😔✊ let's get spooky.

Alcina Dimitrescu

There are SO many ghosts in Castle Dimitrescu. And they're all so LOUD.

The majority seem to be victims of House Dimitrescu. All of them drift through the air, drained and skeletal, eyes sightless, and they just wail non stop. The wailing itself is actually kind of a lower volume, but because there are so many ghosts around, the sound layers and echoes through the space until you can barely hear yourself think.

They remind you of jellyfish in a way. They just aimlessly drift through the air, clothes billowing around them, sliding through the walls. Constantly screaming.

You actually prefer the ghosts of the victims of the Cadou experiments. They might be horrible, shuffling abominations of flesh and oozing blood, but at least they're quiet.

Alcina notices you flinch without any kind of visible stimulus, and immediately gets suspicious. She pulls you into a room and demands an explanation of your behavior.

If there is a problem, she's going to fix it.

When you tell her about the ghosts, her lips press into a fine line. You mean to tell her that these worthless wastes of space are crowding her halls, polluting her home even after their death?

They dare to not only crowd the noble house of Dimitrescu under her nose for years, but they're bothering you while they do it?

Yeah, Alcina is Furious.

She gets a couple exorcists on Retainer. Every month or so, priests of various religions are paraded through the house and cleanse the place from top to bottom. She has you follow them around and check their work, too. If any of them happen to be charlatans, they'll just join the horde of ghosts. No skin off her nose.

It is a little annoying that she has to hire even more people to clean up the mess in her Castle, but Alcina is a highborn lady. Any kind of clutter (living or dead) is unacceptable. Her home should be pristine.

Besides, her favorite reward is seeing you fall asleep in her arms, entirely peaceful. You had been so obviously stressed by the situation. It's such a relief to have you relaxed and calm once again.

Donna Beneviento

When Donna finds out you can see ghosts, she gets a bit ...manic.

This is a woman who lost her entire family, and is unable to deal with grief in a healthy way. She's constantly in mourning garb, and her veil rarely comes off. Hell, her grief was the catalyst for her current hobby-- which is what turned it into a hyperfixation.

I'm not going to lie to you, this revelation puts your relationship on pause. She's going to use you to get what she wants, and she wants her family back.

Donna pulls out all the family photo albums and portraits. She coaches you on her mother's laugh, her father's focused expression. She gets the projector and plays you home movies to show you how they walk and talk. Anything she can show you to help identify the ghosts of her family, she does it.

If you tense up, Donna gets so excited. Is it someone she knew? Her sister, maybe?

Unfortunately, most of the ghosts around are Donna's victims. They huddle in the corners of her home, rocking back and forth in terror, clawing at the walls in a futile attempt to escape whatever horror they've been eternally trapped in.

Sometimes, at night, you hear soft whimpers and scratches at your door...

If there is a ghost that isn't a member of her family around, Donna gets frustrated with it. She will banish any ghost that isn't a member of her family, or a member of the previous staff that could help them in the afterlife.

Eventually you need to sit her down and have a serious conversation with her. You're not something she can use to connect to her family. You might be willing to help, but all she's done lately is treat you like an object, not a partner. It has to stop.

It's the wake up call Donna needs. You both hold each other and cry for a long time, because the last thing she ever wanted to do is hurt you, but... She misses them. So much.

You still look for their ghosts for her, still tense in the hallway, but Donna stops asking you to describe them to her. She trusts you to tell her if they look familiar now. She can be patient.

Salvatore Moreau

Fish man might have been a doctor once, but he is a Small Town Doctor from a small fishing Hamlet. I don't care how much "logic" and "reason" you might think he has. This man is SUPER-fucking-STICIOUS.

Salt over your shoulder, four leaf clover carrying, fear of curse having man DOES NOT LIKE the idea of being haunted.

The ghosts of the reservoir are extra spooky too. Some of them are mid-mutation from the failed Cadou experiments...But the drowning victims are more common.

There aren't many ghosts around, but when they do appear, they're bloated, skin slipping off their bones, clothes dissolving around them as they glide through the air. They move much slower than other ghosts too, like the fact that they died in the water has permanently trapped them in that state.

If you tense up out of nowhere, Moreau does too.

What did you see?? Are they close?? Do they look bound to an object??

Salvatore will turn into his giant fish form and yeet anything that you might feel to be haunted over the mountain range. He takes no chances with that shit.

You two both are regular customers of the Duke's specifically for new exorcism methods. The Duke doesn't scam you guys either-- he provides candles, scriptures, holy water, perfumes, all of it works to keep the spirits at bay.

You and Moreau will walk around the reservoir, on guard for any hauntings, and clean up any area that might possibly have a ghost attached to it. It's a incredibly weird and very niche bonding experience.

By the end of the day, the reservoir is the least haunted place in the whole Village. Just how you and Salvatore like it.

Karl Heisenberg

Eat my ass, spirits

Heisenberg is not afraid of ghosts. He actually makes fun of you a little bit for even believing in them, until he sees you tense up out of the blue.

He trusts you enough to know you're not lying to him, so he knows that you are seeing something. He just doesn't know if they're really ghosts.

There aren't as many ghosts in the factory as there are at the Castle, but there is still quite a few.

A lot of them are missing limbs, unsurprisingly. They gasp and scramble around, eyes (if they are even there) bulging out of rotting faces as they scan the surrounding area for their missing pieces. They scuttle around like spiders up and through the walls, poking their heads into random rooms and constantly searching for something, anything to make them whole.

The worst thing about them is that they ALL scream when they see Heisenberg. It's not even a wail like from a normal ghost-- this is a full on shriek of rage and grief. They know who he is. They know what he's done. And they can't do anything about it.

Is it any wonder that you tense up all the time?

After you describe the ghosts in more detail to your partner, Heisenberg sets his jaw, gets pissed, and finds a way to exorcise the lot of them. While he can't see them, you can, and they might make you think less of him. He can't have that.

Plus, they're obviously bothering you. Karl does not tolerate some dumb spirits harassing his partner. If he has to nail a couple crucifixes to the wall and get a spray bottle of holy water, he will.

He also sees if he can kill his victims in an isolated section of the factory. Maybe having one specific room might limit the range on these things? It also makes for easier clean up.